The Matriarch

by Hawes, Sharon;

  “No, no …” Shelly murmurs. “It’s all right.”

  Is she reading my mind?

  She smiles and grasps his free hand. She places it against her breast, and he’s astounded to feel her nipple rise up against his palm. He groans and his cock swells.

  “Hush,” Shelly says.

  Did I speak?

  “Hush. Just let me—”

  “What?” he hears himself ask, his voice too rough, too loud. Let her … what?

  She laughs, but it’s not a pleasant sound. A foreign sound. Has he ever heard her laugh like this before? He tries to think. But he has no time to think about that, because a hot hand slides into his jeans and onto his cock while her laughing mouth settles onto his, and her other hand tears at the buttons on his shirt.

  When did I open my fly?

  Her tongue is insistent, and a wild need pushes at him, drives him. His mind is in a velvet whirl, and he falls into limbo, a void where there are no rules, no time, and no rational thought. Lester can feel though. Shelly’s skin burns him; her hot breasts rub against his bare chest.

  What happened to my shirt?

  His cock, his entire body behaves now on its own—it doesn’t belong to him anymore.

  Somehow, so suddenly he can scarcely breathe, they’re on the floor, naked bodies on the corded weave of the thin cotton rug. He’s inside her, thrusting mindlessly. Again, it isn’t his doing. His body is on hers, yes, but Shelly is the aggressor. She takes him, sucks him into her, and consumes him in her primal, carnal need. His cock hurts, throbs, but he can’t stop.

  With a harsh keening sound, she thrusts her head up into the crook of his neck and clutches at him with her elbows and arms and fists. Her whole body is a weapon that pounds up at him. Her legs grasp him with incredible strength as if she’ll crush him between the jaws of her thighs. Waves of nausea sweep through him. And still she goes on, her wail fading to a whimper as she milks him, as she sucks him dry.

  At last, she gives a guttural cry and flings herself off him. Lester cries out in relief. Shelly rises and rolls onto the bed.

  Lester moans and covers his genitals with his hands, gently cradling himself.

  “Lester-Lee?”

  A voice from the bed. He doesn’t answer.

  “Come on up here, darling. We’ll sleep now.”

  He rises obediently. Lester isn’t sure he has a choice.

  EARLY SUNDAY MORNING

  Though exhausted, Charlotte can’t drop off to sleep. “They’re together, you know,” she says to me.

  “Yeah, I know. Are you okay with that?”

  “I guess I have to be,” Charlotte says.

  It’s almost 1:30 Sunday morning, and we lie naked together with a comforter over us on a couple sleeping bags on the living room floor in front of the fireplace. We’re tired from making love, but it’s a delicious fatigue, soon to be relieved by a little rest.

  Everyone has agreed to stay together tonight so as to get an early start on Sunday, the ‘Burn The Tree’ day.

  “Shelly was different tonight. I hardly recognized her,” Charlotte says, her head resting on my arm as we stare up at the beamed ceiling. “She’s always been an up person, but never so much.”

  “Excitement. It’s The Tree thing. She’ll be okay; don’t worry.”

  “You’re right, I’m sure. But I wish she hadn’t eaten so many figs.”

  “That was a while back though. They’re all gone now. There’s none at your uncle’s house and none here anymore, right? I mean the ones Frank had here in his refrigerator?”

  “There’s none at Dante’s, and Shelly said she tossed the last figs Frank had.”

  “Good. No worries then.” I brush her lips with mine. “Tomorrow will solve everything.”

  “I hope so,” Charlotte says. She closes her eyes, and the two of us finally drift into an uneasy sleep.

  Shelly awakens and pulls Lester close. His body is cool now. Her mind is a tangle of wild thoughts. She smiles, turning to face him. The sex was good, yes … but. She studies his face in the faint light. A handsome fellow, she thinks, with a lean, hard body. He has all the makings of a fantastic lover. She’s disappointed, however. Too timid. Almost passive. Now that Shelly takes the time to analyze Lester’s performance, she realizes he’s something of a wimp in the sack. Not that it hadn’t been a rush and a half to seduce him though, to actually take him the way she had.

