Рита Браун - Crazy Like A Fox

Sister made a mental note to tell Marion. If Yvonne truly stuck it out in Virginia, how perfect the former star would be for Marion’s annual brochure, always printed on expensive paper, designed as a magazine with vivid color production. Yvonne in a shadbelly, a top hat, perhaps even a veil rolled up on the hat crown, would have ladies flying to the store or buying on the Internet. The woman could make a burlap sack appear chic.

Tootie, although a heavenly beauty, lacked her mother’s incredible sense of fashion. Tootie was truly happiest in her Timberland boots, Wrangler jeans with holes in them, heavy socks rolled over the top of the work boots, a T-shirt tucked into her jeans, with an old Shaker-stitched sweater pulled over that.

The morning, coolish, proved invigorating. The wind made it down to the bottom of the ridge; fallen leaves swirled about, limbs bent over.

Fortunately the hounds were returning to the kennels.

Betty remarked, “Twenty miles per hour, I’d guess.”

Sister called over to her, “Enough to knock you sideways.”

“You. You’re lean.” Betty laughed. “You, too, Yvonne.”

“Zumba.” She smiled, naming the musical workout.

“Zumba! Rumba.” Twist, a second-year youngster, with no idea of what either word meant, wiggled his butt.

“Boom Ba Ba Boom!” Giorgio, the handsomest boy in the kennel, giggled.

The rest of the pack babbled in happiness, winds at their tails as they passed the apple orchard, small trees heavy with red apples.

“You are all mental.” Inky, head popping out from her den in the apple orchard, taunted them.

“And you don’t provide good sport,” Dasher chided her.

“Why should I give you a good run? I’m happy with my housework.” A black fox, a variant of the grays, Inky was a born organizer, unlike Comet, the male gray who lived under Tootie’s cabin.

“Did you take Raleigh’s green-and-orange canvas duck?” Pansy innocently asked.

“He shouldn’t leave toys lying around the yard. He’s a spoiled brat,” came her answer, which meant she took it.

Yvonne stopped, speechless. She pointed to the fox. “Tally—what do you say, Tootie? I can’t believe I’m seeing a fox.”

“Tallyho. You have to count to twenty, Mom. Supposed to give the fox a sporting chance, but that’s Inky. She visits the kennels at night.”

“She’s not afraid?” Yvonne, astonished, stood in one spot until Betty waved her on.

“No. I think she can read the fixture card. She doesn’t come out when we hunt here or at After All. She’s a funny girl.”

“Black. There are black foxes?” Yvonne, still astonished, asked, as Shaker opened the draw-run door to the kennels.

“Black, white, silver. Arctic foxes are white. Go on in there, Zandy.” Betty gave a young hound the evil eye so she scooted right in.

“And silver must be commercially raised. I mean for silver fox coats, not that anyone buys furs anymore,” Yvonne added quickly.

“I have always assumed that blacks or even silver foxes are a variant of the gray fox, or one whose breeding from the original stock has been tampered with by humans,” Sister chimed in.

“You don’t see silver foxes out hunting, do you?”

“No.” Betty smiled. “Reds, grays, the occasional black—as well as the occasional black bear.”

Yvonne’s hand came to her breast. “I sincerely hope not.”

Sister and Tootie walked back out of the kennel’s main door having walked in through the draw-pen door.

“Your first hound walk, Mom.” The leaves swirled.

“Good exercise, and Betty informed me a little bit about the hounds. Asa is the oldest and wisest and”—she thought for a moment—“Diana figures things out. I can see there is a lot to remember. Betty said if a hound needs correcting, you”—she looked at her daughter—“should say the name. So you have to know all the hounds. How do you know who they are from up high? I mean, darling, you’re on a horse. You’re looking at their backs, or they’re far away.”

“You learn over time. I watch the way a hound moves. Most of The Jefferson Hunt Hounds are tricolors, so I can’t always identify them by coat. If I get close I can. And then, yes, Betty’s right. First say the name. If they don’t listen, warn them, and if they still don’t listen, crack the whip. Scares them.”

“Do you have to crack the whip often?”

“No, thank heavens.” Tootie handed her mother her whip with the long kangaroo thong, kangaroo being the best leather, costing about $350 for a staff thong, four feet longer than a field thong. Pricey, but it lasted for years. The other leather thongs wore out in two seasons if one was staff.

“I think I’ll have to work up to this. You do it.” Yvonne handed it back.

Tootie hopped on a mounting block, placed at the kennels in case anyone had to dismount there, then hop back up. She easily swung the thong in front of her, flicked her wrist and a rifle shot went off.

“What a sound.” Yvonne stepped back a bit.

Sister smiled. “Generally does the trick.”

“Can you do it?” Yvonne artlessly asked, then remembered she was speaking to the Master. “I’m sure you can.”

Sister took Tootie’s whip, stepped up onto the mounting block. She swung the whip in front of her. Crack! She swung the whip behind her. Crack! Then she shot the thong straight up, a twist of the wrist. Crack! Didn’t say a word.

Tootie received her whip, laughed, then said to her mother, “Only Sister can do that.”

“Show-off.” Betty then took the whip.

She could crack it in front and in back but not overhead. “Just kills me that I can’t do that and I’ve been trying for, oh, thirty-some years.”

“Forty,” Sister teased her.

“Don’t tempt me,” Betty teased right back.

“Yvonne, my beloved best friend wants to tell you I’m older than dirt, which I am—but I can still ride her into the ground.”

“Oh, you cannot. You’re a better rider than I am, but I can keep up.” Betty imploringly looked at Yvonne. “Honey, you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“I’m beginning to understand that.”

“Sister, I told Mom I’d look at the cottage she’s rented. Okay?”

“Of course. Yvonne, let Betty or me know if you need anything.”

“Yes. I can finally get rid of that lampshade with the fringe on it.” Betty giggled.

As mother and daughter walked back to the cabin, Betty noticed the new Continental but said nothing.

Turning to her Master and friend, she did ask, “What do you think?”

“I think she’s game. I actually do.” Sister smiled.

“I hope so.” Betty inhaled. “For Tootie’s sake. This wind isn’t going to stop and I need a restorative cup of tea. Ask me to the house and let’s gossip.”

—

That afternoon, Gray returned from a meeting in Charlottesville with Derwood Chase, a high-end investor. The two had struck up a friendship decades ago on the tennis courts where Derwood was a power. Gray worked hard to improve his game. Neither man was cut out for golf. Both realized it helped business; they just couldn’t do it.

“Hey. How was Derwood?”

“Just like always.” Gray smiled.

“Johanna?” She mentioned his glamorous wife, an opera singer as well as a consummate hostess.

“Good. Ready?”

“Honey, you’re monosyllabic but, yes, I am ready.”

“Prepared?”

She closed the door behind her. “Is anyone ever prepared for your aunt Daniella?”

Well, Aunt Daniella, having recently turned ninety-four, was ready for them. No sooner had Gray and Sister entered her charming if overstuffed house than she gave orders. She wanted her pillow fluffed behind her. She wanted her drink. Of course, Gray and Sister were welcome to libations, too. She wanted her ebony cane laid across the small table by her comfortable chair. She wanted to know exactly what he thought of the economy. Were her funds safe with Derwood?