“I just have a sense — ” said Ellen, putting on her gloves.
“You think so?” said Carol, adjusting her scarf.
Yes, it was hardly unlikely that Hillary would be wandering the woods, trails and leaf-blown hills of New England. Pacing the autmnal chill of Chappaqua, pondering the enormity of her defeat. Like a ghost from another time, repeating endlessly, “It was Mook, it was Podesta, it was Comey, it was Weiner! I have money, so much money, why? It was Mook, it was Podesta, it was Comey, it was Weiner!”
Hillary, as if a lost soul, hiking the windswept trails of thwarted ambition into the cold New England fall that leads inevitably to winter and ice. That’s when we saw her. Ellen had been walking her chocolate lab, Huma, in crisis over the results of the disastrous election and saying to no one but the nearby frozen stream and herself, “I see her, I see her” when she appeared. In the flesh, coming around a bend.
“Here’s Hillary with her poodle and the agents,” said Ellen, and then we were together, and she said, “What happened?” And Hillary replied, “I don’t know. I have no idea.” Ellen couldn’t help herself, “I really admire you. You look great. You’re wonderful” and stood there with arms wide open and she’s not even a hugger but gave her this big hug. Ellen loved the failed Candidate’s beautiful sweater. Hillary asked the dog’s name.
She’s “Huma,” and then it happened. Hillary clawed at us like an enraged beast, snarling and tearing with ragged nails. It was like Salem, only worse, it was real. All too real.
In a frenzy of frustrated rage, Hillary attacked, in a shrieking frenzy, her sweater flaked with foam and dirt. We fought back as best we could, there on the lonely New England trail, until suddenly, as in a dream, the monster was gone.
“I just have a sense —” said Ellen, putting on her gloves, flexing the bloodstained but soft as silk Hermes leather. “You think so?” said Carol, adjusting her scarf. “Was it a dream, a terrible dream?” said the Chippaqua maven to the leafless trees and the wind, pausing to tug minutely on understated Chanel, “Ask Huma.”
Huma, ever faithful, stood panting as leaves fell from the harsh grey sky, gore dripping from once white teeth. Teeth that had seen so many victories and lately, mind-numbing defeat.
“Good dog,” patted Ellen, “Maybe it won’t come back.”
“We hope so,” muttered Carol, as she climbed her way up the forest path.