Full Cry

CHAPTER 16

“Atrocious. Can you believe it? Fifty million Americans can’t read or understand anything above the eighth-grade level.” Marty Howard, chair of the Committee to Promote Literacy, warmed to her subject as Sister and Jim examined his photographs.

Crawford had flown to New York on business, which meant Marty had center stage, an unusual and pleasant experience for her.

Jim, although living in Wales, was an Englishman to the bone. He said, “How can someone get through school without learning to read and write?”

Marty, admiring his photos with Sister, replied, “That’s just it, twenty-nine percent of American students drop out of high school. Drop out. Do you know what the drop-out rate is in Japan?” When he indicated that he did not, she jumped right in. “Five percent. And in Russia, poor torn-up Russia, the drop-out rate is two percent. Something is dreadfully wrong with our schools.”

Jim, without looking up from the dramatic photograph of Xavier taking a swing at Sam, said wryly, “Maybe Americans should go back to teaching reading, writing, and arithmetic instead of self-esteem, right?”

Sister, not terribly interested in education, politely listened as this conversation raged on. Her attitude was that if you wanted to learn, you would. If you didn’t, you pretty well deserved what happened. If 29 percent of Americans wanted to drop out of school, they could push brooms, dig ditches, or suck up welfare. After performing these exciting tasks, if they had a lick of sense, they might want to learn to read.

She didn’t feel it was her job to be nanny to the nation. People made their own decisions. If they made bad decisions, they had to live with them, and sometimes so did she. We all bump up against one another. But in her heart of hearts, Sister really believed that some people are born stupid. One couldn’t introduce a new idea or a provocative thought into those thick skulls even with a crowbar.

Marty, on the other hand, truly believed that with ameliorative agencies, plus her own good works, life could be made better for some. Imbued with a Protestant drive for self-improvement, and a perfect society, it was her duty to do these things. She did them well.

“Sister, what do you think?” Marty inquired.

“The photographs are wonderful.”

“No, about illiteracy.”

“Marty, you are a dynamo of organization. That group is fortunate to have you, and I would be most happy to write a check. You know how much I admire your good works.” While not wanting to lie, Sister, being a Virginian, did not feel compelled to tell Marty what she really thought about the issue. Find the positive, and, in this case, it was Marty herself.

Jim left Marty with a fat book of proofs for club members. They could order those photographs they wanted.

Sister, her checkbook fetched from her worn Bottega Veneta purse—a favorite given to her by Ray before he died—wrote a check for five hundred dollars to the Committee to Promote Literacy. Another check to Jim for the photographs she’d selected.

He’d fly back across the ocean tonight, and she already missed him. They had managed a bit of time to visit, and she had laughed herself silly. Jim was a tonic to her. His deadpan sense of humor never failed to lift her spirits.

“Marty, I know it’s working hours, but do I have your permission to have a word with Sam before I leave?”

“Of course.” Marty fretted a moment. “I feel terrible about what happened yesterday, but it wasn’t his fault.”

“Not yesterday, but there are years of bad blood—not just with Xavier, but with many people in the club.”

Jim folded his hands. “One thing to straighten yourself out, another to pay back the damage.”

“He can’t.” Sister held up her hands, palm upwards. “That’s the hardest part of life, I think.”

Marty, ever eager for a discussion of substance, sat down as she pushed more scones toward her guests. “Meaning one cannot make amends, achieve closure?”

Sister stifled a laugh. “Marty, there is no closure. That’s a made-up word. Whatever happens to you, whatever you’ve done to others, yourself, to the wide world, in general, sticks with you like chiggers.”

“Oh, Sister, you can’t mean that!”

“I do. The past doesn’t go away. It’s in your head; it’s in your heart. What’s hard is finding the balance. Recognizing that you can’t, say, in Sam’s case, pay back the money, restore the damage to the sullied marriages. All you can do is ask forgiveness. A few people truly will forgive you; most won’t. They’ll turn their backs and try to forget it and you.”

“Or strike back.” Jim drank his tea with pleasure. Marty, for an American, brewed a decent cup of tea.

“Yes.”

“But that solves nothing!” Marty exclaimed. “That just keeps the pain alive.”

