Outfoxed Page 17

  A small linen handkerchief, an O embroidered on it, was neatly folded into the top vest pocket, left. The O stood for Overdorf, her maiden name. In the right lower vest pocket was a small, sharp penknife. The upper pocket carried ten Motrin in a tiny plastic bag just in case the weather got really raw and her myriad battle scars and breaks talked back. Although hunt staff were not allowed to carry a flask on their saddle, Sister, as the master, could carry one and she used her grandfather’s flask. Since she was the master the masculine bit of tack was acceptable, as was scarlet, which she chose not to wear, although younger lady masters were doing it. Sister could never get used to the sight of a woman in scarlet although she thought it was handsome.

  Usually she filled her flask with iced tea but today she filled it with hunting port. A small silver flask, a bold roman A in the center, was slipped inside her left shadbelly pocket. This carried straight Scotch, Famous Grouse. She rarely used it but sometimes a member of the field needed restoration.

  She read down her checklist. The only thing she didn’t have was a stirrup leather, used as a belt. For opening hunt she didn’t want that peeping out from under her shadbelly, although her vest points should cover it. She thought it a good idea to carry an extra stirrup leather. Her couple straps, used to collect hounds if needs be, were already attached to her saddle, as was her pistol case, the Ruger .22 inside, filled with birdshot. Used only in extremes to ward off a bolting hound, the sight of it often upset nonhunters. Better a butt full of birdshot than a hound running in front of a car.

  Usually she carried a .38 under her jacket or on the small of her back. She’d only had to use it once when a dying deer, hideously injured, front leg blown mostly out of the socket, crossed her path. She was glad to deliver the coup de grâce. Wearing a shadbelly left no room for the .38 but Shaker, Doug, and Betty would have theirs under their coats.

  She walked downstairs, her footfalls reverberating throughout the house. No radio or TV was ever turned on unless she wanted the news. She detested noise of any kind save the cry of her hounds.

  A small cooler squatted on the kitchen table. A checklist was beside that: two bottled waters and two Cokes and a sandwich. Sister could never eat at a hunt breakfast because no one ever gave her time. She was crowded from the minute she walked in the room. Self-preservation taught her to pack a cooler and eat in the trailer before going in to the breakfast. Since hunting people knew not to bother a master who was gathering hounds, she could usually eat.

  “Ham or chicken?” Raleigh asked. “Ham will make you thirsty.”

  She sliced a loaf of fresh pumpernickel, buttered two thick slices, slapped on chicken, tossed pieces to Raleigh, and tore smaller pieces for Golly, who happily shinnied down the ficus tree.

  The phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  “Back at you,” Betty Franklin said.

  “Ready?”

  “Had to let my britches out a notch. Clearly I’ve failed at my diet and”—she tried to make her voice light—“I’ve failed as a mother. Jennifer went back to rehab last night for an impromptu visit and I apologize for not being at hound walk.”

  “You left a message—”

  “I did but I didn’t tell you why I wasn’t there. Anyway, I sat there for four and a half hours while she cursed, cried, kicked. Oh yes, kicked. Bobby lasted thirty minutes. He couldn’t take it. I told him to go work late.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Is Cody still there?”

  “I saw her at the kennels this morning.”

  “Cody, thank God, had the sense to call rehab and hustle her down there. Doug found Jen a couple of miles from Roger’s Corner. Did I tell you that?”

  “No.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “No. He wouldn’t unless it was necessary.”

  “He’s a good boy. Or man. I keep seeing that little boy with the big green eyes. Jane—I don’t know what to do.”

  “Honey, I’m just sorry. I wish I could tell you what to do. Is she at rehab now?”

  “No. She’s home in her room. Dr. Zacks, who I like a lot, by the way, said let’s try her on an outpatient basis. If it doesn’t work, back she goes.”

  “This is going to cost a fortune.”

  “So far, a week’s stay cost $6,280. Counseling is $120 a session and she’ll need to go in at least twice a week. Once a day all next week and then twice a week. One hates to focus on the money but it is a factor.”

