I consider his question. If I’m reading this guy correctly, he’s a man who gets off on a sense of his own importance. “Our involvement in this matter is not yet official. We think it soon will be, however, and we’re trying to determine if a certain substance—in this case a fruit—could cause a profound violence, one so violent, it results in murder.”
“Have you spoken with the sheriff about this?”
“Do you know Al Schmidt?”
“Well …” He frowns. “I know he’s a deputy.”
“He’s acting sheriff at the moment. He doesn’t agree with us about this fruit acting as a kind of poison, but he wants us to investigate the real possibility. You, Richard, could be very important in this investigation. At this point in time, you’re the expert opinion we need.”
Am I convincing—a good enough liar?
Richard’s face flushes with pleasure.
“Well …” he waves at the waitress, indicating his empty glass. “As long as you understand I’m not guaranteeing any real accuracy here. What I tell you is simply an opinion.”
“Of course.” I nod, grinning at him. “No problem there, Richard.” All of us are nodding enthusiastically.
“It could be a case of endocrine disruption,” he says in a low voice, looking around as if to be sure he’s not being overheard. This is a laugh, since the couple has gone, and we’re now the only people in the large room.
“But two women in an area the size of Diablo reacting in such a violent manner is very unlikely.” He shakes his head.
In the silence that follows as we wait for Richard’s expert opinion, the waitress arrives with his bourbon. He takes a swallow and then rolls the glass gently back and forth with his fingers.
Get on with it, man!
“What is that, Richard?” I say, my voice too loud. “What is endocrine disruption?”
“It’s a somewhat—how shall I say this—shrouded area of neurology. You follow?”
Shrouded? I’m beginning to doubt the wisdom of conferring with this self-important little man.
Richard takes another swallow, puts the glass down on the table, and intertwines his fingers. He flexes his hands outward as if preparing to do something intricate. “There are synthetic substances that appear in almost every manufactured item human beings use every day. Because of that fact, there’s a growing suspicion that, in combination with each other, these substances can cause a malfunction in the endocrine gland. That malfunction,” he pauses and finishes off his bourbon, “can cause any number of serious health problems … including personality disorders. Once inside the body, these substances mimic hormones; isn’t that amazing?”
“But what does this really mean?” Dott asks.
“It means that these unfortunate women may be under the influence of hormonal overload!” Richard beams but sobers immediately. “The alarming thing is that there’s really no way of telling which hormone is overloaded and which combination of hormone and synthetic substance is at work.”
“So,” I say, “if one eats something that triggers this overload … it kind of sets them off?
Richard nods. He frowns though and appears to be deep in thought. After a moment he cries out, “I have it! The blood barrier!” He’s excited, grinning at us. “I’ll bet you that something in that fruit causes the blood barrier in the brain to lift. Which then allows the substance, which is now contaminated, to reach the brain. That could account for the profound change in these women’s behavior. Again, this is just my opin—”
“So what exactly is the blood barrier?” I ask.
“There’s a school of thought—just a theory, you understand—that many damaging chemicals in the bloodstream are kept from contact with the brain by a natural defense the brain has called the ‘blood barrier.’ It’s pretty much what it says: it bars anything toxic in the blood from reaching the brain.
“Each hormone, through the bloodstream, transmits its message, its unique chemical seasoning, so to speak, to certain target areas only, the ones that are capable of recognizing and receiving that particular hormone. My thought here is that perhaps this newly created toxic hormone is somehow able to lift, or pierce, the blood barrier and gain access to the brain.”
“Like alcohol?” Lester asks.
Richard stares at Lester as if seeing him for the first time.
“Booze,” Lester goes on. “Does booze get past the blood barrier? Is that what makes a man drunk?”
“That could be, I guess,” Richard says, nodding slightly. “I’m not an authority on this, you understand. It probably has to do with the chemical nature of the contaminating substance.” He frowns. “It seems to me that something, something having to do with the fruit you speak of, may somehow find its way past the blood barrier and into the brain. Once there it may cause the pituitary gland to go crazy and bring about a complete alteration of the female personality. Something is protecting the male. It could be the presence of testosterone in his system.”
