The Matriarch

by Hawes, Sharon;

A hissing sound then. It’s coming from The Tree. Acrid smoke is billowing from the burning areas. Gobbets of white sap are forming on the branches and the thick braided trunk; it collects on the vines. Even the leaves become streaked with the white of it. There’s a burst of nausea in my belly.

  “What’s happening?” Lester asks. He sounds like a bewildered child, and I taste bile in the back of my throat, acidic and harsh. We take a few steps back.

  A cramp hits me then, and I turn away from Frank and Lester to spit into the ground at my feet. I’m close to puking up my guts.

  “Mother’s milk,” Frank says softly. “Her milk’s let down. Just like a nursing mother.”

  I don’t want to look but I have to. Like milky pus, profuse quantities of sap bubble up out of The Tree and run down her limbs to the ends of her leaves and vines, and then drip onto the flames. The fire is sputtering out both in the branches and the mush of fallen figs on the ground.

  The Tree is putting herself out.

  Al calls the medical examiner’s office again, and the man on phone duty, a William Jenson, tells him Dr. Beaumont is en route back to his office with a body.

  “What’s the location he’s coming from?”

  “What?”

  Sweet Christ, is everybody out to lunch? “The body, Jenson, where did the doc pick it up?”

  A pause then while sweat rolls down Al’s back as he listens to Jenson breathe. “I’m not at liberty to give out that information, sir. That will have to come from Dr. Beaumont himself.”

  Al doesn’t trust himself to speak. He gulps in air, fighting for some sort of control. This lack of respect is mind-boggling!

  This doc is gonna pay. I don’t know how yet, but I’m sure-as-shit gonna think of something.

  “Tell the doctor,” Al manages finally, “I’ve got a body here that needs attention. That’s ASAP, Jenson. You understand?”

  A pause. Then Jenson says, “‘Here, you say? You mean at your station? At the jail?”

  “Yeah. Looks like a suicide.”

  “No kidding!”

  Al begins chewing on the inside of his right cheek. “Yeah, no kidding. Tell the doc I really need to speak with him. Like now. It’s important.”

  “I’ll let him know right away. I think I can patch him through to you right now.”

  Al waits.

  Then, “Schmidt?”

  “Yeah, doc. We got a body here. Suicide.”

  The doctor sighs. “I’ll be there soon as I can. Meantime, don’t touch anything, take some pictures, and turn up the air conditioning.”

  “Well, see, that’s goin’ to be a prob—” A click in Al’s ear.

  The bastard’s hung up on me.

  Al slams the phone down. “Jim-Boy,” he yells. “Where’s that Goddamned Kleenex?” He tastes blood from the inside of his cheek.

  We sit on the slight swell of land near the smoking tree. The smell of scorched fruity rot settles over us in a tangible cloud. I cover my nose and mouth with a shaking hand while the stench creeps between my fingers. I squeeze my eyes shut, pull my knees up, and hold them tight against my chest. A hand on my knee pushes at me.

  “Take one, Cassidy. It helps against the smell.” Frank thrusts a crumpled pack of Camels at me.

  “Right, there’s not enough crap in the air,” I say with a short laugh. I pull a cigarette from the package. We all light up.

  “She’s somethin’ else,” my uncle says admiringly, as if remarking on really fine weather. “Her power is—”

  “Awesome,” Lester fills in. He looks at me and takes a deep drag. Frank is peering at me too, like he’s waiting for me to come up with … what? A solution?

  Apparently, further action is up to me. Sure, why not? I’m sitting here with a crazy old man, and a one-armed man, and a killer tree that’s out to get us all.

  I suck down another lung-full of smoke and stare down at the ground, trying to think.

  “In the movies,” Frank says, ruffling his smoky hair with a dirty hand, “this is where the president is notified, and he gets the Army and the Air Force in on the problem. They all go into action and bomb the hell out a’ this here tree.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Lester says. “Outside help sounds pretty good, right about now.”

  “Yeah, it does,” I allow. “But it’s cumbersome too. In those same movies, the government is full of dickheads who don’t believe anyone and who take forever to mobilize and do anything. They always have to go through ‘channels.’ Can you hear us explaining this tree to the government?”