  “Are there statistics about the success rate of this kind of thing?”

  “Yes. They aren’t impressive. Over half the patients relapse. Dr. Zacks believes the Alcoholics Anonymous and the Narcotics Anonymous help tremendously if people will commit to it. Jennifer is so young. How many seventeen-year-olds will be sitting in a Narcotics Anonymous meeting?”

  “I often wonder if Raymond would have—”

  “Ray. No. He would have gotten drunk with his fraternity brothers when he got to college. He would have smoked a little weed but Ray was a happy kid. That boy was like sunshine. Jennifer came out of the womb unhappy, honestly.”

  “They come into this world ready-made. Betty, want to have a slumber party? Come on over.”

  “I’d love it but I’d better stay here. Bobby can hardly speak to Jennifer. She’s got his number. If he corrects her, she blames him. If he doesn’t pay attention to her, she says he doesn’t care. Right now he’s guilty and useless.”

  “It’s harder for men.”

  “Some men. I’m not making excuses for him based on gender. You know, I’m getting to the point where I’m not making excuses for anybody and I don’t want to hear any either. Goddammit, Jane, we are each responsible for our own lives. That’s it. No passing the buck. If Helen Keller, blind and deaf, could make something out of her life, I don’t want to hear this shit about being a victim. Jennifer Franklin is not a victim no matter how much she wants to be. Right now she’s a spoiled, rotten brat and I’d like to knock the stuffing out of her.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “Betty, if you’re mad you’ll do something. If you’re sad you’ll bawl and sit on your ass. And you’re right, Jennifer has no excuse for her behavior.”

  “I wish I’d known the signs. I could have caught Cody earlier. I was so obtuse.”

  “Drugs aren’t part of your life.”

  “Well, I was born in 1952. It’s hard not to have some awareness of drugs but I was never part of that scene. You were lucky. You missed it.”

  “Because I’m older than dirt.” Sister laughed at herself.

  “You’ll never be old. God, here I’ve dumped my troubles at your door and right before the big day. I’m sorry.”

  “Opening hunt will take care of itself. This is a little more important.”

  “I can’t make up my mind whether to let her hunt or make her stay home. It’s one of the only two things that make her happy.”

  “What’s the other one?”

  “Sex.”

  “Oh dear,” Sister blurted out.

  “I say ‘Oh shit.’ They’re all doing it. I mean at that age I thought about it but I didn’t do it. So we’ve drawn blood to test for AIDS and other unsavory consequences. She had the sense to use contraceptives. Foam. She used foam because she didn’t want to go with me to the doctor to get the Pill or to get some other kind of contraceptive. She thought it would upset me. Well, it would have but not as much as not knowing. Bobby can’t even talk about the sex. He gets red in the face and stammers.”

  “Do you know who she’s sleeping with?”

  “I need a calculator. She hasn’t restricted herself to boys either. Jennifer is freely distributing her favors.”

  “Is she afraid she’s gay?”

  “Hell, no. She thinks it’s cool. Oh, she doesn’t know what she is.”

  “The first thing is to get her off drugs. If she’s going to spend her life as a bisexual harlot at least she can be a sober one. If you want my opinion about hun
ting, I say let her do it. Plus as long as she’s riding, she’s not in bed with someone. If it makes her happy, that’s one step in the right direction.”

  “Maybe you’re right. I’ll tell Bobby what you said.”

  “What did Dr. Zacks say?”

  “We didn’t even get to hunting. We were too busy dodging the karate kid. She’s quick, too, I can tell you. Oh, I forgot to mention that Walter Lungrun was there when I got to rehab. He helped Cody and Doug when Jennifer blew up. He’s a commanding man when he needs to be. You know, this is the damnedest thing—he reminds me so much of Big Ray.”

  “Me, too.” Sister smiled. “A quiet, take-charge kind of man.”

  “But he even looks like Ray when he was young.”

  “Betty, enjoy Bobby while you have him, warts and all.”

  A silence followed. Then Betty replied, “You’re right. I know you miss both your Rays every day.”

