Doug Telling and I have been on-line friends for nearly a decade. We’ve exchanged missives on everything from baseball to politics (Doug’s one of those leftist professors who is undermining society by exposing the young to dangerous ideas like the actual writings of Jefferson and Madison and heretical stuff like argument based on reason instead emotional bombast. But he is pretty much a pinko, so watch him.) Anyway, something about the Hilary Davidson scar stories struck a chord with the boy, and this is the result. As Doug has no website, I’m posting it here for him.
I knew you had it in you, Herr Doktor.
Hilary Robinson sat at her computer. Her right hand felt the scar on her face. Her left hand rubbed her good luck stone. Her eyes read the profile of Sensativegal2 on MassMatch.com. “She has nice eyes and a bit of a wry smile,” she thought. She liked wry.
“Hey Sensativegal2, I see that you are a big fan of Impressionism. I just went to the Monet show at the Clark. Wow. I really liked the pastels, although the drawings were something I hadn’t seen before. Very powerful show. Have you seen it? I’d love to see it again. Wait until you see the Waterloo Bridge! It is like a shadow; a ghost. Have you been to Shelburne Falls? I think Monet painted the Bridge of Flowers! LOL.”
Hilary sighed and clicked on the tab of her job. A video conference in an hour. Fuck. Living in the sticks of Western Massachusetts was relaxing, beautiful, and brutal for someone who telecommuted. A satellite connection was ok, but not for this. And the local coffee shop was too loud and public for her to talk with her colleagues about gay rights. Time to drive to Northampton.
“Hi Bighills. I’ve been meaning to get to that show! Went to Mass MoCa instead. All my friends told me I needed to see the Sol Lewitt show. Not! I’d love to hook up with you and go see the Monet how. Why don’t you give me a call. 413-534-5678.”
Hilary glanced at her watch. Damn. Forty-five minutes to the Northampton coffee café. I can’t be late for another meeting. She flew out the door.
On the way she called 413-534-5678.
Saturday at 12 noon she pulled into Mary Krantz’s driveway in rural Cheshire. She had a bottle of champagne and some grass as table setters. Mary opened the door and her eyes went right to the scar. It didn’t last long, but her repulsion swept across her face and just as quickly the face went blank. Blank. As in no emotion. As in absent.
“Hi,” Mary said. “I just got a call from my father. He’s in a nursing home in Greenfield and is really freaking out. I’ve got to go. Sorry.”
“Sure,” said Hilary. “I need to pee. Do you mind?”
“No, the bathroom is just to the left beyond the grandfather clock.”
From the bathroom Hilary called: “I’m out of toilet paper. Can you bring me a roll?”
When Mary entered the bathroom, she saw Hilary with a motherfucking big switchblade and then felt the blade against her throat.
“Get in the fucking tub.”
“What? Do you want money? Drugs? Take it!”
Hilary carefully stuck the knife into Mary’s abdomen and gutted her just as she did a brown trout in the Chickley River. Slowly and methodically. Another advantage of living in the sticks of Western Massachusetts is the absence of neighbors. Hilary went to sleep listening to the coyotes at night. They will like Margaret.
Hilary Robinson sat at her computer. Her right hand felt the scar on her face. Her left hand rubbed her good luck stone. Her eyes read the profile of Haybalefirm on MassMatch.com. “She has nice eyes and a bit of a wry smile, she thought. She liked wry.
“Hey Haybalefirm. Funny name. Do you throw them? I have to fight my goat when I get my delivery. Let’s chat. 413-546-6667.”
The call was from Janice Clark. She was getting hay this Sunday and loved the idea of help. Running a farm, even a small one, alone was hard.
It was hot this June morning. There was a good first cutting. The bales were a bit heavy and smelled sweet. Hilary didn’t mind wearing a long sleeved shirt and blue jeans. Actually, blue jeans made her ass look really hot. Round. Firm. Grabable. And the long sleeves kept the hay from scratching her.
Hilary knocked on Janice’s door. Janice opened it and turned and walked away. That shock then blank look had crossed her face. Hilary walked in. Janice came over and they went to the barn. Janice suggested that Hilary stack in the hay loft and she’d hand up the hay. After the last bale was stacked and both were completely soaked with sweat Hilary took off her shirt and lay on the cold cement aisle in the barn.
“Come on, Janice, this is refreshing. Rest a bit and what do say to us going skinny dipping in the river down by your shed?”
“No, sorry Hilary. I’ve promised my neighbor to help him with his fences.”
“Great. Can I help you?”
“That’s ok. I’m fine. I’m sorry. Maybe another time.”
Janice went up into the woods. Hilary flipped open the blade and followed. Another banner night for coyotes.
Hilary Robinson sat at her computer. Her right hand felt the scar on her face. Her left hand rubbed her good luck stone. Her eyes read the profile of Wetartist45 on MassMatch.com. “She has nice eyes and a bit of a wry smile,” she thought. She liked wry.
“That fucking Margaret Barnes. The bitch cut me to keep me away from her pig high school fuck Andrew. I never wanted him. I was fucking Margaret’s mother until that bitch scarred me. Now all I get is a vibrator.” Where is she?