Outfoxed

CHAPTER 33

The first frost usually came around the middle of October. The silvering would melt within an hour of sunup and many nights the temperature still didn’t dip low enough for frost. By November the frosts were steadier.

Sister Jane brought her unwieldy potted ficus tree inside by mid-October, along with two potted Russian junipers, which could withstand the cold, but she’d grown fond of them and thought them decorative. The other potted plants—hibiscus, tiny rosebuds, portulaca, tulips in hopes of spring—had all been covered with a thin layer of straw with about an inch and a half of mulch over that. On the northwest corner of the garden and the back patio she constructed burlap windbreakers. What they lacked in aesthetic appeal they made up in effectiveness. Sister vowed that one day she would figure out an attractive system to protect those plants.

The ficus tree, emphatically healthy, nearly touched the twelve-foot ceiling. The trunk was thick as a strong man’s arm.

Golly lounged in the branches, feeling quite warm toward Sister for providing her with a tree. If in a good mood, she’d swing from limb to limb like a monkey.

If Raleigh offended her, Golly would pull the mulch out of the Russian junipers, scattering it about the floor. Sister would scold the dog, to the cat’s malicious delight.

It was the Friday before Saturday’s opening hunt. Everything that could be done was done.

Sister’s shadbelly, worn on the big days, hung on the old wire mannequin. Sister was one of those people who had to lay her clothes out the night before. Wardrobe decisions and mornings didn’t mix. The cleaned coat hung over the white vest, her great-grandfather’s cut down to fit her, and that was buttoned over a perfect Irish linen hunting shirt she’d picked up at Hunt Country. Her stock tie, same material as the shirt, was draped over the shoulder of the mannequin. The simple gold stock pin was pinned through the bottom coat buttonhole. Her top hat, the true ladies’ top hat, which gracefully curved in toward the brim, hat cord attached, rested on the wire head. Her boots, with a cedar insert to keep them firm, sat under the wire form, the knee-length socks stuffed inside along with a sheer pair of white silk socks in case it was really cold the next morning. Her spurs sat on top of the socks, simple hammerheads. Her mustard gloves, butter-soft, were folded and in her hat. Her father’s pocket watch was in the bottom left vest pocket. A thin, unadorned braided belt, Continental blue, was already threaded through the dark canary breeches laid out on top of the blanket chest, her thin cotton underpants half in, half out of the front pocket.

A small linen handkerchief, an O embroidered on it, was neatly folded into the top vest pocket, left. The O stood for Overdorf, her maiden name. In the right lower vest pocket was a small, sharp penknife. The upper pocket carried ten Motrin in a tiny plastic bag just in case the weather got really raw and her myriad battle scars and breaks talked back. Although hunt staff were not allowed to carry a flask on their saddle, Sister, as the master, could carry one and she used her grandfather’s flask. Since she was the master the masculine bit of tack was acceptable, as was scarlet, which she chose not to wear, although younger lady masters were doing it. Sister could never get used to the sight of a woman in scarlet although she thought it was handsome.

Usually she filled her flask with iced tea but today she filled it with hunting port. A small silver flask, a bold roman A in the center, was slipped inside her left shadbelly pocket. This carried straight Scotch, Famous Grouse. She rarely used it but sometimes a member of the field needed restoration.

She read down her checklist. The only thing she didn’t have was a stirrup leather, used as a belt. For opening hunt she didn’t want that peeping out from under her shadbelly, although her vest points should cover it. She thought it a good idea to carry an extra stirrup leather. Her couple straps, used to collect hounds if needs be, were already attached to her saddle, as was her pistol case, the Ruger .22 inside, filled with birdshot. Used only in extremes to ward off a bolting hound, the sight of it often upset nonhunters. Better a butt full of birdshot than a hound running in front of a car.

Usually she carried a .38 under her jacket or on the small of her back. She’d only had to use it once when a dying deer, hideously injured, front leg blown mostly out of the socket, crossed her path. She was glad to deliver the coup de grâce. Wearing a shadbelly left no room for the .38 but Shaker, Doug, and Betty would have theirs under their coats.

She walked downstairs, her footfalls reverberating throughout the house. No radio or TV was ever turned on unless she wanted the news. She detested noise of any kind save the cry of her hounds.

A small cooler squatted on the kitchen table. A checklist was beside that: two bottled waters and two Cokes and a sandwich. Sister could never eat at a hunt breakfast because no one ever gave her time. She was crowded from the minute she walked in the room. Self-preservation taught her to pack a cooler and eat in the trailer before going in to the breakfast. Since hunting people knew not to bother a master who was gathering hounds, she could usually eat.

“Ham or chicken?” Raleigh asked. “Ham will make you thirsty.”

