Crazy Like A Fox

CHAPTER 13

“Yom Kippur,” Betty said, riding a set with Sister and Tootie. “September thirty, Saturday’s hunt is Yom Kippur.”

“I’m afraid I have much for which to atone.” Sister patted Rickyroo. “Fortunately, as a Christian maybe I can get away with it.”

“Ha.” Betty noted a startled woodcock flying up out of the wildflower field. “You can do better than that.”

“Well, what is a Christian but a Jew with a life insurance policy?” Sister came back at her, then turned to Tootie. “You might want to ride ahead of us in case there is a lightning strike.”

Tootie smiled. “Matchplay and I will stick it out. It is something, isn’t it, to think that a religious observance is thousands of years old?”

“That it is,” Sister agreed. “Impressive. Beautiful and binding. I’d like to think that Christians would be aware that September thirtieth is Saint Jerome’s Day, one of the church fathers born, m-m-m, born 342.”

“Didn’t he go suffer in the desert?”

“Good for you, Betty.” Sister beamed at her dear friend.

“Catechism. Amazing what sticks up there.” She tapped her cap with her everyday crop, applewood with a knob end.

“ ‘We are by nature sinful and unclean.’ ” Tootie began the Nicene Creed.

“Tootie, catechism?” Betty was astonished.

“Yes, ma’am. Chicago has an enormous Catholic population, and it’s not just the Poles and the Irish. So I was packed off every Saturday for two years to study catechism.”

“But I thought you all were confirmed at seven?” Sister, an Episcopalian, wondered.

“We are. Not Tootie.” Betty answered. “The serious stuff comes later for Episcopalians. I mean, yes, you have baby catechism to become confirmed, but usually in your teens they throw the book at you, for lack of a better term.”

“I never hunt without my rosary beads.” Tootie laughed at herself. “But as you know I’m not much of a churchgoer. All that dogma.” She stuck out her tongue.

“Do you think that’s what’s responsible for people falling away from the church? The numbers are ever growing,” Sister, curious, wondered.

“Well, it hasn’t helped.” Betty spoke right up. “But think of it, Sister. When I was a kid, crèches could be displayed in front of public buildings during Christmas. We said a prayer to start each day in school, along with the Pledge of Allegiance. I never felt that these things were being forced down my throat. It was just the way things were.”

“I can’t imagine that. If my school, Curtis Hall, had put up a crèche they would have been sued,” Tootie noted.

“Times have changed and as you know, I sit on the board for Custis Hall. It’s getting worse. Here’s the thing—” Sister picked up a little trot as they moved through the wildflower field filled with yellows and reds, oranges and lavenders, the fall colors. “Why not celebrate everyone’s faith? Yom Kippur, Eades. You name it. Maybe we’d all learn more about one another.”

“The atheists would have a fit.” Betty ducked a swirl of swallowtail butterflies. “Wow.”

“Beautiful, isn’t it.” Sister watched the rising cloud wings fluttering. “Seems to me, Betty, the atheists could learn from these holidays, ceremonies, too. After all, religion has been one of the strongest forces throughout history, so they can take it as a history lesson. Other people can take it as an expression of faith.”

Tootie, riding out a playful buck from the three-year-old Matchplay, laughed, then added, “Kind of a good idea. I’m not going to sit down and read about religion—I’m not really interested in it—but even I’d learn from these kinds of events.”

Sister kicked into an easy canter. They loped along for a half mile, slipped down to a trot then to a walk, popped over the hog’s back between Roughneck and After All, turned, popped right back, a good lesson for the horses, especially young Matchplay, then back over to a walk.

Betty turned to Tootie. “It’s a lot easier if he’s out with older horses.”

“He’s willing, but he wants to see everything. Midshipman is a little calmer.” She named the other young Thoroughbred, both of them had come from Broad Creek Stables as yearlings.

“With a bit of care, I think they can both be started in Second Flight once we survive Opening Hunt, the cast of thousands.” Sister laughed.

Everyone who could attended Opening Hunt whether on horseback, on foot, or in a car. This day begins formal hunting, which means clothing changes. One wears a black frock, or scarlet if one is a male who has earned his colors. Tails, called shadbellys for the ladies, weazlebellys for the gentlemen, turn even someone not blessed by Nature into a dazzling specimen. Every master, every huntsman, and all the whippers-in just pray to get through it. All those people plus all those not riding presented some very quick judgment calls, like “Do I kill him now or later?” Or, “I’ve got to remember to thank Jennifer for pulling the chestnut out of the fire.”

Jefferson Hunt’s Opening Hunt was Saturday, November 4, enough time, one hoped, to have the pack working well together, as well as staff.

