Crazy Like A Fox

CHAPTER 22

Hounds and horses were washed, wiped down, put up by Betty and Tootie. Sister and Shaker cleaned out Tatoo’s rat shot wounds.

“What a good boy.” Sister praised him as she used the long narrow tweezers to pick out a bit of lead.

“Ow,” he murmured, but stood still as Shaker held him.

The poor fellow, riddled with the tiny pellets, would get a breather, cookies given to him. After one hour, they wiped him down with bluecoat, literally a blue coating that staved off infection. The colors of antiseptics ranged from silver to orange to blue. As Sister sprayed this on it did sting a little.

“All done.” She beamed. “Shaker, when that marijuana patch is burned, we should celebrate. This sweet fellow didn’t deserve to be peppered.”

“Sooner or later we’ll figure out who is growing the stuff.” Shaker lifted up the tractable animal, carrying him back to the special room with its own stall walkout.

Sister followed, opening the chain-link door.

Zane, goldbricking about his claw, immediately put on his sorrowful look. “A cookie would help me so much.”

Sister laughed at Zane. “You’ve been in here long enough for heart surgery.”

He took a few steps with a pronounced limp.

Tatoo, made of sterner stuff, chided the youngster, “Will you stop?”

“I am seriously injured. We’re making sure my paw doesn’t become infected. See?” He held up a healed paw, the claw clipped very short but no swelling anymore around it.

“I need to sleep. You can shut up at any time.” Tatoo shot Zane a sharp look.

“Well, we can walk out Zane tomorrow and put him back with his group.” Sister observed the young hound, who curled up next to Tatoo.

Tatoo didn’t growl, but he did ignore him. Zane smacked the raised bed box, nicely stuffed with soft blankets. That tail was going.

“Zane, go to sleep if you’re going to be next to me.”

“I will. I’ve been in here for days all alone. Oh, I have suffered. I need a friend.”

“Dear God.” Tatoo lifted his head, looked at the young dramatist, then flopped his head back down. He was asleep before Zane could think of another play for attention. So the youngster decided to sleep as well.

As Sister and Shaker walked back to the office, she remarked, “Isn’t it something how there is such a variation in one litter? Zorro and Zandy are not little mimosas. Zane will just close up with a touch.” She smiled. “His grandmother was like that. Ever notice how certain qualities jump a generation? You see it in horses, hounds, and humans. Ace is a dead ringer for grandpa Asa.”

“You and I have talked about this before. I’ve talked about it with other huntsmen. Just something we learn. I’m sure there’s science behind it and someone will prove the generational jump, probably about humans first.”

“H-m-m. Makes me wonder about Genghis Khan’s grandchildren.” She picked up her gear, which she’d laid on her desk.

“Only you would think about Genghis Khan.”

“I was thinking about him because if we breed Giorgio to a G girl at another kennel, different bloodline, we will have a G line. We can name a hound Genghis Khan.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know if that’s fair to the hound.”

“Kind of like naming a son Adolf. Italians can name a son Adolfo, but English-speaking people don’t name a son Adolf. Odd.”

Tootie popped in. “Done.”

“None of us got anything to eat because of the uproar. Come on up to the house. I made chicken corn soup last night. It’s always better the next day. Shaker, what about you?”

“Thank you, no. I’m going over to Beasley Hall to walk through Skiff’s kennels. She bribed me with food.”

“Is that so?” Sister’s eyebrows raised slightly.

He smiled as Betty Franklin joined them.

“What a damned mess. How’s Tatoo?”

“He’ll be fine. Once we could examine him I figured we could do the work here, as he is such a good guy even if something hurts. Will save a trip to the vet and the bill, too.”

“He is a good boy,” Betty agreed. “We missed all the gossip. I’ll bet you one hundred dollars someone in our club knows who is growing weed.” She continued. “Do I care? No. But I sure care when a man blasts our hound and threatens Tootie. Even if he doesn’t get caught, he will lose thousands and thousands of dollars.”

“I—” Tootie didn’t finish her sentence.

Sister placed her hand on Tootie’s shoulder and squeezed.

“Betty, I made chicken corn soup. Would you like some?”

“I’d love it, but I have a husband at home who is waiting for his steak. In his defense he cleans up the grill and the kitchen.”

Tootie asked, “I thought men liked to grill. Were competitive about it.”

“Not Bobby, bless his heart.” Betty smiled. “That’s all right. He does other things.” She glanced at the old wall clock. “Let me get going here. Maybe he picked up some news at the breakfast.”

