“Why are you supporting Crawford?”
Knowing he hadn’t told anyone but his wife as well as hinting to Sister, Bobby nonetheless knew that his lunch with Crawford at the club had to have been reported.
“The money.”
“I’m hardly a pauper.”
Bobby felt a tightness across his huge chest. Tiptoeing around Fontaine’s financial history he said, “Of course not.”
“Crawford Howard will alienate everyone in the club sooner or later.”
“I fear that,” Bobby honestly answered.
“Then why in bloody hell are you supporting him?” He kept his voice low, a light voice for such a butch-looking man.
“He knows how to generate money.”
“Off other people’s hides.” Fontaine displayed the aristocrat’s disdain for trade.
“I’m afraid that’s true, too, but half the fortunes in this room were made off other people’s hides. That they were done so long ago simply sanitizes them,” Bobby shrewdly said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
Walter finished out the game. “Guess I had a lucky run.”
Each player handed him five dollars.
“More than luck.” The president smiled. “I don’t know if I can afford another game.”
“You break.” Fontaine picked the smooth balls out of the pocket.
“How much?” The president brushed his sandy hair from his forehead.
“Five dollars,” Fontaine said, then remembered his guests who were sitting. “Bobby and I will bow out. Ronnie, Ralph, up next? Ready?”
“Sure,” they said.
Fontaine walked over to the bar, pouring himself a brandy and one for Bobby. Not a true drinker, Fontaine would sip socially. He’d snorted two lines of good cocaine after dinner. Retiring to his own bathroom away from everyone, he quickly inhaled his stimulant of choice. A touch of booze after that put him in a mellow yet quite clearheaded state. He could take or leave drugs. He knew most people couldn’t. He genuinely liked coke but he watched himself. He’d seen men ruin careers and families thanks to the white powder.
“Bobby, I give you a lot of business and I bring you a lot of business.”
Bobby’s bushy eyebrows shot upward. Crawford was a cornucopia of business, too. “You do and I am grateful.”
“We’ve known each other all our lives. I can’t believe you’d do this to me.”
“I’m not doing anything to you. I’m trying to . . .”
He didn’t finish because Walter joined them, having just won the game in record time. “May I?”
“Of course. Brandy?”
“No thanks. Soda water.”
“Not a drinking man?” Bobby mildly asked, knowing that Walter’s father sure was.
“No, not much. Seeing the insides of alcoholics cured me of any desire to be a drinking man. That . . . and Dad.” Walter smiled.
“You must hate Crawford Howard.” Fontaine, wanting Bobby to hear this, asked.
“I do,” came the swift reply.
“How old were you when all that happened? Twelve? Fifteen? Time goes by so fast.” Fontaine swilled the deep golden amber liquid in the glass.
“Fifteen.” Walter leaned his arm on the bar, putting his foot on the brass footrail.
“Painful.” Bobby lifted the brandy to his lips.
“It was but, Mr. Franklin . . .”
“Call me Bobby.”
“Thank you. I will if you’ll dispense with Dr. Lungrun.” He nodded. “Anyway, I learned. I learned self-reliance. I learned I wasn’t the center of the universe. Mom needed help and I learned to put the family first. As much as I hate Crawford Howard, in a sense, he made a man out of me.”
“You made a man out of you.” Fontaine placed his glass on the countertop. “Plenty of other young men would have escaped somehow—booze, drugs, women, you name it.”
“Why did you come back?” Bobby was genuinely curious.
“I love this place. I came back for Mom. It’s what she wanted.”
Neither Fontaine nor Bobby could think of what to say until finally Fontaine said, “We’re glad of that.”
Harry Xavier, having cleaned up at the card table, stood, shoving money in his pocket. “Dr. Lungrun, you young pup. I’ll take you on at the pool table.”
The men crowded around. Xavier’s skills had emptied many a wallet.
Back in the drawing room the ladies surprised themselves with their vehemence. It began innocently enough with Betty Franklin mentioning Peter Wheeler “hunting” from the back of his pickup.
