Рита Браун: The Hounds And The Fury

She smiled when she heard his bark, took off her glove, reached into her pocket, and dropped a large milkbone into his den. As she walked back by the covered bridge she passed the grave of Tedi and Edward Bancroft’s eldest daughter, Nola, buried next to Peppermint, Nola’s favorite hunter, a big gray. Snow covered the lovely stone-walled enclosure. The marble grave markers were flat on the land and covered with snow.

Sister paused for a moment. One of the deep bonds she shared with the Bancrofts was that both had lost a child. Unfortunately, Sister had had but one son, whereas the Bancrofts still had Sybil. Sister envied people little in life, but she did envy those with healthy children. Her son, Raymond Jr., had died at fourteen in a tractor accident. He’d be forty-six now.

“You missed a good one today, Nola,” Sister said to the grave marker. “Pepper, you would have loved it, too. We nearly chopped Target, God forbid, and the crows mobbed him across the wildflower meadow. There’s a foot of snow on the ground. Feels like more coming.” She lingered for a moment. A rustle in the bridge told her someone was returning to his winter nest, a brave little wren who had stayed out late. He was scolded by his mate, wrens possessing an infinite variety of scold notes. The spat soon dissipated. She smiled, then added, from Psalm 118:24: “This is the day that the Lord hath made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

As she started the truck Sister hoped that Nola’s soul, for all her wild ways when she was alive, had found peace and joy in whatever lay beyond.

The formidable and incredibly snotty Mrs. Amos Arnold, Sister’s mother-in-law, F.F.V. (First Families of Virginia), had insisted that Raymond Jr., who’d died in 1974, and then Sister’s husband, Raymond, who’d died in 1991, be buried at Hollywood Cemetery in Richmond, a place where a president rested as well as numerous generals, admirals, senators, and other worthies. Sister, although she preferred having her loved ones near, had not protested. It wasn’t that she feared Lucinda Arnold as much as she pitied her. All the old woman had was her bloodlines and her pilgrimages to her own husband’s grave, then that of her son and grandson. In her mid-nineties, she had let these visitations become an obsession, although she seemed in no hurry to join her three beloved men.

Sister turned east after passing through the simple gates to After All Farm. The roads, even the back roads, were clear. Within seven minutes she had turned down the winding dirt road, snow packed, to the old Lorillard place.

She parked the truck and knocked on the faded red door. She laughed to herself that the color could be named “Tired Blood” in honor of the old vitamin ads promising to pep up your tired blood.

“Come on in,” Sam Lorillard’s voice called out.

She opened the door, welcomed by the fragrance of wood burning in the fireplace.

Sam, emerging from the kitchen, brushed off his hands. “Let me take your coat.”

“You’ve accomplished a lot since my last visit.”

“Thanks. Next task, rewire the whole joint. Then replumb. Little by little, Gray and I are getting it done. I’m glad he gave up his rental and moved in with me. We get along most times.”

“Good,” she remarked. During Sam’s long tenure with alcohol the brothers had barely spoken.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“Tea. If you have any. Something hot would be good. Where is Gray, by the way? He left after hunting this morning with Garvey Stokes. I barely had time to speak to either of them.”

“Running late.”

“Ah.” She sat down, her hand gliding over the porcelain-topped kitchen table like the one from her childhood. She traced the red pinstripe along the edge. “Don’t see these anymore.”

“Too practical.” Sam smiled. “Everything today is made to self-destruct in seven years. Our whole economy runs on obsolescence.”

“Is that what you learned at Harvard?”

“Actually, what I learned was to drink with style and abandon.”

She noted all the cookbooks on top of the shelves. “Sam, if you remove those cookbooks I reckon your roof will cave in.”

“That’s our spring project. Rebuild the whole kitchen. No choice but to rewire, then.” He placed a large, dark green ceramic pot of tea before her, along with a bowl of small brown sugar cubes. Then he sat down and poured her tea into a delicate china cup at least one hundred fifty years old. The pale bone china had pink tea roses adorning its surface. “Greatgrandmother’s.”

“M-m-m, the Lorillards knew good things. White Lorillards, too.”

“They knew enough to buy us,” Sam joked. “And we knew enough to buy ourselves free, too.”

“Ghosts. So many ghosts.” She sipped the bracing tea. “Sam, what is this? It’s remarkable.”

“Yorkshire. A tearoom called Betty’s, which has the best teas I’ve ever tasted—and the cakes aren’t bad either. I love the north of England.”

“I do, too. And Scotland.”

A silence followed, which Sam broke. “Funny, isn’t it? The chickens come home to roost. I’m lucky to have a roost.” He stared into his teacup, then met Sister’s eyes. “You know, you were one of the few people who would talk to me down at the train station. You spoke to me like I was still a human being.”

“Sam, no one asks to be born afflicted, and I consider alcoholism an affliction even if there is an element of choice to it. You threw away your education, your friends, but you’ve come around.”

“Rory, too.” Sam mentioned his friend from his train station days who had cleaned up his act, thanks to Sam, and now worked at Crawford’s alongside Sam. “We finished up early today, which is why I called. Thanks for coming over.”

“Visited Target, so it wasn’t far to visit you.” She smiled.

He brightened. “Heard you had a good one.”

“Did. Target damn near got himself killed. So what’s the buzz, Sam?” She got to the point.

“Let me preface this by saying that Crawford can be a peculiar man. He’s egotistical and vain, and it’s difficult for him to realize other people know more than he does in specific areas. On the plus side he’s generous, actually does learn from his mistakes eventually, and he treats me better than most other people would. He’s a good boss. He comes down to the stable, bursting with ideas from whatever he’s just read, but if I take the time to point out what’s commercially driven in those articles along with what has always worked for me with horses, he listens. He’s like most people who didn’t grow up with horses; he thinks he can read about them and become a rider.”

“Woods are full of those.” Sister shook her head. She, like other masters, had seen it all and heard it all.

The hunt field usually sorted people out in a hurry. No matter how bright they were, no matter how much they could talk about staying over the horse’s center of gravity, either they could stick on the horse or they couldn’t. And sometimes even a fine rider couldn’t stick. Sooner or later even the best would eat a dirt sandwich.

“He’s going to start his own pack. He’s found a pack in the Midwest that’s disbanding, and he’s buying the whole works: the hounds, the hound trailer, even the collars. He’s also called Morton Structures to put up a kennel.”

“In winter?”

“He’s clearing out the old hay shed for temporary kennels.”

“Jesus Christ!” She whistled.

“He’ll hunt his own land, obviously, but he’ll poach your fixtures.” Sam was referring to land hunted by Jefferson Hunt; Sister, as master, lovingly nurtured the relationships with the landowners, people she quite liked. “You know, Sister, most landowners don’t understand the rules of the MFHA. They figure if it’s their land they can have anyone hunt it.” He named the Master of Foxhounds Association of America.