Scarlet Fever

CHAPTER 13

March 10, 2019 Sunday

Macbeth’s witches stirred their cauldron. Great as Shakespeare was he misapplied their object with “Double, double, toil and trouble.” What they were truly focusing on was the weather. Why pinpoint kings and the ambitious when you can make all humans miserable? Yesterday’s bout of moderate warmth had been reversed to thirty degrees Fahrenheit, medium winds, now snow showers.

Target, a handsome red who sometimes shared quarters under the log cabin with Comet, a gray, at Roughneck Farm wandered three miles away from the den. By vehicle, Pitchfork Farm rested seven miles from Roughneck Farm. Reposing at the end of a tertiary state road, then one drove on stone.

The Taylors had owned Pitchfork Farm since the 1920s. However, it wasn’t until after World War II, 1950, that Frederick Taylor’s son, Quentin, started the insurance company bearing his surname. As funds rolled in, Pitchfork Farm transformed into an inviting place. The old frame farmhouse, clapboard, gained another addition, a wraparound porch. New outbuildings for storage plus a small stable had been built by Quentin’s son. Business boomed.

Target, well fed, evidenced curiosity more than hunger. He hadn’t been back here since cubbing, when he’d given Jefferson Hunt a terrific run from Roughneck Farm over hill and dale, strong running creeks, and one nasty ridge. He had dumped them but sat on the ridge looking down at Pitchfork Farm while he rested a bit.

On the other side of that nasty ridge was Beasley Hall, Crawford Howard’s home base, majestically situated. No expense was spared in impressing the locals, which had the reverse effect. Crawford, who had made his first fortune building strip malls in Indiana, misread Virginia. Little by little he learned, but not before enraging Sister, storming out of the hunt club, forming an outlaw pack. He also managed with stealth, guile, and patience to buy Old Paradise, in ruins, 5,000 acres at Chapel Cross, acres across the south-north road from Tattenhall Station, itself 2,000 acres, plus or minus.

The restoration, breathtaking and accurate, brought him respect. He was paying homage to Virginia’s heritage, including rebuilding slave quarters, doing his best with a researcher, Charlotte Abruzza, to find and repair the slave cemetery which also, given careful excavations, contained some bones from the earlier occupants, the Monacan Indians. Old Paradise was originally built during the War of 1812, business exploding at that war’s conclusion. The owner was Sophie Marquette, young, lovely, who robbed British supply trains.

People assumed that sooner or later Crawford would sell Beasley Hall, move to Old Paradise. The Taylors prayed it would be sooner, for even though Crawford’s grand estate sat on the other side of the rough ridge, he was a difficult neighbor.

Plumes of smoke spiraled upwards from the two chimneys at the frame house at Pitchfork but were then pushed down, spreading out like smoke pancakes. The small dependency, Bainbridge’s quarters, an imitation of the main house, also had a fire in the fireplace. Bainbridge did help with Morris as well as farm chores. A part-time stable girl took care of the horses, sometimes hunting as a groom. Bainbridge need not do that work.

The fox, always curious, watched as the son walked with his father in circles. Why a human would wish to walk in circles, Target couldn’t fathom, but there was much about humans he couldn’t fathom. They appeared to have little sense.

If he could have heard the conversation between father and son his analysis would have seemed correct.

“I like the snow.” Morris brushed flakes from his eyelashes.

“Good.” Bainbridge picked up the pace a bit, for his father was slow.

Left to his own devices, Morris would have simply sat watching television. He no longer could formulate projects. Taking the keys to the Range Rover, ill-advised as it was, had been a time when the older man wanted to do something and did it.

Bainbridge had moved into the dependency after a long discussion with Drew. It also alleviated him from paying rent. He reminded Drew he was Morris’s heir. Some of that pension money should come to him now. He was broke. Twenty-four-hour-a-day nursing would put most people in the poorhouse. Drew kept the nurse but only from 9:00 to 5:00 and no weekends. Bainbridge picked up the slack, which really was helpful. As to the sizable pension funds, Drew avoided a heated argument by agreeing but not specifying how much.

This arrangement didn’t mean father and son effected a rapprochement. But Morris’s disappointment with his son flickered on and off. Mostly, those disappointments faded but Morris could live in the here and now and didn’t like being told what to do, for he still knew Bainbridge was his son, most times.

Bainbridge walked to the barn, Morris in tow, then the son trotted a bit.

“I can’t go that fast and I have to go.” Morris stopped, unzipped his pants, removed his member, and peed on the barn siding. Snowflakes attached themselves to his part so he brushed them off, returning same to his pants and zipping back up.

It was the need to go to the bathroom that had ended Morris’s diminishing social life eight months ago. Drew took Morris with him to visit Liz Taylor, no relation to the actress, a tall blonde for whom he nurtured hopes of a romance. Liz, hospitable, served the two drinks while Morris listened. He didn’t speak much even before the dementia. Then he stood up, unzipped his pants, and urinated into the fireplace, to the horror of his brother and the surprise of Liz Taylor.

“I am so sorry.” Drew grabbed his brother by the elbow as Morris was trying to rearrange himself, propelling him outside.

Liz heard the car door slam then her front door opened. “Liz, if you get me a pail of water and soap, I’ll clean this up.”

Cotillion never covered such an emergency but it did teach its victims to stay calm and carry on. Which Liz did.

“These things happen,” she replied.

Well, they did not, but they had happened to Liz and Drew.

He left because Morris was honking the horn. Drew had locked him in the car, taking the key.

So Liz cleaned it up herself and, being a lady, never brought it up to anyone. However, no romance was kindled. Extinguished, you might say.

But Drew babbled to everyone, which was the first clue people had to Morris’s increasing troubles as well as Drew’s exhaustion. No longer could any party deny that Morris’s mind was going, going fast. After this episode, Drew no longer took Morris with him, even to the supermarket, unless someone, like the nurse, could stay in the car with him or walk and monitor him.

For a time Drew thought seeing things might stimulate mental activity but it didn’t. The mental activity devolved into towering arguments with Drew and also Bainbridge, who foolishly argued back. The last straw was when Morris forgot to pay his bills and creditors showed up at Taylor Insurance.

Target watched the two men below circle the barn four times. At last, Morris sat down in the snow.

“I’m tired.”

“Okay.” Bainbridge reached down to pull him up.

The snow fell more heavily, a lovely snow but still snow.

Reaching the back door of the main house, Morris opened it, slamming it in his son’s face. Bainbridge cursed, pushing the door open.

As Morris took off his coat, bent over to remove his boots, he said, “Amateurs built the Ark. Engineers built the Titanic.”

Bainbridge nodded, as his father used to say this to all and sundry. Usually got a laugh.

Target, losing interest when the humans repaired to the house, turned to lope back to Roughneck Farm.

Had he known, he might have wondered, did foxes suffer from Alzheimer’s or senile dementia? If they did, they wouldn’t live long. Humans could keep one another going no matter how useless or in despair the afflicted might be. To a human this is compassion. To a fox it would be hell.

Fortunately, no such thought crossed Target’s sharp brain. As he approached the log cabin, which took him thirty minutes at a lope, he noticed Yvonne’s SUV. Whenever Yvonne visited her daughter she brought food. Happy, Target slipped into the den, where Comet lay flat on his back on a pile of old towels.

He turned his head.

“Goodies.” Target grinned, his teeth white.

“Love that woman.” Comet smiled back.

Sure enough, when Yvonne left, the snow still falling lightly, Tootie brought out a tray of pork bones, two biscuits, and strawberries.

Tootie knew foxes love fruit.

The taillights hadn’t disappeared down the farm road as the the two foxes devoured their repast.