She walked outside to her ancient but cool yellow Bronco, fired up that old motor, and rumbled off.

Sister and Tootie walked up to the house. Gray often spent a Saturday with Sam and Aunt Daniella so it was just the two of them.

Once in the kitchen, pot on the stove, Sister sat at the table, which Tootie had set. She’d even put out a nice bowl on a plate for Golly, who was looking her best.

A timer sat by the stove. Sister had learned to trust the timer rather than herself.

“How do you feel?” she asked the young woman.

“I’m okay.”

“We couldn’t really talk about it because we had to get hounds back. It’s a miracle that only Tatoo was hit.”

“If it hadn’t been for that hunting fellow, he would have shot again.”

“Let me show you something.”

“What I want to know is what do you mean—we got interrupted—he’s been missing since 1954?”

“That’s what I want to show you.” Sister picked up her cellphone lying on the counter. “Look at this.”

Tootie studied the video. “That’s him!”

“Wesley Carruthers. Weevil. He hunted the hounds here from 1947 to 1954, when he disappeared.”

“That can’t be true. This is the man who saved me.” She looked at the image, gratitude and curiosity flooding over her. “There’s no way this man could be…however old he would be. But it is the same blond man, same smile. I have to find him.”

The timer rang out. Sister rose to ladle out two big bowls of soup. Tootie, knowing Golly, opened the large drawer, pulled out some treats, and put them in the bowl. She also picked up two Milk-Bones for Raleigh and Rooster, each of whom thanked her.

As they ate their soup, Sister told Tootie everything she knew about Weevil.

“Sister, he was no ghost.”

“Well, it certainly makes me wonder. Is there anything you can add to what you told me?”

“He knew hounds. He wore ratcatcher. He had the cowhorn on a rawhide string, pushed on his back. He was strong. Wide shoulders, really fit, strong and handsome. He had a kind of light scent. We walked side by side so I could pick it up. Sister, he had such kind eyes. I don’t know what would have happened to me if he hadn’t appeared like that.”

“I’m glad he did show up. I hunted behind Weevil once as a child. Mother took me around. He was good, forward with hounds, and handsome as you said. At that age, it didn’t exactly register but he was handsome. I recall his voice, which was deep.”

“This man had a deep voice and an accent. Light. Maybe Canadian. I don’t think anyone here would notice it because the Tidewater accent is like a Canadian one. Think of how people pronounce ‘out and about.’ ”

“Interesting. Canada has eleven hunts, I think.” She paused. “Wherever there are English-speaking people there are horses and hounds. New Zealand, Australia—there used to be hunting in India under the Raj. Don’t know if there still is. We do excel at chasing things on horseback with hounds. You know, Tootie, some things are so deep in a culture it’s harmful to fool with it. Know what I mean?”

“Like music for African Americans? Think of what we brought to the New World. Just the rhythms alone. Dad would talk about how we gave jazz to America. The problem is, I don’t much like jazz but I like the old music from the 1940s, you know, like Ella Fitzgerald.” She thought a moment. “If Weevil is a ghost, that would be his time, wouldn’t it?”

“He was born in 1922. More soup?”

“No. I should be hungry, but I’m not very.” Tootie’s cellphone went off. Looking down, she made an apologetic face. “Hello.”

Her father’s voice, loud and clear, perked up Golly’s ears as well as Sister’s. “If you will testify against your mother in court I will reinstate you in my will.”

Without a second’s hesitation, she fired back. “And how long before you cut me out again? Dad, I’m not stupid.”

A pause followed this. Vic didn’t really underestimate his daughter but he was a businessman and if he could short you, he would.

“One hundred thousand dollars. Now. And I will sign a contract promising not to cut you out of the will in future.”

“No. I don’t want any part of this. I saw the video, Dad.”

An even longer pause followed that. “I’ll fire up the jet and come to you.” He mentioned his Gulfstream G150. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Well, I am. I will never testify against Mom.”

“Triple-digit millions probably before you’re fifty. Money is power. Why stand by your mother? She didn’t really stand by you.”

“No.”

“Those Virginia snobs have turned you.” His voice took an edge.

“They aren’t snobs. They’re my friends. They’ve done more for me than you have.” She nearly spat that out.

“The hell! I sent you to the best schools. I paid for your riding lessons. I bought you whatever you wanted including Iota. I paid for your coming out and that cost a half a million. I outdid and outspent all those goddamned clabberfaces.” He used the old country word for white people although he was a city boy.