  “Like how we tried to explain it to Schmidt,” Lester puts in.

  “We could try, though,” I say. “We can try to get Manny again, in case he’s still kicking, and have him—”

  “Shouldn’t we have reported our suspicion about him by now?” Frank asks.

  “Yeah, but that’s Schmidt again. It’s not easy talking to that guy. We could, though, tell him we’re worried and ask him to check on Manny in person. But let’s not get distracted here. The Tree is the thing right now. Got to stop her.”

  “I think bombing sounds good,” Lester says. “Bomb this thing right to Hell.”

  “Even if we could convince someone to do that, it may not be the answer. This fire today may not have done the job either, even if she hadn’t put herself out. By now her root system is probably deep and pretty extensive. Hell, she could pop up anywhere.”

  I look over at The Tree. She’s still smoking, and the figs at her base are mere cinders now. At least that much damage has been done. But even from where I’m sitting I can see those obscene bulbs, the new crop of poisonous figs poking out from behind her leaves. The Mama Tree is still fertile and still birthing her young.

  “I think we have to find a poison to fight her with. A chemical that will kill her—cause her root system to die, completely and quickly.” Frank and Lester are looking at me as if what I’m saying actually makes sense. “We have to create some kind of chemical catastrophe for her.”

  “I think,” Frank says slowly, “it would help us to figure out the ‘why’ of it. Of her. Do you believe, Cassidy, that she thinks and feels? Like a human being?”

  I think a moment. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

  “And you believe that somehow the tree forces women to kill men?”

  “Maybe compels is a better word. Through her figs somehow she compels women to kill men. With Carla and Lindee it was the men they loved.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t really know. Maybe she sees men as a threat. A threat to her very life. She can’t control us the way she can women, because her figs have no effect on us. Maybe we’re chemically immune, and that makes us dangerous to her.”

  “And Georgie?” Frank asks, frowning.

  “See, that’s my point.” My fatigue fades as my thoughts begin to take logical shape. I stand up; I’m excited. “Georgie was a gelding—not really male. So what makes a male? What causes a boy’s voice to change and makes him grow body hair? What about Gwen Schwartz? She seems unaffected by the figs … why?” I wave a finger at my audience. “I’ll tell you why—at least maybe why. She takes a drug that’s heavy on the same chemical that makes men. Testosterone. Even Richard suggested that hormone might be something to consider.”

  “I hope you’re not going to ask us big macho guys to jerk off on that tree!” Lester says with a grin.

  “In a way, I am,” I say. “Why don’t we make up a batch of synthetic testosterone and spray The Tree with it? If it’s such a powerful enemy to her that she has to destroy males, it’s probably poison to her. Hopefully, a lethal poison.”

  “That might be wishful thinking,” Frank says.

  “She’s a plant. She’s got pores, right? You saw that sap of hers come up onto her branches and leaves.” An exhilarating confidence comes into me now. I think I’m onto something. “We can spray it on her, and it will go right into her system, the same way that sap came out.”

  “I like it,” Lester says.


  “But how do we make that testosterone stuff?” Frank asks.

  “Richard Bloome will help us,” I say. “At least he can tell us what’s in synthetic testosterone. We can give it a try. If it fails, we’ll go right to whatever authorities we can dig up. At that point we’ll have to.”

  “Let’s go see Richard,” Lester says, scrambling to his feet.

  “Wait a minute,” I say, holding up a hand. “I think Frank is right about the ‘why’ of her actions. We don’t really know why all this is happening. We need to understand her.”

  “But how can we ever know that kind of stuff?” Lester asks.

  “Maybe Carla knows,” Frank says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “We can ask Dott to talk to her—a woman of the cloth, so to speak—to see what she knows.”

  Frank and Lester nod their agreement.

  “Okay.” I smack my hands together. “Let’s get back to the house and see how the meeting with the medical examiner went. Then the three of us can get together with Richard, while Dott goes to the jail to visit Carla. They can check on Lindee as well. And maybe Charlotte will go along with her.”

  In that instant I think about Charlotte, and I do so want that woman on my side.

  I want Charlotte with me.

