Psalm 120:4
Monday 5th November: The Merill home was built on a bluff where the Indians once camped, the narrow yellow clapperboard picked out by small cream-framed windows. There had been some early snow this year, normally rare before Thanksgiving, and small drifts highlighted the deep corners of the eaves and the roof over the wraparound porch. Great trees, two times and more the height of the house, reached for the sky and in the process half-hid the ancient mansion, A few were Scots Pine. Fully a third were scrawny but tall, wind ravaged fir. The balance asserted by deciduous trees, shallow rooted and known locally as widow-makers, a myriad in species as befits ancient woodland, some already stripped naked by this fall's onslaught, their bare branches seeming frail against the cold, but what remained multicoloured, in their best autumn dress.
Baxter Merill opened the door at 185 Longhill. It was three in the afternoon but he wasn't at work. There was no work for him to go to anymore. "Angie isn't in," he said, the words automatic like a check-in clerk, a reflex to the face that smiled into view.
"You look a mess Baxter."
He knew he looked a mess. He didn't need anyone to tell him. "Angie's not here," he repeated, ignoring her comment.
Trish placed her arms akimbo like a hooker talking to a cop. "You gonna let me in or am I just gonna stand here?"
She let her arms drop to her side. Baxter looked at her then, looked at her like a man looks at a horse, his languid brown eyes appraising her, skimming slowly along the curve of her neck, the sweep of her arms. His glance dropped down to her thighs, strapped into a skirt that was little more than a hand span from waist to hem, framing the impression of her sex and enhancing the illusion that she had legs that went right back up to her shoulders, despite her modest height. All the above together with breasts to make you think you'd died and gone to heaven. Not enormous Dolly Parton breasts. These were breasts that invited you in like looking at the open door of an Aladdin's cave, hinting at the treasure beyond, alluded to by the outline of her nipples against the cotton of the flimsy T shirt that was all she wore despite the cold.
Baxter's gaze, reluctantly, left her body and returned to her face. She was smiling, her green-grey eyes held the confidence of a woman who knows her strengths and was playing to them; her auburn hair cascading about her like the frame of a picture almost too exquisite to define. Her head was tilted slightly to one side as she examined him in turn.
His response was softer now but his words were the same. "Angie's not here," he said.
Trish Hartnett smiled. "Baxter, it's you I've come to visit, not Angie."
And to do him credit, Baxter laughed. He opened the door a little wider, bowing and sweeping his arms with a Musketeer-like flourish that belonged South of the Mason-Dixie. "Come in then Mrs Hartnett."
"Trish will do fine Baxter. Call me Trish."
"Angie's left me Trish, you know that?"
Trish nodded.
"Of course you know that. This is Springfield. Everyone knows everything in Springfield."
"Not everything Baxter." She looked him over just as he had her. "You gonna just leave me standing here in the hall?"
"No, of course not. You wanna come into the den? It's more my space than the rest of the house."
"Sure Baxter, that'd do fine."
He talked as he led the way. "You heard about Merill Manufacturing?"
"Yes. I'm sorry. Not your week is it? First your company then your wife."
Baxter laughed. "Troubles come in threes I reckon. They'll probably take the house next. Still you reach a point when things can only get better."
They were in the den now. Trish looked around at the garish prints, the black leather chairs. She wasn't impressed. She shrugged and let herself down into the sofa, taking her shoes off and curling her feet beneath her.
Baxter raised an eyebrow. He felt like a schoolmaster faced with a precocious pupil. "For why did you want to see me Trish?" he asked.
Trish looked back at him. "Did you say something about a drink?"
"No I don't think I did. But since you come to mention it, what would you like?"
Trish decided then, though one part of her felt she shouldn't make this too easy. Anyway, she needed the time, if only to ready herself for what she had in mind. "An Old Fashioned please. On the rocks if you wouldn't mind."
Baxter grunted. "I'll have to go out into the kitchen to prepare it."
Trish smiled her best little girl smile. "Why that's kind of you Baxter."
Baxter grunted again and grabbed the bottle of Makers Mark. He wandered off.
It took him time to fetch the orange peel and sugar and get the crushed ice from the kitchen fridge. But he didn't mind. Better this than dwell on his troubles. He was only moping about anyhow.
He kicked the door with his foot on his way back to the den, his hands holding the two brimming tumblers. Not his favorite drink but he was never one to be picky. "So exactly what did you want with me Trish?" he asked.
And Trish answered him.
"Revenge Baxter. Just revenge."
She was still on the sofa but she'd stretched her short frame out like a vaudeville tableau, one hand behind her head, one draped towards the floor, palm outward; one leg folded at the knee, the other slack, her small ankle slack, trailing the floor. And from ankle to outstretched hand every square inch of Trish Hartnett's body was as naked as the day she'd been born and as exquisitely formed as God could have ever shaped woman in the myriad years since time began. Or so thought Baxter.
Baxter was wise enough to know when he'd died and gone to heaven. This was one gift horse he'd not question. And he felt the desire pulse through him like a dull insistant ache as he placed the glasses on the table at her side.
As he moved to her he stripped aside his shirt and kicked away his pants before covering her, flesh on flesh, quickly, urgently, lest she'd change her mind. And he scarce heard her as she whispered the words once more like a caress, "Revenge Baxter. Just revenge." She gasped then, surprised and unready as he so immediately moved his body into hers. And for just a moment her eyes misted with tears. But Baxter didn't notice. Then the passion finaly took hold and she raked his back with her nails, urging him on as she shuddered in response, and nothing mattered anymore.
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