The Hounds And The Fury

CHAPTER 4

The winter solstice on December 21 was the sun’s fulcrum. The seesaw of light slowly moved upward from that date in the northern hemisphere. Sister watched light as she watched flora and fauna. Country people read nature the way city people read books.

The sun dipped behind the Blue Ridge Mountains before five o’clock Thursday evening, but with the cloud cover, the underside of the gray fleece darkened to charcoal. Hounds curled up in the kennels, and foxes wrapped their brushes around their noses down in their burrows.

Target, finally back in his den, pushed around a Day-Glo Frisbee he’d carried home at summer’s end. A baseball cap, an undershirt, and two nice ballpoint pens bore testimony to his desire for material goods. Once he’d taken a class ring, but he later put it outside his den where Sister and Crawford Howard, then on excellent terms, found it.

Before turning in for the night, Sister drove over to Tedi’s, parked her truck, and walked through the snow to Target’s den. She inhaled deeply, smelling the big red secure within. Given his run for the day, she refilled a five-gallon plastic can of kibble, coating it with corn oil. This rested not far from his main entrance.

She knelt down, snow reflecting the fading lavender light. “Target, pay more attention. You’re getting sloppy.”

He barked back at the human he had known all his life, “I know.”

She smiled when she heard his bark, took off her glove, reached into her pocket, and dropped a large milkbone into his den. As she walked back by the covered bridge she passed the grave of Tedi and Edward Bancroft’s eldest daughter, Nola, buried next to Peppermint, Nola’s favorite hunter, a big gray. Snow covered the lovely stone-walled enclosure. The marble grave markers were flat on the land and covered with snow.

Sister paused for a moment. One of the deep bonds she shared with the Bancrofts was that both had lost a child. Unfortunately, Sister had had but one son, whereas the Bancrofts still had Sybil. Sister envied people little in life, but she did envy those with healthy children. Her son, Raymond Jr., had died at fourteen in a tractor accident. He’d be forty-six now.

“You missed a good one today, Nola,” Sister said to the grave marker. “Pepper, you would have loved it, too. We nearly chopped Target, God forbid, and the crows mobbed him across the wildflower meadow. There’s a foot of snow on the ground. Feels like more coming.” She lingered for a moment. A rustle in the bridge told her someone was returning to his winter nest, a brave little wren who had stayed out late. He was scolded by his mate, wrens possessing an infinite variety of scold notes. The spat soon dissipated. She smiled, then added, from Psalm 118:24: “This is the day that the Lord hath made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

As she started the truck Sister hoped that Nola’s soul, for all her wild ways when she was alive, had found peace and joy in whatever lay beyond.

The formidable and incredibly snotty Mrs. Amos Arnold, Sister’s mother-in-law, F.F.V. (First Families of Virginia), had insisted that Raymond Jr., who’d died in 1974, and then Sister’s husband, Raymond, who’d died in 1991, be buried at Hollywood Cemetery in Richmond, a place where a president rested as well as numerous generals, admirals, senators, and other worthies. Sister, although she preferred having her loved ones near, had not protested. It wasn’t that she feared Lucinda Arnold as much as she pitied her. All the old woman had was her bloodlines and her pilgrimages to her own husband’s grave, then that of her son and grandson. In her mid-nineties, she had let these visitations become an obsession, although she seemed in no hurry to join her three beloved men.

Sister turned east after passing through the simple gates to After All Farm. The roads, even the back roads, were clear. Within seven minutes she had turned down the winding dirt road, snow packed, to the old Lorillard place.

She parked the truck and knocked on the faded red door. She laughed to herself that the color could be named “Tired Blood” in honor of the old vitamin ads promising to pep up your tired blood.

“Come on in,” Sam Lorillard’s voice called out.

She opened the door, welcomed by the fragrance of wood burning in the fireplace.

Sam, emerging from the kitchen, brushed off his hands. “Let me take your coat.”

“You’ve accomplished a lot since my last visit.”

“Thanks. Next task, rewire the whole joint. Then replumb. Little by little, Gray and I are getting it done. I’m glad he gave up his rental and moved in with me. We get along most times.”

“Good,” she remarked. During Sam’s long tenure with alcohol the brothers had barely spoken.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“Tea. If you have any. Something hot would be good. Where is Gray, by the way? He left after hunting this morning with Garvey Stokes. I barely had time to speak to either of them.”

“Running late.”

“Ah.” She sat down, her hand gliding over the porcelain-topped kitchen table like the one from her childhood. She traced the red pinstripe along the edge. “Don’t see these anymore.”

“Too practical.” Sam smiled. “Everything today is made to self-destruct in seven years. Our whole economy runs on obsolescence.”