  She thinks of stroking his cock, doing him again. Lester’s watch is on the side table, and she leans over to have a look: 4:35 a.m., plenty of time. A drink of water first though, she decides; she needs something wet on her throat. The bottles of Coke are still on the table, so she slides off the bed and grabs one. She pops it open and upends it, gulping the tepid liquid down.

  Then she remembers the figs. The ones she left and hid in Frank’s fridge. The very thing she needs to quench her thirst!

  Oh sure, I threw them out—you bet. Like I’m going to take that evil-fig shit seriously!

  She decides to skip clothes as she’s in a hurry to get to Frank’s, and going there nude adds risk and excitement to her adventure.

  “Get some rest, sweetheart,” Shelly whispers to Lester as she tiptoes out of the room. “You’re going to need it.”

  In the ranch house, Shelly sees Charlotte and Cass asleep together in the living room and smiles at their obvious sexual after-glow. She makes her way quietly to the kitchen. Shelly had wrapped Frank’s remaining figs in foil and stashed them behind the big jars of juice in the fridge. She removes the packet of figs and places it on the kitchen table. Quietly, Shelly pulls out a chair and sits down.

  Ravenous now as well as thirsty, she tears open the foil and swiftly devours a small green one. Delicious, but soft. Almost too soft, and Shelly knows she’d better eat the others before they spoil. That’s no problem, she thinks, grinning to herself, and jams another into her mouth. Its sweet quenching juice runs off her chin and down between her breasts.

  She remembers the first time she sampled these figs—after that wild ride on Georgie with Lester. A voice. In her head. Crazy, yes, but there had been a voice, feminine and melodic, a soft urging. So persuasive.

  They are idiots. Frightened out of their tiny minds by a fig? You, Shelly, are much too clever for that nonsense. Here luv, help yourself. Enjoy.

  Shelly feels special. Chosen. And worried. Worried about those stupid men and what they’re planning to do on Sunday.

  Oh dear God! That’s today!

  She devours the next one as if it’s necessary fuel. Fuel to clear her mind. She holds the last fig in the palm of her hand and studies it lovingly. It’s plump and orange with bright red spots capped in yellow. Like eyes.

  A bright flash of pain runs through her head suddenly, and her mind is alive with thoughts. They ricochet around inside her skull so fast, she can’t make sense of them. The chaos slows then as if those thoughts have become ideas, and they’re about to coalesce into a single, all important one. Shelly knows, her heart pounding, that when that idea comes it will be very important. Some sort of message. Significant! Perhaps a directive of some kind? She almost has it now. It’s on the tip of her mind …

  They plan to destroy me.

  That voice again.

  Don’t allow that to happen.

  Shelly devours the last fig, rises, and puts the foil into the trash.

  “I will destroy your enemies, dear lady, one by one,” Shelly whispers. She feels strong and confident. And she knows the tree hears her.

  She selects a large chef’s knife from the holder on the counter and leaves quietly.

  Charlotte is suddenly awake. What’s that sound? Like a door, the screen door closing? She shakes her head. That doesn’t make sense.

  Her sleep has been light, her mind reliving the dinner talk of burning the tree. And her sister’s weird questions about not hurting it. Odd. She had been excited, almost frenzied in her defense of the tree. Her personality had been different. Charlotte closes her eyes
, thinking of Shelly. Hyper. Charged up and excited like she’s on something. She’s fascinated by the tree, that’s clear enough. Or maybe Lester’s the turn on. Or maybe both. Yes, probably both.

  Her eyes had looked funny, Charlotte remembers. Bright. Sometimes so bright they were almost golden …

  Her eyes! They had changed. Like Carla’s eyes!

  She sits up and puts her hand on Cass’s shoulder. “Cass, wake up!” She shakes him. “Wake up! Cass, Shelly’s changed; the figs have changed her. I’m sure of it. Her eyes are different. Blank, you know? Like Carla’s after Dante, you remember?”

  I awaken and sit up, rubbing my eyes. “What the—”

  “Shelly didn’t throw those figs out, Cass—she’s eaten them! Oh my God, she’s alone with Lester! We’ve got to get to the barn, Cass. We’ve got to stop Shelly. We’ve got to save Lester!”

