The Matriarch (24 page)

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 kerosene 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—

“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.

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.”