Рита Браун - The Hunt Ball

Betty was scribbling on a notebook Sister had given her. “Your job is to show sport. Our job is to show we’re sports.”

“What a good way to put it,” Marty agreed. “Well, this will be the hunt ball to end all hunt balls.”

“Key position: head of the silent auction. Hunt balls can’t pay for themselves. The silent auction is your one hope to get in the black.” Betty reminded them of the ever-present need for money. “How’s Sorrel Buruss doing on getting items?”

“So far so good. She’s gotten the usual stuff—framed prints, weekend getaway spots, and dinners. What we’re lacking are the big, flashy items,” Marty answered.

They chatted awhile longer, drew up lists, again picked through the budget.

They experimented with different days over the years, throwing the ball the evening of Opening Hunt, or the evening of Closing Hunt. They found December to work the best. Everyone was in a holiday mood, people could get off work, and the bills had not rolled in to spoil everything. This year’s ball was set for Saturday, December 17.

The venue, the Great Hall at Custis Hall, had been used by Jefferson Hunt for over one hundred years. The vaulted ceilings added a medieval air to the many celebrations, concerts, convocations that took place there.

Ten years ago the whole facility had been rewired, refurbished. A rock band could play without frying the electrical system.

The serving kitchen had also been updated.

The Great Hall supplied Custis Hall with bonus money, as groups would rent it to the tune of thirty-five hundred dollars before food, service, linens, tables.

Given the long relationship with Jefferson Hunt, the club need only pay for the food, service, and tableware.

Their century-plus relationship was the reason Jane Arnold sat on the board of directors. The senior master of the hunt club had served in this capacity since 1887.

As the ladies finished their coffee and biscuits, wrapping up details, Marty’s cell rang.

“Hi, honey,” she answered. “You’re exactly right.” She listened some more. “I’ll be home shortly. At least you and Sam could hunt this morning before all this happened.” More listening. “You know best.” She made a big smooching sound. “Bye bye.” She pressed the off button. “His computer blew up again. I use my Dell, got a good deal, and I have a real nice printer. Whole thing about nine-fifty.” She laughed. “But Crawford hires some geek from New York, builds the whole deal, has to have an ASUS motherboard, this bell and that whistle. And now my dear, darling husband is on the phone once a day to this computer whiz because he can’t figure out how to work the expensive piece of junk.” She sighed dramatically. “Men.”

“Boys and their toys,” Betty laughed.

“I can’t pick on them. I’m just as bad. If there’s a gadget in the hardware store that promises bliss, I buy it.” Sister’s workshop bore testimony to this small passion.

“Before I forget. Are you going to make an appearance at Custis Hall’s Halloween party?” Betty asked the master.

“No, are you?”

“We’ll be there,” Betty replied.

“Crawford and I will be going, too. That’s our second stop that Saturday. Halloween is a major party night.” Marty smiled. “Full moon on the seventeenth. There won’t be enough light to cast an eerie glow.”

Halloween fell on Monday this year, but all the parties would be on Saturday, naturally.

“Well, I know Charlotte will be glad you all are attending. I can’t go. Delia might whelp that night. I don’t want to leave her because I told Shaker he could go to the party with Lorraine at the firehouse. He was going to sit up with Delia. He hardly ever gets out. He is the most conscientious man. We’re lucky to have him.”

“Hear. Hear.” Betty adored the huntsman.

“This thing with Lorraine might just work out,” Sister winked.

The phone rang. Sister got up. Caller I.D. showed the number was Charlotte Norton’s.

“Excuse me, girls.” Sister picked up the phone. “Charlotte, hello.” She listened. Then she listened intently. “I see.” She was quiet again, then said, “Well, it can’t be ignored, but perhaps it can be contained.” More listening. “A special meeting Tuesday afternoon.” She checked her wall calendar. “I’ll be there. We’ll be finished hunting. Actually, you might need the exercise to get your blood up for all this.” She scribbled on the calendar with a 0.7 thickness of lead mechanical pencil. “I’ll be there and let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

As she hung up, Betty’s eyebrows raised, she pursed her lips. “What?”

“There’s been a protest at Custis Hall. About fifty girls, black and white, called the school a plantation. They appear to be particularly upset over the displays.”

“What, a bunch of dresses and hair ribbons?” Betty threw up her hands.

“The girls feel there has to be better recognition of slave contributions. That’s what I’ve gotten out of this so far. Charlotte said she’ll be meeting with the girls to dig underneath.”

“The girls may have gone about it the wrong way, but we do need to recognize slaves’ work. History, at least the way they taught it in Indiana when I was in school, was and probably still is about great men and wars.” Marty, a liberal in most respects, instinctively sided with the protesters.

“Who will ever know the truth?” Sister shrugged as she sat back down. “Whoever wins writes history. The truth has nothing to do with it.” She stopped herself. “Well, I doubt this protest will dampen the Halloween dance.”

“Oh, it will all blow over,” Betty predicted.

C H A P T E R 6

The ivy climbing over the brick buildings of Custis Hall swayed gently in the light breeze.

This October 29 the twilight surrendered to darkness after a sunset of flame gold and violet.

The air already carried a bite to it. Revelers slipped through the various quads. The parking lot behind the Great Hall was filled with faculty cars, administration cars, and one white Miller School bus disgorging the boys in costumes. One fellow came dressed as Queen Christina of Sweden, an interesting twist since she often dressed as a man. The other young men wore clothes reflecting manly images: pirates, cowboys, spacemen, Batman, Spiderman, a robot, generals from all epochs, Richard Nixon, and a few desultory ghosts.

William Wheatley, head of the theater department, prided himself on the high level of teaching in his department.

Tonight, the girls specializing in set design made him proud. Bill was nearing retirement. This year would be his last hurrah.

Al Perez, one of the chaperones, dressed as Zorro, stood outside the massive front doors to greet the partyers. Valentina Smith, as senior class president, stood next to him. Charlotte Norton flanked her. The other uncostumed chaperones—Amy Childers, Knute Nilsson, Bunny Taliaferro, and Bill Wheatley—moved through the crowd, stopping to talk to students. From time to time, Knute would slip out back to check the parking lot. The kids were ingenious in sneaking weed and booze.

Green light bathed the outside doors. Inside, three-foot wall sconces flickered with fake flames, while the other sconces were held by dismembered hands à la Cocteau’s Beauty and the Beast. The girls had done good work.

The light from both the permanent and the theater-built sconces infused the Great Hall with splashes of light in ponds of shadow.

A giant spiderweb hung overhead with a large black widow, her red eyes complementing the red hourglass on her body. She slid up and down the main strands of her web, causing shrieks from the costumed humans below. Smaller spiderwebs, dusted in various colors, blacklit, added to the scary decor. Witches flew about on brooms, the whir of motors distinguished as they passed over. The moan of a werewolf swelled into a howl and blended into the screams. A fake moon rose behind the stage constructed for the band.