The Tell-Tale Horse

CHAPTER 6

At six in the morning on Wednesday, February 20, Sister stepped outside, having gulped a cup of Colombian coffee liberally laced with half-and-half. Golly, fed first, refused to follow, but Raleigh and Rooster tagged at her heels, their claws clicking on the thin veneer of ice.

The frozen grass, coated with ice, awaited sunrise to glitter. Each time Sister took a careful step, the ice cracked under her work boots. A jet of vapor escaped from her mouth, and steam poured from Raleigh’s and Rooster’s mouths too. The mercury at 22 degrees Fahrenheit might climb, but how much? If it nudged over 32 degrees, the ruts in the old farm road would thaw and driving would test a person’s reflexes.

Gray, asleep upstairs, would awaken at seven. He rose early on hunt mornings but, like most people of a certain age, he was set in his habits. She didn’t mind that by her standards he was a sleep-in. He more than made up for it the rest of the day, for Gray, active in mind and body, liked projects. They were alike that way, yet she had found herself thinking of Big Ray lately. They had kept the same rhythm. Sure, they had had their various discreet affairs, but they were two people deeply in tune. Her lover, Peter Wheeler, older than she by close to seventeen years, while not close in the diurnal sense, had inflamed her mind like no one else she ever met. Sister had been well served by the men she loved. Wise in the ways of the world, she kept her mouth shut, allowing other people to mouth the hollow pieties that seemed to ward off whatever fears gnawed deep inside. The human animal is not monogamous, although men, at least before DNA testing, desperately tried to imprison a woman’s sexuality to ensure that her offspring were theirs. She knew this subject caused explosions even in simple discussions so she shut up about it, but Jane Arnold had always taken her pleasure where she found it, and she would march under that banner for the remainder of her days.

She loved Gray but hadn’t told him. Why? Words always came back to haunt her. But she knew she loved him, and she felt he loved her. Different from Big Ray or Peter Wheeler, both of them robust, extroverted, physical men, Gray soothed her but kept her alert mentally too. Handsome, descended from Lorillard slaves and therefore taking the Lorillard name, Gray possessed all the brilliance of that line, which ran in both white and black pedigrees. Of course, every true Virginian knew there was no such thing as an all-white or all-black pedigree, but that was another subject best left on the table. People could be wildly irrational about race from all quarters. Race and sex set up more shrieking and flying feathers than a cockfight.

On a cold crackling morning like today, Big Ray would have been walking with her, both of them with arms outstretched for balance, hands touching, trying not to fall on their keisters and laughing; God, how she could laugh with that man! A stream of ideas about hounds, horses, territory, and whippers-in, liberally spiced with both invective and praise, would awaken the birds, who would grumble about it. She would laugh to hear a disgruntled cheep from a hole high inside a tree or the censorious click of a beak from the owl in the barn. Owls make so many different sounds. She’d learned to recognize them; Sister had a rudimentary sense of most animal communication. People often wondered how she knew where the fox was or when a storm was coming. She’d say, “The red-tailed hawk told me” and they’d laugh, never realizing she meant it.

This morning, all silent except for her breathing and the ice crackling, her eyes lifted to the east. A thin light-gray line gave hope the sun would rise eventually, and perhaps the cloud cover would disperse too.

The lights were on in the kennels. Shaker, like Sister, kept to his routine. He loved his work.

“How’s Delia today?” she asked, as she walked into the large feeding room, nodding at the boys with their noses in the trough.

“She’s gaining weight, but her hunting days are over, boss. She’s slowed down, and it’s hard to keep weight on her. I can see it melting off during a hard run.”

“You’re right. She can stay in the Big Girls pen until the day comes when they start to roll her. Won’t be for a year or two. I’ll take her up to the house then.”

A master from Maryland had once upbraided Sister with the taunt, “You don’t live in the real world,” because Sister refused to put an old hound down as long as it was healthy. The other master was right in that this kept expenses higher. But damned if Sister would put down a hound who had served her well. She was the same about horses. Okay, it did run up the bill, but let them live out their final days in peace, comfort, and love. It was the least she could do for the devotion they accorded her.

Once a hound was rolled in the kennel by the younger ones, she’d see if a member would have it for a house pet or she’d move it up to her own house. It pained her that people didn’t understand what good pets foxhounds make. The longest it ever took her to potty train an older hound was two weeks. Most get it before then. Whip-smart, those hounds are fanatically clean. Perhaps it was vanity, for they knew how majestic they were.

She left Shaker and walked to the special run for hounds who needed extra attention or who had been injured during hunting. Now it was just sweet Delia, eating a warmed mash of kibble and canned food.

“Aren’t you the lucky girl?”

