Full Cry

CHAPTER 19

At eight o’clock Tuesday evening, the skies turned crystal clear. The last wisp of noctilucent cloud scudded toward the east. The mercury plunged to twenty-two degrees.

Like most horsemen, Sam Lorillard obsessively listened to the radio weather reports. Before he left Crawford’s, he double-checked each horse’s blanket. For those with a thin coat, typical of many thoroughbreds, he took the precaution of putting a loosely woven cotton blanket under the durable turnout sheet.

Like Sister, Sam believed horses needed to be horses. He kept them outside as much as possible, bringing them in to groom, feed, weigh, and carry on a conversation. Sam liked to talk to the horses. Roger Davis, his assistant, also took up the habit.

Crawford’s thoroughbreds knew a great deal about Super Bowl picks, college basketball, and socks—quite a bit more about socks because Sam’s feet remained cold until the middle of May.

The Lorillard home place, improving now that Sam was back on his feet, had a huge cast-iron wood-burning stove in the middle of the kitchen.

Sam was also trying to improve his eating habits. He hunched at the kitchen table, a heavy leather-piercing needle in his right hand, a workday bridle in his left. The small keepers, which kept the cheek straps from flapping, had broken. He patiently stitched them.

Jabbing a needle through leather hurt his fingers, which ached in the cold. Sitting by the wood-burning stove helped.

His cell phone rang. He no longer bothered with a line to the house, using the cell for everything.

“Hello.”

“Sam,” Rory croaked, “come get me. I’m ready.”

“Where are you?”

“Salvation Army. Thought I’d clean up.”

“Hang on. I’ll be right there.”

Sam hurried to his battered 1979 Toyota truck, which, despite age, ran like a top.

One half-hour later, after a fulsome discussion with the sergeant in charge, Rory left with Sam.

“It’s a three-hour ride. Can you make it?”

A haggard Rory slumped on his seat. “Yes.” He produced a pint of Old Grand-Dad. “This is the last booze I’ll ever drink. If I don’t, I’ll get the shakes. You don’t need that.” Rory took a swig.

A pint was nothing to Rory Ackerman’s system. Sam said nothing about the whiskey, was surprised that he didn’t crave it himself.

The long ride to Greensboro, North Carolina, was punctuated by sporadic bursts of talk.

“Expensive?”

“The clinic?” Sam kept his eyes on the road.

“Uh-huh.”

“Not as bad as some.”

“How am I gonna pay for it?”

“Don’t fret about that now. Just get through it.”

Rory licked his lips after another pull. “You got some secret source of money?”

Sam smiled, the lights from the dials on the dash illuminating his face with a low light. “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Am I gonna work this off for the rest of my life?”

“I told you, don’t worry about that. You and I can work that out later. Your job is to dry out, clean up, sober up, wake up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rory responded with little enthusiasm.

As they crossed the Dan River, then over the North Carolina line, Rory spoke up again.

“Heater works good.”

“Truck’s a keeper.” Sam smiled.

“Pisses me off that the Japs make better cars than we do.”

“Nah,” Sam disagreed, “not anymore. But if I get enough money together, I’ll buy another Toyota Tacoma. Easy on the gas. And red. I always wanted a red truck.”

“Sure I got a bed?”

Sam nodded. Rory stretched out his feet, not far since the cabs of Japanese vehicles are made for people smaller than Americans. “Been thinkin’.”

“I figured.”

“No. Been thinking about Mitch and Tony.”

“Oh.”

“Day jobs.” Rory glanced out the window at the flat landscape. “They knew something.”

“Like something illegal?”

“I reckon. You know how it is. We work a farm for two days, paint a fence, however long we can hold it together. Anyone who needs someone fast doesn’t mind scraping the bottom of the barrel, rides on down to the train station.”

“Yeah.”

“Loading docks. Once when storms dropped trees over the tracks, we even worked for the C and O, cutting them up. If you talked to all of us, we’ve about covered every odd job in the county. You notice things even if you’re hung over.”

“Mitch and Tony notice anything out of the way?”

Rory closed his eyes. “Brain’s no good. I remember sometimes they’d be flush.”

“You’ll remember when you’re back to yourself.”

He paused, then whistled. “If I can figure it out, I might be drinking the next bottle of Thunderbird enhanced with poison.” He cackled for a second. “Like those wine snobs would say, ‘a floral top note,’ or maybe in this case, a hemlock finish.”

As Sam drove to Greensboro, only to turn around and drive back to get to work by six-thirty in the morning, Sister sat up in bed, wood crackling in the big fireplace. Propped on her knees was a yellow legal pad, much scribbled upon.