  “You cope with the loss, the physical loss, and you even learn to be thankful for the time you did have but, Betty, there are days when I would give anything, anything, to hear my husband’s laughter or for Junior to open the back door, throw his books on the floor, and bellow, ‘Mom, where are you?’ ”

  A sigh followed. “I will try to cherish Bobby and Jennifer but right now it’s not easy.”

  “Well, think of this. Two months ago, two weeks ago you might not have given a nickel for Cody but look how she’s trying. People can change if they want to.”

  “You’re right. You’re right. You know if I didn’t have Outlaw, if I didn’t have hunting, I think I would have unraveled at the seams a long time ago. And I have you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “All right, Madam Master, I’m going to make sure my husband and my youngest daughter are ready for tomorrow and I’ll say a little prayer that it’s a three-fox day. Good night, Jane.”

  “Good night, Betty.” Sister hung up the phone. She sat on the kitchen floor as Raleigh trotted over.

  “Me, me, me!” Raleigh begged as he rolled over.

  Sister scratched his tummy.

  “A little to the left.” Raleigh giggled.

  “I would bite, as in sink my fangs to the hilt, anyone who rubbed my stomach. First destruction. Then Death!” Golly bragged as she quickly filched another piece of chicken from the table.

  The phone rang again.

  “Bag it,” Raleigh suggested.

  Irritated, Sister nonetheless rose to pick up the offending instrument. “Jane Arnold.”

  “Sister, this is Crawford Howard.”

  “Yes, Crawford. How are you tonight?”

  “Fine, thank you. I called to apologize for losing my temper. I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I also wanted to tell you, since everyone gossips—I wanted you to hear from me that I am dating my ex-wife with the hope of reconciliation.” He spoke rapidly.

  “Well, I hope it works out for both of you.” Sister remained furious at Crawford’s insults to Doug.

  “It’s awkward with Martha working for Fontaine, which was my fault. Totally.”

  “Avoid him tomorrow.” She almost added “and me.”

  “If he knows what’s good for him, he will avoid me.” Crawford abruptly changed subjects. “Have you come to a conclusion about taking on a joint-master?”

  “I have and I will bring this matter before the board, which, as you know, meets next Wednesday.”

  “The ninth?”

  “I don’t have my calendar in front of me but I think it is the ninth. Anyway, it’s always the second Wednesday in the month.”

  “Right. I’ll be there.” Crawford cherished being a member of the board of governors. “Watched the weather report?”

  “No. I think I’ll trust my senses,” she said.

  “Ought to be a good day. Overcast. Cool. Ought to be a real Jefferson Hunt day.” He was dying to pry her decision out of her.

  “Crawford, you have deeply offended me. Your treatment of Doug was despicable.” She decided it was better to let him have it than hold in her anger. Besides, he was too dense to know how angry she really was. “You did right in calling me to apologize but I know how badly you want to be joint-master. I’m not fooled. I don’t think you are truly repentant. You had best apologize to Doug and if you don’t really think about what you’ve done, if you don’t understand, if you do it again, I will throw you out of this club so fast you won’t know what hit you—and don’t think you can buy off the board of governors. Good night.”

  Agitated, unable to go directly to sleep, Sister picked up Washington’s diary.

  The acquisition of his own pack in 1768 provoked him to keep track of its progress.

  She read entries, enjoying his economy of language and his abbreviations, old spellings.

  “Went huntg being joined by Mrs. Washington in her excellent scarlet habit along with Mr. Peake, Wm Triplet and Harrison Manley. Rode Blueskin. Billy on Chinklin.

  “After a chace of five hours dogs were worsted. Billy sorely tried.”

  Billy Lee was Washington’s huntsman, carrying a large French hunting horn on his back. The two men cherished a friendship and the general visited the stables and kennel each morning and again in the evening.

  She read six pages, her eye resting on this entry: “Hunted a black fox twenty miles. He returns to his den fresh. Seventh time on this jet fox. Billy has given up declaring this black fox came from The Nether World. He swears he will never hunt him again.”

  She finally fell asleep, the diary on her chest, to dream of riding with George Washington, M.F.H.

