Furmidable Foes

2

May 23, 2019

Thursday

Fair Haristeen, DVM, drove his Ford dually vet truck down the winding farm road, parking it next to Harry’s beloved 1978 Ford half-ton. The blue on the old truck shone now, iridescent, while the silver siding surrounded by a thin bit of chrome had translucent spots that reflected the light.

Fair was worn out as this was foal delivery season for all non-Thoroughbreds and his specialty was equine reproduction. He sighed and eased his six-foot, five-inch frame down from the comfortable leather seats. As he did so, he glanced in the back of the old Ford.

“Honey,” Fair called out as he opened the kitchen door.

“Hey. I know you’re tired. Your drink is on the table and I’m making Mother’s famous potpie. Will snap you right back.”

Smiling, he dropped into a chair. “Your mother was a good cook. I often wish she could have lived to see us marry. Dad, too.”

“Fate,” Harry, not one to show emotion, responded.

Her parents were killed in a car accident her last year at Smith College. There wasn’t a day since then, and she would be forty-three in August, or was it forty-four? Funny how one fudges the years and then forgets. Wasn’t a day she didn’t think about them.

Both Harry and Fair had been raised by upright people. Fair’s parents had passed away in these last years. His father had been a radiologist and his mother ran a nonprofit organization for the hospital to raise money for those who couldn’t pay the bills. Medical costs have never been cheap, no matter the century. But both husband and wife had been raised with discipline, high expectations, and love.

“How was your day?”

He sipped his restorative scotch, three ice cubes. “Good. Two deliveries. Easy. Healthy foals. Then one of Mim’s youngsters bowed a tendon racing around the field. Low bow.”

He cited the location as a low bow, a tendon injury, proved less troublesome than a high bow, but one could always see the scar tissue.

“How is the Queen of Crozet?” Harry asked.

“Good. She’s worried about her aunt Tally, who is becoming quite frail.”

“Given that she is, what, a hundred and five, or close to it, she will eventually leave us.”

“I don’t know.” He laughed. “Aunt Tally is tough. Years ago I treated an old mare, a Thoroughbred, and she made it to thirty-nine.”

“Wow. I know some ponies make it into their forties.”

“Funny. Old age.”

“Mine starts next Tuesday.”

“Honey, you will never be old, no matter what the calendar says. How are the arrangements for Reverend Jones’s birthday going?”

“Food’s ordered. We’ve rounded up enough tables and chairs. The Dorcas Guild bought table covers, multicolored napkins, plastic cups with the date on it. And what has the St. Peter’s Guild done?”

“Prizes. A raffle. Games for the kids, plus we’re paying for the food.” He paused, took another sip. “Your truck is blossoming.”

“The small peonies I bought for us. The azaleas are for the unknown’s grave. I am determined that the homecoming will be a horticultural display”—she paused—“as much as it can be.”

“You’ll succeed.” He rose and turned on the TV, a large flat-screen on one wall of the kitchen.

Fair’s excuse for the prominent placement was that he needed to see the weather every morning. Easier to see the radar on a big screen.

Harry, who paid little attention to any media, knew better than to protest. Whenever a man buys a piece of equipment, whether a backhoe or a large TV, his reason is always how useful it will be, how much money will be saved in the long run. No man will ever admit to frivolity. To Fair’s credit, if Harry wanted to re-cover an old chair, he didn’t complain, even when she doubted he thought it necessary.

The large farm shed housed one huge John Deere tractor, a smaller 50 HP tractor, implements everywhere, more stuff hanging on the walls, everything clean. Granted she used it more than he did, but he bought every single thing in that shed that she had not inherited. And his purchases were useful, although initially expensive.

“Hey, honey, look.”

Harry did as instructed. “That’s Mags and Janice’s brewery and restaurant. Turn it up a bit.”

Fair clicked up the volume. A brewery delivery truck had been pilfered at Bottoms Up, the brewery. All cartons were missing. The theft was assumed to have happened in the night. The brewery itself had not been broken into.

“Beer must be worth more than the money in the cash register,” Fair mused.

“Having someone want your beer that badly is a good advertisement.” Harry took the remote from him, turning down the sound. “Bet the girls are upset. It’s funny—their husbands thought the whole idea a middle-aged-crisis thing when they got started but they gave in, ponied up the start-up money. What was it, three years ago? And look how successful they’ve been.” She thought a moment. “I’ll call them tomorrow. Too much chaos now.”

“They’re intelligent people. Kevin has made a success of his nursery business. Mother Nature is a tough business partner.” Harry spoke from deep experience as a farmer. “And Janice’s husband certainly is successful as a stockbroker. I don’t know how anyone can call the market trends, but he does.”

“Why is it that so many women want to start a business in their middle years?” Fair’s eyebrows rose.

“It’s the first time they’re free. His business is established. The kids are out of the house. The mom’s no longer a taxi service, and by middle age you’ve lost a few friends. You wake up.”

“I never thought of it like that,” Fair honestly replied.

“Men don’t.” Harry playfully pretended to slap his cheek. “You can count your lucky stars that I’ve always had a job.”

“You mean besides me?” he teased.

“You’re not a job. You’re an angel.”

He looked up at her, leaning over the table, stood up to give her a big kiss. “You always surprise me.”

“I try.” She kissed him back as he sank into his seat again.

“Potpie will be ready in a minute. You’re really tired. People don’t realize how physical a vet’s job can be.”

“Some days. Other days it’s easy.” He glanced at the TV. “Now there’s a wreck. Box truck carrying beer turned over and look at the cartons and broken bottles. I’m surprised people aren’t out there with straws.” He turned up the sound. “Booze is big business. Look at that mess.”

“Booze, prostitution, drugs. Big money. Look at the cars backed up on 64 because of the accident.”

A pileup on I-64, the main east-west corridor through the middle of the country, filled the screen. As 64 started in the southeast corner of Virginia, the traffic flowed heavily and fast. Someone was always smashing another vehicle or going off the road. Perhaps the interstates were a mixed blessing, although no one who lived before President Eisenhower had them built thought that—nothing mixed about it.

“Why would anyone steal specially brewed beer?” Harry wondered. “Or illegally brewed liquor?”

“Harry, I’m sure they can sell the stuff for three times as much in New York City.” He smiled slightly. “Probably only Bottoms Up’s truck was pilfered.”

“How about the craze for hard cider?” he then added. “Ten years ago there was only one distillery. You couldn’t give it away.”

“Fads. But I give all these brewers credit, legal or illegal. Nothing like the water running off the Blue Ridge Mountains.” She changed the subject. “Before I forget, is your tuxedo clean?”

“It is.”

“Remember we have to go to that big fundraiser Saturday night for AHIP. I expect the whole county will be there, including the sick, the lame, and the halt.” She used the old expression her grandfather used to use, a pipe, full of fragrant tobacco, jutting out from his jaw.

AHIP built houses for the needy, and renewed others. The “A” stood for Albemarle, the county. Albemarle Housing Improvement Program. In truth, the state needed to fund, really fund, such organizations in each county. Virginia, like all other states, had poverty, much of it hidden.

“If you see Bottoms Up beer, be suspicious.”

“Why?” she asked.

“With the explosion of breweries in Albemarle and Nelson Counties, if the organizers had picked one, war. Death.” He laughed.