Рита Браун: Full Cry

“All right, you two,” Sister called to the reds, “this will get you through the next week. I’ll be coming your way Thursday. You might consider showing yourselves.”

“Maybe,” Target, huge at sixteen pounds, barked.

Sister turned back. The snow was even thicker now, heavier, and she’d have to stick to the last cut cornrow to find her way.

Sister’s senses, sharper and deeper, connected her to her quarry as well as her horses and hounds; in a profound sense, she was closer to certain species of animals, closer than she was to most people.

Some believed that those who exhibited this unusual closeness had experienced a childhood trauma and that such animal lovers are unable to love or trust other people. But Jane Arnold grew up in a loving home in central Virginia. Her friends were the bedrock of her life. In 1974, when her son died at fourteen, and, in 1991, when Big Ray, her husband, died of emphysema, her many friends and the animals pulled her through.

Her son, Ray Jr., also called “Rayray” by the Musketeers, would have been in his forties now. Odd to think of him as middle-aged. His friends had grown older, but Ray Jr. stayed a teenager. She thought of her son every day. Sorrow had long ago burned off. What remained was a love that lifted her up. She did not talk about this. After all, most people are wrapped up in their own lives. She didn’t begrudge anyone his or her self-interest. And to speak of love beyond the grave, how might one discuss such a thing?

A grave claims the body, but love will triumph over it. Love is the force of life, and of life after life.

Sister brushed off the ATV’s seat, climbed on, turned the key, and headed back to the farm. She’d fed the foxes closest to the farm on the eastern side. Shaker was feeding those on the western side. The people who lived on hunt fixtures, those locations where the club chased foxes, would be out today or tomorrow with food for their foxes. Even the people who didn’t ride took care of their foxes. If someone couldn’t do it, all they need do was call Sister and she’d make arrangements for the welfare of those foxes.

She parked her ATV in the equipment shed. Smoke hung low over Shaker’s chimney. She walked over and knocked on the door.

“’Mon in,” he called.

She stepped inside. “What do you think?”

They’d worked together for two decades. He knew what she was asking.

“I think we’ll have a good New Year’s Day. But you might want to cancel Tuesday and make it up later.”

“I’ve been turning that over in my mind. I’ll put it on the huntline,” she said, referring to the club’s phone number, which people call to get messages about the day’s activities.

“I don’t think the back roads will be plowed out, and Tuesday’s hunt is over at Chapel Cross. That’s a haul under the best of circumstances. Guess I’ll call the Vajays.”

The Vajays, a wealthy family originally from northern India, were enthusiastic supporters of the Jefferson Hunt. They owned Chapel Cross and would need to be informed of the change in plans.

“Take off your coat, boss. I’ll make coffee.”

“Oh Shaker, thanks, but I’d prefer a hot chocolate. You and I haven’t had a minute to catch up. Christmas makes us all nuts. Thank God we don’t do Boxing Day.”

Boxing Day, December 26, was a big hunt day for some American clubs and for all the clubs in Great Britain.

“Got a white Christmas this year, though. Made everyone happy.”

“Yes.” She hung her coat on a wall peg, opened the outside front door, and shook off her cowboy hat. After she closed the door, she stamped her boots, untying and removing them. Her stocking feet felt the coolness of the uneven-width heart pine floorboards.

“Someone needs to darn her socks.” Shaker pointed to a hole in her left sock.

She sighed. “I haven’t bought new clothes in years. Jeans, hunt clothing, but no real clothes. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I actually like clothes.”

“No time to shop.” He put on a pot of hot water. She joined him in the small kitchen.

Shaker, a tidy person, liked to entertain. His wife, who had left him four years earlier, had always pulled social events together. When they were together, the dependency was regularly filled with people and laughter. But Mindy, much as she admired her husband, found the long hours of a huntsman and his total dedication to the hounds displeasing. She needed more attention and more money. She left him for a well-off man in Fauquier County. By all reports, she was happy. She was also driving a BMW 540i.

Shaker put out a box of cookies. They sat down.

Sister reached for a sugar cookie. “Before I forget, neither Alice nor Lorraine is particularly a strong woman. Once the snow stops, we ought to go over there tomorrow and see what needs to be done. You can fire up Alice’s tractor and plow. I’ll feed the chickens and dig out the house.”

Alice Ramy studied at Virginia Tech three days a week. She rented and shared her farm with Lorraine Rasmussen and her daughter, Sari—a good arrangement for all.

“Sure. Call and see if they need anything. We can bring it over.”

“Okay.” She drank her hot chocolate, happy that Shaker hadn’t figured out her hidden agenda concerning Lorraine Rasmussen.

She loved the concreteness of men, particularly Shaker. However, they often missed subtle emotional signs. He was lonely. A good man, he would never be rich or even middle class. But Shaker loved what he did, and he was good at it. That counted for a lot in life.

With the right kind of setting and a little help from friends, Shaker might discover Lorraine Rasmussen and vice versa.

CHAPTER 4

The snow still fell in the Sunday twilight, shrouding the imposing stone pillars to Beasley Hall. The tusks of the two exquisitely rendered bronze boars, now covered in white, glowed even fiercer in the bluish light.

These boars had cost $25,000 apiece when Crawford Howard purchased them eleven years ago. An arrival from Indiana, Crawford made a fortune building strip malls throughout his home state. Upon visiting Monticello in his early thirties, he’d fallen in love with central Virginia. Once he made enough to feel truly secure, he moved to the area and promptly became a member of the Jefferson Hunt. This was complicated somewhat by the fact that he couldn’t ride the hair of a horse. Determination and ego kept him taking lessons for years until he finally edged up from the Hilltoppers to First Flight. Not everyone in First Flight welcomed his graduation, for, although he could usually keep the horse between his legs, he knew precious little about foxhunting.

A man of many vanities, he endured liposuction, a face-lift, and hair plugs. Yet, Crawford had good qualities. Highly intelligent, he was not bound by the Virginia Code: a complex ritual of behavior rivaling the eighteenth-century courts of Europe. Upon reflection, Virginia was still in the eighteenth century. Of all the southern states, Virginia and South Carolina were the strongest in their labyrinthine codes. Crawford thought outside the code, and sometimes even his good ideas and insights ruffled feathers. Sister Jane, herself a product of the code, squelched her distaste and listened to him. Being a good leader, Sister knew you used the material at hand.

At first Crawford couldn’t stand Jane Arnold. She could ride like a demon. He hated being physically shown up by a woman, especially one nearly twenty-five years older than himself. She circled around problems and people instead of striking straight to the heart of the issue, which drove him crazy. Unless she was dealing with someone extremely close to her, Sister took her time, stepped lightly, and tried to help antagonists save face. In time, he learned to respect her methods just as she learned to respect his.