The Matriarch by Sharon; Hawes Read Free Book Online Page B

voyeur.
    After lunch that afternoon, we walk back to the barn. Frank explains the new barrier he wants me to build—it’s basically the same as the old one but a whole lot bigger. He gestures toward a stack of pine 4 × 6’s. “You can use those as posts for the fence; they’re already cut to size. Just haul ’em to the tree in your Ranger. That bridge will hold up just fine. And take that sack of concrete with you, a’ course, and that five gallon drum a’ water.” He looks hard at me. “You remember how to do this, right?”
    “Fence posts? Sure.”
    Frank continues staring at me. “I’ve got Lester mucking out Georgie’s stall, but I can pull him off that if you want help.”
    I shake my head.
    “You sure you’re all right with this?”
    “Of course I’m all right,” I say. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
    The old man’s eyes go to my empty belt. I had taken my gun and holster off before lunch. “Where’s your gun?”
    “I don’t want to haul it around, Frank. I don’t need—”
    “I got you that gun so’s you’d wear it! What good’s it gonna do if you don’t put it on?” Frank’s face reddens.
    “Frank … you know something I don’t? Like why the hell I need to wear a side arm to build a fence around a tree? What’s that gun supposed to do for me, anyway?”
    Frank sucks in air like there’s a shortage, hands twitching at his sides.
    “Well … I guess I’m not sure, Cassidy. But there’s somethin’ strange here since …” He takes another deep breath. “Havin’ that gun on you just seems … prudent.”
    Prudent. Not a word I hear Frank use a lot. “Well, okay,” I say. It isn’t okay, but I don’t want his face getting any redder. “That’s fine with me.”
    “Get your gun, Cassidy, then take me to the card room in town while I wait for my truck to get fixed, okay?”
    We load up my truck, I drop Frank off at the card room in Diablo, and then I drive back to the ranch. As Louie and I cross the bridge to the barricade, I keep thinking about Frank’s strange attitude toward the guns he insists we wear. I’ve never known my uncle to give a damn about shooting for any reason—not for hunting or targets, and certainly not for protection. But maybe a man of his age has a right to be a little strange, and that weird tree would spook anyone. I’m looking forward to building the new barricade though. I’m good with my hands—always have been.
    I stop the truck about fifteen yards from the tree and stare at the thing.
    It’s bigger!
    And the sagging barricade looks even smaller. But that’s impossible; it’s only been a few hours! Many of the pinks have fallen into the profusion of colored figs on the ground, and they look obscene, like globs of pink flesh. It’s hot now, but I’m shivering. And the leaves … even from the truck I can see the bright green leaves have a ragged blade-like edge to them as if they’ve been honed into serrated teeth.
    I’m disgusted, letting myself get so unstrung by this crazy tree. I drive a little closer and stop. I unload the truck while Louie scouts out the neighborhood. With a mallet, I knock the now useless barricade apart and toss the lumber from it into the bed of the pickup.
    I didn’t think to bring a rake for the fallen figs, and I keep stepping on them. Soon the fig mush on my boots exudes a sugary reek that goes to my head in the form of a dull ache. I turn my back on the tree and light up a cigarette. I take a drag, and my throat seizes up with dryness. My head begins to pound as I start to cough.
    I toss the cigarette and cup my hands to get some water from the drum. It tastes great, and I gulp it down.
    Checking Frank’s drawing of the new barricade, I pace off the distance the old man wants between posts and go to work. It’s been a while since I’ve actually built something, and I soon begin to enjoy the process.
    In about three hours, I’ve dug the postholes and set the new posts into them along with hardening