“You?” His voice lifted upwards.
“Me. I think I can fix anything, including myself.”
“Whatever you do, it works.”
“Well, I hope so. Lately the truth jumps up at me like a jack-in-the-box. I wonder how I missed it.”
“Unhappy?”
She shook her head. “No. Actually, I love my life, and I suppose, for lack of a better way to put it, I love myself, but I'm blind to things, inside things.”
“Everyone is.”
“I know, but Gray, I think I'm smarter than anyone else.
Isn't that awful to say? But I do. I'm not supposed to be blind. I'm supposed to be the master. I'm supposed to know hounds, horses, territory, people, weather, scent, the game, game trails, plants, wildlife, and I'm supposed to know myself. I surprise myself these days. Like right now. I can't believe I'm babbling all this.”
“You're not babbling.”
“Gray, I was raised a WASP. Grin and bear it. Stiff upper lip.”
“I was raised that way, too. Not so bad. We don't need to know everyone's intimate details, but it's good to know your own.”
“Yes.”
“It's a rare woman who will admit she has a big ego.”
“Gargantuan. I hide it well. In fact, I've hidden it pretty effectively for close to six decades. My first decade I gave my mother hives. With a great effort on her part, she taught me how to cover it all up. She harbored a pretty big ego herself.”
“Funny.”
“What?”
“What we're told as children. It may be damaging, on the one hand, but it's the truth. Our parents, family, older friends tell us what the world is like.”
“They tell us what the world was like for them. They don't know what it will be like for us because we will change the world.”
He put down his fork. “Sister, no wonder you take your fences as you do.”
She laughed. “Every generation changes the world. You hear what went before you: your parents' victories, miseries, and fears as well as hopes for you. They tell you their truth. You've got to find your own.”
“But remember the past.”
“I do.”
“I don't think I've ever met anyone like you. I'm sure I haven't.”
“I've never met anyone like you. Maybe we've reached a point in our lives when we molt. We shed our feathers. But this time, instead of growing the same feathers, we grow different ones: the feathers we've always wanted.”
“Your metaphors come from nature.”
“Nature is what I know. Now if you speak in metaphors, do I have to get a law library? Do I have to study
Marbury
versus
Madison
or the
Dred Scott
case?” She knew her history, those being landmark American cases.
He laughed. “No.”
“Tell me about those Manhattans you mentioned. I thought a Manhattan was some blended whiskey and a bit of sweet vermouth.”
“The basic Manhattan.” He leaned back in the chair. “Well, a dry Manhattan is the same, only you use one-fourth ounce of dry vermouth instead of sweet. Easy. A perfect Manhattan is one and one-fourth ounces of blended whiskey, one-eighth ounce of dry vermouth, and one-eighth ounce of sweet vermouth, and you garnish it with a twist of lemon. The dry Manhattan you garnish with an olive, the standard Manhattan, use a cherry.”
“What about a Manhattan South. Such mysteries.”
“One ounce dry gin, half ounce dry vermouth, half ounce Southern Comfort, and a dash of Angostura bitters, no garnish, and it's not served on the rocks as the others can be. You always mix it in a glass filled with ice, stir, then pour it into a chilled cocktail glass.”
“You know, the first party I gave after Ray died, a year and a half after he died, I never even thought about mixing drinks. When one of my guests asked for a vodka stinger, I had no idea what to do. My throat went dry, my heart pounded. I missed Ray and I had learned once more how dependent I was on him for so many things, the small courtesies, the minutiae of masculinity, for lack of a better term. I no more know how to make a vodka stinger than how to fly. Thank God, Xavier was there. I asked him if he would mind, and he graciously tended bar. Ever since, if I give a party or if the hunt club has a real do, I hire a bartender.”
“For me, it was fabric. Theresa knew all this stuff about fabrics, for shirtings, for sheets, for towels. She wasn't dead, of course, but that was my first big clue that there was another side to the moon that I needed to explore.”
