The Matriarch (8 page)

“Figs,” Gin says. “Manny brought them by yesterday. They’re from Frank Murphy. They’re good, Al.”

“Wonderful … just wonderful.” Al can’t hit her. The last time he did that her face swelled up something awful, and he really can’t afford that kind of press. Later.

I’ll get you later, Gin.

He throws his chair back and it tips over as he gets up. “I’ll get something at the deli,” he says. He leaves, slamming the back door shut behind him.

It always amazes Ginny that as much as she wants to please her husband, somehow she never gets things right. She slides to the floor, rests her back against the refrigerator, and thinks about it. Like Al says, she should have figured out when he would be home for dinner and had a nice meal ready. He surprised her so early at 5:00 p.m., but even so, she never should have served him that stupid stew. Ginny could have thawed a roast and made it nice and rare the way he likes it, and she could have baked some little red potatoes until they were crispy on the outside, and maybe even some baby carrots. As usual then, Ginny’s mind leaves the dinner problem and wanders off into what she considers the main issue.

Maybe if they had a child? Would life be better then? Ginny wants a baby in the worst way. But lately, Al is so rough with her in bed, it’s kind of scary, not to mention the fact that he keeps saying he doesn’t want any babies. She has promised him she’ll do all the work and keep things nice for him, but he always says, “No-way-Jose!” And when she asks him why, he doesn’t even answer.

The phone rings, intruding on her thoughts. Ginny crawls over to where it rests on the kitchen counter. She pulls it down onto her lap and stares at it. She certainly doesn’t want to talk with anyone right now. Besides, it’s probably Al’s sister or his mom, and one is every bit as annoying as the other. The answering machine picks up.

“Hi,” she hears her cheery voice ring out, “we’re not able to come to the phone right now. Leave a message and we’ll call you back.” She sounds so cool and together. So happy.

“Virginia, you there?” her sister-in-law Anna asks in her raspy voice. Ginny holds her breath as if the woman can hear her breathe. She knows her bitchy mother-in-law is probably nearby as well. “Ginny?” She hears the impatience in Anna’s listening silence. “I wasn’t aware you were going out tonight.” Accusing. Then, “Call me.” An order. Anna hangs up, and Ginny lets her breath out.

She picks up Al’s chair and sits down at the kitchen table. At least she has the night off, because Al probably won’t be home until ten or maybe later. Ginny helps herself to a fig from the bowl on the table—a fat, yellowish one. The fruit is delicious. It was real nice of Manny to bring them by. He’d gotten a whole lot of them from his buddy, Frank Murphy.

Sucking on the juicy fig, Ginny begins to feel better. Not exactly fine though, because the really bad thing about these upsets with Al is when he decides to forgive her. His “forgiving” is sometimes just too rough. But she doesn’t want to think about that just now, so she has another fig and then feels almost good.

Odd,
Ginny is thinking,
because I’ve never really liked figs.

I’m relaxing in the glider swing, my sore ankle on a pillow, while I work on my second beer and another cigarette.

Frank’s black pickup pulls up then, and he piles out of it hauling a grocery sack. He stomps up the porch steps and eyes the red bump on my temple.

“What happened to your head?”

I start to tell him, but he strides on into the house slamming the screen door behind him. He’s pissed about something, that’s for sure. I get up, putting my weight on my right foot. My left ankle feels pretty good, but my balance is way off so I sit right back down.

The screen door bangs again, and Frank charges over to me, still hot about something. He has two bottles of beer, hands one to me, and takes a deep draught of the other.

“Terrible day,” he mutters, sitting down next to me. “You remember Carla, so friendly and all? Remember she asked us to dinner some night this week?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Yeah, well. I went to the market, picked up a couple things, and was starting to walk back to my truck when she comes bursting out of the market behind me. I turn around to say hello, and she damn near knocks me over! She’s swinging that big black purse of hers. And damn it all to hell, she swings it at me.
At me.
Cassidy, she was aimin’ for my privates!”

I laugh. It’s a stupid joke. What he describes is unthinkable.

“It’s not funny,” my uncle says, scowling.

“You must be mistaken, Frank. You’re talking about a good friend—”

“I know. I know.” He’s close to tears.

I put my arm around his shoulders. “I’m sure this has nothing to do with you. She’s pissed about something—”

“Well, shit sakes Cassidy … swingin’ that big purse at my privates? What’s she thinkin’ anyhow?”

“I don’t have a clue, Uncle Frank.”

