Scarlet Fever

CHAPTER 21

March 19, 2019 Tuesday

One day from the vernal equinox added needed light to the evenings. Drew pulled into his home, sunset ahead but still he could do some chores in light.

He changed clothes, passing Morris, who sat in front of his computer, nose almost touching the screen. His computer skills seemed mostly intact, if he could remember what he was curious about in the first place. He didn’t greet his brother.

“Bainbridge?”

“Who cares?” came the sour reply.

Drew walked into the large kitchen, copper pots and pans hanging from overhead hooks. “I’m going out to the barn for a bit.”

“Okay.”

Drew opened the kitchen door to the outside, walked across well-laid flagstones to his four-stall center-aisle barn. To the side of this lovely taupe-painted building sat his brand-new three-horse trailer attached to a year-old Dodge Ram 3500, dually. The bed of the new truck was so high that he traded in his old trailer at Blue Ridge Trailers for a new one that had a nose to accommodate the seven-inch rise in floor beds. Why truck-makers raised the floor bed was anybody’s guess. Made climbing into the truck cab an adventure, too. Even a tall man like Drew now needed a sidestep.

A stable girl picked out stalls, cleaned out buckets, cleaned tack, worked horses during the day. All Drew had to do was feed in the evening, which he enjoyed. It wasn’t that he felt above physical labor, but the agency sucked time. He hated the dead of winter because he arrived home in cold dark. Then he would lead in his two trusted hunters.

Today, sun almost at the horizon line, he put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. Two eager horses galloped up. He opened the outside doors to each stall and they walked in, ears forward, heads immediately in the feed buckets he had filled before calling them.

The sound of horses eating calmed him. Not that his day had been bad, only one fender bender, on the off-ramp of Route 64 at the Shadwell exit. His team would take care of that. The adjuster from the large insurance agency with which his agency had placed the account would go over the car, an Altima, at the garage where it had been towed. A good adjuster could keep costs down. Naturally everyone thought they were being screwed by their insurance company and many times they were. He kept an eye on it and if something seemed really out of line, Drew called someone at the mother company, often housed in another state. The insurance agency was his job, the only job he knew. That didn’t mean he liked it. He preferred the land insurance, houses, which was also part of the business. Drew knew the county intimately, as his father or he had insured much of it.

He’d been spending money like water the last two years. Trips, cruises, the truck last year, the trailer. A new Vulcan stove. But his accounts were in order. Drew liked having what he wanted when he wanted it. Unlike Crawford he wasn’t showy. Of course, people noticed the new truck, a new trailer, but foxhunters needed those things. He wasn’t driving a Bentley. He did want the brand-new BMW X7 but he would wait a bit. Also, he did not show photos of his trips nor brag about them. If anyone asked he would discuss where he visited. The last big trip was to Patagonia, which he loved.

And he loved Binny and Ugh, his two hunters. The night would cool off so he put a blanket on each horse as they ate. Tuesday, a hunt day, was one where he worked because Monday always spilled over onto Tuesday. However, with a bit of luck he’d hunt this Thursday and Saturday also. That was the great thing about owning Taylor Insurance Agency. He could set his own hours. The day his father died he did exactly that, for the old man had worked him ruthlessly.

Latching the stall door behind him he opened the door to his tack room. A thick sisal rug covered the floor, no tack trunks inside. They lined the center-aisle walkway next to the stalls. Two overstuffed chairs of uncertain vintage took up the middle of the large room. Leaning against the wall were folding chairs in case more people showed up. He wanted to host a hunt, as Sister had extended the season to March 30th, Saturday. He’d been busy with Morris this season, plus the traveling, and hadn’t hunted as much as usual. He picked up the phone and dialed his master.

She answered the phone. He discussed an added hunt at Pitchfork Farm.

“Drew, you have a lot on your plate. Hosting a hunt breakfast is a lot of work.”

“I can lock up Morris.”

A pause followed this. “I do hope it doesn’t come to that, but I have an idea that is halfway to your own. Perhaps we can hunt Fairies Bottom, next to you. That way we can park there. Maybe we can have a tailgate there. We’ll probably reach Pitchfork.”

“Never know where the fox will go.”

“That’s the fun of it. I’ll need to run this by Walter. I appreciate the offer.” She made her goodbyes and hung up.

Morris had walked into the tack room. “When is supper?”