“Marty, I respect that opinion, but I don’t agree. Hurting someone who has hurt you is deeply satisfying,” Sister responded. Then she thought to herself that hurting whoever killed Anthony Tolliver would satisfy her.

“Sister, that is unlike you. I’ve never seen you hurt anyone.”

“Oh, I have. I hurt my husband. In the main, I haven’t tried to hurt people. That doesn’t blind me to the fact that revenge is sweet. There’s no longer justice through the court system—perhaps there never was. Whoever has the most money and can keep the case going all the way to the Supreme Court, if need be, has the advantage. If you take justice into your own hands, it is sweet. Someone makes you bleed, you make him or her bleed. Even steven.”

“Brutal.” Marty shook her head.

“But real.” Jim had a clear idea about things like this. In his worldview, nations behaved as childishly as individuals. Airmen like he had once climbed into jets and risked their lives to try to redress the latest cycle of revenge, greed, territorial expansion.

“Can’t we improve? I have to believe we can.”

Sister inhaled the buttery scent of the scones, the tang of the hot tea in its expensive old Dresden china pot, covered with a knitted cozy. “In fits and starts. I mean, Marty, in the Western nations we no longer employ child labor from sunup to sundown six days a week. That’s improvement, but what are children doing in Asia or Latin America or parts of Africa? In Africa, they cut off women’s clitorises. Pardon me, Jim. I hope I haven’t ruined your appetite.”

“Nothing ruins my appetite, Master. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen,” he answered jovially.

“What I’m saying, Marty, is that one place moves ahead, say, with respect to child abuse, but perhaps slides back in literacy; another place works their children to death, but everyone can read. It’s a jumble of contradictions, pain, and outrageous injustice, yet there is beauty in the world. I can’t make sense of it, and I no longer try. I just live the day I’m in.”

Marty cupped her chin in her right hand as she sat at the table. While such a posture would upset anyone who had suffered the rigors of cotillion, it was her table, and it was more comfortable than always having her hands in her lap.

Jim spoke up. “In many ways I think life was better at other times than it is now. Not in terms of medicine, but people were closer to one another.”

“Give me an example.” Marty’s eyes opened wider.

“England from 1815 to 1914. I don’t think it was good for those people chewed up by industrialization, but for farmers, the middle classes and above, life was pleasant. Now you turn on the telly and see body parts.”

Sister, mindful of the time, gently said, “If there is an answer, I know you will find it, Marty. And I know that Crawford will support your efforts. He is a generous man. And I hope you do find the answer because I’d like to know it.” She smiled. “But, honey, I’ve been on earth longer than you. Maybe it’s made me a touch cynical.”

“You could never be cynical,” Jim said gallantly. “I’m the same age as you. We have seen a lot in our time, and I, for one, just look at people and governments and wonder what dumb thing they will do next. Sometimes it’s funny, most times it’s not. At least in your country, you don’t have class warfare. What do you think the Labor Party is all about? It’s class warfare. So bloody stupid.”

“You’re right, Jim, we don’t understand. I’m not sure an American can understand, but just because we don’t have class warfare doesn’t mean we can’t be as bloody stupid as the Brits.” Sister laughed.

“You two!” Marty sighed.

“Birds of a feather.” Jim laughed.

“Flock together,” Sister finished. “Marty, don’t take it all so seriously. A little levity might not add years to your life, but you’ll certainly enjoy them more. I’m not saying you shouldn’t be involved in your projects. It’s wonderful that you care so much but, well, don’t care too much. And you know why? Because none of those people you are trying to help cares about you. If one or two got to meet you, they might, but you need to take care of yourself. You know what I think about? When you’re in an airplane and the stewardess runs through her number about seat belts and exit doors, remember the part when she talks about air, about losing oxygen? Okay, the yellow umbilical cord drops out of the overhang with a plastic oxygen mask on it. The stewardess tells you to put on your mask before you put on your child’s mask, right?”

“Right.” Marty nodded.

“That’s what I’m saying. Put on your oxygen mask first. And now, after that piece of unsolicited and probably unnecessary advice, I’m going down to your stable.”

