Full Cry

CHAPTER 2

Heavy snow forced Sister to drive slowly to the Augusta Cooperative, usually just called the co-op. Since the Weather Channel predicted this storm was going to hang around for two days, she figured she’d better stock up on pet food, laying mash, and kerosene for the lamps, in case the power cut. She also took the precaution of putting the generator in the cellar. Shaker did likewise for the kennel, as well as for his attractive cottage, also on the property of Sister’s Roughneck Farm. In these parts, such a structure was called a dependency.

Last year, Sister broke down and bought a new truck for her personal use. The truck used to haul the horses and hounds, an F350 Dually, could pull a house off its foundation, but those Dually wheels proved clunky for everyday use. Installed in her new red half-ton truck was a cell phone with a speaker so she didn’t have to use her hands.

“Shaker.”

“Yes, boss.”

“I’m on my way to the co-op. Need anything?”

“Mmm, late thirties, early forties maybe, good sense of humor, must like hounds and horses and be in good shape.”

“Get out.” She laughed.

“Mmm, pick up some Espilac if they have any,” he said, referring to a milk replacer for nursing puppies. “And if you want extra corn oil for kibble, might could use some.”

“Okay. I’ll drop it in the feed room at the kennel. Oh, hair color preference?”

“Bay or chestnut.”

“I’ll keep my eyes wide open, brother.”

Ending the call, she maintained a steady fifty miles an hour. The snowplows kept the main arteries clear, and even the secondary roads remained in good shape. If the storm kept up, the volume of snow would overwhelm the state plows, the dirt roads would become difficult to negotiate, and even the major highways would be treacherous. Sister knew that as soon as he hung up the phone, Shaker would pull on his down jacket, tighten the scarf around his throat, jam that old lumberjack hat on his head, and crank up the huge old tractor with the snowplow. He’d keep their farm road open, not an easy task; it was a mile from the state road back to the farm, and there were the kennels and the farm roads to clear out, plus the road through the orchard. Apart from being a fine huntsman, Shaker was a hard worker who could think for himself.

She pulled into the co-op’s macadam parking lot, trucks lined up, backs to ramp. The ramps, raised two feet above the bed of a pickup, made it easy for the co-op workers to toss in heavy bags of feed, seed, whatever people needed. Huge delivery trucks fit the ramps perfectly. A man could take a dolly and roll straight into the cavernous storage area.

Each section of the co-op had its own building. The fertilizer section off to the side even housed a shed for delivery and spreading trucks. The special seed section was to the right of the fertilizer building. Catty-corner to both these buildings stood the main brick building, which contained animal food, gardening supplies, and work clothes.

As Sister pushed open the door to the main section, she saw many people she knew, all doing the same thing as she.

Alice Ramy, owner of a farm not far from Sister’s, rolled her cart over. “Heard you chased an interested quarry today. I always did think Donnie Sweigert’s elevator didn’t go all the way to the top.”

“Poor fellow. He was stiff with fear.” Sister laughed. “He thought the hounds would tear him apart.”

“Would we miss him?” Alice tartly remarked.

“I reckon we would. Now Alice, all souls are equal before God.”

They both laughed, then rolled down separate aisles to wrap up their shopping before the storm worsened.

As Sister reached for milk replacer, another cart whizzed by her before stopping.

“Jane Arnold,” a deep voice called.

She turned to look into the liquid brown eyes of Gray Lorillard, a man of African American descent. Gray was the name of his maternal family, and everyone had always teased him about it when he was a kid. Few teased him these days; he was a powerful, wealthy tax lawyer and partner in a top-notch Washington, D.C., firm.

“Gray, how good to see you. We hardly ever do see you. Home for Christmas?”

He leaned on his cart. “I retired.”

“I hadn’t heard that. How wonderful.”

“Well, I turned sixty-five last August, and I said, ‘I don’t want to do this for the rest of my life.’ I want to farm. Took me this long to wrap things up. Kept the apartment in D.C., still do consulting, but Sister, I am so glad to be back.”

“Will you be at the old home place?” She referred to the Lorillard farm, which abutted the eastern side of After All, the Bancrofts’ enormous estate.

He looked her directly in the eyes. “Have you seen it?” “I drive by.” She tactfully did not mention its state of disrepair.

“Sam didn’t even change the lightbulbs when they blew out.” He breathed in, lowering his voice. “I won’t be living there with him, though I think he’s beat the bottle this time. God, I hope so.”

“I’m amazed he’s still alive,” Sister honestly replied.

“Me, too.” He smiled, his features softening. “I expect this storm will have us all holed up. But it has to end sometime.” He hesitated a moment. “When it does, may I take you to lunch at the club? We can catch up.”

“I hope it ends tomorrow.” She smiled.

All the way home, Sister thought about the Lorillards: Sam, Gray, and Elizabeth, each with different destinies. Elizabeth, the middle child, married well, a Chicago magazine magnate. She sat on the city council of the expensive suburb in which she lived, Lake Forest. She evidenced no interest in the home place, Virginia, or, more pointedly, Sam. Gray, a good athlete and horseman, won an academic scholarship to Syracuse, going on to New York University Law School. Sam, also a good athlete and horseman, won a scholarship to Michigan, finished up, then returned to attend the University of Virginia’s Darden School of Business. He couldn’t stay away from the horses, which everyone understood, but he couldn’t stay away from women either. These disruptions and his ever-escalating drinking seemed intertwined.

Sister had ridden with Gray and Sam when they were young. It baffled her how someone like Sam could throw away his life as he did. Not being an addictive personality, she failed to understand willful self-destruction.

The Lorillards’ tidy and tight farmhouse had fallen down about Sam’s ears. Until four months ago, one often found him down at the old train station, sitting on the baggage carts knocking back Thunderbird with the other drunks.

It pained Sister to see those men. One, Anthony Tolliver, had been the first boy she ever danced with and loved. They remained friends until he lost the battle with the bottle. Anthony, well born, lost everything. On those times when she did see him, he would smile, happy for her presence. The fumes from him made her eyes water. She alternated among disgust, anger, and pity. Bad as he was, Anthony could bring back wonderful childhood memories. She couldn’t understand why he couldn’t get control of his drinking.

Sister had lived long enough to know you couldn’t save someone from himself. You can open a door, but he still must walk through it. It sounded as though Sam had at long last walked through the door his brother opened for him.

At the kennels, she unloaded the corn oil. Shaker walked in. As he took off his cap, snow fell to the floor in white clumps.

“Thanks for plowing the road.”

“I’ll give it another sweep before the sun goes down.”

“Four-thirty. We’re just on the other side of the solstice. I miss the light.” Sister stacked the Espilac on the shelf.

“Me, too.” He shook the remaining snow from his cap as he stamped his boots.

“Ran into Gray Lorillard. Said he’s retired and just moved back.”

“Ah, that will be a good thing. Maybe he’ll start hunting again.”

“Hope so. I think he went out with Middleburg Hunt when he worked in D.C. Anyway, we’re having lunch once the storm is over. I’ll get the scoop.”

“Where’s my girlfriend?”

She snapped her fingers. “I knew I forgot something. Next trip.”