The Matriarch (34 page)

In spite of the pain she’s inflicting, I’m elated. It works! The testosterone spray hurts her, or she wouldn’t be freaking out.

“Only problem is,” I mutter to myself, “her fucking sap works too.” I know she might very well give us more than we can handle.

If this evil broad puts her mind to it, she’ll set us all on fire.

I look over to see how Dott and Lester are doing, and I don’t see Lester. I don’t see him anywhere. Is he kneeling in the grass? No.

“Lester?”

Where the fuck is he?

The big man is nowhere to be seen. He’s vanished.

12:00 Noon

Al pulls into his driveway and sees his sister’s car parked in front of his house.

Fuck!

He knows his mother is probably there also, with sister Anna. A visit with his family is certainly not what he had in mind—not by a long shot. But Al is a fine son and a good brother—as well as the head of this family. He can handle this change of plan. They’ve probably come by on his lunch hour to congratulate him on his current status—that of acting sheriff. He’ll give them that opportunity, grab a quick shower and a bite to eat, and then be out the door back to work—back to the Murphy ranch house. The tumble with Gin can wait.

Al hears the TV as he walks to the front door which is closed against the midday heat. He opens the door and enters the living room, his mouth set in what he knows to be a warm, yet powerful smile.

What the fuck has happened here?

The room is a mess. Open magazines are thrown everywhere, there are dirty glasses on the coffee table and wadded up paper napkins on the floor. And there’s a smell. It’s sugary and disgusting.

“Gin! Where are you? What’s going on here?” Then he sees what’s playing on the TV. It’s that Goddamned
Yearling
video of Gin’s. Every six months or so she gets that thing out, watches that miserable mama deer die again, and has a good cry.

Gin appears then, coming out of the kitchen. Her face is grim, and for some fucking reason she’s carrying a shovel. She’s glaring at him, and the truly upsetting thing about all this is that she doesn’t seem to be afraid of him!

Al takes his hat off. He’s confused and off balance, and a small rush of anxiety comes into his belly. He knows this woman better than she knows herself, but at this moment she’s a stranger to him.

And, Christ’s sake, she’s followed by his mother and his sister! They’re solemn, their faces hostile. His whole body sprouts goose bumps, and he finds himself unable to meet their gaze. Al actually has to lower his eyes.

For lack of a better target, he focuses on the magazines on the floor. What the hell … he’s looking at boobs! Photos of naked breasts, buttocks, and genitalia.

Oh Christ, they’ve found my stash of porn!

Countless pages of photos, some torn and wadded up, have been thrown around the room. The magazines Al has gathered over the years, the choice items he’s so thoughtfully collected—they’ve been ripped apart or crumpled.

Goddamn it!
Al clenches his fists, and his vision clouds with a welcome anger. It eases the painful cramp of fearful anxiety in his gut.

These precious photos had been safe in the lock box in his office closet. Special private territory off limits to anyone except Al himself, and Gin knows that. She’ll pay for this, he promises himself, and can almost taste the joy the smack of his hand against the soft flesh of her cheek will bring.

You’ll be naked too, Gin. When I beat you, I’m gonna rip that fucking nightgown right off your fuck—

“You’re a pervert, Albert,” his mother says, in a pleasant, conversational tone.

“What?” He looks at her in amazement. Martha’s face has a rosy glow to it—nothing like the pale yellow-gray he’s used to seeing. And her thinning almost white hair is wild and tangled around that face—as if blown there by some internal force.

Who is this woman?

“She’s right, Al,” Anna chimes in. “You’re a pervert.”

He forces a laugh, sneering at his sister. Anna’s a fool. Always quick to jump but never quick enough to see where she’s going to land. She and her mother walk past Al to the couch. They seat themselves and stare at him. He feels …
small.
Unnerving though it is, Al
has
to explain.

“You’re women,” he states. “You don’t understand how it is.” He gestures toward the photos on the floor. “This is … man stuff. Men.” He takes a breath and puffs out his chest. “Men enjoy females … the female form.” Gin walks around him and stands near Anna and Martha, leaning on that shovel. Al makes the mistake then of looking directly at the women, his wife, his sister, and his mother. Six eyes impale him and nail him to the cross of their feminine nature, with all its unimportance and innate triviality.

“Virginia showed us, Albert,” Martha says. Anna gives him a sad nod of agreement.

“Showed you?”

“The bruises,” Martha says. “From when you beat her the other night.”

“Mom—”

“She said it wasn’t the first time,” Anna says.

“And you believe her?” Al’s voice is weak, hardly audible in the hot, still room. But his mind is strong, and it’s telling him to run. He turns and starts to trot quickly back to the front door.

Where the hell is Lester?

“Frank!” I yell. I spin around and there he is just a few yards away. The old man is motionless, a dazed look on his face. Charlotte comes up to us and stands still as well. “Goddamn it, one of you must have seen him! Where is he?”

Louie is pulling at his leash, wanting to come to me, but Frank is holding him back. Slowly Frank raises a shaking hand and points to a spot several feet to my right.