The disposition of his property, on everyone’s mind, provoked the heated exchange.
Tinsley Wetherford Papandros declared that Peter should have settled his estate years ago. In his decrepit condition he could fall prey to whoever offered the most money.
Isabel Rogers, a tawny beauty, backed up Tinsley, saying the least he could have done was put the land in conservation easements.
Betty replied that was all very well for a rich person to say. Isabel was rich, but if Peter had done that he would have devalued his land. Only someone who wanted to farm would buy it.
“Devalue the land? What about the environment!” Lisa Bredell nearly shouted. She was president of the Blue Ridge Conservation Council. “There isn’t going to be anything left for our grandchildren.”
“Don’t overstate your case,” Sister dryly said.
Lisa wheeled on Sister. “You of all people should know what I’m talking about. There won’t be any land for your precious hunting.”
“Don’t talk to Sister like that,” Betty firmly said.
“She’s not God,” Lisa popped off. The champagne loosened her tongue.
“She is on the hunt field.” Sorrel laughed, hoping to restore harmony.
“It’s primitive,” Lisa, not a Virginian, stated.
“We don’t kill the fox.” Betty felt hot anger rising in her throat.
“How do you know? You all will say anything so you can charge over the countryside shouting ‘tallyho’ or whatever you shout.”
“Of course we know,” Sister, fighting back her own anger, said. “If the hounds killed a fox, they’d be covered with blood. The pieces of the fox would be there for us to see. You overestimate human intelligence, Lisa. The fox is smarter than we are, than the hounds, than the horses.”
“Certainly smarter than Fontaine.” Sorrel laughed and most of the ladies laughed with her.
“Back in the late seventies the sport began to change. Not that we could catch the fox but we tried. Now we’ll call off the hounds,” Betty reported.
“How?” Lisa’s lower lip jutted out in stubborn disbelief.
“The horn. Hounds are taught to obey the commands the same as cavalry officers obeyed the bugle.” Sister, unless in hunting company, did not discuss her passion at social events. However, Lisa, Tinsley, and Isabel were not convinced.
Sorrel passed around small chocolate cookies. “Ladies, go to opening hunt. See for yourself.”
“When is that?” Tinsley asked.
“First Saturday in November. There’s a wonderful breakfast afterward. You’ll enjoy it.” Sister smiled although she felt like slapping their faces.
“All right,” Lisa said, half-defensively.
“Will Peter Wheeler be there?” Isabel inquired.
“He hasn’t missed opening hunt since he returned from World War Two. Or at least that’s what he tells me.” Betty laughed. “That was before my time.”
Sister, knowing what Isabel was after, which was to woo Peter into signing a conservation easement, said, “He’s an old man. He doesn’t know how to use a computer. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t have an answering machine. He figures if it’s important, you’ll drop by. He doesn’t own a fax, a video machine, and he doesn’t have a satellite dish either. He’s a country man who loves country ways. He knows more about the environment than all of us put together but Peter isn’t going to sign anything that limits his options.”
“But it’s to protect the environment!” Isabel protested.
“For you. Not for him.” Sister plainly stated the truth, which, as always, is hard to swallow.
Before Isabel could further hector Sister and Betty, Sorrel reached for her elbow. “Come on, I want to show you that fabric.”
Isabel hesitated, then stood up.
“Tinsley and Lisa, join us.”
A command is a command no matter how nicely put. The two placed their small plates on the coffee table, falling in behind Sorrel and Isabel.
“Ladies, we won’t be long,” Sorrel called over her shoulder.
“Take your time,” Betty said, a hint of malice in her voice.
Sister leaned over to Betty. “How are the girls?”
“I don’t know. We aren’t supposed to communicate. Part of the program. I pick them up Tuesday evening.”
“I pray for them. It’s about all I can do.”