“Is that what you learned at Harvard?”

“Actually, what I learned was to drink with style and abandon.”

She noted all the cookbooks on top of the shelves. “Sam, if you remove those cookbooks I reckon your roof will cave in.”

“That’s our spring project. Rebuild the whole kitchen. No choice but to rewire, then.” He placed a large, dark green ceramic pot of tea before her, along with a bowl of small brown sugar cubes. Then he sat down and poured her tea into a delicate china cup at least one hundred fifty years old. The pale bone china had pink tea roses adorning its surface. “Greatgrandmother’s.”

“M-m-m, the Lorillards knew good things. White Lorillards, too.”

“They knew enough to buy us,” Sam joked. “And we knew enough to buy ourselves free, too.”

“Ghosts. So many ghosts.” She sipped the bracing tea. “Sam, what is this? It’s remarkable.”

“Yorkshire. A tearoom called Betty’s, which has the best teas I’ve ever tasted—and the cakes aren’t bad either. I love the north of England.”

“I do, too. And Scotland.”

A silence followed, which Sam broke. “Funny, isn’t it? The chickens come home to roost. I’m lucky to have a roost.” He stared into his teacup, then met Sister’s eyes. “You know, you were one of the few people who would talk to me down at the train station. You spoke to me like I was still a human being.”

“Sam, no one asks to be born afflicted, and I consider alcoholism an affliction even if there is an element of choice to it. You threw away your education, your friends, but you’ve come around.”

“Rory, too.” Sam mentioned his friend from his train station days who had cleaned up his act, thanks to Sam, and now worked at Crawford’s alongside Sam. “We finished up early today, which is why I called. Thanks for coming over.”

“Visited Target, so it wasn’t far to visit you.” She smiled.

He brightened. “Heard you had a good one.”

“Did. Target damn near got himself killed. So what’s the buzz, Sam?” She got to the point.

“Let me preface this by saying that Crawford can be a peculiar man. He’s egotistical and vain, and it’s difficult for him to realize other people know more than he does in specific areas. On the plus side he’s generous, actually does learn from his mistakes eventually, and he treats me better than most other people would. He’s a good boss. He comes down to the stable, bursting with ideas from whatever he’s just read, but if I take the time to point out what’s commercially driven in those articles along with what has always worked for me with horses, he listens. He’s like most people who didn’t grow up with horses; he thinks he can read about them and become a rider.”

“Woods are full of those.” Sister shook her head. She, like other masters, had seen it all and heard it all.

The hunt field usually sorted people out in a hurry. No matter how bright they were, no matter how much they could talk about staying over the horse’s center of gravity, either they could stick on the horse or they couldn’t. And sometimes even a fine rider couldn’t stick. Sooner or later even the best would eat a dirt sandwich.

“He’s going to start his own pack. He’s found a pack in the Midwest that’s disbanding, and he’s buying the whole works: the hounds, the hound trailer, even the collars. He’s also called Morton Structures to put up a kennel.”

“In winter?”

“He’s clearing out the old hay shed for temporary kennels.”

“Jesus Christ!” She whistled.

“He’ll hunt his own land, obviously, but he’ll poach your fixtures.” Sam was referring to land hunted by Jefferson Hunt; Sister, as master, lovingly nurtured the relationships with the landowners, people she quite liked. “You know, Sister, most landowners don’t understand the rules of the MFHA. They figure if it’s their land they can have anyone hunt it.” He named the Master of Foxhounds Association of America.

“Well, they can. It is their land. What they really don’t understand is what an outlaw pack can do to the community: tear it up.”

“Overhunts the foxes. Creates accountability problems. If a fence is knocked apart or cattle get out, who did it? And it sure puts hunt clubs at one another’s throats.” Sam felt terrible about this.

“I know,” Sister grimly replied. “But I will bet you dollars to doughnuts, Jefferson Hunt will acquire the lion’s share of the blame precisely because we are accountable. Let a hound pass over someone’s land, especially someone new to the area, and they assume it’s one of ours. You wouldn’t believe the calls I receive, not all of them friendly. Shaker or I dutifully go out, we catch the hound, often a Coonhound or a Walker hound, we explain to the caller that it isn’t our hound but we will try to find the owner. And then we spend hours on the phone doing just that. If we don’t find the owner, we find a home for it because people have strange ideas about hounds. They don’t adopt them from the shelters. It’s sad because hounds are such wonderful animals and so easy to train.”

“Can you imagine what this pack will be like?” Sam raised an eyebrow.

“No. Do you know what kind of foxhounds they are?”

“No.”

“M-m-m, puts you in a bad spot.”