“Well said. You know, earlier we were talking about sports, about how the way a person foxhunts or plays a game shows who they are. I don't know, it crossed my mind, do you think the pressures of high-level competition drove Sam toward more drinking?”
“Yes, but he had it in him already. He could just as easily have become a drunk without that career. I learned a lot about alcoholism, thanks to my brother. I thought for the first years that Sam drank a lot, but he wasn't an alcoholic. The bums at the railway station were alcoholics. Well, they represent about five percent of alcoholics. Most alcoholics sit next to you in church, stand next to you at the supermarket, work next to you at the office. They function quite well for years and years, and then one day, it's like the straw that broke the camel's back. All those years of hiding, lying, performing even while hung over, just collapse. I think Sam would have become a drunk no matter what. He's full of fear. Drunks, basically, are afraid of life. I learned that much.”
“Then it is possible that Mitch and Anthony wanted to end it all?”
Gray thought about this for a long time. “Yes.”
“Do you think they committed suicide?”
“No.”
“I don't either, and I wish I could stop thinking about them, especially. All three of them were part of our community. To see familiar faces year in and year out is a great comfort; ties that bind, even if you don't know someone well.”
“Some people realize that quite early, but for most of us, it doesn't come until middle age.”
“We're pack animals. We need a community. Giant cities, where are the communities? Maybe the neighborhood, maybe not. It might be a shared interest like dancing or professional associations. We need to be part of one another.”
“Hard to imagine Anthony Tolliver and Mitch Banachek being part of a community. I guess the drunks at the station are their own little world. Sam doesn't talk about it. Winding up there is really the bottom of the barrel.”
“We couldn't reach those men. But we saw them. They saw us. And maybe, in the darker corners of our souls, they made us feel better about ourselves. At least I'm not as useless as Mitch Banachek. I've still got my teeth unlike Anthony Tolliver. They allowed us the secret thrill of superiority.”
He watched her mobile features, listened to her, and found himself completely engaged by this forthright woman. “You don't flinch, do you?”
“Oh, I do. I don't like knowing those things about myself.”
“It's human. I think the entire media industry is built on just that emotion.”
They both laughed so hard that Golly returned from her post in the library to see if she'd missed anything.
“What's doing?”
“High-tone talk,”
Raleigh replied.
“Why don't they just go to bed and get it over with?”
Golly rubbed her face against Raleigh's long nose while Rooster wrinkled his.
“Because they're human,”
Raleigh said.
“They complicate everything,”
Rooster said without rancor, a simple observation.
“She was reading this book on sex in ancient Greece and
Rome. When you guys were asleep. She woke up, started
reading this book. I can't sleep when she turns the light on,
so I watched over her shoulder. And you know what she
said? She said, âLife must have been heaven before guilt.'
And then she went on one of her tears. âHow clever of
Judeo-Christians to put the cop inside instead of outside.'
You know, that's guilt. In Rome, you tried not to get
caught if you were fooling around. In America, you catch
yourself. She has these odd insights. I wish, for her sake,
she weren't human. She'd be so much happier.”
Golly truly loved Sister.
“She's happy enough for a human.”
Raleigh, too, loved her.
As the animals discussed their weighty issues, Sister and Gray cleared the table, did the dishes, talked some more. Eventually, Gray got up to leave. He put on his coat, walked with Sister to the door, and kissed her good night. This kiss led to another then another. Finally he took his coat off, and they went upstairs.
They removed their clothes. Considering their ages, they looked pretty good.
Gray in a soft voice said, “Sister . . .”
Laughing, she interrupted him, “Under the circumstances, I think you'd better call me Jane.”
CHAPTER 31
Sound travels approximately one mile every five seconds. Sister believed it traveled faster in a hunt club. Not that she was ashamed of bedding Gray, far from it, but neither of them was quite ready for public proclamations. Nor did either know if this was the beginning of a relationship or simply a matter of physical comfort.