“Me, too. I’ve had to relinquish my ideal of the omnipotent mother. I thought I could bind all wounds, create all happiness.” She sighed deeply. “I liked it when they were small. I really was the most important person in their world.”
“It’s a bit like getting fired, isn’t it?” Sister said.
“It is. Well,” Betty waved her hand. “I don’t want to talk about it. There’s nothing I can do at this point. But before I forget it, I want to go on record.” She whispered into Sister’s ear, “I am not in agreement with Bobby. I do not support Crawford. Absolutely not.”
“What are you girls whispering about?” Kitty English, an attractive middle-aged woman, crossed the room.
“You.” Sister laughed.
“Me? What have I done?”
“Best basketball coach the university has ever had. Better than the men.” Betty adored women’s basketball.
“And I want to know where you bought those shoes. Just enough heel to look spiffy but not enough to break your neck.” Sister admired the low heels.
“Oh, that.” Kitty plunked herself down on the sofa and they merrily chattered away about shoes, high heels versus low heels versus total rebellion against fashion—always said, never practiced. They talked about basketball and lacrosse, the endorsement deals of professional athletes, and how many of them wind up in court for violence. They decried the lack of any good women’s clothing store in town. All three of them hated driving to Washington, D.C., which wasn’t that good for women’s clothing anyway, and Richmond, which was a fashion joke. They agreed one had to go to New York City, but who could afford it? Then Kitty shared her secret: Charlotte, North Carolina. Five hours by car and two really wonderful women’s stores.
By the time Sorrel returned with her environmental trio, high spirits had been restored.
CHAPTER 23
The long corridor between both halves of the new wing of Central Virginia Hospital, lined with large square windows, let in the light. The old part of the hospital, built in the thirties out of brick, although renovated, was dark and depressing by contrast.
Having been in the operating room since seven that morning, Walter was glad to see natural light. He loved his work although at times the sheer intensity of operating drained him. He started med school thinking he would become a surgeon but discovered neurosurgery fascinated him. The hardwiring of the human body, an astonishing edifice, amazed him and not the least because nerves could regenerate. Without his being fully aware of it at the time, regeneration was a necessity in his own life.
Dr. Thesalonia Zacks, young and pretty, called Tandy by her friends, met Walter and they walked to the small cafeteria on that side of the hospital.
One black coffee and a turkey sandwich later, Walter was feeling better.
“Don’t know why, but all the research indicates people addicted to drugs, alcohol, even cigarettes”—Tandy emphasized “even”—“don’t feel pleasure to the level of most of us. The substance enhances pleasure for them, whether it’s nicotine or whiskey or even sugar. The old saw is it passes in families and it does but we still can’t explain why, say, child A of an addicted parent does not become an addict whereas child B does. The truth is we are on first base with research and that’s because for decades, for centuries, medicine viewed alcoholism or drug addiction as a personal failing.”
“No one puts a gun to anyone’s head and says, ‘You will smoke a cigarette today.’ There is an element of choice.”
“Yes, but there again—to what level—we don’t know. Walter, I have had patients tell me they had their first drink at age twelve and knew they had to have more. Often they didn’t even like the taste.”
“How did you become interested in this?”
“My mother. Alcoholic.”
“My father.”
Their eyes met, a sense of understanding between them. “Is he still alive?”
“No. He killed himself when I was fifteen. He’d lost everything in a bad business deal. He drank more and more until he disappeared down that bottle. Death may have been the easy part for Dad.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What about your mother?” he asked.
“She’s still alive. My father left her. My two brothers refuse to have anything to do with her. She’s a binge drinker. She can stay dry for six months, eight months, and then she’ll buy six bottles of vodka, lock herself in the house, and drink until she’s wiped them out.” She held up her cup for more coffee. “Of course, this stuff is addictive, too. I read somewhere that Voltaire drank sixty cups of coffee a day.”
“If it would make me as intelligent as he was, I might try it.” Walter accepted a refill, too. “The Franklin girls are being released today. Right?”
“Right.”
“How do you think they’ll do?”