She sliced a loaf of fresh pumpernickel, buttered two thick slices, slapped on chicken, tossed pieces to Raleigh, and tore smaller pieces for Golly, who happily shinnied down the ficus tree.

The phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Back at you,” Betty Franklin said.

“Ready?”

“Had to let my britches out a notch. Clearly I’ve failed at my diet and”—she tried to make her voice light—“I’ve failed as a mother. Jennifer went back to rehab last night for an impromptu visit and I apologize for not being at hound walk.”

“You left a message—”

“I did but I didn’t tell you why I wasn’t there. Anyway, I sat there for four and a half hours while she cursed, cried, kicked. Oh yes, kicked. Bobby lasted thirty minutes. He couldn’t take it. I told him to go work late.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Is Cody still there?”

“I saw her at the kennels this morning.”

“Cody, thank God, had the sense to call rehab and hustle her down there. Doug found Jen a couple of miles from Roger’s Corner. Did I tell you that?”

“No.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“No. He wouldn’t unless it was necessary.”

“He’s a good boy. Or man. I keep seeing that little boy with the big green eyes. Jane—I don’t know what to do.”

“Honey, I’m just sorry. I wish I could tell you what to do. Is she at rehab now?”

“No. She’s home in her room. Dr. Zacks, who I like a lot, by the way, said let’s try her on an outpatient basis. If it doesn’t work, back she goes.”

“This is going to cost a fortune.”

“So far, a week’s stay cost $6,280. Counseling is $120 a session and she’ll need to go in at least twice a week. Once a day all next week and then twice a week. One hates to focus on the money but it is a factor.”

“Are there statistics about the success rate of this kind of thing?”

“Yes. They aren’t impressive. Over half the patients relapse. Dr. Zacks believes the Alcoholics Anonymous and the Narcotics Anonymous help tremendously if people will commit to it. Jennifer is so young. How many seventeen-year-olds will be sitting in a Narcotics Anonymous meeting?”

“I often wonder if Raymond would have—”

“Ray. No. He would have gotten drunk with his fraternity brothers when he got to college. He would have smoked a little weed but Ray was a happy kid. That boy was like sunshine. Jennifer came out of the womb unhappy, honestly.”

“They come into this world ready-made. Betty, want to have a slumber party? Come on over.”

“I’d love it but I’d better stay here. Bobby can hardly speak to Jennifer. She’s got his number. If he corrects her, she blames him. If he doesn’t pay attention to her, she says he doesn’t care. Right now he’s guilty and useless.”

“It’s harder for men.”

“Some men. I’m not making excuses for him based on gender. You know, I’m getting to the point where I’m not making excuses for anybody and I don’t want to hear any either. Goddammit, Jane, we are each responsible for our own lives. That’s it. No passing the buck. If Helen Keller, blind and deaf, could make something out of her life, I don’t want to hear this shit about being a victim. Jennifer Franklin is not a victim no matter how much she wants to be. Right now she’s a spoiled, rotten brat and I’d like to knock the stuffing out of her.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Betty, if you’re mad you’ll do something. If you’re sad you’ll bawl and sit on your ass. And you’re right, Jennifer has no excuse for her behavior.”

“I wish I’d known the signs. I could have caught Cody earlier. I was so obtuse.”

“Drugs aren’t part of your life.”

“Well, I was born in 1952. It’s hard not to have some awareness of drugs but I was never part of that scene. You were lucky. You missed it.”

“Because I’m older than dirt.” Sister laughed at herself.

“You’ll never be old. God, here I’ve dumped my troubles at your door and right before the big day. I’m sorry.”

“Opening hunt will take care of itself. This is a little more important.”

“I can’t make up my mind whether to let her hunt or make her stay home. It’s one of the only two things that make her happy.”

“What’s the other one?”

“Sex.”

“Oh dear,” Sister blurted out.

“I say ‘Oh shit.’ They’re all doing it. I mean at that age I thought about it but I didn’t do it. So we’ve drawn blood to test for AIDS and other unsavory consequences. She had the sense to use contraceptives. Foam. She used foam because she didn’t want to go with me to the doctor to get the Pill or to get some other kind of contraceptive. She thought it would upset me. Well, it would have but not as much as not knowing. Bobby can’t even talk about the sex. He gets red in the face and stammers.”

“Do you know who she’s sleeping with?”

“I need a calculator. She hasn’t restricted herself to boys either. Jennifer is freely distributing her favors.”

“Is she afraid she’s gay?”

“Hell, no. She thinks it’s cool. Oh, she doesn’t know what she is.”

“The first thing is to get her off drugs. If she’s going to spend her life as a bisexual harlot at least she can be a sober one. If you want my opinion about hunting, I say let her do it. Plus as long as she’s riding, she’s not in bed with someone. If it makes her happy, that’s one step in the right direction.”