  We pull up to the ranch house, and I see a dirty Plymouth coup in the driveway. It appears to be empty. There’s a woman on the porch, a tall brunette standing at the top of the stairs looking down at us. Even from a distance I can see she’s frowning. She looks shabby and unkempt.

  “Shit,” I mutter. “That’s Kate Hammond.”

  “Oh m’ God,” Lester says softly.

  “Just stay cool, Lester.” I hear Louie barking from inside the house. I hope to God Molly is still with her friend.

  “She sure looks pissed,” Frank says.

  “Hello there,” I call up to her and start for the stairs. When Louie hears my voice, he stops barking. Kate is silent.

  I’m talking to a killer, I remind myself, and I welcome the swell of anger in my belly. I amble up the steps to Kate, who makes no effort to move out of my way.

  “Something wrong?” I ask.

  This woman’s face is a study in rage. Conflicting emotions battle across her features leaving visible scars, lines I don’t remember seeing before. Lank, dirty hair rims her white face, and carelessly applied lipstick frames a ragged gash of mouth. Her eyes are red, the pupils lifeless marbles. She wears a sundress so sodden with sweat and dirt that it’s impossible to tell what color the dress might have been when freshly laundered. She’s the exact opposite of the woman she had been the last time I saw her. She’s come undone.

  “I was wondering,” she says at last, “about the figs.” Her gaze goes to Frank who stands just behind me. “Do you have any to spare?”

  “All gone,” Frank says. “Sorry.”

  “I saw you there just now,” she cries. “You tried to burn her! There were plenty on the ground, and you poured gas on them.”

  “Yeah, I did,” I say. “You called The Tree ‘her’?’”

  Mama Tree is in touch with this woman.

  I put a hand on Kate’s arm, stunned to feel the fragile bone inside her flaccid flesh, as if any pressure from me will snap it like a matchstick. As gently as possible, I push her back so Lester and Frank can pass by her up to the porch. “The figs are no good, Kate. They seem to affect women in a very negative way.”

  She grimaces, thrusts her hands up into her hair, and shakes her head violently.

  “What is it?” I ask. “Talk to us, Kate.” I put my hands on her shoulders, and her eyes widen. Looking into them, I feel my knees go soft. Bright sparks of fire are emanating from impossibly large pupils. Her eyes are no longer lifeless. And … no longer human.

  “You burned the figs,” she says, her voice deep and accusing.

  “Let’s talk about that,” I say, a chill floating through me.

  I know I’m listening to the voice of The Tree.

  She shrugs my hands from her shoulders and sinks to her knees. “Hang on, Kate, please.” Her eyes roll back into her head. As she focuses on me again, I see the human Kate is back.

  “You’re telling me you have no more figs?” she asks Frank, speaking now like one who has been misled but is now back on track.

  “That’s right,” Frank says. “But Kate—”

  “I have to go,” she says and gets quickly to her feet. I wonder if she even realizes she hasn’t seen her daughter lately. She strides purposely down the stairs.

  “Wait a minute, Kate,” I call after her. “How long have you been without figs?” She races to the Plymouth, starts it up, and roars off.

  I’m wondering what happens to a woman hooked on this shit when there are no more figs. How long does it take her to detox? And after detox, what kind of shape is she in?

  Charlotte sits at the kitchen table sipping a cup of coffee. It affects her like a hot brick in her belly, and she finds that a comfort along with Louie’s warm head resting on her bare foot under the table. The ordeal with Doctor Beaumont has left her drained of energy. She wishes Cass had spoken with her and Dott when the men returned. Instead, it was Frank who told them about the fire and its failure.

  Dott comes into the kitchen, and Charlotte forces a smile. The big woman looks bad—disheveled, exhausted, and defeated. She sits down.

  “You think the examiner bought Shelly’s accident story?” she asks.

  Charlotte shrugs. “I have no idea. I told him I thought Shelly had a hangover and must have tripped and fallen into the counter edge. He saw the empty bottle of Scotch. I hope to God she had a drink or two of that so it will show up in her blood work. He told me there will be an autop—” Charlotte shakes her head, her voice catching. Dott reaches across the table and grasps her hand. “We got lucky, you know,” Charlotte continues, “with that other call Beaumont got from the sheriff’s office. I’m sure he hurried his visit here, and I doubt this investigation is over.”

