Рита Браун - Crazy Like A Fox

“Thank you, no. I’m going over to Beasley Hall to walk through Skiff’s kennels. She bribed me with food.”

“Is that so?” Sister’s eyebrows raised slightly.

He smiled as Betty Franklin joined them.

“What a damned mess. How’s Tatoo?”

“He’ll be fine. Once we could examine him I figured we could do the work here, as he is such a good guy even if something hurts. Will save a trip to the vet and the bill, too.”

“He is a good boy,” Betty agreed. “We missed all the gossip. I’ll bet you one hundred dollars someone in our club knows who is growing weed.” She continued. “Do I care? No. But I sure care when a man blasts our hound and threatens Tootie. Even if he doesn’t get caught, he will lose thousands and thousands of dollars.”

“I—” Tootie didn’t finish her sentence.

Sister placed her hand on Tootie’s shoulder and squeezed.

“Betty, I made chicken corn soup. Would you like some?”

“I’d love it, but I have a husband at home who is waiting for his steak. In his defense he cleans up the grill and the kitchen.”

Tootie asked, “I thought men liked to grill. Were competitive about it.”

“Not Bobby, bless his heart.” Betty smiled. “That’s all right. He does other things.” She glanced at the old wall clock. “Let me get going here. Maybe he picked up some news at the breakfast.”

She walked outside to her ancient but cool yellow Bronco, fired up that old motor, and rumbled off.

Sister and Tootie walked up to the house. Gray often spent a Saturday with Sam and Aunt Daniella so it was just the two of them.

Once in the kitchen, pot on the stove, Sister sat at the table, which Tootie had set. She’d even put out a nice bowl on a plate for Golly, who was looking her best.

A timer sat by the stove. Sister had learned to trust the timer rather than herself.

“How do you feel?” she asked the young woman.

“I’m okay.”

“We couldn’t really talk about it because we had to get hounds back. It’s a miracle that only Tatoo was hit.”

“If it hadn’t been for that hunting fellow, he would have shot again.”

“Let me show you something.”

“What I want to know is what do you mean—we got interrupted—he’s been missing since 1954?”

“That’s what I want to show you.” Sister picked up her cellphone lying on the counter. “Look at this.”

Tootie studied the video. “That’s him!”

“Wesley Carruthers. Weevil. He hunted the hounds here from 1947 to 1954, when he disappeared.”

“That can’t be true. This is the man who saved me.” She looked at the image, gratitude and curiosity flooding over her. “There’s no way this man could be…however old he would be. But it is the same blond man, same smile. I have to find him.”

The timer rang out. Sister rose to ladle out two big bowls of soup. Tootie, knowing Golly, opened the large drawer, pulled out some treats, and put them in the bowl. She also picked up two Milk-Bones for Raleigh and Rooster, each of whom thanked her.

As they ate their soup, Sister told Tootie everything she knew about Weevil.

“Sister, he was no ghost.”

“Well, it certainly makes me wonder. Is there anything you can add to what you told me?”

“He knew hounds. He wore ratcatcher. He had the cowhorn on a rawhide string, pushed on his back. He was strong. Wide shoulders, really fit, strong and handsome. He had a kind of light scent. We walked side by side so I could pick it up. Sister, he had such kind eyes. I don’t know what would have happened to me if he hadn’t appeared like that.”

“I’m glad he did show up. I hunted behind Weevil once as a child. Mother took me around. He was good, forward with hounds, and handsome as you said. At that age, it didn’t exactly register but he was handsome. I recall his voice, which was deep.”

“This man had a deep voice and an accent. Light. Maybe Canadian. I don’t think anyone here would notice it because the Tidewater accent is like a Canadian one. Think of how people pronounce ‘out and about.’ ”

“Interesting. Canada has eleven hunts, I think.” She paused. “Wherever there are English-speaking people there are horses and hounds. New Zealand, Australia—there used to be hunting in India under the Raj. Don’t know if there still is. We do excel at chasing things on horseback with hounds. You know, Tootie, some things are so deep in a culture it’s harmful to fool with it. Know what I mean?”

“Like music for African Americans? Think of what we brought to the New World. Just the rhythms alone. Dad would talk about how we gave jazz to America. The problem is, I don’t much like jazz but I like the old music from the 1940s, you know, like Ella Fitzgerald.” She thought a moment. “If Weevil is a ghost, that would be his time, wouldn’t it?”

“He was born in 1922. More soup?”

“No. I should be hungry, but I’m not very.” Tootie’s cellphone went off. Looking down, she made an apologetic face. “Hello.”

Her father’s voice, loud and clear, perked up Golly’s ears as well as Sister’s. “If you will testify against your mother in court I will reinstate you in my will.”

Without a second’s hesitation, she fired back. “And how long before you cut me out again? Dad, I’m not stupid.”

A pause followed this. Vic didn’t really underestimate his daughter but he was a businessman and if he could short you, he would.

“One hundred thousand dollars. Now. And I will sign a contract promising not to cut you out of the will in future.”

“No. I don’t want any part of this. I saw the video, Dad.”

An even longer pause followed that. “I’ll fire up the jet and come to you.” He mentioned his Gulfstream G150. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Well, I am. I will never testify against Mom.”

“Triple-digit millions probably before you’re fifty. Money is power. Why stand by your mother? She didn’t really stand by you.”

“No.”

“Those Virginia snobs have turned you.” His voice took an edge.

“They aren’t snobs. They’re my friends. They’ve done more for me than you have.” She nearly spat that out.

“The hell! I sent you to the best schools. I paid for your riding lessons. I bought you whatever you wanted including Iota. I paid for your coming out and that cost a half a million. I outdid and outspent all those goddamned clabberfaces.” He used the old country word for white people although he was a city boy.

Calm now, Tootie acidly replied, “I didn’t ask for any of it except for Iota. You used me to reflect your power. I didn’t want to be a debutante. You don’t own me, Dad. You never will. You know what’s really sick? You believe white people are your oppressors. You hate them. Some were and some are. I know our history.

“I know my opportunities came from you and from all our people before me. I know how lucky I am. But Dad, you are defined by your oppressor.

“No one defines me but me. I will never testify against Mom. I never want to see you again.” Tootie threw her phone on the floor. “I hate him.”

Sister, bending over, picked it up, and dropped it in Tootie’s hand. “Still works. These things are tough.”

“I was stupid to throw it down. I’m sorry.” She looked to see if it had dented the random width pine floor.

Had, a tiny bit.

“You’re upset. You have good reason to be upset.” Sister put her arm around Tootie’s shoulders. “I’m no psychologist but I figure he’s fighting for the only thing he knows: money and power. A lot of people are like that. They’re empty.”

Tootie searched Sister’s cobalt eyes. “You know what scares me? What if I turn out like Dad or even Mom? She’s trying but I wasn’t the daughter she wanted. She wanted a carbon copy of herself….”