Ah, the Adreno Test! It contains testosterone—a whole lot of it. That’s probably why Gwen hasn’t been affected by the figs!
“So, Richard,” I say, “do you really think the testosterone in men protects them? Keeps the male blood barrier functioning?”
“That could certainly be the case,” he says. “And the lack of it in women could be allowing their endocrine disruption to run unchecked and to infect the brain.”
“Why would a woman, an older woman, take a medication containing a rather large amount of testosterone?” I ask.
“It sometimes helps a female sexually. It may give her a renewed interest in sex.” He rises. “I’ve really got to go now. I hope I’ve been of some help. If you need any more … let me know. My name is spelled B-l-o-o-m-e, if you need to write me up in the newspaper or anything. But remember, I’m not giving you any real facts … just opinions.”
“Thanks Richard,” I say. “You’ve done a really fine job for us.”
He gives us a big grin.
On our way back to the wagon, Charlotte takes my arm and brings her head up close to my ear. “I’m worried about Shelly,” she says, almost whispering.
“Worried? Why?”
“She’s eaten a lot of those figs.”
“She seems okay to me,” I say.
“Yes, but you don’t know her. I caught her eating a bunch of those things the night Dante was … the night he died.”
Now, I’m worried.
“Where to now, Cass?” Lester asks as I fire up the wagon.
The others are quiet, waiting for my reply. Even Frank, so I guess I’m sort of in charge. Well okay, so be it.
“The first thing to do, I think, is to make a plan to destroy The Tree. Then we can probably work with Richard on the possible testosterone cure for any infected women still running around loose. But The Tree is the really big deal right now, folks. She’s growing those figs like a house afire.”
“You’re calling The Tree ‘she,’ Cass,” Shelly says. “Do you realize that?”
“Yeah, she’s female all right. And she’s making a lot of female warriors. Killer women, I’m talking about.”
“That’s wild,” Shelly says, clasping her hands together excitedly.
Charlotte frowns at her sister.
“Shit sakes, Cassidy,” Frank says, “I’m just not sure.”
“I know, Uncle Frank, but we’ve seen her in action and I am sure. She’s a monster.”
“What d’ya mean ‘in action’?”
“Your boot, Frank. You think an ordinary tree root can strangle a boot?”
“Yeah, I forgot about that.”
I wonder how in hell Frank could forget about watching the horrific death of his boot. “Frank, we need a list of who you think might still have some figs.”
He nods. “We’re probably gonna need help with all this. I’m gonna call Manny when we get back to the ranch.”
“Good idea,” I say. “And the rest of us can figure out how we’re going to do thi
s monster in.”
A woman answers.
“Manny Ramirez, please,” Frank says. He’s poured himself a shot of Dickel and takes a comforting sip.
“He’s not available just now. May I take a message?”
“Mrs. Ramirez? Maria? This is Frank Murphy, dear.”
“Oh yes.”
“Manny still sick?”
“Yes … he is.”
“Well, I’m sure sorry to hear that. Could I just speak very briefly with him, Maria? Just for a couple minutes, I promise.”
“He’s asleep.”
“Well …” Frank is confused by her tone. This is a woman he’s known, along with Manny, for a long time, and she’s sounding downright unfriendly. “Maria, is there anything I can do? Do you need anything?”
A silence. Too long. “Anything at all …?”
“Thank you, Frank, but we’re fine. I have to go now.” Her voice trails off as she hangs up.
Frank stares at the phone in his hand. Manny had taken a lot of figs home to his wife, to Maria. “Manny …” he murmurs to himself. “I’m scared for you.” He takes a healthy swallow of his drink and goes to find Cassidy.
“I wish you wouldn’t drink so much, Uncle Frank,” I say to him.
“I think Manny’s dead,” Frank says.
Shelly and Lester are on the porch waiting for dinner. Molly is still safe with her friend, and that’s a relief.