  Dott squeezes her hand. “You know about the fire, right?”

  “Frank told me.”

  “And Georgie?”

  Charlotte shakes her head. Dott pulls her chair around the table closer to Charlotte. “Too much for Frank to talk about, I guess,” Dott says, and tells Charlotte about Georgie’s attack and his death.

  “My God, what a nightmare,” Charlotte says, her vision blurring. She feels a hand on her neck and then Dott’s strong arm around her shoulders. A sense of calm comes to Charlotte, and, for the moment at least, she feels protected. Almost safe.

  “You know how I feel about you, don’t you?” Dott says, her face near Charlotte’s. “Don’t worry, please. I know you, and I know Cass has feelings for you. Just want to say that I … care about you.”

  Charlotte comes apart. Completely. She turns and sobs against Dott’s firm bosom. “She … Shelly was here … only for me. She never would have come here if not for me.”

  “Charlotte, sweetie, that’s life. We go and we do, and sometimes it all turns to shit.” Dott hands Charlotte a tissue, and soon her tears lessen. “Cass feels terrible too, you know,” she goes on. “He … I think he’s crazy about you.” She can’t tell how Charlotte feels about that idea.

  Dott picks up Charlotte’s cup of coffee and drains it. “I need your help,” she says.

  “What?”

  “I need you to come with me to talk to Carla. She might be able to tell us something about that tree and the figs.”

  “Virginia, I know you’re in there!” That strident voice belongs to Anna, Al’s sister. And Ginny knows her dragon of a mother-in-law, Martha, has to be with her. As if living with each other isn’t enough, the women go everywhere together as well. Joined at the hip these two. One of them, probably Anna, pounds on the door again. Ginny sighs and puts her needlepoint aside. She’s just come to the colorful part of the canvas, the oranges themselves. Ginny likes to do the boring part first—in this case the light blue background and the leaves—and save the m
ore interesting part for last. The five oranges will be depicted in three different shades of orange with red and yellow accents, and she’s looking forward to rendering them in neat, careful, basket weave stitches.

  She walks slowly to the front door, takes a deep breath, and opens it.

  “It isn’t good for you, Virginia,” Anna starts off, “to hole up the way you do.” She comes in, pushing Martha ahead of her into the living room. “I thought for a minute there you were going to pull one of your ‘I’m not home’ numbers.” Anna frowns, her dark brows drawn together, her thin lips pursed into a bloodless clump.

  Ginny backs out of their way. “I didn’t hear you,” she says.

  “Of course you didn’t,” Anna says, with a sneer of disbelief in her voice. “Here Mother, sit down.” She guides the older woman to her favorite chair, the overstuffed one done in a colorful brocade. Martha collapses into it and mops her face with a crumpled tissue.

  Big graceless women, they look like sisters, Ginny thinks, both cut from the same heavy German stock. The Aryan ideal has eluded these two completely. Lumpy flesh clings to their bones with an unhealthy pallor. Each wears a faded housedress and no discernible makeup. Martha has sparse salt and pepper gray hair while Anna’s is thick and just starting to go gray.

  Martha puts a hand to her forehead in a gesture a southern belle might use to ward off the vapors, and the white underside of her ample upper arm makes Ginny think of the ivory belly of a huge frog. “It’s so hot,” her mother-in-law says in a breathy whine. “Do you have something cool to drink?”

  Ginny stands before them, her shorts sticking to the backs of her thighs. Her hands feel huge as they dangle at her sides. Her fingers seem heavy and swollen with heat. “Of course,” she murmurs, so awash with fatigue she wants nothing more than to sink onto the couch and pull her needlework up over her head. Anna and Martha always have this effect on her.

  “As you know, Virginia,” Anna says, standing ramrod straight with a hand on her mother’s shoulder as if posing for a family portrait, “our house has such poor ventilation …” Her voice hangs in the air inviting a reply or at least a comment. She often speaks in fragments that leave Ginny suspended, trapped in Anna’s partial thoughts, waiting for some sort of completion. “A day like today … so warm.” Her tone suggests that Ginny is somehow responsible for the heat.