  “Hold it a minute, Charlotte!” I clutch at her arm, trying to shake the sleep from my head. “You think Shelly’s turned into a killer?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But we have to check on her! Come on Cass, we’ve got to go to the barn! We’ve got to find out.” She stands and pulls me to my feet. “Now! Come on, let’s go!”

  I frown. “She’s eaten more figs?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  I get to my feet, shaking my head. “She said she threw them out.”

  “I know what she said.”

  I slide into my cowboy boots, pick up my gun belt, and start for the door.

  Charlotte stands and starts dressing. “I’m coming with you,” she says.

  I spin around. “No.” I turn back toward her. I grasp her shoulders, holding her firmly. “You’re not coming with me. I need you here, Charlotte, with Frank and Dott. Please.”

  “Oh please, Cass, she’s my sister.”

  “I think you’re wrong about Shelly,” I say and touch her cheek. “But if you’re not, I sure as hell don’t want you there with me.” Charlotte takes a breath to speak, and I place my fingers over her lips. “I’ll handle this,” I say firmly, and hurry off to the barn.

  A sound. Footsteps. Someone walking through the barn. Lester’s eyes fly open. He’s on his back under the comforter. He stretches, arms above his head. He feels sick and can’t think why. It comes to him then, flooding back. The sex. The rape.

  Rape? How can a guy be raped? Ridiculous, a laugh.

  But Lester-Lee doesn’t feel like laughing. He’s pissed. Another feeling floats through him as well. What’s that word women use on those talk shows? He feels violated. And ashamed. And scared. The feelings wash over him like cold surf. Like when he was little and helpless. And his Mommy …

  No! I’m not going there.

  He hears Georgie nicker. It’s Shelly walking by his stall! Oh shit, she’s coming back. What the hell is she thinking? Does she think they’re lovers—that she’s going to get back in bed with him?

  He hugs himself, sick with shame. Lester prays for a sensible thought and it finally comes. He can just get up and walk out of this place, Chrissake—he’s not exactly tied down!

  He kicks the comforter away and turns to swing his feet off the bed. He hears those footsteps again, right outside his door. It’s dark, just beginning to turn light, and he can’t see much at all. Anxiety rises in his throat, and he lies back down, deciding his best hope is to pretend to be asleep. He hears a soft brushing sound, the door opening. Then comes a hushed tread as she approaches the bed. The footsteps stop.

  “Shelly?”

  “Hey, Lester,” she says. “Today’s the day, you know?”

  “What?”

  “The day you idiots burn the tree.”

  In the slowly fading darkness, Lester can just make her out. She’s naked, standing near the bed, leaning toward him. She’s holding something in her right hand. She moves her hand slightly and he sees …

  It’s a knife!

  A wave of icy fear sweeps through him as he remembers the TV ad where the pitchman cuts through an old tennis shoe with a miracle knife. “Never needs sharpening, folks! Will slice through anything!”

  She lunges. The dim shape of the knife comes down toward his throat, and he flings himself away from it. Hot, searing pain. His right arm, near his shoulder.

  She’s cut me!

  He reaches the edge of the bed and tumbles to the floor. Lester lands on his knees and tries to stand. As if mired in mud, he can’t get out of slow motion. The doorway out of his room seems miles away, and she’s so near—blocking his way! He hears her laugh as he faces her, still on his knees. She stands over him, looming.

  He’s helpless. Lost.

  She turns the knife from side to side as she looks down on him. He leans back onto his haunches, panting. Hot blood spills from his upper arm.

  “Shelly, why?” he hears himself ask. He raises his left hand, a pathetic shield to the coming thrust of the knife. But Lester knows why. “You ate them, didn’t you.” It’s not a question.

  “You’re a fool.” In a calm controlled manner, Shelly lowers the knife. He sees that she isn’t even breathing hard, while his own breath roars in his ears. “You don’t know what’s important here, do you?” She chuckles and waves the knife at his face.

  “Tell me.” On one knee now, Lester cradles his injured arm against his body, holding it there with his other hand. He’s getting weak, his energy leaving him along with his blood. “Please tell me.”

  “I want to know too, Shelly,” says a voice from the doorway. “Tell us.”

