Crazy Like a Fox

CHAPTER 24

Margaret walked with her cousin Arthur on the Charlottesville Mall. He’d driven down to pick up a tiny Bokhara rug from a store on the Fourth Street side street. Margaret met him for an unusual lunch. She rarely had time for lunch, but given that both their fathers proved difficult they carved out time.

“Martha Jefferson,” Arthur cited the old hospital at a new site east of town, “how can you find your way around it?”

“Compass,” she replied, slipping her arm through his.

“I guess when Mom and Dad’s time comes, that’s where they’ll go.”

“Not soon, I hope.”

Arthur, a decent fellow with no ambition, murmured, “I thought selling Old Paradise would solve problems. Money problems, sure. But the constant back and forth between my dad and yours. If one said ‘A,’ the other would say ‘B,’ and then you and I would spend hours, months, working it out. I can understand fighting over our grandmother’s jewelry, what’s left of it, but fighting over the manure spreader? There were six manure spreaders at the farm.”

“Yeah, but only one worked.” She stifled a laugh.

A smile crept onto his face. “How hard would it be to install new chains in an old one?”

“Not hard, just costs money. Those chains, for lack of a better word, are flat metal. Metal always costs, and both of our fathers are so damned cheap.”

“They have millions now and Dad still keeps the Gulf station open, repairs a few cars. I tell him, close it down, spend time with Mom in your new house. I’ll keep the station running if he doesn’t want to shut it down. You don’t have to work. Travel. Nope. Change terrifies him.”

“What about your mother?”

“She’d love to go to Hawaii.”

“Arthur, they’re comfortable in their hostility, their misery, their pinched little lives. I blame some of this on our grandfather. When the boys were young there was still money. Old Paradise meant something. Binky and Alfred were at the top of the social pile. Went to their heads, I think.”

Arthur nodded, quiet for a few steps. “I love my mother. Without her I don’t know if I could stand Dad. But much as I love her, was losing her worth decades of anger and silence? Your father went ballistic.”

“He did. Now he’s retreated into a kind of coldness. He loves me, he has a few social friends, but Dad’s in the deep freeze.”

“Margaret, ever wonder if there’s more to it?” Arthur turned his head to look at her directly.

“Funny you should ask. I was thinking that myself. Have off and on for years. It’s just so—extreme.” She paused. “Has your mother ever talked about when she dated Alfred?”

“Only that she and Alfred liked a lot of the same things. I asked her why she ditched Alfred. She shrugged and said that Dad paid more attention to her.”

“H-m-m. Ever wonder if neither of us got married because of their example? Actually, Dad and Mom got along pretty good, but she died so young. At least I think they got along,” Margaret second-guessed herself.

“Mom says your mother just wanted the social prestige. Then she always adds in the next breath that that doesn’t mean she wanted her to die of lung cancer.” Arthur put his hand over Margaret’s. “I don’t get this latest flare-up.”

“Can’t stand seeing Old Paradise come back to life without them. That’s all I can figure.” Margaret, like Arthur, was sick of their behavior. “You’d think they’d enjoy it. You’d think my dad would like his new easy-to-take-care-of house in Crozet. That dependency had electric wire wrapped in silk. Nothing had been done since the 1930s. I swear. He complains about the fireplace in his new house. He misses his stone fireplace. He asked me would I ask Crawford if he could remove the old one? I flatly refused. Crawford is touchy.”

“You can be so diplomatic, cuz.” He praised her.

“I get along with him but I don’t have much to do with him. We had a joint meet, which you know about. Actually was a fabulous hunt. Crawford rode right up there with Sister and all went well.”

“That’s a miracle.”

“The strangest thing happened, though. Both Shaker and Skiff blew ‘Going Home.’ ” Sounded beautiful, and then it was followed by an echo that lingered. Deep. Mournful.”

“Sometimes the mountains will do that.”

“Yeah.” She squeezed his arm. “So what do we do?”

“About Grandmother’s earrings?” He shook his head. “Hell, when Mom dies, I don’t want them. I’m not a drag queen.”

“Oh, Arthur, there’s still time.”

He burst out laughing. “Can I wear a dress with a beard?”

Arthur, a touch vain, sported a trimmed well-kept beard. He almost looked like a rich Spanish grandee from the sixteenth century.

“I don’t see why not. You’ll have to borrow falsies. I do not recommend breast surgery and while I’m on that subject, be glad you don’t have to carry them around.”

“I don’t mind holding them.” He laughed.

“Worthless. If you like holding them, why don’t you get married? Haven’t found the right size? D? C? I am shocked.”

A wry smile crossed his lips. “Much as I worship the female body, I am not always happy with the female mind.”

Margaret was not one to scream sexist. “You can’t stand that we’re smarter than you?” Then she paused. “You know, Arthur, I actually know what you mean. There are some women, like some men, who exemplify the worst of their gender. For instance, what I have found working with other doctors and the nurses is if I have a disagreement with a man, we fight it out. Might get hot but when it’s settled, that’s it. Might settle a disagreement with a woman—but she will never forget it. Never. Sooner or later it will reappear. I just can’t stand that. So I’m a pig.”

“No, you’re honest. Obviously not all women are like that, just like not all men are arrogant and not very insightful, but there are enough to make you wonder how the human race ever survived. Back to marriage. If I found a woman I could talk to, honestly talk to her and vice versa, I’d give it a shot. I see Mom wrap Dad around her little finger. I don’t ever want a woman to try that with me.”