Shelly shakes a Camel out of her pack, and Lester finds his matches and lights it for her. They smile at each other. She sucks on the cigarette like a drowning woman gulping for air and Goddamn, but that smoke feels good. It seems to flow right up into her head with a dizzy high that lifts her; it makes her float. It’s almost worth the hell of trying to quit, when she considers the pure joy of lighting up again.
Lester lights one as well. They puff away together and grin at each other like crazy people. He puts a strong arm around her shoulders and draws her close.
She slides a hand inside her jeans and rests it on her flat belly, laughing aloud.
God, but I feel good!
It has to be sinful, she knows, to be so happy in the face of so much tragedy, but Shelly can’t help herself. She knows the figs to be magic, at least for her. She’s glad she had the foresight to hide the figs Carla left behind.
Lester had taken her aside earlier. He had stuttered and stammered around and finally said he’d like to get together with her later on. She surprised herself by saying yes so quickly he’d barely finished his invitation.
There’s something fascinating about this big man, and she has to admit she finds him very attractive. He has a rustic charm and she’s drawn to his quiet strength.
Thinking now of her wild morning with Georgie and the scary women, she remembers the giddy lurch low in her belly when Lester kissed the open palm of her hand. She remembers too her hand on Lester’s hot neck, the excitement she felt.
She drops the hand in her jeans lower and wonders what Lester will be like tonight.
We’re all feeling down, unable to shake the depressing recent events. Especially Frank’s belief that Maria Ramirez has murdered her husband. I’d like to argue with him, but he’s probably right. We sit at the table on the porch, dining half-heartedly on the pasta and salad Dott, Charlotte, and Shelly have produced. Shelly though, has a fine appetite and keeps asking enthusiastic questions. She seems thrilled with this grim situation.
“I called Schmidt,” I say. “I told him I think something may have happened to Manny and asked him to check out the Ramirez home, and to be careful doing it. He just laughed and asked me if I thought there were ‘bad figs’ at work at the Ramirez residence and I said, yes.”
“There were a whole bunch of figs in your fridge, Frank,” Shelly says with a smile. “So I threw them away.”
“Good,” he says. Frank’s just pushing food around on his plate—not eating.
“I saw The Tree for the first time on Monday,” I say.
My God, that’s just five days ago!
“Since then she’s become a monster. She’s producing an obscene amount of figs daily, all different varieties on just the one tree. I’m thinking of her as an evil matriarch now, an aberrant tree that’s making killers out of women. Some women, at least. We have to destroy her.”
“How?” Frank asks. “How do we do that?”
“Blow her up,” Lester says, and ruddy color comes into his cheeks. “Blow her to straight to Hell.”
“You some kind of explosives expert?” Frank asks. “You might be gonna blow yourself straight to Hell, Lester.”
We talk briefly of poison, or perhaps some sort of acid, but agree the best method of destruction will be fire.
“I can’t believe we’re all so scared of a tree,” Shelly says. “I mean people commit murder, not trees.”
It’s as if this girl hasn’t been around, hasn’t even been conscious the last few days.
She takes a cigarette from Lester’s pack on the table, and he quickly supplies her with a light. There’s something sure as hell going on with these two, I’m thinking. I remember Charlotte telling me about Shelly’s fig consumption. Should I be worrying about Lester’s safety? Or Frank’s? Or mine?
“Okay, fire then,” I say, trying to ignore Shelly’s comments.
“Roots, Cassidy,” Frank says. “After we kill her, assuming we can kill her, you’ll have to dig up her roots. Stubborn things, roots.”
“Soak ’em in lye?” Lester offers.
“Take too long,” I say. “She’d probably be able to regenerate.”
“And, wouldn’t lye burn her?’ Shelly says, and we all grow quiet, staring at her.
“That’s the idea, Shelly, for heaven’s sake,” Charlotte says, clearly embarrassed by her sister’s weird question.
“But couldn’t we just keep harvesting her figs and then destroying them?” Shelly asks. “That way we wouldn’t have to kill her.”