Marty watched Sister walk through the slush down to the extravagant stable. Sister didn’t seem like a selfish person. She had always thought of the tall older woman as generous and kind, but what Sister had said to her seemed selfish. She would need to think more on these things. Instead of diminishing her feelings for her master, their conversation only made the older woman more intriguing. It occurred to Marty that there was a great deal to Sister that she didn’t know.

As Sister reached the racing barn, she marveled at its organization. The hunting barn was well run, too. Fairy Partlow was no slouch. Sam had transformed the beautiful racing barn into a true horseman’s stable. The twenty-four-stall stable was built with a cross-center aisle in the middle, two wash stalls on each side, and a huge feed room. In the cross aisle, Sam had a long scale; each day he would have his assistant, Roger Davis, weigh each horse on the scale, recording its weight in his logbook. Also in the book was each horse’s food for the day, turn out, work notes if they were breezed or jumped. Medical notations were there, too, as well as in an extensive color-coded file for each horse in the big oak file cabinets in the cavernous tack room. This information was also entered daily into the computer. Crawford adored technology: buying the latest, the fastest, the most expensive stuff. Sam took no chances. He used the computer, but everything was duplicated in the hard-copy files. He found it a lot easier to grab a color-coded file than to sit down and punch it up on the computer. Sam was middle-aged.

He smiled when he saw the master.

“Sam, this place runs like a clock.” She glanced at the large railroad clock on the tack room wall.

Sam had just been double-checking the files on Cloud Nine, the timber horse he had purchased for Marty.

The paneled pecan-wood walls—unusual for Virginia— bore gilt-framed photographs of past great chasers. As Crawford was only now entering the game, no photographs existed of his winners, but he had felt the walls needed something. In time, his winners would grace these walls. Encased in Lucite on one wall were his racing colors: red silks with two blue hoops on the chest and three on the sleeves, and a red cap with a blue button.

“Please sit down.” Sam stood as he motioned to the leather club chair.

The tack room was so large that the big sofa, two club chairs, and a large coffee table took up only one corner. The carpet, red and blue stripes, mirrored the silk colors.

Sam sat opposite Sister.

He offered refreshments, but she’d already drunk so much tea she was afraid her kidneys would float away. As this barn’s bathroom had a big shower, makeup mirror, and toilet, she didn’t worry too much about her kidneys. In many barns, if you had to go, you used a stall, same as the horses.

“Sam, I know you didn’t provoke the fight yesterday; I’m here to tell you that, and to tell you I am genuinely happy you are back in the hunt field. This is a good place for you.”

“Thank you.”

“As you know, you’ve made enemies, you’ve disappointed many people. Some of them, like Xavier, boil over. It’s not really like him, and, of course, I’ll talk to him, but I was wondering if you could help me?”

“How?”

“Exactly what did happen back there in, was it 1987?”

“Yes.” Sam looked away, out the big picture window, then looked back. “I was out of my mind on booze and drugs, and I stole from him.”

“He says you cost him a lot of money.”

“I did. I made purchases at the feed store in his name and used stuff myself or sold it. I sold tack out from under him and lied that it was being repaired. I stole money from the kitty and said it had been lost. I wrecked his new F350 Dually and said it had a bad U-joint.”

“And?” Shrewdly, she pressed on.

“I slept with his wife.” Sam exhaled. “That was worse than the money.” He leaned forward. “When someone works as hard as Xavier, it’s easy to jive him, jam him. He’s tired when he comes home. If everything looks good, he doesn’t dig up the dirt for months and sometimes even years, but Xavier kept his own books. He figured it out sooner rather than later.”

“But that wasn’t really what set him off, was it?”

“No, it was his Dee.” The lines around his dark brown eyes deepened. “I guess they went into couples therapy or something, because they’re still together. By that time I was down the road at the next place. They handled it better than most. The other women I slept with screamed about being played or their husbands beat me up, and the whole county watched the show.” He stared at her. “I have never told anyone about Dee, but you asked, and I know I can trust you. I expect one or two other people know, though. People can’t keep their mouths shut.”

“Thank you.”

He tipped back in the deep chair. “You’d be amazed at how many bored women there are out there. They feel ignored by their husbands. Translates into feeling unloved. It was just all too easy all those years.”

“I’m not surprised.”

