The Matriarch Read Free

has disappeared. He sees heavy dark brows, a skinny nose, and a bony jaw covered with a gunmetal stubble—all softness gone. And at six-foot three I’m certainly a lot taller.
    Frank reaches out and grasps my arm. “C’mon boy, I want to show you somethin’. We’ll meet up with those folks on the porch later. Get back in your truck; we’ve got to drive.”
    “What—”
    “What kinda dog is this anyway?” Frank shoos Louie back up into the front seat and gets in next to the pup. “C’mon Cassidy!”
    I climb back in and start up my Ranger. “What the hell, Frank? Where are we going?”
    “Across the bridge to Georgie’s pasture. I’ve got to show you that tree.”
    I see my uncle has a holster and gun on his belt. “Uncle Frank, you’re wearing a gun!”
    “Yeah, I am. I got one for you too, Cassidy. It’s back at the house.”
    “Why?”
    “You’ll see.” Louie puts his head in Frank’s lap, and Frank scratches him behind his ears. “Nice pup,” he says.
    “Yeah, I think he’s a Pit Bull. Maybe got a little Boxer—”
    “Across this bridge here and then just over that rise.”
    “So, how is Georgie?” I remember the grey gelding my uncle’s had for years.
    “He’s all right. Eatin’ himself silly on those figs I told you about. I need you to build a new barricade ’round that crazy tree.”
    “Sure, no problem.”
    We drive through the fenced pastureland that Frank cleared himself years ago. There’s been enough rain that even in August the land is still blooming lush and green. It’s mostly flat with a few gentle swells, and I love the bright, healthy look of it in the sunlight. Scrub oak and wild peach trees are growing everywhere.
    Frank points out a large tangle of naked vines. “You remember those blackberries, Cassidy?”
    “I do.”
    “Those vines are barren now. Since that quake. I don’t know why. ’Specially when that tree’s spittin’ out figs right and left.” He waves a hand out at the land. “This here’s Georgie’s territory. He crosses that bridge and then has this big old dining room all to himself.”
    Here the peach trees have little fences built around them. Barricades to keep Georgie away, Frank explains. We drive on slowly toward a large tree, not a peach or an oak. As we come closer, I see the tree’s branches have pushed at its barricade and caused it to sag badly. It’s much too small for the tree. We stop about fifteen feet from it.
    “Ain’t she somethin’?” Frank says.
    “Yeah … but what?” I’m looking at a very ugly tree.
    Frank shakes his head. “I can’t believe the way this thing’s growin’!”
    The thing looks to me like it’s growing all helter-skelter, with no natural plan. It stands over twenty feet tall, with foliage growing out to its sides so green it looks artificial. The tree is much wider than it is high. We climb out of the truck and walk a little closer. I can see several pink bulbs peeking out from behind the leaves.
    “What are those pink things?”
    “Figs a’ course,” Frank says with a snort.
    “They look … weird.”
    “Yeah, I don’t think the pinks are ripe yet. There are all different colors on the tree right now, but it’s just the pinks that stand out. You can see the others when you’re closer.”
    I don’t want to go closer. I feel Louie rub up against my leg and hear him give a little whimper. I guess my puppy doesn’t want to go closer either. I notice a smell—a strong, sugary scent—and see several figs resting on fallen leaves around the trunk. As I watch, a bright green one falls from the tree. It makes a soft plopping sound as it lands.
    “I don’t know enough people to give the fruit away to,” Frank says. “I give a bunch to Gwen Schwartz, a neighbor of the Russo’s, ’bout every other day, and I’ve still got a lot left. I’ve taken to dumping most of ’em. I hate to waste them that way. Can you smell them?”
    I nod. It’s disgusting.
    “They rot so bloomin’