The Hounds And The Fury

CHAPTER 15

Odd dates and facts rolled around Sister’s mind.

She often conceived of her mind as a closet, which when opened would reveal the usual apparel but also a few dead moths, the remains of long-perished spiders, and tiny little skeletons of whatever Golly had secreted there long ago.

Yesterday had been the day of St. Simeon Stylites, born 390 and died 459. Apart from his piety, gentle preaching, and self-abnegation on top of the pillar that had given rise to his name, Stylites, he must have stunk to high heaven. Perhaps that was his plan. After all, the Olympians enjoyed the fragrance of offerings slaughtered or burnt in their honor. Perhaps Simeon’s Christian God liked human unwashed scent.

Sister doubted this. Simeon had had doubts, too, but they were of a higher order.

Today, January 6, belonged to St. Peter of Canterbury, birth date unknown, who died in 607 after an eventful life. On a mission to Gaul, disunited then (and perhaps still), poor Peter drowned in the English Channel. When found, he was unceremoniously buried by pagan locals. But a mysterious light danced over his grave at night, which made them reconsider Christ’s message.

Sister would have welcomed a mysterious light—any light to shed on the disquiet she felt. She’d driven to town at first light to meet with Ben Sidell, already in his office.

After informing him of the scuffed foot marks, she asked, “Any luck with other Land Cruiser owners?” She gratefully drank from the mug of hot tea she’d brought along.

He shook his head “No,” then added, “Brad Johnson was deer hunting here around that time, but he was on the other side of the road. Not much, but you gather these little bits of information. Eventually some kind of picture emerges.”

“I’m trying to convince myself the shot was an accident. If only Brad had been on the west side of the road.”

“I hope so, too, but I’ll keep on it—just in case.”

“Hunting Saturday?”

He nodded, “Yes.”

After classes, Tootie, Val, and Felicity carefully put out their kit for tomorrow’s hunt. Valerie as class president had a room to herself in the corner of the oldest and therefore most prestigious dorm. Tootie and Felicity, each carrying 4.0 grade averages, also lived on the same hall.

Custis Hall’s founder and succeeding headmistresses judiciously used earned status to motivate the girls. This part of the school had been built in 1812, along with the only other structure at that time, the administrative building, which had been used for classes as well back then.

Since 1812 Custis Hall had entertained building programs consistent with the rise and fall of capital cycles. The newest dorms, very attractive and with every modern convenience, had been built in 2000. The three seniors would slit their wrists before living in the newest dorm.

Old One, as their dorm was called, had been remodeled sporadically. Modern insulation, electricity, and plumbing had been installed. But each room still had a fireplace, and the girls had to take proper care of it or lose the privilege of living in Old One.

Val’s room had served every senior class president since 1812. Many had gone on to become the wives of senators, generals, admirals, and captains of industry. A few made their independent way in the arts. Fewer still started their own businesses, although more graduates had moved into the business world after the 1970s. Still, Custis Hall girls, after college, married well if they married.

As Val’s room was the largest, both Tootie and Felicity sat there shining their boots.

“I can never get this stuff out of my fingers,” Tootie grumbled. “Me, neither.” Felicity, slender and observant, vigorously rubbed in the black paste.

Val’s boots gleamed under her mahogany valet, where she’d hung her frock coat, her white shirt, her ironed stock tie. She pinned her stock pin through the buttonhole of her black frock coat so she wouldn’t lose it in the hustle of leaving in the early morning. Her canary vest was over the shirt, the coat over the vest. Her britches were draped over the bar constructed for that purpose. In the tray of the valet she’d placed two long thin strips of rawhide, one penknife, one pack of matches, and a cotton handkerchief. She’d already put her Virginia hunting license in her vest pocket. Her velvet hard hat, tails up, sat next to her boots but in a special hat case wherein she kept two pairs of gloves, one white and knitted, one deerskin with a cashmere lining. Inside the hat case were small packs of handwarmers and extra hairnets.

“Val, how’d you get everything done? You’re usually behind,” Felicity inquired.

“MinPin.” She named a freshman by nickname.