When she walked out to the kennels at four forty-five, she noticed Lorraine's car parked in Shaker's driveway. Maybe the moon, sun, and stars had been aligned for romance. She smiled and walked in the office. The hounds slept, though a few raised their heads. Most humans need clocks. The hounds knew it wasn't time yet to be called into the draw yard, so they continued to snore, curled up with one another, dreaming of large red foxes. She dropped her amended draw list on the desk, a neon orange line drawn across the top of it, indicating this was the final draw. She'd discovered neon gel ink pens and gone wild with them months ago. Every color now had a special meaning.
Back in the kitchen by five, she checked the outside thermometer: twenty-seven degrees. She clicked on the Weather Channel. The day, according to radar and a host of experts, should warm to the low forties, high pressure overhead. High pressure, theoretically, made scenting more difficult.
Golly leapt onto the counter.
“I'd like salmon today. And
you certainly look happy, happy, happy.”
Sister grabbed a can of cat food, which happened to be a seafood mix, and dumped it in the ceramic bowlâ“The Queen” emblazoned on its sideâthen ground up a small vitamin. Golly stuck her face in the food as Sister finished sprinkling the vitamin powder over it.
Raleigh and Rooster patiently waited for their kibble mixed with a can of beef.
Sister made herself oatmeal. Today's fixture was at Tedi
and Edwards, parking at the covered bridge. She thought about the draw. Then
she realized she had to plan for the wind shift. She wanted to draw north, but
if the wind wasn't coming out of the northwest as was usual, she'd better produce a backup plan.
“God, this takes every brain cell I have,” she said aloud.
“You can do it!”
Raleigh encouraged her.
“Think of all
that good energy you got last night.”
“Yeah, sex is energy,”
Golly agreed.
“Why do people do it under covers?”
Rooster cocked an ear.
“No hair, they get cold,”
said Golly, who thought of herself as a feline in possession of important facts.
“Oh.”
Satisfied, Rooster returned to his breakfast.
“If all else fails, I bet I can pick up a line if I head toward Target's den.” Sister was drawing a rough outline on a pad. “But usually I'll get Aunt Netty just above the bridge. Well, I'll see what Shaker thinks.” Then she smiled. “Bet he's in a good mood. Making love with cracked ribs might test his mettle, if indeed he did.” She smiled, twirling her pencil.
By the time she and Shaker filled the draw pen, he was whistling, and she was singing. They looked at each other and laughed.
Lorraine's car was still there.
Sister didn't refer to it, but she peppered him with questions on the first draw, the wind, how quickly did he think the mercury would climb today?
Finally, Shaker slapped her on the back. “Cast your hounds. Be alert. The best advice I can give you is what Fred Duncan gave me when I was a kid, âHunt your hounds and don't look back.' ”
“If Fred said it, must be true.” She had greatly admired the former huntsman and his wife, Doris.
Being a huntsman's wife called for tact, patience, and humor. Doris had all three, plus creativity of her own. She would sit in the kitchen and write novels. Fred would read them and wonder how he had won such a talented woman.
Successful marriages mean the two main participants enjoy each other. Sister and Big Ray had. That foundation of truly liking one another saw them through many a trial.
“So, Gray left at four-thirty.” Shaker's lips curled up at the corners, a twinkle in his eye.
“What were you doing up at four-thirty?”
“Had to take four Motrin and two extra-strength Tylenols. Breakfast of champions. Couldn't go back to sleep. Saw the light on in your kitchen.”
“I didn't see your light on.”
“Got one of those little book lights, so I can read some.”
“Lorraine still asleep?”
“Guess we both got lucky, huh?” He thought a minute. “The man is supposed to be lucky. What do women say to each other?”
“If they're smart, nothing.”
He laughed. “Good point.”
“You . . . happy?”
He draped his arm around her broad shoulders, kissing her on one smooth cool cheek. “Yes. I'm a little nervous, too.”
“She's a good woman from what I can tell.”