“I understand. But, Arthur, you aren’t going to find the right woman with your head under the body of a car. Exhaust pipes don’t make for fascinating conversation. Who do you meet? Get out.”

“Ah, Margaret. I never know what to say.”

“You talk to me just fine.”

“We grew up together. You’re really my sister.”

“Then talk to a woman as though you were talking to me. You’re a good athlete. Take up golf or tennis or kayaking. You’ll meet interesting people. I golf, as you know. I’d be happy to set you up with a good pro. Won’t take you long—well, golf is a bitch, but you’ll learn more quickly than others.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Consider this. I buried myself in my work. I met lots of young male doctors. They were okay but the spark wasn’t there. I think we were all too focused on what we had to learn, and our career path. You don’t meet too many doctors who don’t want to make money and be set by our forties. Then I started foxhunting. Walter Lungrun sandbagged me into it. I met Ben. Chemistry.” She grinned.

“Mom says no DuCharme should be dating a sheriff. Beneath us. You should be with another doctor, or preferably a senator.”

“Interesting coming from a woman who married a garage mechanic.” Margaret couldn’t resist.

“But a DuCharme?”

“Do you give a shit?”

“About the name? Hell, no. But I am kind of proud of being descended from Sophie Marquet.”

“Me, too. She must have been something. If they’d caught her they could have executed her. Probably not. But she’d have been imprisoned or sent to England. So we know we’re descended from someone smart and tough, who loved our country.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Back to the damned earrings. Let’s make a deal: You just tell your mother and father that when they leave this earth, you do want the Schlumberger Tiffany earrings. Worth a fortune, I might add, and they are stunning. If you marry, they go to your wife. If you don’t marry, they go to me, unless you change your mind about being a drag queen. You’d be the only drag queen in America with real Schlumberger earrings.”

“That’s motivation. Will you help me dress?”

“Sure. You need to start practicing walking in high heels now.”

“That means I have to shave my legs. If I keep my beard why can’t I keep the fur on my legs?”

Margaret shook her head. “Not the same. You’re handsome with your beard. You might get away with it, and the earrings would really set off your beard. Legs, never.”

He pressed closer on her as they walked. Arthur loved Margaret. He felt she was the only person who actually understood him. Who wanted to do so. She accepted him for himself. She never once, never, chided him for being a car mechanic.

“I’ll think about it.”

They walked in silent companionship to the rug store, where Margaret stopped. She needed to get back to the hospital.

“Arthur, are you worried about your mom and dad?”

He looked straight into her eyes. “He’s getting frail. As long as Dad and Uncle Alfred had Old Paradise, even though they couldn’t repair one fence board, they felt important, you know? People would come to stare at the columns, the stables. They’d drive by Alfred’s house all the way to the other side of the thousands of acres to see our house, an exact replica. People would tell newcomers the story of Old Paradise, of the brothers who hated each other because of a woman. They were somebody. Now Dad bitches that he has pots of money and lives on one acre.”

“My dad’s going down, too.” She inhaled deeply. “They made this life. They can damn well deal with it. I’m not going to be in the middle anymore. When there was no money, and I was starting to climb in my profession, I tried to make peace. You did, too. Arthur, the hell with it.”

“I think they never grew up. But I’m with you. I’m not taking messages from one to the other. And before I forget, your solution to the earrings is good. I agree.”

She kissed him on the cheek, turned, then turned back. “Remember, shave your legs.”

—

Milly DuCharme closed up the front of the Gulf station, stuck her head in the garage. “Binky, I’m going home. Try to get there by six, will you? I don’t want to warm up lamb chops.”

Red bandanna hanging out of a grease-stained pair of pants, Binky called back, “I promise.”

She hopped in her Mazda 6, which she loved. Being married to a car mechanic she knew better than to buy one of the fancy brands. She loved her Mazda, loved to drive it, and loved the gas mileage. Nothing went wrong and she’d owned it for a year now, bought with the money from the sale of Old Paradise. She could have bought a Rolls-Royce dealership if she’d wanted. She thought it all silly. She lived in a wonderful new house where everything worked. She could afford a cleaning company to come in once a week. The place sparkled. They even did windows. Thrilled, just thrilled to no longer be chained to Old Paradise, she tuned in the forties radio station on Sirius, and sang along with Duke Ellington’s band.

As she drove off, Binky rapped the rear axle with a heavy wrench. He used sound to guide him. Fortunately, the axle on the heavy Silverado truck wasn’t bent, but something had secreted itself into the wheel well.

He didn’t hear the door open and close, nor the footfall. On his back on the roller, he started to roll out to grab another tool when he saw a pair of cowboy boots.

“I’ll be right with you. Didn’t hear you come in.” He pushed off, rolled out from under the truck, stopped.

“How time flies,” Weevil said.

Binky, flat on his back, moved his mouth but nothing came out.

Weevil put his right foot onto Binky’s chest. Not hard, but Binky stayed put.

Eyes wide, Binky said loudly but to himself, “I did not have a drink. I am sober.”

“You are. I dropped by to tell you, Binky, you were always an asshole.” Weevil lifted his foot and walked out, boots crunching on the concrete floor as he left, closing the door.

Binky, shaking, swung his legs over, sat upright. “I’ve got to call Alfred.”

He stopped, held his right wrist with his left hand to stop the right hand from shaking. “The hell I will. Nothing will ever make me speak to Alfred. Nothing.”