She rubbed her hair with the towel, tossed it toward the bathroom, shook her head. She brushed out her long sable hair.
“Hell.” She reached for the phone, dialing Doug’s number. The answering machine came on. “Doug, I bet you’re at the stable. I know this is an intense week. Why don’t I take you to dinner after opening hunt? Bye.”
CHAPTER 31
The last week before opening hunt kept everyone frantically busy. Turnout for cubbing was heavy and people who should have been legging up their horses starting in July thought that two shots of cubbing would do it.
Shadbellies for the ladies, weaselbellies or cutaways for the gentlemen, frock coats, Meltons, were brushed out and hung on the line or brought back from the dry cleaner. Caps were knocked off with a small wisk brush as were top hats and the always charming derbies. Spurs submitted to rigorous polishing. Shirts and stock ties were ironed, buttons wiped clean, on the coats. Stock tie pins dangled in open buttonholes, where they wouldn’t be lost in the nervousness of preparation. The last thing a hunter did was to fasten that stock pin horizontally across the tie.
Ties would be four-in-hand or just flipped over in a cascade of white. Not a hint of yellow or gray for opening hunt; those ties had to be white, white, white.
Garters—and many still used them, as was correct—were also polished. They’d be just above the boot line and if a lady or gentleman wore the old buttoned pants, the garter would be between the third and fourth button.
Breeches, whipcord or the newer materials, were checked along the seams, the suede knee patches checked, too.
The one item everyone appreciated most and talked about the least was a good pair of underpants. Anything with a raised seam eventually rubbed your leg raw. A few underpants were even padded on the crotch to protect that sensitive area from damage. Of course, if they were riding properly, the next generation should be safe.
Vests also dotted clotheslines. The fortunate few wore white vests handed down from the nineteenth century and the most proper attire for the High Holy Days of hunting: opening hunt, Thanksgiving hunt, Christmas hunt, and New Year’s hunt.
Most people wore a canary vest. Tattersalls were used during formal hunting but not during the holiest of holies, although a few hunts demanded tattersall in the hunt club colors. A vest in the hunt’s colors was also proper, although few wore them because they needed to be specially made.
Jefferson Hunt, formed by veterans of the Revolutionary War, had Continental blue with a buff piping for its colors. A hunter could earn his or her colors only in the field. No amount of good deeds or financial support could buy colors. They were not given lightly and they were given only at Thanks-giving hunt.
Winning your colors meant a gentleman was entitled to wear a scarlet frock with three buttons. A master rode with four buttons, five if the master carried the horn. A gentleman could also wear a scarlet weaselbelly, which is a coat with tails, with a top hat, colors on the collar. This was the most elegant of all outfits, although a black cutaway or tails might also lay that claim. There was something about a man in tails and top hat, scarlet or black, that proved irresistible to women.
The gentleman with colors was also entitled to wear a contrasting cuff on the top of his black boots. Ideally this cuff would be champagne-colored but that, too, was proving hard to find since World War I. A tan top was now acceptable, although the champagne was coveted and those men who cared paid leather craftsmen or leather buyers to find them the exact right color with the right toughness to withstand the rigors of the hunt. A few men would wear mahogany tops, which were certainly acceptable but actually more proper for coaching.
A woman with colors wore a black coat, frock, Melton or shadbelly, tails, with the colors on the collar. The tops of her boots could be black patent leather.
Both genders also wore the special hunt button if awarded colors. For the Jefferson Hunt it was a simple intertwined JH.
Not only were the clothes being aired out, polished to a mirror shine, inspected and inspected yet again, but the horses were going to the beauty parlor. Braiders, paid plenty, showed up at barns at dawn to weave tight little braids, always on the right side of the neck, yarn the color of the mane woven into them. An even number of braids for a gelding, an odd number for mares was the rule. Many members braided their horse’s manes but as they aged and those fingers hurt on a frosty morning, they engaged braiders. Often the top of the tail had a braid laid into it, a nice touch. Staff might even braid the entire tail and then fold it up, since they traversed rough country. The last thing a whipper-in wanted was his or her horse’s tail dragging thorns or vines. On regular formal days staff executed a mud tail, a simpler version of the braided, folded-up tail.