Charlotte leans her head in close to me. “She feels sorry for the tree,” she whispers. “Ever since you’ve referred to it as ‘She.’”
I’m astounded. Does Shelly not realize The Tree is a killer?
“I know fire’s the answer,” Frank says. He slides his chair back and stands. “Any of you recollect that movie The Thing? I think that was the name of it. About that vegetable-type thing up at the North Pole? Coulda been the South Pole, I guess, now that I think on it.”
I’m confused. And worried as hell. First Shelly turns into a nut case, and now Frank is on his way to join her.
Frank’s grinning at me. “Some kind a’ monster that veggie was, scarin’ the livin’ hell out of everybody and then doin’ them all in one at a time.” He pours a little more whiskey into his glass and takes a swallow. “It’s a plant, some kind a’ vegetable, right? So what do you do with a vegetable?” He fixes us all with his madman gaze. “You cook it, that’s what you do! They cooked that thing to death. With fire. Yes sir! Right to death. And that’s just what we can do. Cook that tree to hell with fire. Then, we’ll all pitch in and dig up her roots. We’ll set fire to them as well.” He finishes off his drink. “You folks ever heard of stewed figs?”
Sweet, the way it’s working out, Lester’s thinking.
After the late dinner, everyone is busy planning the burning of the tree. It’s to happen tomorrow morning, as early as possible.
He walks out on the porch for a cigarette, and Shelly follows him. He lights one for her, and she draws closer to him. He loves her scent, though he can’t put a name to it. It’s something floral, maybe a little fruity.
“Lester, show me your place,” Shelly says. “Your room in the barn? It sounds charming.”
What a request. And right out of the blue. She likes him; she’s actually coming on to him. His room is nice and neat; he always keeps it that way. Hey, maybe it is charming!
They enter the barn in the dark, and he carefully and gently guides her past Georgie’s and the other stalls. In his room, he lights the kero
sene lamp on his bedside table. He tries to see his home through her eyes. Nothing special, but nothing terrible either. There’s the single bed with ornate wrought iron head and foot boards—relics from Frank’s past—a window above the bed, a small table and chair, a hotplate, a water spigot and basin, and a tiny fridge. A rod is suspended a few inches out from one wall where he hangs his few clothes. The bed is made up nicely with a plaid comforter and matching pillow. He seats Shelly there.
He has a bottle of Johnny Walker Red stashed away on the floor near the fridge but decides on two bottles of cold Coke instead. He pulls them from the fridge and puts them on the table.
Looking down at her here in his room, he’s filled with such joy and longing, he knows he mustn’t speak, knows his voice will be nothing but a faint rush of air. He sits next to her, his hands clenched together, stealing looks at her. In the dim light, he senses rather than sees the dark luster of her long thick hair, brushed back off her forehead and tucked behind her ears. The glow from the lamp lights the tip of her delicate nose and the hollows beneath her cheekbones. Tangled lashes fringe her eyes, a dark emerald green.
She offers him a cigarette and takes one for herself. She lights them both with a wooden kitchen match.
Lester-Lee is lost.
The flame on that sliver of wood brings a nostalgic wrench in his gut that instantly becomes a delicious shudder throughout his body. He sucks in the smoke, awash with the painful yet pleasing scent of his past.
His Mommy’s cigarette … the wooden match …
Shelly speaks of the tree and how it excites her, but Lester doesn’t hear. He’s aware only of her beauty and the smoky wreath adorning her head. She’s a delicate rendering in shadowy charcoal. A pale hand lifts the cigarette to her mouth in graceful slow motion. Lester watches, besotted, loving the way it fits right inside her full red lips and the sucking motion she makes.
Somewhat giddy, Lester sinks back onto the bed, and Shelly settles in there with him. They lie together, but he’s not at ease. He wishes he’d paid more attention over the years to the few “good” women he had come across. He might have learned how to behave at this moment, with this woman. Lester does know something is expected of him. Not the crazy coupling he’s used to—the paid for sex that gives a measure of relief, yes. But to even think of that with this girl—
The Matriarch Page 16