“Wish I had a slave.” Tootie didn’t especially like the cloying freshman.

“I could be really obnoxious,” Val warned.

“Free blacks could own slaves, too, Val.” Tootie fired away because she knew what Val was thinking. Tootie was also black. “I know my history.”

“Not my strong suit, is it? But hey, I’m good at calculus.”

“You’re good at anything if you want to be.” Felicity made peace. “That’s what makes me wonder where Howie will go to school. His grades are okay, but you know.”

“We know,” Tootie and Val said in unison.

Blushing, Felicity remarked, “He’s such a good quarterback. He’s been scouted by a lot of schools.”

“Princeton isn’t one of them,” Val flatly said. “We’re all going to Princeton.”

“We haven’t got our acceptances yet,” Tootie reminded her.

“We will. You know we will.”

“Well, if not, we have our back-up schools, but I don’t think Howie could get into Bucknell or some of our others.” Felicity bent lower over her boots.

“So? You see him on big weekends unless he winds up in Kansas. Then you can see him at Christmas.” Val picked up a small hard-bristled whisk brush to brush Tootie’s coat.

Little clouds of fine dust whirled up and made Val choke.

“Here?” Tootie stood up, reaching for her coat.

“I can do it. You’ll get bootblack on the coat. What’d you get into? This coat is a mess.”

“Remember when we got muddy, last hunt before vacation? I brushed it off but not so good.” Tootie apologized.

“That was fun staying with Sister after the dorms closed. I didn’t really want to go home,” Val said. “Glad I did.” She laughed.

“You didn’t know your dad was getting you the Wrangler for Christmas?” Felicity didn’t envy her the car. She had no envy in her.

“No.” Val looked down as students walked across the oldest quad. “Wonder if she’ll really go to Ole Miss?”

They knew she must be watching Pamela Rene, an African-American student from great wealth.

Pamela didn’t like Tootie because Tootie was beautiful and popular. Pamela was neither, but she was smart.

“She won’t go,” Felicity predicted.

“Hell you say.” Val used the old expression.

“One dollar.” Felicity held out her hand.

She kept the kitty, which was filling up rapidly. One dollar for every swear word uttered by any of them. The plan was to use the money at the end of the semester for a party.

“She’ll go.” Tootie’s alto sounded firm.

Both white girls stared at her. “Why?”

“To defy her mother; to prove she can do it.”

“You mean survive in the Deep South?” Valerie caught on.

“Right. Her mother, the drama queen, thinks she’ll be walking into the arms of the Ku Klux Klan.”

“Thought they were strongest in Indiana. I swear I read that somewhere,” Felicity added. “Or maybe Howie told me. His favorite subject is current affairs.”

Tootie stood up, putting her boots on the floors to allow the polish to set before buffing. She walked to the window to watch Pamela. “Guess she’ll be hunting tomorrow.”

“She’s a good rider,” Val grumbled. “It’s the rest of it.”

“She’s lost weight. How does anyone lose weight over Christmas vacation?” Felicity, thin, wondered.

“Her mother wired her mouth shut.”

Val arched one eyebrow, a neat trick.

Tootie and Felicity burst out laughing.

“Felice, my darlin’,” Tootie grinned, “You’ll be okay if you and Howie are at separate schools.”

“He’s hoping for a football scholarship to Wake Forest. And they’ve offered him a tutoring program. I wouldn’t mind Wake.”

“Princeton!” Val fiercely said, her heart set on being a tiger.

“Are you in love or something?” Tootie sat back down beside Felicity.

A long silence followed. “I don’t want to live without him. I guess I am.”

“I am going to throw up!” Val swatted Felicity on the shoulder with the whisk brush. “You can’t fall in love. We’re too young. I mean, that’s like prison.”

“Val,” Felicity blazed, “in the last century most people our age were married. It’s natural to fall in love when you’re young.”

“Bullshit.” Val, a beautiful six-foot one-inch blonde, tossed her long hair.

“She’s right.” Tootie defended Felicity. “We’re the strange ones, out of step with biology.”

“Since when are you a biology major?” Val would have none of it. “You’ve never even felt a twinge for someone?” Felicity asked quietly.

