Рита Браун - Hotspur

“Hello, Mrs. Ramy.” Shaker smiled.

“Mrs. Ramy.” Doug touched his head with his forefinger in greeting.

Doug, skin color that of coffee with cream, was experimenting with long, thick sideburns.

“Alice, good to see you,” Walter lied convincingly.

“Hmmph.” Alice’s reply sounded like a balloon deflating.

“You know, Alice, we’re building coops here. We could build one for you.” Sister’s eyes brightened.

“Ha! Don’t you dare set one foot on my land.”

“How about a hoof?” Sister felt mischievous.

“Never.”

“Well, Alice, I know you’ve lost more chickens and I know Peter’s harrier hasn’t been off my farm. Now just what or who do you think is dispatching your chickens?”

Alice generally ignored what she didn’t wish to hear, and she did so now. Unbeknownst to her, Aunt Netty was sauntering through the hayfield at that very moment. When she heard Alice’s strident voice she stopped to listen.

Aunt Netty thought Alice a pluperfect fool because she shut her chicken yard gate but she never poured concrete along the edges of the pen. Digging under was a cinch. Netty considered the Ramy residence one big supermarket.

Strolling down the fence line from the opposite direction was Comet, a gray fox, Inky’s brother. He, too, stopped when he caught a whiff of the nearby humans.

“You’ll say anything to hunt!” Alice curled her lip, heavily impacted with hot pink lipstick.

“Of course, Alice, I’m a master.” Sister laughed, but good-naturedly.

She’d known Alice most of her life and while she had never really liked the woman, she’d grown accustomed to her.

Alice put her hands on her rounded hips. “I know what you all are thinking. I know what everyone is thinking. You think Guy killed Nola. He didn’t.”

“I don’t think that for a minute, Alice. Sit down here on the grass with us and have a Co-Cola.” Sister reached into the cooler and handed an ice-cold can to Alice, who accepted the Coke but not the seat.

Aunt Netty’s ears swept forward when she heard the pop of the can’s pull tab. She liked sweets, considering Coke a sweet. She wondered if she could open the cooler when the humans returned to their coops. Might even be doughnuts or brownies in that cooler. Wouldn’t hurt to look.

“Well, a lot of people did.” Alice’s voice softened. “But you didn’t. I remember, you didn’t.”

A slight breeze rolled down over the mountainside, causing the leaves to sway. The old chestnut tree was so huge, Alice was sheltered in its shade even standing yards away from the workers.

Walter spoke in his most soothing baritone, which could be hypnotic. “Mrs. Ramy, finding Nola has shocked everyone. With the advancements of forensic science, we might learn more now.”

“What good does it do?” Alice betrayed more anguish than she wanted.

“I don’t know.” Sister stood up and put her arm around Alice’s shoulder, patting her. “Maybe it will bring peace to Tedi and Edward.”

“Well, it won’t bring peace to me. No one will believe me unless Guy is found. People think he’s in”—she shook her head—“Berlin or Quito or”—her tone darkened— “in this county I hear everything. And I know plenty of people think Paul covered up for Guy. If Guy had killed her, Paul would have brought him in. His own son.” Alice finally decided to sit down.

“I believe he would,” Sister replied.

“Has Ben Sidell visited you?” Walter asked.

“Yes. Impertinent. Ohio.” She uttered “Ohio” as if it were a communicable disease.

“Good farms there.” Sister wished she could think of something to say to make Alice feel better and to go away.

“If they’re so damned good, then let those people go back to them. He accused me of covering for my son. Oh, not in so many words, but that’s what he meant. I should have knocked him down.” She drank her Coke in five big gulps.

Comet crouched down, slinking through the hay, and nearly bumped right into Aunt Netty.

He giggled.

“Hush.” Aunt Netty glared at him.

Comet did stop giggling, but he still had a silly grin on his face. Reds thought they were superior to grays. Comet, a gray, couldn’t have cared less but he did respect Aunt Netty. Her speed and tricks were legendary among foxes.

“He’s been calling on all of us, even people who were children back in ’81,” Sister said.

“I don’t know any more today than I did that September. I never saw Guy again after that Saturday. Never.” She breathed in deeply. “Why can’t the past stay in the past?”

“Never does,” Sister simply said.

“You lost a son and a husband. We’re both all alone.” Alice blurted this out. “Nobody cares what happens to old women.”

“Now, now, Mrs. Ramy, people do care. They do.” Walter was gallant. “And raking up the past, well, it sets teeth on edge. Don’t worry about what people say. They love to talk, don’t they? And the sillier they are, the more they gossip. And furthermore, Mrs. Ramy, you don’t look your age. Don’t call yourself an old lady.” His voice conveyed sympathy and warmth.

“Damn right!” Alice stood up, brushed off the back of her khaki Bermuda shorts. “You know, Jane Arnold, I could never for the life of me imagine why you’d want to be master of the hunt. Too much work and too much danger. But now I know why you do it.” She walked away a step. “You’re surrounded by such handsome men.” With that she climbed over the fence and drove off.

Shaker ran his hand through his auburn curls. “Her elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top.”

“I’d better call on her in a day or two,” Sister said.

“Why?” Doug asked, feeling that Sister had been kind enough.

“Because she’s alone.”

“She brought it on herself, poor thing,” Walter quietly said, and without rancor.

“We all pretty much make the bed we lie in. Or is it lay in?” Sister held up her hand. “Isn’t grammar a bitch? Anyway, she is a neighbor. This is awful for her, too. And who knows, maybe I’ll get us the right to pass through her farm.”

“Spoken like a true master,” Walter said, laughing as he headed back to the coop.

The two coops faced each other from opposite sides of the dirt farm road. During a hunt it was great fun to jump one, canter across the road, and sail over the other. However, some horses would jump out of the hayfield, their hooves would touch the dirt road, and they’d suck back. If the rider didn’t squeeze hard with his or her legs, the horse might refuse the next coop, which meant horses behind would stack up with dolorous results.

Some would fuss because they were ready to jump and the nervous humans messed up their rhythm. Others would think to themselves that this must be quite a scary situation if Old Paint up front had chickened out.

Sister, who also being field master led the field, could never resist slowing a bit to look over her shoulder to see who made it and who didn’t. The results would provoke a stream of laughter back in the tack room or in the kennel as she, Shaker, and Doug finished up the chores of the day. Not that the master herself hadn’t supplied laughter and comment over the years. That’s part of the appeal of foxhunting. Sooner or later, you’ll make a spectacle of yourself.

As the humans returned to their task, Aunt Netty and Comet crept over to the cooler. Netty used her nose to pop the lid right up. Both foxes peered into the ice-filled container.

“No brownies,” Aunt Netty mourned.

“Pack of Nabs.” Comet spied the little pack of orange crackers beloved by Southerners and loathed by everyone else.

“What’s wrong with people?” Aunt Netty moaned. “This should be full of sandwiches, brownies, chocolate chip cookies!”