Carla Russo is in her favorite place doing her favorite thing. She’s in her kitchen baking lace cookies, a specialty of hers. She’ll drape each over an inverted coffee cup when freshly baked and limp from the oven. When cool and firm, she’ll turn them back over, now in the shape of the inverted coffee cups. After dinner, she’ll spoon vanilla ice cream into them and top each with fresh strawberries, a delightful and pretty dessert.

Carla takes the marinating chops out of the fridge and sets them on the butcher-block table in the center of the kitchen. She puts the cleaver there also in case Dante wants to trim the meat a bit before he barbecues. She had felt somewhat guilty selecting the nicely marbled lamb chops at the market, because both she and Dante were supposed to be watching their cholesterol intake. Her guilt is fading however as she pats the chops lovingly.

Wait a minute,
Carla thinks, vaguely troubled as she mops her steamy brow with a paper towel.
I’m angry with Dante, am I not? And I’m none too pleased with Frank Murphy as well, though just now I can’t think why.

Carla walks to the sink and turns on the cold water. She splashes it onto her face and neck and into her hair.

Oh my goodness; that feels good!

To prolong the refreshment, she lets the water dry naturally on her face and gazes out the kitchen window at the barn and the stand of tall Eucalyptus that buffers their home from the dusty road. She selects another fig from a bowl, this one a delightful bright orange. What a pretty place they have, she and Dante, especially just now as the sun is low in the sky, preparing to set.

Sweet fig juice courses down her chin, and she dabs at it with the towel. She must ask Dante to get some more of these tasty fruits from his friend Frank. Dante told her Frank has many more than he can possibly use. Carla is forgetting something … What?

I filed for divorce today.

What? What an astonishing thing her mind has just said to her!

Rubbish! That simply can’t be true!

Carla’s mind goes completely awry then and shows a very disturbing picture of herself talking with the Russo’s attorney, Brandon Sims.

Whatever about?

“Aunt Carla, what time is dinner?” Charlotte calls out from the living room just as the oven timer dings.

“Oh, an hour or so,” Carla cries, slipping on her oven mitts. “Around six o’clock.” She opens the oven door. The fragrance of warm cinnamon and caramelized sugar fills the small kitchen and instantly generates a profuse amount of saliva in Carla’s mouth. No doubt about it, she’s every bit as good a baker as all her friends say.

Carla wants a cookie in the worst way but knows that at the moment they’re way too hot. Not one for patience, she casts her eye about the kitchen in a frantic search for something sugary. And she finds it. Of course! God bless Frank Murphy and that fig tree of his!

She puts the cookie sheet down on the counter, pulls off the oven mitts, and snatches up another fig, a greenish-purple one this time. She takes a large bite.

Oh my goodness!

Juice bursts from the pulp in her mouth and mingles with her saliva, creating an overwhelming sweetness that goes right to her brain. She’s transported. Before conscious thought returns, Carla has devoured three figs.

Her mind is now a study in focus and clarity. She remembers her day and everything in it like a movie being played out in her mind’s eye in living Technicolor.

Especially the part dealing with that prick she’s married to. Of course, she’ll divorce Dante. Why has she waited so long? There’s a slight blur in her mind as to what it is exactly that makes him so distasteful, but the fact that he’s profoundly unsuitable as a husband is now crystal clear to her. So clear, it actually hurts her head to think about it.

Carla hears him then, stomping into the house through the laundry room. She can smell the man, even before he gets to the kitchen. Dante stinks. Not the usual workingman-in-the-sun smell, no. It’s more odiferous than that, more of a leaden stench. If she examines him closely, Carla is sure she’ll actually see the aura of rank odor that surrounds him.

“Hi sweetie,” the prick says cheerily as he comes into the room, stinking up her clean kitchen.

Carla doesn’t bother to respond.

Dante opens the fridge, pulls out the jar of ice water, and tips it to his mouth. She hates that, when he doesn’t use a glass. The man is more than she can bear.

“Prick,” Carla says softly to her husband’s back as she picks up the meat cleaver.

Charlotte comes striding into the kitchen. “We’re out of figs, Aunt Carla. I’m going—” she stops short as she sees the cleaver in Carla’s hand.

Carla quickly changes her grip on the cleaver as if offering it to Dante. “I was just asking your uncle to trim these chops a bit,” she says. “There are some figs left here, Charlotte.” She nods toward the bowl on the butcher block. “But you could drive up to Frank’s and pick up some more. He says he’s got plenty.”

“Oh,” Charlotte says, staring at the cleaver. “I … I’ll do that … yes.” She seems confused, taken aback.

Dante takes the cleaver from Carla, and she’s relieved. She hopes Charlotte didn’t notice her wielding that cleaver like a weapon.

I’m pleased to see Charlotte pull up in the blue woody. She’s come for more figs, and I decide to take her out to The Tree.