“Only you.” Val smarted off.

“Val, you can be such an ass sometimes.” Tootie didn’t say this with hostility.

“One dollar.”

“God, Felicity, you’re relentless!” Tootie handed over her dollar. “Val, you owe two.”

“I know.” Val opened her bureau drawer and pulled out two crisp dollar bills. “You’re going to be a banker, I know it.”

“Maybe.” Felicity did, though, have a head for business, and she liked it.

“And you’ll run for public office after law school.” Tootie started buffing her boots.

“I will,” Val agreed. “And I’ll put off getting married until my middle thirties. Make every male voter believe he could be the one.”

Tootie appreciated this shrewdness in Val, “Sometimes I think I’ll marry, and other times I think never.”

“When you meet the right one, everything falls into place.” Felicity glowed.

“You’re seventeen. Lust—okay, I can understand that, but love? Come on, Felicity, get over it.” Val really couldn’t understand this.

“Let’s change the subject.” Felicity sighed.

Before they could do that, Pamela Rene popped her head through the open door, but she had the manners to knock first on the door frame. “Hi.”

“Hi,” the three said.

“I lost my stock pin. Can I borrow one?”

“Sure.” Tootie, who kept extras, reached into her coat, which Val had finished brushing. “Here you go.”

“I’ll give it back after tomorrow.”

“Keep it.” Tootie worked hard not to allow her feelings about Pamela to surface.

“I’ll order everyone a backup from Horse Country,” Pamela offered. “Be here next week.”

“Good idea. Got the catalogue?” Val asked.

“Yeah.”

“Can I see it later?”

“You can see it now.” Pamela, also a resident of coveted Old One, turned on her heel and walked down the polished wooden floor to her decorated room. She returned with the glossy catalogue. The four girls strained to view it, but Tootie gave up and buffed her boots now that the polish had set.

“Retail’s pretty amazing.” Pamela also liked business, but from a different angle than Felicity.

“I wish Marion would take on apprentices,” Felicity laughed, mentioning the owner of Horse Country. “I’d work for clothes.”

“Me, too,” Val agreed.

They commented on various delightful offerings and deplored their relative poverty, which was funny considering they were rich kids. But they were still kids and, with the exception of Val, were kept on a fairly strict allowance. Val’s parents often overdid; she liked that in material terms, but it embarrassed her with her peers.

The funny thing about Pamela’s parents was that they kept her on a short money leash, but then her father would send the corporate jet for her. Of the four girls, Pamela’s home life was the unhappiest. Her mother, Thaddea Bolendar, had been a highly paid model in the 1970s. She’d made the cover of Vogue more than once, and she never ceased to remind her daughter, a few pounds overweight, that she wasn’t perfect and she’d never make Vogue.

Val reveled in unconditional love, which gave her tremendous confidence. She was a happy young woman, if occasionally overconfident.

Felicity’s parents also provided support, but they were exacting about her grades. They expected her to succeed, and this expectation was inferred, not expressed. She had lived up to it so far.

Tootie’s parents loved her dearly, gave her a sharp moral compass, and had taught her discipline. Young though she was, she was the most organized and focused of the girls. Her father, who measured all things by money, pressured her to become an investment banker. Her mother mostly expected that she would have a dazzling career in whatever she chose and would marry an appropriate man. That meant rich. Both parents would prefer he be African-American, but the real cutoff was money.

They sat there, chattering away, talking about their studies, their friends, their beloved horses.

“Tomorrow’s hunt is going to be the best. I just know it,” Val enthused.

“The grays are mating. Reds should be, too,” said Tootie, who loved nature far more than banking.

“Bet it’s one of those hunts we never forget.” Pamela, too, was enthusiastic, a rare occurrence. She was glad to be sitting with the other three. She wanted to be part of the group but lacked that easiness and warmth that make others comfortable. At least the chip on her shoulder was shrinking.

“I remember every single one.” Tootie was so serious the others looked at her.

“Really?” Val recalled highlights, not every detail.

“Tomorrow will be a good one. We’ll all remember,” Pamela again predicted.