'Tis the Season, Once Again
By Russ Heitz
Forty-seven-year-old Chilly Dunsmore was fuming as she took her final brisk walk through the stacks of the Glen Haven Public Library. She locked the front entrance, switched off the lights in both the men’s and the women’s restroom, and then gathered up an armful of books and magazines that had been left in the study carrels. She put the books and magazines on a cart for the staff and volunteers to put away Monday morning. Then she shut down the library’s computer system and headed for her cramped office where she called Tanya and told her she was leaving.
The day had started off badly. One of the stained and soggy ceiling tiles had finally given way and crashed to the floor a little after nine o’clock. It nearly hit old Mrs. Kennibrew who was sitting in her favorite red chair—the chair she sat in every Saturday morning, just to the left of the out-of-town newspaper rack.
Chilly had called Gilbert Klink five minutes later and complained bitterly, again, about the library’s leaky roof, and about the county government’s liability if a patron was hit by one of the falling tiles. But as always, it was like talking to a chunk of granite, only this time the granite talked back.
Her phone call had apparently caught Klink as he was heading out the door for his final sighting-in at the Buck & Bear Hunting Club. Deer season was just around the corner. Then bear season. An accurately- sighted, flat-shooting rifle was worth its weight in gold, or at least its weight in deer and bear skins.
Klink’s normally short fuse had been clipped to the quick by Chilly’s interruption. This time he didn’t even pretend to be civil. The words just flew, rude and crude. He told Chilly to call the maintenance department. He told her to call the budget department. He told her to call the county attorney. He told her to call anyone she damn well pleased, as long as it wasn’t him.
“The chairman of the county commission,” he had reminded her haughtily before he slammed down the receiver, “does not have time to screw around with picayune little shit like library ceiling tiles.”
Chilly could still hear his nasty tone of voice as she snatched her blood-colored windbreaker from the peg on her office wall. She pulled her leather handbag out of the left drawer of her desk and closed the drawer with a firm shove of her slack-suit-covered knee.
Gilbert Klink had not been an easy person to get along with since her arrival in Klinkton County two years ago. He had gotten even worse during the past two months. The reason was simple enough; stupid, but simple.
Chilly was certain that Klink had heard the same gossip about her that everyone else in town had heard. And he had probably spread and embellished his own warped and distorted version, whenever he had the chance, adding as many lurid details as his twisted pygmy brain could conjure up. Why she had believed that things would be different here in hicksville was a mystery even to her.
Chilly checked the control panel of the library’s alarm system and then left through the private exit in her office, slamming and locking the door behind her.
The wind had picked up, swirling dead leaves around her ankles, riffling her short auburn hair. The setting sun had slipped behind a bank of thickening clouds, turning the east-to-west-running ridge called Eagle Mountain into a dark, looming hulk.
Nine hours ago she had angled her midnight-blue four-by-four into its usual place, beneath the leafless elm in the far corner of the parking lot. The sun had been shining then, the sky a cobalt blue, the air crisp with frost. Now, a shadowy dimness was everywhere. The overhead lights had not yet filled the lot with a purplish-green cast, and hers was the only vehicle in sight.
As she hurried toward the pickup, Chilly looked around uneasily. There was no one in sight, but once again she had that same eerie feeling that someone was watching her, someone nearby.
A cold shiver crawled up the side of her throat as she began to walk faster. As she got closer to her truck she fumbled in her handbag, feeling blindly for the keys. Her chest felt tight; her mouth suddenly dry. When she came around the side of the truck she immediately saw the stiff, layered papers.
Her mouth tightened. A cramp of panic clutched at her stomach. This was the third time in two weeks. Like before, whoever was doing this had crammed the vile stuff under the driver’s side wiper blade. She couldn’t possibly miss it.
In an instant, the panic turned to rage. She jammed her key into the lock, gave it a vicious twist and yanked the door open. She hurled her handbag onto the seat, stepped up on the doorsill, and looked around the lot again.
The shadows were everywhere now, the sun completely gone. Her eyes narrowed, she tipped her head slightly to the side. She thought she had heard something—a voice, a laugh, a noise—but she couldn’t be sure. She listened again, holding her breath. The only clear sound was the harsh scraping of dry leaves as they skittered across the cold macadam.
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She snatched the papers out from under the wiper blade and wrinkled her nose at the faint fishy odor. This time there were only two sheets. Each was stiff, shiny and fairly heavy. They were photographs, and they were stuck together, face to face.
Chilly looked around the lot once more. Then she quickly slid in behind the steering wheel and locked both doors. She started the engine, switched on the headlights. With shaking fingers, she twisted the headlight knob until the interior light came on and then started peeling the two photos apart.
It didn’t take much effort. The adhesive, whatever it was, had a kind of rubbery consistency and the two eight by tens came apart easily. When she looked down at them, her stomach lurched. A second later, her rage erupted, filling the cab with lightning and flames.
Each photo was identical. Each had a single image that stood out sharp and clear against a vaguely pale background. The same woman was in each photo, voluptuous, large-breasted, broad-hipped, completely naked. Her lips were full and slightly parted. Her hands outstretched, beckoning; her eyes filled with yearning. The gluey substance that held the photos together had been smeared across the woman’s stomach, and across her thick tangle of pubic hair.
A wave of revulsion swept through Chilly. She could taste the sickening bile that crept up the back of her throat. When she realized what the milky gluey substance was she viciously crushed the two smelly sheets of paper into a ball, lowered the driver’s side window, and hurled the ball away. The wind caught the crumpled paper and whisked it toward the shadows. A moment later it disappeared.
Chilly jerked several tissues out of the box she always kept on the truck’s broad console and rubbed her hands vigorously. But the tissues shredded between her palms and her hands still felt sticky and vile.
Retrieving a plastic container of Handiwipes from the glove compartment, she ripped off several of the damp, clean-smelling towelettes and scrubbed her hands with stiff, harsh movements. Finally satisfied that the smell and stickiness was gone, she stuffed the crumpled towelettes into a small blue litterbag that she kept beneath the seat.
Taking a deep breath, she switched off the interior lights, raised the window, and tried to calm herself. She sat for a moment longer, gunning the engine, and glanced around the lightless lot. When she looked forward again, she let out another string of obscenities. The glow of the headlights had lit the windshield. It also lit the smeary stain left behind by the photos.
After mashing the button at the end of her turn signal lever several times, Chilly flicked the wipers on to their highest setting. The squeegee-thump of the blades pounded her ears and painfully battered her gut. But she continued to squirt the liquid and run the wipers until the obnoxious smear was finally washed away.
And then she began to sob.
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Chilly is a character from CROSSHAIRS but this piece is not in the book. This piece is meant to be a 'slice of life' incident illustrating the persecution that is still directed at gay people, especially in small-town rural settings. Klinkton County, the setting of CROSSHAIRS, is one such small-town rural setting. Chilly is a victim of the perpetual 'hunting season' that goes on in rural settings where the 'target' is anyone whose lifestyle is out of the norm. My goal was to illustrate the cruelty that -- all too often --accompanies ignorance. |
Russ lives in Sarasota, Florida with his wife. He is a graduated from Temple University in Philadelphia with a degree in psychology and has been writing most of his life. His new suspense novel, "Crosshairs", is available through all the major bookstore chains in the US and UK, as well as on Amazon.
Russ's website: www.russheitz.com
Thanks Russ for the story... J.
Wolf