“Solid. Shy, but solid.” He kissed her again. “You?”
“Too early to tell, but I'mâ” She stopped. “âI'm waking up. I thought I was too old for all this.” She laughed at herself.
“Not you.”
“You haven't said one word about Gray being African American, black, colored, a person of color, take your pick.”
“I'd like to think those days are over.”
“I do, too. For us maybe they are, except the fact that I brought it up means the worries are still in me. Not like they would have been thirty years ago.” She paused, then spoke with a controlled vengeance. “God, we're stupid. So bloody stupid. Do you think any of those beautiful hounds cares if another one is tricolor or red or black and tan? I hate it.”
“Ever wonder what it would be like if the situation were reversed? Wake up one morning and you're black?”
“I'd slap the first silly bastard who mistreated me. Guess I wouldn't get far in this life.”
Shaker, a thoughtful man, a deeply feeling man, softly replied, “If I was born that way, I would have been shaped, pruned, restrained to hold the anger in, you know, hold it in. All that negative shit, excuse my French, must be like a drop of acid on your soul each time you feel it. The only thing I can liken it to is sexual desire. For men anyway, we are taught to rein it in, control, control, control. One day you let go, and you feel like you're flying.”
“I thought women were the ones who had to deny their sexuality.”
“Mmm. We both do in different ways. Takes its toll, and you don't know it until you let it go. But I think about what it's like to be black in this country. It's better, but we still have work to do.”
“The work of generations . . . about lots of stuff.” She smiled a small, sweet smile. “I think that's why I like foxhunters. Half of us are stone stupid and can talk only about hounds, horses, and hunting, or worse; the other half of us are the most interesting people I have ever met. Like you, for instance.”
“Go on.” He squeezed her tight, then released her. “Let's load these babies up.”
Once at the fixture, Shaker handed her his horn, a symbolic gesture with the significance of a scepter being handed to a ruler.
“Still can't blow this thing worth a damn, despite your quick lesson.”
“Do the best you can and use your voice. They know you. I'll get in the truck. I'm on foot, it might confuse them. Their impulse will be to follow me. But you have to use the horn when you move off. They will go to the horn, and they'll go to you if you encourage them. We didn't put all those years into this pack to have them fizzle out because I'm on the mend. This is a great pack of hounds, Sister. You love them, and you're going to do just great.”
She smiled down at him from her mount on Lafayette. “Shaker, you can tell the best fibs, but I love you for it.”
“I mean it.” He did, too. “You can hunt these hounds. Remember, hunt your hounds and don't look back.”
She rode Lafayette to the assembled field, Edward, the logical choice, acting as field master. Tedi, who knew hunting and the territory, could have just as easily led, but the field was large for this time of year; she didn't want to tangle with Crawford or other shaky riders. Edward possessed a quiet sense of command. She readily deferred to him. Tedi thought to herself that it was better someone get mad at Edward than at herself.
“Gather round.” Sister called in the faithful. As she scanned the field, she couldn't help but linger on Gray, who winked. She blushed, smiled, then said, “Our hosts, the Bancrofts, will again spoil us with their hospitality. Breakfast follows. Shaker is mending quickly. He'll be back Thursday. Edward is your field master, so you're riding behind the best. Edward will never tell you, but he won Virginia Field Hunter of the Year in 1987. The hounds of the Jefferson Hunt want you to know they are going to get up a fox for you. And I'm so glad they're smarter than I am. Let's go.”
The small thermometer in the dash on Sister's truck had read thirty-four degrees when she had first pulled into After All Farm. Now, as she and Lafayette walked north with hounds alongside the strong-running Snake Creek, the temperature remained close to that. She could feel it on her skin. The bright blue winter skies were cloudless. The frost sparkled on the earth. All pointed to a tough day for scent. But a light northwesterly breeze, a tang of moisture coming in, hinted that maybe in two hours or less, conditions would improve.