“Bainbridge is making it now. Let’s go into the house.”

“I want to hunt.”

“Morris, we’re at the end of the season and you haven’t been riding. You aren’t fit.”

“I can ride. I’ve been riding since I was a kid.”

“Come on, let’s walk to the house, wash up, and we can talk about this at the table.”

Morris looked around the tack room, then went out to the center aisle, reluctantly following his brother to the house.

“I heard you say there would be a hunt. I want to go.”

Drew glanced at his nephew making stir-fry. Bainbridge looked up and shrugged.

“Why don’t we see how you feel later?”

“Don’t put me off. I’m not stupid.” Morris’s temperature rose.

“I’m not putting you off. I need to see how I feel, too.” Drew kept his voice even.

“I’ll see how I feel, too.” Bainbridge reached into the cupboard for three bowls.

“You can’t ride,” his father complained.

“Well, I can, but I haven’t in a long time. What I can do is ride us both around in the car.”

“I want to ride!”

“Morris, relax,” Drew said.

That fast Morris stood up, grabbed his spoon, throwing it in Drew’s face. He stomped out of the kitchen. They could hear him thumping up the stairs.

“Has he been like this all day?”

“No,” Bainbridge replied to his uncle. “He’s spent the day in front of the computer.”

“Doing what?”

“Watching movies. Science fiction. Dragons. He can watch the same film over and over but it keeps him quiet.”

“I guess that’s something.”

Thump, thump, thump, Morris came down the stairs, opened the front door. Out he went.

Drew hurried after his brother, who was heading for the car. The keys were not in the ignition. Both Drew and Bainbridge had that down.

Morris opened the car, searched for the keys, then slammed the door.

“I want my books.”

“What books?”

“The books I kept in Mother’s secretary.”

Those books had been on one shelf of a secretary the color of honey. It was one of the pieces that Harry had picked up and sold.

“You took those books out after Mother died.”

“Where are they? I want to read Catch-22.”

“You must have put them in a carton.”

“Drew, where is Mother’s secretary? I want to look.”

“Sold. We sold the secretary.”

“I never sold Mother’s secretary. I loved her secretary. I liked the cubbyholes.” He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I am not lying to you. We sold her things years ago. Twenty-some years ago.”

“Never! I would never have agreed to that. You’ve been stealing from me. Those things belonged to me.”

“Morris,” Drew’s voice rose slightly, “we both decided, and our wives decided, it was old-style. Not what we wanted in our houses.”

Morris stepped toward Drew, took a swing at him.

Ducking, Drew doubled his fist, stood up after Morris swung wildly, hitting him hard on the chin. Morris dropped.

“Bainbridge!”

Bainbridge didn’t hear him so Drew dragged Morris by the arm to the back kitchen door.

“Bainbridge,” he called as he opened it.

The tall young man came to the door. “Shit.”

“Let’s carry him to his room. And I’ll need to lock the door. He accused me of stealing from him and lying to him.”

“Over what?”

“The books he had in Mother’s secretary.”

Bainbridge took Morris under the arms, Drew took the feet. Sweating, they reached the top of the stairs, walked down the hall, tossed him on the bed. Drew closed the door, locking it.

“He’ll throw a fit when he wakes up,” Bainbridge predicted.

“Better a fit than come at me.”

“He was docile watching his movie.”

“He’s not docile now. He’s only going to get worse. For all I know, he’ll set the house on fire in a fit.”

“Well, I don’t know.”

“I don’t want to find out. Even if he wakes up, pounds the door, smashes furniture in there, don’t open the door.”

“He needs his meds.”

“Go get them. We’ll stuff him full. Then we can see how he is in the morning, because he’ll need another dose.”

Bainbridge ran down the steps, opened the medicine cabinet, grabbed the pill bottles, one being a tranquilizer. Once upstairs they pried open Morris’s mouth, shoved the pills down his throat like a dog, then poured a bit of water in his mouth. He reflexively swallowed.

Then they left him, locking the door.

Bainbridge shook his head. “We can’t live like this. Even his nurse would have a hard time.”

They could hear a chair being thrown against the wall, the door being pounded upon.

“If he kills himself, that’s one thing. If he kills one of us, that’s another. The violence is sporadic. We’ll probably need to put him on even more drugs.”

“How do we get them in him?”

“I don’t know. He’ll calm down. We have time to think about it.”