“He … he was right there,” Frank says in a faltering voice.

I walk quickly to the place Frank has indicated, taking the sprayer with me. “Stay where you are,” I call to him and the girls. “I’ll have a look.” With my uncle scared silly and no help at all, that leaves just the women.

Without Lester, I’m almost alone.

The ground seems different as I walk, unstable and almost fragile. I see an opening in the ground and stop near its edge.

“There’s a hole,” I yell to the others. “Don’t come over here until I say it’s okay.” I drop to my hands and knees, and, hugging the sprayer, I crawl closer to the edge of the hole. I see it isn’t a very large opening, but certainly big enough for Lester to have fallen down into it. I can’t really see the bottom, and faint puffs of dust are coming up through the darkness and into my face.

“Lester? Hey man. You down there?” More dust comes up. I feel ridiculous. And scared.

There’s a sound then, a wrenching. The ground moves, and the grassy sod under my knees isn’t there anymore. All the falling dreams I’ve ever had come into vivid reality as I tumble down into that dark, yawning hole, twisting as I fall. I land on my back, cushioned by a bed of grassy earth. My right knee is cocked, the ankle trapped under my left calf. I roll to free it, and hot pain shoots up my calf into my knee. I just lie there, trying to get my breath back.

A little sunlight from the opening above shows me I’ve fallen about a dozen, maybe fourteen feet. I seem to be in a cavern-like area. I try slowly rotating my ankle. A lot of pain, but at least I can move it. I force myself up a little, still clutching the sprayer, and look around for Lester.

Aside from the hole itself, several dust-filled beams of sunlight filter down into the cavern from the surface like tiny spotlights. It’s an eerily beautiful phenomenon until I focus on what those little beams of light are revealing. I see clumps of green roots and tentacles twisted into grotesque shapes—huge tangles of unnatural and exuberant growth. The cavern is full of them. I shudder when I notice many of these strange clusters are moving.

I try to straighten my right leg, but the piercing pain in my calf stops me.

“Lester? Hey man,” I call softly. “Where are you?”

The small beacons of light are scattered, and I can see through many of these snarled growths. I can see just past them to a gigantic mass of dense roots and tentacles that seem to be right … under the trunk … of The …

Oh my God, that’s her!

Al reaches to pull the screen door open and run to his car, but the shovel blade comes around him and pushes the door closed. Gin appears beside him. She pulls the shovel away from the door and waves it at Al, grinning. It’s not a pleasant grin. “Come back into the living room, Al. You have company. Your family has come to see you.”

He does, followed by Gin, with her shovel at the ready. He doesn’t recognize his wife—she seems to have become a demon. She moves past him and stands near the couch. He’s in front of the coffee table, trying to smile at Anna and Martha who remain seated on the couch.

They’re looking at him with interest—as if examining a bizarre form of life … an unusual bug. The fear in Al’s stomach is painful, and it’s growing.

“We had a little argument,” he manages to say, heart thudding hard. “It was nothing. Gin is making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Nothing was it, Al?” Anna says.

“Right!” Al says, too loud.

“Lotta bruises for nothing,” Martha says, her eyes glittering.

Al takes a breath.

Enough! Enough of this shit. I’m a man, Chrissake! I need to take charge.

“She’s my wife,” he says, giving his voice a confident ring he doesn’t feel. Al is gratified to notice that both women look away—they can’t meet his eyes. They shift their focus to Gin, still standing with that shovel. “Sometimes wives need a little … attention. Some guidance you might say. When Gin—” She walks toward him. She still has that hideous grin on her face.

He watches his wife bring the shovel up and back. There’s a swishing sound as Gin swings the shovel down toward him. It strikes him on his forehead. Lights. Bright lights flash through his mind. They change colors, beating at him like a tangible strobe. His eyes pulse with a searing pain, on fire. In slow motion Al falls forward onto the glass-top coffee table. He hits the tabletop with his upper body and rolls slowly to his left, landing at last on the floor. He lies there on his back, breathing hard. An empty bowl near his head reeks of that disgusting smell.

His Gin is standing over him with the shovel in her hands. She looks down at him, still grinning.

“Gin …”

“Hey, Al,” she says. “How does it feel having the crap beat out of you?”

“Yes,” Anna says, “How does it feel? You enjoying yourself?”

“And, here’s the good news,” Gin says, “There’s plenty more to come.” Her grin widens. “We’re going to take turns.”

“You can’t beat up on women,” Anna says. “You get that?”

“Yes, better believe it, sweetie!” Martha says happily.

“I can change.” Al’s voice is almost a whisper.

The women laugh. He rolls slightly to his right and tries to get up, using an elbow for support. Through the throbbing pain in his head, he sees his wife lift the shovel again, the blade of it waving above him.

“Wait!” he cries out. “wait!”

This can’t be happening!

“I’ll change! Sweet Christ—give me a chance!”

“A chance …” Gin murmurs, still holding the shovel up over her head, ready for action. “What a novel idea. I wish I’d thought to ask for a chance all those times you beat me—”