  My hands are slick with sweat, and I hope to God I’ll be able to hold my gun with a steady hand.

  “Please, Shelly.”

  She doesn’t seem at all shocked or alarmed at seeing me—so much for the element of surprise. She snorts, shaking her head in disgust.

  “Come on, Shelly,” I plead. “What is important here?”

  Please start talking. Open up so I can somehow talk you out of this madness.

  “Mother,” Shelly says softly and lowers her head. She appears to be searching for words.

  Lester crawls past Shelly, and over to me. I step aside slightly to let him go on out of the room.

  “Go on, Shelly,” I continue, hoping she doesn’t notice Lester’s exit.

  “Her children,” she says.

  “Yeah, I got it,” I say. I don’t get anything. The room is lighter now, and I can see she’s naked. “Your mother?”

  “No. Not really.” Shelly raises her head, and I see the faint glimmer of tears on her face.

  “Not really your mother. But how then, a symbol? A symbol of your mom?”

  Shelly looks away from me, at the window over the bed. She seems to be listening to something.

  “What about the figs?” I press on. “Do they make you think of your mother in some way?”

  She faces me then with a snarl. “You want to kill the tree, and you haven’t a prayer.” She points at me with the knife. “You’re doomed, Cass. There’s no way you can come out of this alive. And that goes for the rest of you as well.” She takes a step toward me, brandishing the knife blade in front of her.

  “I don’t want to kill anyone, Shelly. I don’t know where you get that.” In careful slow motion, I move my right hand to the butt of my holstered gun.

  She throws her head back and laughs, a harsh, rending sound. “You’re a lying prick, Cass Murphy! Do you think I’ve forgotten? You’ve called her names, and you’ve vowed to kill her, to destroy her. You plan to do that today!”

  I need to get her back into telling me about Mother. “Shelly, the ‘mother’ you speak of—that’s The Tree, right?” She doesn’t answer, but I know I’m right. “Okay, okay,” I say in what I hope is a soothing tone. “I understand now. I won’t do that, Shelly; I won’t hurt her. And I’ll see to it that no one else hurts her either.” She brings the knife down to her side, and I think I might have a chance to turn this horror around. Somewhere inside this tortured creature is Charlotte’s little sister. “Let’s talk, okay?” She frowns, peer
ing at me.

  “Yeah,” I continue. “Let’s sit down and talk.” The only place to sit is the bed. Shelly is still naked, but she doesn’t seem to give a damn about that. I sit, leaning a shoulder against the iron footboard. If I can find a way to reverse the effect of the figs, I’m thinking, maybe I can bring the real Shelly back. Back to sanity. But she’s clutching the knife against her belly, holding it at the ready. She’s a long way from any sort of sanity.

  I have to disarm this woman.

  She looks so tired, so defeated I want to reach out and comfort her … but not while she’s holding that knife.

  “How about giving me the knife, Shelly? So we can talk together more comfortably.”

  Her head jerks backward as if something is yanking it. In a blur of rapid movement, she takes a couple steps past me, and is now between the doorway and me. That knife is pointed my way again, gripped tightly in her hand. She glares at me, her teeth bared.

  All thoughts of saving this woman leave me; I’ll be lucky to save myself. To do that I have to get past her and the knife, then out into the barn. Unless … can I get out through the window? My eyes leave hers as I look back at the window. It’s wide open.

  Shelly grunts. She goes into a crouch, her upper body curved downward over her bent knees.

  Is she in pain? What—

  With a cry, she springs. Pushing off, she shoots up at me in a leap, arms extended, knife thrust out toward me.

  I throw myself off the bed and onto my knees. I look up to see Shelly airborne just above me. With macabre grace, she flies headfirst into the iron of the footboard. The sound is obscene—a moist thwack, like a melon thrown against a metal wall. Her neck crumples, head lolling, twisted to one side.

  “Shelly!”

  I haul myself up onto the bed and pull her away from the merciless iron. Her neck straightens with a crackling sound. One eye gazes directly into mine, while the other, its focus skewed by the bar she’s just slammed into, peers off in another direction. She has an angry red gouge above her right eye where the iron has done its damage. Shelly has a grotesque, demented look to her.