The night before the hunt, the horses would be washed in special shampoos, some even concocted for the horse’s color. People might put a little Dippity-Do on the manes. The next morning the animals would be brushed down with brushes and then crisscrossed with rubbing cloths until they literally gleamed. Hooves would be painted black or, if white, painted with a clear hoof paint, a mixture that wasn’t like house paint but filled with emollients as well as color. The old adage “No hoof, no horse” was as true today as it was in Xenophon’s day.
The hunters with experience packed a gear bag for themselves and one for their horse. In their gear bag they folded an extra stock tie, extra stock pins, safety pins to help keep the stock tie in perfect position, Vetrap, extra socks, rawhide strings for last-minute tack repair. A pair of white string gloves would be in the gear bag and those would be put under the saddle billets, one on each side, before mounting up. A second pair of formal gloves, ideally deep mustard but tan was acceptable, since deep mustard was hard to come by, was also in the bag—just in case. Gloves seemed to walk away. Hair nets, the color of a lady’s hair, were in the gear bags and if a single gentleman was smart, he’d put a few different-colored hair nets in his own gear bag.
Few things impress a lady more than a single man who has thought of something particular only to women. Fontaine always carried a box of tampons in his trailer. This earned him more than the normal gratitude.
Then there was the question of flasks. Gentlemen could carry a large flask on the left front side of their saddle, above their knee. These expensive heavy handblown flasks with silver tops created instant popularity in the hunt field. Hunting flask recipes were as zealously guarded as four-star-restaurant specials. Invariably, later in the season, one club would issue a challenge to the others as to which person had the best flask contents. Judging this contest was hotly contested itself. Whereas a master might pull out his or her hair trying to find volunteers for fence building, no master ever had to work to find judges for the flask contest.
The contest would take place after that day’s hunt. This meant beds in stables, homes, even horse trailers would be thoughtfully provided.
Ladies, too, could carry a flask but theirs was a small rectangular affair, also handblown, nestled in a square case that also contained a sandwich tin. The smallness of their flask in no way detracted from the lethal contents. Ladies, too, entered the flask contests.
In the old days, masters might spot-check the sandwich tins just like a Corinthian class at a horse show. The sandwich had to be chicken, no mayonnaise, on white bread, crusts trimmed off.
Today few masters were that fierce.
No makeup was allowed on a lady, although lipstick finally triumphed by the 1970s. Small pearl stud earrings were acceptable but most women had learned the hard way not to wear anything in their ears.
Sister Jane, a lenient soul during cubbing, put the fear of God into her field for opening hunt. Years ago she dismissed a very popular lady member for wearing overlarge earrings and too much rouge. She also dismissed a gentleman for having a running martingale on his horse—only a standing one would do. The running martingale’s further strap divides after passing through the neck strap. The standing martingale had one thick further strap and this was the only
proper hunting martingale. Naturally both people were humiliated and furious even though Sister did not single them out verbally but rode up to them and whispered in their ears. The gentleman finally forgave her, since he realized a running martingale could cause harm to the horse and rider even if stops were correctly placed on the tack. Flying through rough and close territory it would be possible for a stop to be torn off or bent in such a way that the rings of the running martingale could flip over a full cheek bit. The chances seemed remote but after a person had hunted for a few decades, he or she had seen a lot of things that could have been prevented with forethought, things that seemed irritating or silly to the novitiate.
The lady, of course, never forgave Sister and harrumphed off to another less strict hunt where she lambasted Sister until that master finally told her it was imprudent to criticize a master to another master.
But every person preparing for opening hunt knew Sister had a sharp eye for turnout as well as territory. Proper turnout is a sign of respect for the master and the landowners.
The hounds, too, prepared for the great day. Anticipation built. Arguments flared. Young entries feared they wouldn’t be called out on this day because the huntsman or the master felt they might fumble the ball. Old hounds counseled the younger ones, often repeating themselves, which only further upset the younger ones, who couldn’t absorb any more information thanks to the tension.