Fortunately, Jefferson Hunt excelled in both departments, and the staff all liked one another. Hounds loved their master and the huntsman. The staff horses really loved their job. Ears forward, eyes bright, maybe a little wiggle before takeoff, hunt horses were born to hunt. There’s a deep joy in being with an animal doing what it was born to do. Quite the reverse of seeing a Saint Bernard, the most loving of dogs, in a big city.

Walking back, the warmth chasing away those pains one accumulates with age, Sister and Betty nattered away. From time to time, Tootie would chime in. No aches or pains just yet.

“So Tootie, has your mother had her first riding lesson? Sister told me she wants to ride.” Betty could hardly believe this.

“She did. She met Sam Tuesday at Beasley Hall,” she said, naming Crawford’s estate. “She was shocked that he made her clean the horse first.” Tootie laughed. “But then she said she got into a rhythm and liked it. Her first lesson. A walk with Sam on the ground: success. Actually, going there will be easy as she passes the place on her way to Beveridge Hundred. She’ll be all moved in tomorrow.”

“Wednesday. That was fast.” Betty whistled.

“She said she’d stay with me a week. She tipped a few days over,” Tootie matter-of-factly added. “That was okay. The place is really nice. All the furniture was there, so she only had to buy food, special things that she wanted. She has to have six-hundred-count Egyptian cotton sheets. Stuff like that.”

“Well, I noticed the new car. It’s beautiful.” Betty liked the Lincoln.

“She wants to buy me a new car.”

“Let her,” Betty fired back quickly.

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, Tootie, she’s trying to make up for lost time and your Toyota has the flu. Find a good used car. That ought to diminish the guilt.” Betty laughed.

Sister piped up, “She’s right, Tootie. Winter will be here soon enough and that car is a hazard. How many times last winter did Gray or I make you take one of our SUVs?”

“I know. I just couldn’t take his new car. Your Tahoe”—she grinned—“okay.”

Sister’s six-year-old Jeep, hard used, had been traded in for a Tahoe. She thought it was too big but the dealer, not far, could be easily reached in an emergency. All her friends who drove Tahoes liked them. She’d thought all these damn SUVs guzzled gas like a drunk grabbing a bottle of Ripple. However, she flipped down the two back rows, piled Raleigh and Rooster in, turned on Sirius radio, a first, and realized she liked it a lot. She could also drive hounds if need be. Now I’m a carbon criminal, she thought to herself.

Saint Just flew overhead, the large raven casting a glance down at them.

“Damn, he’s big.” Betty shielded her eyes from the sun.

“Gives me the creeps when the hanging tree is full of crows or ravens.” Sister shuddered. “Hey, did I tell you we’re hunting Old Paradise Saturday with Crawford?”

“What?” Both women nearly bellowed.

Rickyroo’s ears swiveled. “Humans make such awful sounds.”

Outlaw laughed. “At least they aren’t singing.”

Matchplay said, “I like it when Shaker sings.”

Rickyroo agreed. “A soothing deep voice. Anyway, looks like Saturday is going to be a big one.”

“Should be.” Outlaw nodded his head once, then looked back at Betty, whom he dearly loved.

“When did this happen?” Betty wanted to know.

“After yesterday’s hunt.” Sister went on to explain her conversation with Sara Bateman Sunday. “She called after Tuesday’s hunt to ask if she could bring Tom Tipton to Old Paradise Saturday. He wanted to see Old Paradise more than he wanted to have lunch in Richmond. So I called Crawford, explained everything, and do you know, he readily agreed? All he wanted to know is who would hunt the joint packs.”

“That’s a shock.” Betty leaned back in her saddle, an old Prix de Nation, which fit her.

Sister, on the contrary, rode in a sixteen-and-a-half-inch Hermès, fifty years old, for the same reason: It fit her. “I said Shaker and Skiff could work together. They seem to like each other. Anyway, I was pleasantly surprised.”

“There’s got to be a hook somewhere.” Betty’s eyes narrowed.

“Maybe hearing Tom Tipton’s background did it.”

Tootie asked, “Who is Tom Tipton?”

“Sorry, honey. I should have told you straight up. He whipped-in to The Jefferson Hunt starting when he was in his twenties, pretty sure it was that, and left in 1959. He carried the horn from 1954 to 1959, then was offered a bunch more money to carry the horn for the Richmond Hunt, which he did. Everyone who ever worked with him was better for it. This was before my time. Anyway, I’ve chatted with him a few times when I visited Sara in Richmond. A real character.” She paused. “Forgot to tell you, I wanted to take him to lunch to ask him about Weevil.”

“Ah.” Betty exhaled.

Tootie knew a bit of the story. Her curiosity wasn’t aroused but then she was dealing with her mother and the divorce. Her father was really hitting up the media. Her mother remained unusually calm. Tootie knew Yvonne had a card up her sleeve.