Рита Браун - Fox Tracks

As Master of the Jefferson Hunt, Sister, and her joint-master of three years, Dr. Walter Lungrun, were responsible for “the furnishings”—as horse equipment was properly termed—as well as for the paid staff, which consisted of one huntsman and one whipper-in. Newly added to the payroll, Betty Franklin had served as an honorary, which means amateur, whipper-in for decades.

Betty and her husband faced tightened financial conditions thanks to the sinking economy and the fact that they owned a printing press. Few people patronized true presses anymore so after much discussion, Sister and Walter had worked out the necessary details to give Betty a salary of $25,000. The good woman wept at the offer, tried to refuse, but the two masters insisted. That $25,000 kept the wolf from the Franklins’ door.

“Sugar, if you truly have lost it, I will buy you another,” said Jane.

“I didn’t,” he insisted. “It has to be here.”

“Go back over the last time you saw it.”

“Did that.” He rose, kissed her on the cheek, patted his chest pocket. “Dammit.”

“Your language is going to Hell.”

Her cursing as well made them both laugh.

“My mother would wash my mouth out with soap.” He smiled at the memory of the formidable, late LuAnne Lorillard, a power in the African American community long before integration. Nobody messed with LuAnne without ample opportunity to repent later.

“Well, humor me,” said Jane.

“All right. I was back home the last time I saw the studs. I went to my dresser after packing my clothing in this bag. I opened the top drawer, lifted out my personal case, carried it to the safe behind the painting that Daddy did, opened it, and took out my studs. I opened the little green leather case, counted them, closed it, and put it in my Gladstone bag.”

“Why don’t men say jewelry case?” Jane interrupted.

“How many years were you married? As I recall, it was twenty-eight. Did you ever ask Raymond?”

“No, but I didn’t talk to Raymond as openly as I talk to you,” she said.

“Really?” he asked, smiling, liking the compliment.

“Really. I loved him in my fashion, but it was a different time. Ray had a bombastic streak, which meant he had a difficult time dealing with anything that didn’t emanate from him.”

“I lived in D.C. for most of your marriage, but Ray did not strike me as the sensitive or introspective type. How could you stand it?”

“I had a son, remember?” This was said in an upbeat tone. Any memory Sister recalled of her son, who died in a tractor accident in 1974, still brought her happiness.

She loved Raymond, Jr., beyond reason, but then doesn’t every parent feel that way? Jane long ago came to terms with his death at age fourteen, growing determined to live each day with joy. Her son would have wanted that for her, not a lifetime of grieving and anger.

“It’s not that I forget,” Gray quickly replied. “It’s only that I don’t associate you with sorrows. You’re a force of nature.”

“You know, that may be the most wonderful thing you ever said to me. Now back to your studs.”

“That’s the chain of events until now.” His hand went to his left pec again.

“Do I need to buy you a man bra?”

“No.” He laughed. “I’m out of cigarettes.”

“You can’t smoke in hotel rooms anymore, at least not in this town. Actually, Gray, you can’t smoke in public parks, the list goes on. If the mayor sees you smoking, he will assume you are a lowlife, possibly a cheap criminal. It never occurs to these health nuts the damage they do to others.”

“You mean the loss of jobs in our state, North Carolina, and Kentucky? Devastation.”

“That, too, but I was thinking about the people who love laws that inhibit other people’s choices. Is smoking a good thing to do? No. But those sanctimonious rule-makers live rather luxurious lives. They aren’t working on an assembly line or in scorching sun outside. If your job is repetitive and boring or dangerous, sometimes that little hit of nicotine takes the edge off. The people that make the laws go get prescriptions for Prozac, and how does anyone know the long-term effects of all that crap?”

He blinked, as he hadn’t heard her that impassioned in months, in fact, not since a person blundered and turned the fox back toward the hounds at a hunt in November. Fortunately, the fox escaped.

Sister and Gray, this January 27, had traveled from central Virginia to attend the Masters’ Ball, an annual extravaganza under the aegis of the Masters of Foxhounds Association of America. For forty years, Sister had attended the annual ball, always at the end of January. She loved to dance, loved to catch up with old friends scattered across the United States and Canada.

Over the last ten years, oftentimes when she spoke to city dwellers or suburbanites about foxhunting, she would notice the concern or distaste in their faces, so she invariably hastened to add that in the New World, foxes were chased, not killed. Usually, that opened up a torrent of quite intelligent questions and Sister would once again be reminded of how far most people lived from nature.

The last thing Jane Arnold ever wanted to do was kill a fox. She wouldn’t mind dispatching a few humans, though, one of whom would be at this very ball. She wondered, could you kill a man with a butter knife?

Gray couldn’t find a cigarette. “I am hooked and that’s that.” He came and sat down again, forlornly gazing into his opened Gladstone bag as though it would croak an answer concerning his stud. “I have stopped many times. Then pressure gets to me and I light up. I hate being controlled by an outside substance.”

“I can’t say that I understand. I don’t have an addictive personality. I wish you could stop if only to suit yourself. However, smoking doesn’t make you crazy, you don’t lose your teeth like those pathetic meth people, and it isn’t illegal. And although you say you aren’t moody, honey, there are times when I would happily shove a cigarette in your chiseled lips.”

“You say.”

“Look, you search for your stud. We have three hours until the Ball. I’ll pop around the corner to Madison Avenue. As I recall, there’s a beautiful little tobacco shop there that sells gorgeous small humidors, cigarette lighters, cases from as early as World War One and, of course, tobacco.”

“It’s snowing out there. I’ll go.”

“Gray, that stud is more important than a little snow on my nose. We hunt in weather worse than this.”

“Yes, but you don’t hunt in high heels.”

“I’ll start a fad. I’ve got my pull-on rain boots. My skirt is wool and my sweater is glorious cashmere. You look on your DROID to make sure the store is still operating and I’ll ring up the girls. They can come along to keep me company.”

The girls were two young women, freshmen at Princeton, who had hunted with Sister while attending an exclusive girls’ school, Custis Hall, in central Virginia. They and quite a few other young women hunted with her for the duration of their secondary school education. Some of the faculty hunted, too, always swearing it made environmental studies more exciting for students.

Within minutes, Sister had rounded up one of the girls, Anne Harris—who was called “Tootie.” Using his phone, Gray verified the store was still in business.

“You can calculate minute by minute the national debt on that thing.” Sister admired his toy, as she thought of it.

“If I do that, I won’t enjoy the Ball.”

As it turned out, none of them enjoyed the Ball for entirely different reasons than the national debt.

CHAPTER 2

A gust of wind sent snow swirling around Sister and Tootie as they walked on a side street toward Madison Avenue. “I think there have only been about three times in forty years that I’ve come to this Ball and the weather hasn’t been filthy. No wonder they stop hunting in New York State early. Genesee Valley stops when the river freezes, which has to be now.”