“I am,” Delia replied, and stuck her nose back in the aluminum bowl.

“Love you, baby girl.” Sister smiled at her old friend and returned to the feeding room.

“Boss, what saint’s day is it?”

“Wulfric and Eustochium Calafato.”

He laughed. “Those teachers at your Episcopal girls school certainly drilled information into your head.”

“Latin too.” She grinned.

“Okay, what did Wulfric and Eusto—you know—what did they do?”

“Wulfric was from Somerset, a contemporary of Lady Godiva, actually.” They’d both done their Godiva research. “He hunted with hounds and hawks, so he should be dear to us. Maybe not as dear as St. Hubert, the patron saint of hunters, but important nonetheless. We can use all the celestial help there is. He lived as an anchorite and supposedly possessed second sight. He healed a knight with paralysis. Mmm, bound books. Visited by Henry I and then his son, Stephen, when king. That’s about all I know.”

“I’ll read up on him. What about the other guy?”

“Girl. Abbess of Messina, Franciscan order. She seems to have been strict and devout and died at thirty-five. Her body did not decay. She died in 1468, and when she was dug up from her grave in Montevergine in 1690 she was fresh as a daisy.” Sister shrugged. “Nonetheless, dead as a doornail.”

Shaker laughed. “Do you believe this stuff?”

“I take it with a grain of salt. Do I believe these people were extraordinary? Sure. A lot of saints behaved miserably before seeing the light. Just the fact that they redeemed themselves is worth emulating.”

“So there’s hope for me?”

“Hope for both of us.”

“Must I vow poverty and chastity? I’m not good at either.” His lopsided grin was infectious.

“Me neither. Both are overrated; I doubt they’re really virtues. Getting someone to give up their worldly goods was an early form of income redistribution. Of course, the communists raised it to new heights.”

“Another kind of religion gone bust.”

“I’ll say, and think of the millions that died because of it on both sides of the fence. Don’t you think it odd that human beings will die for ideas? I’d die for a living creature but not for an idea. Too cold for me.”

“Yep. Come on, boys. Look at how those coats gleam. That corn oil in the winter just works a treat.”

“It does, and I don’t care what the analysis is on the back of those big feed bags, nothing puts a shine on their coats like corn oil.”

Shaker, wellies squishing on the concrete floor, which he washed obsessively, opened the door to the Big Boys’ run, a quarter of an acre.

All the hounds enjoyed huge runs with grass, trees, and boulders as well as condos to supplement the beds inside the kennels. They liked being out and about. It certainly cut down on bad behavior, since everyone had plenty of room.

Once the boys trotted out, door closing behind them, Shaker refilled the troughs, poured corn oil over the high-protein kibble, and set the gallon jug high up on a shelf, along with the twenty-four others stored there. They bought in big lots to save money. Sister might carry hounds longer than another master, but with her practical mind she saved in all other areas.

“All right, my fast ladies,” Shaker called, and the bitches shot into the feed room, tails high.

“We’re excited this morning.” Sister smiled at the hounds. “Shaker, I’ve been thinking about Dragon. When he was in sick bay after being torn up by that coyote early in the season, the pack was more cohesive.”

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that too. He’s only been back in for the last three hunts, and I can feel the difference. For one thing, he distracts Cora.”

“He challenges her. We can’t have two strike hounds, and Diddy might develop into a good one when we most need her, when Cora retires. But Dragon is ready now.”

“Draft him?”

“No. Not yet. What if we use Dragon on Tuesdays, Cora on Thursdays, and toss a coin for Saturdays? We’ll see how the pack performs. If they go equally well, no need to change anything or draft him out. If not, then we should draft him to a hunt needing a good fast strike hound.”

“We’ve got plenty of the blood,” Shaker replied.

“Yes, but you know how that goes.”

He did. A hunt might have a litter of six really good hounds. One would get stolen, another lost in some fashion. One might develop an unexpected illness. Before you knew it, not much of that blood was left. “It’s a strong line, that D line. Delia put some wonderful puppies on the ground over the years. Cross with Asa was the best, I think.”

“Archie.” She named a hound killed by a bear, a hound dipped in gold, he was so superb.

“Right. Tell you what, we’d better never lose that Archie blood.”

“You know it goes all the way back to Piedmont blood through old Middleburg. Quite a journey through time, those bloodlines.” She cited two great northern Virginia hunts, each having made contributions to the upgrading of hounds and each still hunting outstanding packs of hounds to this day over some of the most beautiful country in the world.

One of the great things about Virginia was the depth of the hunting bench. Old Dominion, Fairfax, Loudoun, Warrenton, Casanova, Orange with their ring necks of Talbot tan, Deep Run, Farmington, Keswick, Rockbridge, Bull Run, to name a few ripping good hunts. A person could fall out of bed and land near a thunderous hunt.