The horses loved the constant grooming. Since they had to follow hounds, the burden of proof was not on them. The excitement rippled through the stable but there was little anxiety with it. A green horse might fret but the tried-and-true hunters believed the foot followers came out to see them. Good manners kept them from saying this to the hounds but every hunting horse believed this and acted accordingly, which caused a snipe and a snip from a few hounds on the great day.
The staff horses affected a world-weariness laced with pride. Being a master’s horse meant one had acquired special knowledge plus one was bold. Lafayette oozed confidence and leadership. The huntsman’s horse also swaggered and the whipper-in horses bordered on belligerent. These paragons would trot or walk by the field horses and bid them hello, a hello bursting with egotism.
The foxes, too, prepared for opening hunt. Since 1782, hunters had gathered on Hangman’s Ridge by the oak tree. When the private packs coalesced into a subscription pack they continued meeting there.
The foxes, knowing this, often slept in on that day. But over the years they learned that Sister Jane and Shaker Crown treated them fairly: no earthmen to dig up their dens, no Jack Russells for the same purpose, no traps, and help for foxes in times of trouble. During the winter of the three blizzards in the mid-1990s, Sister, Shaker, and Doug fought their way through the snows to feed their foxes within a two-mile radius of the kennel. Once the roads were plowed they also drove to the other fixtures and pushed their way through the snows to put out corn, grain, and dog food for all their foxes.
The foxes attributed this to Sister and she was a good master, but the times had changed drastically in America. Few hunts had ever used earthmen or Jack Russells as they were used in England, although hunts in poultry-raising counties did in the old days. Trapping a fox and carrying him to another territory, called dropping a bagged fox, was made illegal by the Masters of Foxhounds Association. Apart from being cruel, it was a serious offense because such a fox could spread disease. The practice could result in a hunt being excommunicated from the MFHA. That meant no other hunt could draft hounds to the excommunicated hunt. No other hunt could enjoy a joint meet with them. No member of a recognized hunt could hunt with them.
Sister believed strongly in sporting chance. The foxes knew that and in gratitude for her work during the year of the blizzards they mapped out their routes for opening hunt to ensure that Sister and the Jefferson Hunt always had a rip-roaring opener. This was one of the few times when the reds and the grays cooperated.
This year they determined to move straight away east for four miles, working in relays, then curve northwest and finally come back to the ridge. They figured this ought to take two and a half hours. They agreed on their checks, too, those places where they’d disguise their scent. Given the importance of the occasion, they demanded that too young or slower foxes stay in, or within fifty yards of, their dens.
They did not want a nonparticipating fox to mess up their route.
Butch would tell his children, “It’s not the hounds you fear on opening hunt; it’s the humans!”
CHAPTER 32
Thursday night as Cody was pulling socks out of her drawer, tossing them all over the bed, a knock at her door disturbed her.
Irritated at the interruption, she opened the door.
“Found her two miles from Roger’s Corner.” Doug had his arm linked through Jennifer’s.
She was too out of it to protest.
“Oh God!” Cody’s face fell. “Bring her inside.”
As Doug propelled Jennifer to the twin bed–sofa, he whispered, “Should you call your mother?”
“Eventually, yes. Right now, no.” She picked up the phone and dialed Dr. Tandy Zacks. After ten minutes of paging, she finally got Dr. Zacks on the phone. She told her what had happened.
“Bring her to me.”
Cody and Doug were surprised to find Walter Lungrun at the rehab clinic but they were soon glad of his presence. As Jennifer began to be more aware of her surroundings she pitched a major, hateful fit. It took the muscle power of both Walter and Doug to restrain her.
After two hours of pure hell, Cody sat down and sobbed. She was struggling for her own sobriety. She didn’t know if she had the strength to struggle for Jennifer’s.
Walter sat with her on one side; Doug was on the other. Dr. Zacks and two other doctors were in another room with Jennifer, who alternated between snarls and sobs.