“They have as good a chance as any. The parents are supportive. The mother more so than the father. He’s not hostile but he still doesn’t get it. Betty said she’d spoken to you.”
“Yes, at Fontaine Buruss’s party. She asked me to check in. I’m glad I did. Your program is impressive.”
“It is and it isn’t.” She leaned back in her seat to stretch out her long legs. “I don’t like treating drugs with drugs. In some cases it’s the only treatment we have. Especially heroin users. My personal feeling is we substitute one dependency for another but if we don’t use what little we have available to us they often backslide. You know the story.” She appraised Walter. He was more handsome than she remembered from passing him in the halls. “Fortunately, that’s not the problem for Cody and Jennifer. Cody has a longer history of abuse, obviously. She’s burned more bridges behind her and has more messes to clean up. Jennifer’s rebelling and the drugs are mixed in with that so-o attractive stage of life. How does anyone survive adolescence? I didn’t smile from age eight to twenty because of my braces.”
“Good orthodontist.”
She laughed. “Thank you. Do you know Cody and Jennifer well?”
“No. I know Betty and Bobby somewhat. I grew up near here. Kids don’t pay much attention to older people. I’ve started foxhunting and that’s how I’ve come into contact with the Franklins again.”
“The girls are very beautiful.”
“Pretty is as pretty does.”
“Men don’t usually say that.”
“Then you’re talking to the wrong men.”
“Not now.”
He laughed. “Keep talking.”
“Really. My experience with men is that they are completely undone by looks. That’s why Cody has gotten away with her addiction as long as she has. There’s always a man to rescue her. Only makes it worse, of course.”
“I’d rather look at a pretty woman than not, but maybe I’ve seen enough in my life to know that if there isn’t more, it’s never going to work. You know?” He leaned forward. “One of the most fascinating and beautiful women I know is seventy years old. She walks into a room and you can’t look at anyone else. She’s electrifying and on a horse she truly is the goddess of the
hunt.”
“Jane Arnold.” Tandy smiled. “Yes, Cody and Jennifer have mentioned her. She scares them half to death. I’d like to see her.”
“Opening hunt is the first Saturday in November. Ten o’clock at Sister Jane’s place, Roughneck Farm. If you’d like to come, I’ll call Sister Jane.”
“I can’t ride.”
“Don’t have to. Come and enjoy the spectacle and then eat all that good food.”
“Thank you. I don’t have my Filofax with me but if I’m free I’ll call you. I’d like to see a hunt.”
“Before I forget. Do you know where the girls get their drugs?”
“If I did, I’d tell the sheriff. Even in rehab people protect their sources. Talk about misplaced loyalty but . . . There’s something more going on. Cody’s not protecting a dealer boyfriend. I don’t know what it is. I just know there’s something more.”
CHAPTER 24
“You people make me sick.” Alice Ramy shook her finger in Sister Jane’s face. “You think you can do whatever you please. A bunch of rich idiots!”
“Alice, show me the hound.”
Without a reply the disgruntled Alice, as wide as she was tall, waddled out to her chicken coop. The plump bodies of chickens lay about inside and outside the coop.
Rooster, Peter’s harrier, rested amid the carnage.
“I locked the gate. I’m not touching him. You take that damn hound out of here and you pay me for my chickens!”
Sister opened the gate. “Hey, Rooster.”
The harrier pricked his ears. “I’ve been framed!”
Sister quietly approached and petted him. “It’s Peter Wheeler’s hound. He’s bred to run rabbits, small game.”
Alice grumbled. “I’ll call the animal control officer.”
“Don’t do that. I’ll take him to Peter.”
“Thank you. I didn’t kill these chickens but I’d like to eat one. I’m afraid of that harpy, though.”
“He ought to be shot!”
“Alice, if this hound had killed these chickens, he’d have eaten at least one. Have you counted your dead?”
Alice quickly counted the two roosters and seven hens.
A cluck from under the henhouse gave hope to all.
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