Рита Браун - Full Cry

“Might I conclude that you are not enamored of democracy?”

“Democracy is running the zoo from the monkey cage.”

“What’s the alternative?” he asked.

“An enlightened despot, whether by birth as a king or queen or someone strong enough to accrue power to themselves. That’s the most efficient system, but we live in times that make that impossible. Democracy has become the Holy Grail of the West, of industrialization, and you know why. Because the real worship is not one man, one vote, it’s one man, one dollar. Commerce drives democracy, not vice versa.”

“I’ll have to think about that.” The firelight accentuated his high cheekbones.

“To change the subject, how long have you been divorced? The women in our club are dying to know.”

A boyish grin made him attractive. “Three years. My two children are grown. Mandy, whom we named for Nelson Mandela, back when he was incarcerated, is thirty-one. She’s a tax lawyer in my firm. I never thought she’d follow in her father’s footsteps. Mandy was the cheerleader/prom queen type, but she is a brilliant tax lawyer.” He stopped himself for a second. “I’m bragging.”

“Please do.”

“Brian, now, he is a maverick if ever there was one. He graduated from the University of Missouri, majored in animal husbandry; his specialty is cattle. He went on and got his doctor of veterinary medicine and now has a practice in Grand Junction, Nebraska. I swear he’s the only black cattle vet in the U.S.” Gray laughed. “Thriving practice. He loves his work.”

“Did you love yours?”

He reached for his coffee and took a sip. “This is delicious. Yes, I did, still do. The tax code will never be simplified in our lifetime because it’s not about taxes; it’s about congressmen distributing the pork. If a congressman from Florida can slip a provision into the code that gives some stone crab producers a big break, he will, and he’ll get re-elected. The hypocrisy of our taxes is outrageous. People focus on the IRS, the symptom of their pain, instead of focusing on Congress, the source of the sickness. There will never be a good tax lawyer out of work. I like it: it’s war without the guns. I go in to win.”

“I never thought of that.”

“I could tell you stories until sunup.”

“I wouldn’t mind.” She smiled.

He smiled back. “When did Raymond pass?”

“In 1991.”

“That long ago? I remember Sam calling to tell me in a sober moment.”

“You wrote a lovely condolence.”

“I liked Ray.”

“Everyone did. He was a big outgoing man who made everyone feel important. And he wasn’t acting. He loved people.”

“He was good to us. I never felt an ounce of racism from Big Ray.”

She stroked her chin for a second. “Not consciously, but by virtue of when we were born and where we were raised, which is to say the United States, damaging concepts crept into our minds. One has to root them out, stay vigilant. Still, Ray trusted people. What I find among most people concerning race is terrible mistrust. It’s a poison. He never had that poison.” She thought for a flash of Mitch and Tony.

“Yes, it is, but how do you wipe out three hundred years of it?”

“You don’t. At least not in a generation or two. But don’t you think if one dwells on it, then one is trapped?” She hesitated. “Hope I haven’t offended you. I know none of us can escape our gender, our age, our race, and those things affect one. The whole world can be against you, but if you view yourself as your enemies view you, you’ve lost. Grab mane and kick on!”

He leaned forward, the warm cup of coffee in his hands. “You know that’s why I admire you. You tell the truth.

Even if it’s painful, you call it as you see it. You said people liked Ray. People like you, Sister, because you’re honest and strong. And you’re not hard to look at either.”

She laughed again. “Gray!”

He laughed, too. “I know what you mean. The question for me as a political animal has always been: How do I address my oppression without being obsessed by it? I made the right decision for me. I became proficient at my profession, and I supported those leaders and causes that I thought would help our people. I also supported causes that have nothing to do with race. I love the symphony and never minded writing a check each year to the Opera Guild. In fact, how lucky am I to be able to give?”

“I feel the same way, although most of my giving is directed toward the hunt club and the No Kill Animal Shelter. Those are my passions. Well, if there’s a woman candidate who looks good, I’ll support her, but so many of them are more liberal than I am. You know, antiguns and all that.” She threw up her hands. “How can you live out in the country without guns?”

“You can’t.” He leaned back in his chair just as Golliwog sauntered through the kitchen.

“Time for treats.” She hopped on the counter to lick the plates.

“Golly, you get off of there,” Sister commanded.

“Make me.” Golly didn’t jump down until Sister came after her.

“All cats are anarchists.” Gray watched the imposing feline give Sister a baleful glance, as though she were the wronged party and not the other way around.

“Maybe I’d better start flying the black flag over the house.”

“Ever read that stuff? Bakunin?”

“No. I read Das Kapital in 1968, hoping it would help me understand the riots here and in Paris. Torture. Anyone who is a communist has a far greater capacity for tedium and repression than I do, tedium being the worst of the two.” She freshened his coffee. “Would you like more Cramant?”

“No, thank you. I have to drive Vagabond and myself back to the barn.”

“Good-looking horse.”

“Jumps the moon. I enjoyed hunting with him in Middleburg.”

“Troy Taylor is a fine huntsman, and Jeff Blue and Penny Denege are good masters. And they’ve got Fred Duncan, former huntsman at Warrenton there, too.”

“We’d hunt with Orange Hunt and Piedmont on occasion, and the last year I was there, I capped the limit at Old Dominion. You know, I had fallen into northern Virginia myopia, thinking that hunting stops south with Casanova Hunt and Warrenton. I’d forgotten just how much fun and how challenging hunting with Jefferson Hunt can be.”

“You couldn’t have said anything that would make me happier! We don’t have as much good galloping territory, obviously. We’re sinking down into ravines and clambering up foothills or mountain sides, especially at our westernmost fixtures, but if you can sit tight, there’s good sport.”

“May I ask you a personal question?”

“You can try.”

“Why didn’t you remarry?”

She took a long sip of coffee. “The truth?” When he nodded, she said, “For the first year after Big Ray’s death, I was numb. The second year I could feel, but it was a dull ache. When Ray died, I was fifty-nine. By the time I started to feel that I could be happy again, I was sixty-two. I thought, ‘I’m too old and no one will want me.’ ”

“Not true, of course.”

“You’re very kind, Gray, and then, then Peter Wheeler began to slow down. Peter and I had had an affair stretching throughout my forties. I stuck close to him. No affair. I mean, that was over, but I suppose I wasn’t emotionally available, even if someone had wanted me.”

“Actually, I think you scare the hell out of most men.”

“I do?”

“You’re six feet tall, probably taller when you were young, as I recall. You ride like a bat out of hell. You go through snow, rain, hail, sun, bogs, over stonewalls and big-ass coops. You come back smiling. You don’t have an ounce of fat on you, at least not that I can see. And you’re the master.”