“Plan’s a good one. Try tomorrow.”

“You bet.” She left the kennels and looked in at the stables where Tootie, Val, and Felicity worked.

“Good morning, Master,” all three sang out.

“Good morning, ladies.” She closed the barn doors behind her. “Aren’t you glad your father bought you that Jeep?” She addressed this to Valentina.

“Yes, ma’am. Otherwise we’d have to walk and it’s a hike.”

“We could hitch rides.” Tootie winked.

“Sure.” Felicity was filling the water buckets.

After a brief chat there, Sister walked back to the house. She invited the girls up for breakfast each day specifically, because they would not come on their own. Charlotte Norton drilled manners into her students. And many of them had endured the drill at home too. It would be presumptuous simply to arrive in Sister’s kitchen—although their presence was a daily delight to her.

“Good morning, darling.” Gray beamed at her.

“Back at you. A fresh pot.”

She poured her second cup. “The girls will be up in about forty minutes. I’ll start on cream of wheat now. I’m assuming you’ll want some.”

“Yes, ma’am. With orange-blossom honey.”

He continued to read the paper. No need to pull out honey and jams just yet. He’d set the table too. Gray liked small chores as well as big ones, and he wasn’t fussy about what was supposed to be women’s work or men’s. Work was work.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh?” She ran water in a large saucepan.

“I’m not cut out for retirement.”

“You’re hardly retired, honey. You ran a special audit at Aluminum Manufacturing last month, and you just had a meeting with the Number Two guy at the IRS, most hated government agency in America.”

“For a while the Defense Department was running neck and neck,” he remarked. “I’ll always do consulting. But you know, accounting is what I’ve done all my life.”

“You’re the best. Why else would you receive the calls you do?”

He shrugged. “Thanks.” He paused. “I thought I’d start a small restoration business. Since Sam and I have been working on the old home place, I’m reminded of how much I love construction, especially historical places. Even one as simple as ours. The work is outstanding. Those heavy hand-hewn beams, does anyone do that anymore?”

“Well.” She considered this as she set the flame underneath the cream of wheat. “You have an eye. I guess finding a crew of artisans—I mean, they’d have to be more than construction workers—will be critical.”

“Will.”

“What about Sam?”

“What do you mean?”

“Would you go into business with him?”

“No.” The reply was swift but not loud.

“Oh.”

He folded the paper in quarters, longways. “He’s a horseman. He should stick to horses.” He picked up his coffee cup, then put it back down. “He’s been really good at the house. We’re doing okay but, but Janie, I don’t know as I will ever trust my brother one hundred percent.”

“He’s been sober a year and a half—”

“I know.” Gray ran his forefinger over his salt-and-pepper military mustache. “He’s my brother. I love him but he’s an alcoholic. They slip back.”

“Gray, he drank Sterno down at the railroad station when he couldn’t get Thunderbird. He hit bottom. Showing him the way to Fellowship Hall was a great kindness on your part. He came through. Like many in recovery, he’ll probably never touch another drop.”

“I know.”

“Why am I standing up for him?” Sister pulled homemade bread from the breadbox. “He might not want to run a business.”

“That’s the other thing. I don’t know how much stress Sam can handle. Trying to make payroll during a lean month or two makes you sweat. I wouldn’t want to put him in a position where he might weaken.”

“Makes sense. So you’d do this by yourself?”

“Right now that’s my plan, but I’m still thinking it through. Tell you one thing. I’ve been researching software, cell phone contracts, and the like; my God, how does anyone cut through the bullshit?”

“I stick to my iMac and Alltel, which works except for some pockets and some days.”

“That works for you, but for a business I need something more sophisticated. Something different from what I use for accounting jobs. For reconstruction I need to see things in three dimensions; I need graphic capabilities as well as engineering.”

“Don’t look at me.” She laughed, then stopped herself. “You know who might know? Marion. She has a store computer system, but she bought a different one at home. She’s arty, you know, so I bet she can draw and do everything on her home system. Just an idea.”

“Good one.” He plucked out the news section. He’d been reading the sports page. “Look at this.”

A photo of our beautiful Lady Godiva was in the middle column. “My God, she was stunning.” Gray whistled. “She worked for Craig and Abrams, Washington office.”

Sister put her hand on his shoulder. “Craig and Abrams. That’s High Vajay’s old firm.”

“Wonder if he knew her. He’d be upset.” Gray continued to read the column.

“Does the paper say what her job was?”

“Research.”

“That covers a multitude of sins.”

“That’s just it, isn’t it?”