  CHAPTER 34

  The weatherman had lied. A thin band of pale pink deepened to salmon, then scarlet, over frost-covered fields, washing them in dawn’s hope. The rim of the sun peeped over the horizon illuminating maples, oaks, hickories, black gums, sycamores, beeches, black birches, dogwoods, willows, all the great varieties of the deciduous trees of the piedmont, garbed in rich colors.

  This would be a perfect early November day, crisp, clear, leaves still on the trees, pumpkins still being plucked in a few southern-exposure fields, drying cornstalks tied in stocks in other fields. Acorn, walnuts, chinquapins, beechnuts dropped, rat-a-tat, onto fields, outbuildings, cars.

  Diana, Dasher, and Dragon, bursting with excitement, stood outside the kennel. The experienced hounds slept soundly inside, not even lifting their heads when the three litter mates walked through the magnetic flap door. The tin roof on the equipment shed shone with the coating of frost. A light breeze from the northwest rustled the leaves.

  “I hope this is a good day,” Diana whispered.

  “Me, too,” Dasher echoed.

  “I’ll be leading the pack. Of course it will be a good day,” Dragon bragged.

  “You can’t be the strike hound. You don’t know enough. Stay behind Cora.” Piqued by his egotistical brother, Dasher grumbled.

  “Cora’s too slow.”

  “No, she’s not. She doesn’t pop into fifth gear until she’s sure. You just run flat out with your mouth running, too. If you overrun scent, you don’t know it until it’s too late, Dragon. I’d think by now you would have learned your lesson.”

  Turning his well-proportioned head to face his brother, Dragon replied, “The snake could have bitten anybody. It just happened to bite me.”

  “Target knew a sucker when he saw one.” Dasher longed for the day when he would see the flashy bold red. “And Reynard saw him do it to you, which means all the foxes know you for what you are.”

  “Dachshund.” Dragon threw the worst insult he could think of at his brother.

  “At least that’s a hound. You’ve got the brain of a Jack Russell,” Dasher replied with gleeful malice.

  Dragon bared his fangs.

  “Chill.” Diana bared her own formidable fangs. “If you two get in a fight, you’ll sit right here in the kennel. Neither one of you is thinking too clearly. If you can’t get along, then shut up.”

  “He starte
d it.” Dragon pouted.

  “Did not.”

  “Did too.”

  “I’ll grab you by the ruff, throw you down, and sit on you! Now leave it. I mean it.”

  The brothers respected their sister even if they did not respect each other. Snarling under his breath, Dragon pranced back into the kennel.

  Dasher sat down next to Diana. They both stared at the sun, clear of the horizon now.

  “About time for Shaker and Doug,” Diana remarked.

  “Lights on at Doug’s.” He lifted his black nose, sniffing the wind. “Deer.”

  “Strong. Just watch. If Dragon can’t get up a fox, he’ll go off again. I know it.” She thought a moment. “But I have to give him credit. He really doesn’t go off on deer. He just finds another fox. He’s so hardheaded.”

  Dasher stood up as Doug emerged from his cottage. “Cubbing was one thing, Sis, but opening hunt, all those people looking at us . . .”

  “Shaker won’t take any hound he doesn’t think can handle it.”

  “Can’t believe he’s taking Dragon.”

  “He’s been good the last two cub hunts and he’s handsome. People like to look at handsome hounds.” She heard the front door of the kennel open as Doug entered. “Let’s go back in.”

  On the far side of Hangman’s Ridge, the western corner where the fence line divides the woods from the fields, Target preened in his den. The purpose of opening hunt was for all creatures to see and admire him. He had to admit that he had never looked better nor had Charlene, although her brush was a tad thin.

  His children, finally in their own dens, had their marching orders. Yesterday morning he told Reynard to stay over by Whiskey Ridge, since his largest son might let his ego interfere with prudent judgment. He couched this in terms of saving himself for Thanksgiving hunt, when Reynard could be the star. He’d discussed the day with Butch, who agreed not to mislead hounds. This would be a day for the reds to shine.