In the meantime, she needed to do all she could to flush out a fox. She walked for five minutes, quietly talking to the pack. Settling them, especially with young entry in tow, helped them and helped her. After a long discussion, she and Shaker had decided to include some young entry. Shaker was already on his way, Lorraine as a passenger, to the sunken farm road close to the westernmost border of the Bancroft estate, a border shared with Roughneck Farm.
Knowing she had Shaker as a wheel whip bolstered her confidence. Knowing Betty rode on her left and Sybil on her right also gave her a lift.
“Girl power,” she whispered.
Diana looked up at the human she adored.
“You'd better
believe it.”
“Ha,”
Asa said.
“Bet you one of us finds scent first,”
Diana challenged him.
“I'll take that bet. What about the rest of you boys?”
Asa sang out, but not too loudly or Sister would chide him for babbling.
Dasher, Ardent, Trident, Darby, Doughboy, Dreamboat, Rassle, and Ribot quickly picked up the gauntlet.
Cora, up front, smiled, a puff of breath coming from her slightly opened mouth.
“Girls, even if we run on rocks all
day, we are going to find a fox!”
The girls agreed, then all turned their faces up to their master and now huntsman.
Sister smiled down at them. “Good hounds.”
A powerful emotion burst through her. She was of this pack. She was one of them, the least of them in many ways, and yet the leader. The only love she had ever felt that was this deep was when Ray Jr. used to wrap his arms around her neck and say, “Love ya, Mom.”
She whispered, “Ride with me today, Junior,” then turned her full attention to drawing up the creek bed.
The grade rose by degrees, until Sister and the pack were walking six feet above the creek. The drop into the creek was now sheer. Where eddies slowly swirled, a crust of ice gathered next to the banks.
The smooth pasture containing Nola Bancroft's grave soon gave way to woodlands.
Behind her, Edward led a field of sixty-five people. Everyone came out today because the snows had made them stir-crazy. This was the first good day since then. Before the first cast, Sister noted that Xavier and Sam kept a careful distance between them. Clay, Walter, Crawford, Dalton, Marty, Jennifer, Sari, Ron, plus visitors, all came out.
She also noted, walking a distance behind them, were Jason Farley with Jimmy Chirios. Bless Tedi and Edward, they found someone to guide a newcomer who couldn't ride but showed interest.
A warm air current fluttered across her face, a welcoming sign.
“Get 'em up. Get 'em up.”
The hounds, also feeling wind current, a lingering deer scent sliding along with it, put their noses down, fanned out, moving forward at a brisk walk. Raccoons, turkeys, bobcat, deer, and more deer had traipsed through in the predawn hours. Rabbits abounded, now safely tucked in their little grass hutches or hunkered down as flat as they could get. Foxhounds might chase a rabbit for a few bounds if the animal hopped up in front of them, but otherwise the scent offered scant appeal.
Tinsel got a snootful of badger scent.
“Cora.”
Cora came over.
“Must be more moving in. Strange,
strange.”
Young Ruthie, wonderful nose, inhaled, then sputtered a moment.
“A heavy fox, a heavy fox.”
Heavy meant pregnant. Dasher and Asa hurried over. Both sniffed, sniffed some more, and then jerked their heads up. Ruthie, in her youth, had made the wrong call.
Cora came over. She inhaled deeply.
“Coyote.”
“Dammit!”
Asa swore. He knew how ruinous coyotes were to livestock, house pets, and foxes. In his mind, the foxes' welfare outweighed the others.
Sister noticed, stopped Lafayette. Both human and horse carefully watched.
“Can we run coyote?”
Rassle, Ruthie's littermate, asked.
Cora hesitated for a second.
“Yes. They're fair game,
but,”
she raised her alto voice,
“young ones, they run
straight, they run no faster than they must; occasionally
one will double back, but this is really a foot race. Don't
forget that. If anywhere along the way, any of you finds fox
scent, stop. Stop and tell me. The fox is our primary
quarry, understand?”