He blinked, his shoulders rising. “I guess not. People confide in you.”

“Well, I have my eyes wide open. And I don’t rush to judgment.”

“I know.” He compressed his lips. “Would it be easier for you if I didn’t hunt? I can put Roger on some of these guys—Fairy, too—although she’s got her hands full with the hunters. I like chasers to hunt a bit, the greenies.”

“It might make it easier, Sam, but it wouldn’t make it right. The hunt field is open to all who pay their dues and respect the ethics of hunting. That means hounds have the right of way, you do not turn a fox, ever, ever, ever, and you do as the landowners bid you. When you swing up in the tack, your mind should be on hunting. Whatever else is going on in your life is left behind. You don’t have to like everyone in the hunt field, but you can’t express it while hunting.”

He nodded, knowing the ethics as well as any true foxhunter. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Xavier knows the rules of the road as well as you or I. I can only surmise that years of pent-up emotion affected his reason. As I said, I will speak to him.” She drew in a deep breath. “Sam, I don’t want to remove anyone from our club, and I do think this can be ironed out. Hunting is such a joy, a religion in a way. Nothing should tarnish that. If you drop down to nuts and bolts, people pay a lot of money for horses, trailers, trucks, tack, you name it. They should have a peaceful experience, if not an exciting one. Depends on the fox.” She smiled.

“Good one yesterday.”

“Yes, I didn’t know that fox. Usually I do.”

“Sister, you study the game trails. You know where the fox is, the turkeys, the deer. People don’t realize how much thought and knowledge goes into your job. Of course, there are masters who don’t know these things.”

“All serve, even those who stand and wait.” She slightly misquoted Milton.

“Would you like to see the new timber horse?”

“Love to.”

They walked outside into the cold air, down the long aisleway, stopping in front of a freshly painted stall. The nameplate read “Cloud Nine.”

“Nine’s her barn name.” Sam leaned over the opened top of the Dutch stall door. “16.2 hands, incredible stride once she gets into it. Tucks those front knees right under her, just folds ’em.” He imitated her form over fences.

“When she retires, she’ll be the perfect field hunter, right? I always think the timber horses are more careful than the brush ones.”

“And look at that engine!” He pointed to her hindquarters. “The ones that have heart, you can teach them. They’ll respect those solid jumps in the hunt field, even if they’ve been sliding through the brush ones. Bet we win, then in a few years you can hunt her.” He laughed. “No way can Marty or Crawford handle Nine. Too hot. Too forward.”

The brush fences for national steeplechase races at one time actually were brush, but now the manufactured fences had artificial brush set in. The horses jumped over or through it. If their hooves touched the brush, judges heard a swish, swish sound. The problem with the brush horses is they could get accustomed to dragging their hooves, not picking them up neatly like the timber horses. Can’t be dragging hooves over a three-foot-six coop or a stone wall.

“When’s her first race?”

“Maybe end of March in Aiken; I’ll need to work with her some more. If I don’t think she’s ready for South Carolina, then I’ll run her at My Lady’s Manor in Monkton, Maryland, in mid-April.”

“She looks the part.” Sister walked back to the truck, Sam accompanying her. “I see a lot of empty stalls. Knowing Crawford, they’ll be filled within a year, and you’ll have three more people working for you.”

“That’s the plan.”

“It’s exciting.” Sam opened her door for her, and she stepped up into the driver’s seat.

“Heard my big brother had lunch with you and talked himself silly.”

Sister blushed. “Did he tell you that?”

“He did.”

She drove into town, whistling the whole way. Then she realized she hadn’t spoken to Jim about his photographs. She dialed Marty’s number and luckily got Jim.

“Mr. Meads.”

“Master,” he said, a smile in his voice.

“Those photographs you took where X and Sam are flailing away—our own Taylor and Holyfield—could you not make those public?” She paused. “Although, I expect people would buy them.”

“I understand.”

“Well, I will buy every shot of same.”

“There’s no need of that.” His clipped accent and warm voice were reassuring.

“Oh, Jim, I know that. But I do want them for my files. And just in case I need to lord it over those boys.”

“You’ll have them next week. Five-by-seven or eight-by-ten?”

“Mmm. Eight-by-ten.”

“Good then.”