“Maybe you’re right. I’ll tell Bobby what you said.”

“What did Dr. Zacks say?”

“We didn’t even get to hunting. We were too busy dodging the karate kid. She’s quick, too, I can tell you. Oh, I forgot to mention that Walter Lungrun was there when I got to rehab. He helped Cody and Doug when Jennifer blew up. He’s a commanding man when he needs to be. You know, this is the damnedest thing—he reminds me so much of Big Ray.”

“Me, too.” Sister smiled. “A quiet, take-charge kind of man.”

“But he even looks like Ray when he was young.”

“Betty, enjoy Bobby while you have him, warts and all.”

A silence followed. Then Betty replied, “You’re right. I know you miss both your Rays every day.”

“You cope with the loss, the physical loss, and you even learn to be thankful for the time you did have but, Betty, there are days when I would give anything, anything, to hear my husband’s laughter or for Junior to open the back door, throw his books on the floor, and bellow, ‘Mom, where are you?’ ”

A sigh followed. “I will try to cherish Bobby and Jennifer but right now it’s not easy.”

“Well, think of this. Two months ago, two weeks ago you might not have given a nickel for Cody but look how she’s trying. People can change if they want to.”

“You’re right. You’re right. You know if I didn’t have Outlaw, if I didn’t have hunting, I think I would have unraveled at the seams a long time ago. And I have you.”

“Thanks.”

“All right, Madam Master, I’m going to make sure my husband and my youngest daughter are ready for tomorrow and I’ll say a little prayer that it’s a three-fox day. Good night, Jane.”

“Good night, Betty.” Sister hung up the phone. She sat on the kitchen floor as Raleigh trotted over.

“Me, me, me!” Raleigh begged as he rolled over.

Sister scratched his tummy.

“A little to the left.” Raleigh giggled.

“I would bite, as in sink my fangs to the hilt, anyone who rubbed my stomach. First destruction. Then Death!” Golly bragged as she quickly filched another piece of chicken from the table.

The phone rang again.

“Bag it,” Raleigh suggested.

Irritated, Sister nonetheless rose to pick up the offending instrument. “Jane Arnold.”

“Sister, this is Crawford Howard.”

“Yes, Crawford. How are you tonight?”

“Fine, thank you. I called to apologize for losing my temper. I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.”

“I also wanted to tell you, since everyone gossips—I wanted you to hear from me that I am dating my ex-wife with the hope of reconciliation.” He spoke rapidly.

“Well, I hope it works out for both of you.” Sister remained furious at Crawford’s insults to Doug.

“It’s awkward with Martha working for Fontaine, which was my fault. Totally.”

“Avoid him tomorrow.” She almost added “and me.”

“If he knows what’s good for him, he will avoid me.” Crawford abruptly changed subjects. “Have you come to a conclusion about taking on a joint-master?”

“I have and I will bring this matter before the board, which, as you know, meets next Wednesday.”

“The ninth?”

“I don’t have my calendar in front of me but I think it is the ninth. Anyway, it’s always the second Wednesday in the month.”

“Right. I’ll be there.” Crawford cherished being a member of the board of governors. “Watched the weather report?”

“No. I think I’ll trust my senses,” she said.

“Ought to be a good day. Overcast. Cool. Ought to be a real Jefferson Hunt day.” He was dying to pry her decision out of her.

“Crawford, you have deeply offended me. Your treatment of Doug was despicable.” She decided it was better to let him have it than hold in her anger. Besides, he was too dense to know how angry she really was. “You did right in calling me to apologize but I know how badly you want to be joint-master. I’m not fooled. I don’t think you are truly repentant. You had best apologize to Doug and if you don’t really think about what you’ve done, if you don’t understand, if you do it again, I will throw you out of this club so fast you won’t know what hit you—and don’t think you can buy off the board of governors. Good night.”

Agitated, unable to go directly to sleep, Sister picked up Washington’s diary.

The acquisition of his own pack in 1768 provoked him to keep track of its progress.

She read entries, enjoying his economy of language and his abbreviations, old spellings.

“Went huntg being joined by Mrs. Washington in her excellent scarlet habit along with Mr. Peake, Wm Triplet and Harrison Manley. Rode Blueskin. Billy on Chinklin.

“After a chace of five hours dogs were worsted. Billy sorely tried.”

Billy Lee was Washington’s huntsman, carrying a large French hunting horn on his back. The two men cherished a friendship and the general visited the stables and kennel each morning and again in the evening.

She read six pages, her eye resting on this entry: “Hunted a black fox twenty miles. He returns to his den fresh. Seventh time on this jet fox. Billy has given up declaring this black fox came from The Nether World. He swears he will never hunt him again.”

She finally fell asleep, the diary on her chest, to dream of riding with George Washington, M.F.H.