“Cody, you’ve done all you can do. Let Dr. Zacks call your mother. Jennifer is a minor and we must notify your parents. My advice to you is to go home or go somewhere where people will support you. Go somewhere safe.” He put his large hand on her shoulder while looking at Douglas.
“Mom’s going to need support herself,” Cody said, crying.
“She is. We’ll do what we can.”
“Dad doesn’t get it. I should be here.”
“Cody, you’ve been through enough. You don’t need any more upset. Go on now. If we need you or your mother needs you, you’ll hear from us.”
“She’ll be with me.” Doug scribbled down his number for Walter. “Top one’s the house. Bottom is the barn.”
Still crying, Cody walked out with Doug. She looked over her shoulder and Walter made a pushing-away motion with the back of his hands.
“Oh God, Doug, I’m afraid she isn’t going to make it.”
“But you are.” He wrapped his arm around her waist. “Only Jennifer can save Jennifer. Come on. Let’s pick up your tack and I’ll help you clean it.”
“Already done.”
“Chinese food? We can take it home and be by the phone.”
“Okay.” She wiped away the tears, then reached in her coat pocket for a tissue. “Did she say why she was wandering around out there?”
“She wasn’t verbal.”
“Her car!”
“When it shows up maybe we’ll know where she was.”
It did show up, right at Bobby and Betty’s house.
Jennifer refused to tell who she met or where they went. Mostly she was still screaming obscenities at everyone, especially her mother and father.
When Betty called Cody later she told her she was all right. Cody should stay where she was.
That night Cody curled up in bed with Doug. Snuggled in his arms she finally fell into a sound sleep.
CHAPTER 33
The first frost usually came around the middle of October. The silvering would melt within an hour of sunup and many nights the temperature still didn’t dip low enough for frost. By November the frosts were steadier.
&nbs
p; Sister Jane brought her unwieldy potted ficus tree inside by mid-October, along with two potted Russian junipers, which could withstand the cold, but she’d grown fond of them and thought them decorative. The other potted plants—hibiscus, tiny rosebuds, portulaca, tulips in hopes of spring—had all been covered with a thin layer of straw with about an inch and a half of mulch over that. On the northwest corner of the garden and the back patio she constructed burlap windbreakers. What they lacked in aesthetic appeal they made up in effectiveness. Sister vowed that one day she would figure out an attractive system to protect those plants.
The ficus tree, emphatically healthy, nearly touched the twelve-foot ceiling. The trunk was thick as a strong man’s arm.
Golly lounged in the branches, feeling quite warm toward Sister for providing her with a tree. If in a good mood, she’d swing from limb to limb like a monkey.
If Raleigh offended her, Golly would pull the mulch out of the Russian junipers, scattering it about the floor. Sister would scold the dog, to the cat’s malicious delight.
It was the Friday before Saturday’s opening hunt. Everything that could be done was done.
Sister’s shadbelly, worn on the big days, hung on the old wire mannequin. Sister was one of those people who had to lay her clothes out the night before. Wardrobe decisions and mornings didn’t mix. The cleaned coat hung over the white vest, her great-grandfather’s cut down to fit her, and that was buttoned over a perfect Irish linen hunting shirt she’d picked up at Hunt Country. Her stock tie, same material as the shirt, was draped over the shoulder of the mannequin. The simple gold stock pin was pinned through the bottom coat buttonhole. Her top hat, the true ladies’ top hat, which gracefully curved in toward the brim, hat cord attached, rested on the wire head. Her boots, with a cedar insert to keep them firm, sat under the wire form, the knee-length socks stuffed inside along with a sheer pair of white silk socks in case it was really cold the next morning. Her spurs sat on top of the socks, simple hammerheads. Her mustard gloves, butter-soft, were folded and in her hat. Her father’s pocket watch was in the bottom left vest pocket. A thin, unadorned braided belt, Continental blue, was already threaded through the dark canary breeches laid out on top of the blanket chest, her thin cotton underpants half in, half out of the front pocket.
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