Calm now, Tootie acidly replied, “I didn’t ask for any of it except for Iota. You used me to reflect your power. I didn’t want to be a debutante. You don’t own me, Dad. You never will. You know what’s really sick? You believe white people are your oppressors. You hate them. Some were and some are. I know our history.

“I know my opportunities came from you and from all our people before me. I know how lucky I am. But Dad, you are defined by your oppressor.

“No one defines me but me. I will never testify against Mom. I never want to see you again.” Tootie threw her phone on the floor. “I hate him.”

Sister, bending over, picked it up, and dropped it in Tootie’s hand. “Still works. These things are tough.”

“I was stupid to throw it down. I’m sorry.” She looked to see if it had dented the random width pine floor.

Had, a tiny bit.

“You’re upset. You have good reason to be upset.” Sister put her arm around Tootie’s shoulders. “I’m no psychologist but I figure he’s fighting for the only thing he knows: money and power. A lot of people are like that. They’re empty.”

Tootie searched Sister’s cobalt eyes. “You know what scares me? What if I turn out like Dad or even Mom? She’s trying but I wasn’t the daughter she wanted. She wanted a carbon copy of herself….”

Sister kissed Tootie on the cheek. “As she learns to really know you, she’ll be proud that you’re not a carbon copy. You are exactly yourself.”

Tootie nodded, wanting to believe that, then said, “People must look at me and think of my father naked, not a pretty sight, with those two women. Gross. It is so gross.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You and Gray mean more to me than Mom and Dad.”

“Tootie, for all their faults, they gave you life. One can only hope he will grow up, see the error of his ways, and make amends. And let’s give your mother credit; she is turning over a new leaf.”

Silent, Tootie got up, put on the tea kettle, sat back down, then got up, more treats for Golly, Raleigh, and Rooster.

“You spoil them,” Sister said.

“Learned it from you. It’s you who says, ‘What’s the point of loving someone or something if you don’t spoil them a little?’ ”

“Well, I guess I do. This day has been overwhelming. I thank the good Lord no one was really hurt. You never know about these people with illegal crops, although I know what drives them to it.”

“Money?”

“Yes, but so many people in Virginia and Kentucky, they’ve been wiped out by the war on tobacco, the war on coal. They only know but so much. They aren’t going to be computer coders. As for tobacco, it takes years and years to learn how to successfully grow that crop, the varieties—and then curing it, that’s a real art. Is smoking bad for you? You bet, but does anyone hold a gun to your head and say, ‘You will smoke this cigarette’?”

“No, but someone just about held a gun to my head.” Tootie was bouncing back. “And smoking is vile.”

“It is, but this is where our generations possibly diverge. I believe in people. I believe they should make their own decisions, even if those decisions are not always the best. I have no right to tell someone else how to live. If you started smoking, I would be horrified, but it isn’t hurting me.”

“I could blow smoke in your face.” Tootie laughed, spirits restoring.

“You would, too.” Sister laughed with her. “While I’m thinking about it, let me show you Weevil’s horn. Maybe you will have an idea about it, something that Marion and I missed. She was able to send me the complete pictures of it, since the museum catalogues everything. In case you noticed the carvings.”

Tootie clicked through all the images. “Look, here’s my cottage, what was left of it. Comet’s ancestor is underneath.”

“I saw that. By the time Ray and I inherited Roughneck Farm, it was teetering, but good chestnut logs, I might add, and we’ve used them. Used to be chestnut everywhere. Same with elm.”

Tootie clicked through again. She peered. “My cottage fox, he’s looking at the kennels.”

“Smart.”

“The chase scrimshaw sort of goes from Roughneck Farm to Chapel Cross, the four Corinthian columns. The stables and the fox at the tack room door.”

“Does.”

Tootie returned to Weevil himself. “I must find him. I will find him.”

“Just a minute, now. Whether Weevil is a ghost or has found the fountain of youth, he’s back, but no one knows why. He’s secretive and, remember, this started with a theft.”

“A cowhorn!”

He broke into the case at the Huntsman Hall of Fame. That’s a theft.” Sister said so with feeling.

“Sister, if you had a pencil in that case used by Dickie Bywaters,”—Tootie named the great huntsman from the first half of the twentieth century—“you would think it valuable.”

Sister laughed. “You’re right, but still.” She breathed in. “Sometimes, Tootie, I think you are older than I am.”

“Past lives,” Tootie replied.

Under the circumstances, that was a mouthful.