Each time Sister would write something else with her Number 1 lead pencil, Golly would bat at the pencil.

“Gotcha.”

“You’re a frustrated writer.” Sister batted back at the cat, who loved this game.

Rooster got up from his bed, walked over, and put his head on the bed, eyes imploring.

“No.”

“Why does she get to sleep up there?”

“Rooster, go to bed, honey.”

“I want to get on the bed.”

Raleigh, disturbed, joined the harrier. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair that that snot cat gets to be up there and we sleep in dog beds. We’re man’s best friend. What’s she?”

“The Queen of All She Surveys,” Golly replied.

“I can’t think. Boys, go to sleep. The dog door isn’t locked downstairs, so you can go out if that’s what this is about.”

Sister usually locked the door at night so Rooster, particularly, wouldn’t hunt. But on a cold night, Rooster had no desire to chase fox, rabbit, or bobcat, hence the unlocked dog door.

“Disobedient dogs don’t get treats.” Golly rolled over to display her stomach, adding further insult to the barb. She fetchingly turned her head, too.

“Smart-ass cats get tossed over our heads,” Rooster threatened.

“I am so scared I think I’ll pee on the comforter,” Golly purred.

“Then she’ll throw you off the bed,” Raleigh said.

“I can’t hear myself think.” Sister scratched Golly’s tummy while the cat peered down at the dogs. They sighed, gave up, and padded back to their beds.

“One of these days that fat cat will go too far,” Rooster grumbled.

“No sense of restraint, obligation, or duty.” Raleigh put his sleek black head on his tan-tipped paws. “She does nothing to earn her keep.”

Golly righted herself. “Oh, yes I do, you two sanctimonious toads. Dogs are so, so—” She pondered. “—goody. Makes me want to cough up a fur ball. I kill mice. It’s why we have a mouse-free barn and house.”

“Ha! Inky comes in and gets the mice and what she doesn’t want, Bitsy gets. The last time you caught a mouse was an eclipse of the sun.” Raleigh kept his eyes open in case she shot off the bed to attack him.

“You just thought there was an eclipse of the sun. You had your head up your ass.” Golly giggled.

That made Rooster laugh, so Raleigh now growled at him instead.

“I am going to throw everyone out of this bedroom and shut the door. I need to concentrate.” Sister’s voice took on that listen-to-me edge.

Golly moved to sit behind Sister on the pillow. She peered down at the tablet, covered with names, squares beside some, X’s beside others, question marks by a few.

“Looks complicated.” Golly exhaled through her tiny nostrils.

Squares rested in front of the names of those on the Board of Governors who would oppose her plan. X’s meant agreement. A question mark was just that.

Tomorrow was the board meeting. She would announce her decision concerning a joint-master. After initial shock and some good questions about just what she expected from him, Walter had happily said yes.

Now she had to get this through the board. She had spoken to the people with an X by their name. Bobby Franklin, stepping down as president, was the first person she talked to after Walter. She’d been politicking. She wondered how elected officials did this morning, noon, and night. Guess they liked it.

She had not spoken to the few people with squares by their name, Crawford being one. She knew she’d face opposition. Why give the two people she knew would oppose this plan time to pressure the question-mark people? Better to lay this out tomorrow night and hope the X’s could help her swing the question-mark people right there at the meeting.

As for Crawford, she had a plan so he would be kissed and socked at the same time.

Not for nothing had Jane Arnold been Master of the Foxhounds for over forty years.

As she scribbled, she stopped and then spoke to the dogs. “I think this will work. I’m excited about having a joint-master. Oh, I know there will be bumps in the road. I’ve had my own way here, captain of the ship and all that, but Walter and I will be a good team. Oh, la!” She threw up her hands. “I might be seventy-two, but, I’m telling you, I feel thirty-five!”

“Sometimes she gets simple.” Golly yawned.

“Humans worry about their age. The whole cosmetics industry would collapse, plastic surgery would tank if people accepted themselves as they are,” Raleigh shrewdly thought out loud.

“I figure if you can’t bring down a rabbit, it’s time to sit on the porch,” Rooster added his two bits.

Thrilled with her plan, Sister checked the clock on the nightstand, picked up the phone, and called Tedi Bancroft to again discuss bringing in Walter.

The two dear friends laughed and chatted. Tedi and Edward thought electing Walter as joint-master was inspired. Sister told Tedi how young she felt, light, elated.

Just before hanging up, Tedi said, “You know, Janie, I think aging is a return to your true self.”