“He asked me to hunt the hounds, and I told him I can’t. I don’t know anything about hunting hounds, and that’s the truth. He’s going to hunt them himself.”

“Sweet Jesus.”

“He’ll need Jesus,” Sam laughed.

“So will I, Sam, so will I. No Jefferson Hunt master since 1887 has had to deal with an outlaw pack.” She paused, then changed the subject, since it made her feel dreadful. “Getting Matador vetted. I’ll let you know.”

They heard the rumble of Gray’s Land Cruiser. Then the door opened. “Hello.”

“Hi back at you,” Sister called out.

Gray walked in. He removed his lad’s cap and hung it on the peg by the back door along with his worn but warm old red plaid Woolrich coat. He kissed Sister on the cheek, his military moustache tickling slightly. “Tea still hot?”

“Yep.”

Gray grabbed a mug from the cabinet and sat down. “Sam, didn’t you offer Sister anything to eat?”

“Uh, no.”

“Worthless.”

“Honey, would you like a tuna fish sandwich, a fried egg sandwich, or a variety of cookies which Sam had stashed in all those tins on the counter unless you ate them all?” He directed his gaze at his younger brother.

“The double chocolate Milanos.”

“Sam,” Gray grumbled. “My favorite.”

“Well, they’re mine, too, and I didn’t have time to stop by Roger’s Corner on the way home. I’ll buy some tomorrow.”

“I can’t tempt you?” Gray asked Sister.

“Not with cookies.” She smiled.

Gray poured honey in his tea and smiled sexily back at her. “Sam tell you the latest?”

“There will be hell to pay before it’s all over,” she responded.

“I expect.” He nodded.

“How’d your day go?”

“After a glorious start hunting, then going to Garvey’s plant, I met with an architect.” He looked at his brother. “I finally broke down and hired one. We can’t do this ourselves, Sam. It’s just too big a job. I spent three hours there. We both need to go back.” He sipped his tea. “Garvey Stokes wants an independent audit of his books. Meant to tell you that straight up. The architect is on my mind. Anyway, I told Garvey I’d be happy to perform the audit. So now I’m semi-retired instead of retired,” he joked. Gray had been a partner in one of the most prestigious accounting firms in Washington, D.C. Two former directors of the IRS graced the firm’s roster.

“Garvey should change the name of his company from Aluminum Manufacturers to Metalworks. He can work with anything: copper, iron, steel, titanium. Can you imagine working with titanium?” Gray added to Sam’s information.

Sister laughed. “I wish he would make a titanium stock pin.”

“Now there’s a thought. Even the steel-tipped ones eventually bend,” Gray agreed.

Sam turned on the stove to heat more water. “Why does Garvey want an independent audit?”

“The usual in these situations; he’s not a detail guy. And he feels something isn’t right. Also, just in case, he wants to be prepared for an IRS audit. We’ll see.” Gray truly liked accounting, but he realized most people found it boring.

“Iffy’s Garvey Stokes’ treasurer. How’s she going to take this?” Sister wondered.

“She’s a glorified bookkeeper, and she wasn’t happy to see me,” Gray said good-naturedly. “I assured her the audit was not a reflection on her skills but good business practices. I didn’t feel right pulling rank on a woman in a wheelchair.” He paused. “But I will if she forces me.”

“Wheelchair?” Sister exclaimed. “I saw her last month and she was walking with a cane.”

“She can get around just fine.” Sam endured Iffy. “She glories in the sympathy.”

“The good Lord didn’t grant Iffy the best personality in the world. It, too, has deteriorated. But hey, we don’t suffer from lung cancer. She’s battling it. Let’s give her a little room to be testy.”

Sam countered his brother’s comment. “Gray, Iphigenia Demetrios was born a bitch. She’ll always be a bitch, lung cancer or not.”

“I expect,” Gray agreed, with resignation.

“The New Year looks like it will start out with a bang. Crawford’s buying an entire pack of hounds, and Jefferson Hunt will pay for his every mistake. The club loses a boatload of money as he closes his wallet. Iffy will not be Miss Sweetness and Light as you go about your business,” Sister said. Then she looked down from Gray to Sam. “And if Crawford thinks you favor me or Jefferson Hunt, he’ll crack down on you. He’s a hard man that way.”

“True. No middle ground with Crawford. You’re either with him or against him.” Sam nodded.

“Those are the problems,” said Gray. “Here are the good things for the New Year. The three of us are healthy. I’m back in the saddle again in all respects.” He laughed an infectious laugh. “And we’ll solve problems together. Who wants an easy life? No glory there.”

“Honey, we’ll be covered in glory.” Sister loved his enthusiasm.