Рита Браун: Fox Tracks

“We know,” both brothers said in unison.

Tariq, also in the backseat, remarked, “Neither was I.”

“When were you born?” Sam looked at him.

“1986.”

“Well, buddy, it goes fast,” said Sam.

Gray turned on his windshield wipers as he neared a large tractor plowing snow, the driver snug in a heated cab.

“Wonder what he makes an hour?” Sam mused.

“More than you do,” Gray replied.

“Everyone makes more than I do.”

“You’re breaking my heart,” Gray said, then added, “Did Crawford make it home before the storm really hit?”

“Just made it and, you know, a couple of those pellets were close to his eyes,” said Tariq. “He’s actually okay about it. I mean, he’s not mad at Art because he says Art’s too stupid to get mad at. Actually he said, ‘Not the sharpest tool in the shed.’ ”

They crept along, finally able to go thirty-five miles an hour on the freshly cleared part.

Tootie stared out the window, the land resplendent in fresh snow. “It’s good to get out of the house.”

“We were about to drive my beloved crazy,” said Gray.

“Don’t forget we have a five-gallon bucket of kibble with corn oil in it,” Tootie said.

“Why is that?” Tariq inquired.

“Sister says there’s a fox in the barn at Old Paradise. Hounds were heading straight for it. She doesn’t think Crawford knows enough to tend to his foxes so she’ll do it until someone, not her, can teach him.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Sam said. “Tariq, bet you wish you were back with Jefferson Hunt.”

“I do, but he took care of the Rickman mess. I’m grateful and he lends me horses.”

“You’re doing him a favor by riding them in the field,” said Sam. “I can’t ride them all, and Marty, while not a bad rider, can’t really handle a green horse.”

Gray glanced at Tariq in the rearview mirror. “I never asked you where you learned to ride.”

“My father got me lessons as a child in Egypt. Riding, wherever you find yourself, opens many doors. I learned a lot in England, too. In the old days, Nasser and a lot of Army officers rode. Our Olympic teams were pretty much made up of officers or former officers.”

“Used to be that way here, too,” said Gray. “They came from the cavalry and competed in uniform. Looked wonderful. I don’t remember it, but I saw pictures of them.” Gray slowed again as they turned on the road to Tattenhall Station and beyond.

“This hasn’t been plowed,” said Sam. “Bet they don’t get to it until Thursday.” He peered out the window.

“One set of tracks so someone got out.” Gray made sure to get his vehicle in those tracks.

It took them a half hour to reach the entrance to Old Paradise whereas it usually took fifteen minutes.

Turning, Gray noticed that the tracks they followed came from Old Paradise. He passed Alfred’s tidy cottage, then Margaret’s, and finally Art’s, from which the tracks had come.

“Well, Art was the one who got out,” Sam simply noted.

“I’m sure he had a delivery given these long dark nights.” Gray laughed.

“A delivery?” Tariq asked.

“Oh, Art makes moonshine,” said Sam. “Well, he used to. Maybe he had other important business.” Sam paused. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was over at Crawford’s. He does have to see him face-to-face.”

“I was loading up horses. Never saw it, just heard it,” Sam mentioned.

“Me, too,” Tariq said. “I turned and saw Sam running to Crawford. It was snowing hard. So I ran. Art was down on his hands and knees with Crawford.”

“It’s always something,” Gray said, pulling his vehicle near the snowbound two cars. “Let’s see what we can do here.”

They stopped, piled out, and retrieved two snow shovels from the back of the Land Cruiser where a five-gallon bucket with some baling twine wrapped around the handle also sat.

Tariq dug out his car and Sam dug out his.

“Want me to take a turn?” Tootie asked.

Sam grunted. “No, honey. If I can’t dig out my car, I need help.”

“All right then.” She knocked on the window of Sam’s car, where Gray had started the motor, letting it idle.

He rolled the window down. “Yes?”

“I’m going to take the feeder bucket inside.”

“Fine. Let me know if you smell fox.” Gray rolled the window back up.

Tariq had started his car, too, hoping the heat from the exhaust would melt a bit of snow. His years in England taught him a little bit about functioning in snow and cold, but he would never become accustomed to it, beautiful as it was.

He got out, picked up the shovel, and started shoveling out his front wheels.

Tootie slogged to the barn, tried to kick away snow from one door so she could slip in. Without a shovel, this was unpromising. She knelt down in the snow to use her hands. Finally she’d cleared just enough from the front of one of the big doors to crack it open and slip inside.

Looking up, she beheld the rustic beauty of this structure, built to last centuries. February sunlight filtered through the stall windows. They had mesh over them so if they did break they wouldn’t shatter all over the place. The beams were squared tree trunks. She noted everything: the stalls, the old wrought-iron fittings, the hard-packed dirt floor.

Dripping with cobwebs, the inside seemed surreal and majestic. She wondered about the horses who had lived in those stalls.

And, yes, she did smell fox. Carefully walking down the center aisle, she peeked into each stall, for the Dutch doors were opened, fastened to the side.

She found the stall with a large hole in it, a pile of earth around it. The bottom door opened with a creak. She walked softly inside.

Roger heard her and smelled her but the fox didn’t peek. He stayed still to listen.

She looked around for a spot to tie the bucket. No nails protruded low and the hooks for the long-disappeared water buckets hung too high. The thick-planed oak boards for the stall had no spaces between. Defeated on that count, she set the bucket down in the middle of the space. She unwound the baling twine and walked out, closing the door. She knew foxes well enough to know a healthy fox could easily jump to the top of a Dutch door, the bottom part.

Fascinated, she soaked up everything. She touched the saddle racks by each stall door, all made from planed and sanded wood to hang down flat when not in use.

She opened the tackroom door. Again, cobwebs festooned the twenty-by-twenty room. It was planed heavy oak, little lines of caulking between the boards to make it airtight. Bridle half moons lined one wall, permanent saddle racks lined another in two vertical rows. Everything else was handmade of wrought iron, even the lanterns hanging on the walls. Covered with dust outside, their candles were still inside.

Tootie knew this was the saddle horse barn. She wondered how many workhorse barns there had been at Old Paradise—mule barns, carriage barns—all fallen down now, probably. Or if they were still here, she didn’t know where, as she had only hunted Old Paradise a few times while at Custis Hall.

She stood in the tack room marveling at the handiwork, imagining the grooms bustling in and out, knowing that many had been slaves. One couldn’t really appreciate the hands that made this country hum until you saw their fine work.

She could almost hear the talk about poultices, the right bit for a young horse, the pride in breeding fine horses and driving horses, too.

Curiosity got the better of her. Laying the baling twine down, she climbed into the huge hayloft, saw the remains of barn swallow nests tucked into eaves and places where joists were. The birds would be back in the summer. Swallows were reliable that way. Looking all the way up, she saw the barn owl’s nest in the cupola. The barn owl looked down at her.