“A lot to remember, but your mother must have remembered everything.”
“That she did.” Sister walked along the center aisle, placing the halters and attached lead shanks on the brass hook on the side of each door. “Can’t let Lafayette grab his halter. For whatever reason, that horse lives to destroy leather. He’s happy with his gel pad though, now that I had another one sent. I’ll never be able to take the one in the kitchen from Golly. She’d tear down the house.” Sister paused, then laughed. “How could I miss what’s under my nose? Golly and Lafayette are good friends. They egg each other on to demolish whatever they can.”
Also hanging up halters and shanks, Tootie asked, “Did your mother love animals?”
“Good Lord, mother picked up every stray, every unwanted animal she ever saw or even heard about. She’d get in the station wagon, had wooden sides, and off we’d go. My poor father put up with it. Well, he loved her. We all did. Especially the rescued animals.” Sister laughed.
Just as Bitsy was looking down, Tootie looked up. She said, “My mother isn’t hard-hearted, exactly, but she never wants anything to be trouble.”
“A lot of people are like that. Inanimate objects have more value than living things.”
“Odd, isn’t it?”
“I know what I was going to say before I went off on a trip down Memory Lane. Mother used to say, ‘Movement is the best of conformation.’ Remember that.”
“I will.”
As they threw down three flakes of hay for later, when they’d bring the horses back into the barn, they heard the outside tackroom door open and close. The door into the center aisle opened.
Gray shoved his gloved hands into his pockets. “You’ve got puppies.”
Sister was confused. “I haven’t bred anyone.”
“A stray crawled into the hound trailer, the side door was open, and she had four puppies in that deep straw. I put out food and water for her.”
“Great day.” Sister stood, then moved toward the ladder up to the hayloft. “And I was just talking about my mother, Sister Teresa to all abandoned animals.”
“Do you have an empty stall?” asked Gray. “I think we should move her into the barn and put down an old blanket.” He looked up as Sister threw down a plastic garbage bag from a storage area in the loft. It was filled with blankets in need of repair.
“Bombs away.” She then said, “Tootie, pick out the best blanket from the bag and get that back stall ready. I’ll go help bring mom and the puppies in.”
Walking through the snow with Gray, heads down, Sister asked, “Is she mean?”
Gray shielded his eyes. “I don’t think so, but we haven’t handled her puppies yet.”
The aluminum trailer afforded protection from the storm. The straw helped with the cold, but the barn would be better.
Sister knelt to pet the dog’s head, a mix, but some boxer was in there. “What a good girl you are. Four beautiful puppies.”
The exhausted dog wagged her tail.
“Why don’t you carry the puppies and I’ll carry her?” said Gray. “She’s tired and I don’t know if she’ll follow us, although she’ll probably follow her babies.”
“Yeah, but we don’t want to expose them to the storm. Let me run into the kennel. I’ve got some old towels there. We can wrap the puppies and I’ll carry them inside my coat.” Sister left and was back in ten minutes because the slow going just ate up time.
Gray gently lifted the mother up and she offered no resistance as Sister carried the puppies in a towel.
Together they made their way back to the barn, carefully depositing their burdens in the now fixed-up stall. Tootie put a water bucket in there with a plate of kibble. She added more wood shavings to the stall floor so they were deep. Two blankets had been arranged in the corner. Gray laid the mother down as Sister placed the puppies at her side.
Tootie knelt down to stroke her head. “She needs a name.”
“We’ll think of one.” Gray smiled. “She should be fine in here. How smart of her to find the hound trailer.”
“I bet she’s been at the edge of this farm for a while, but clever enough for us not to find her,” Sister remarked.
Back in the kitchen, they watched the Weather Channel, which promised the storm would abate in early evening.
Gray called his brother. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow and we’ll fetch your car,” said Gray. “The Land Cruiser can go through anything, even this snow.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Sam. “Tariq’s car is there, too. I know my old Outlander can make it, but I don’t think his car has four-wheel drive. Might. There was so much going on I didn’t pay attention.”
“I can imagine,” Gray replied. “As I recall he drives an old Saab. Front-wheel drive. He might make it out if he stays in our tracks. Well, the first thing is, this storm has to stop. The big roads will get plowed out first, so we might have a hell of a time getting back to Old Paradise.”
“Isn’t going to be that easy getting here to the house either.”
“No problem, Brother. You’re going to drive the old tractor down the drive and cut big deep tracks for me. I told you we should buy a snow plow.”
“I don’t have enough to pay for my half. Besides, Gray, how often do we get a snow like this?”
“Yeah, yeah. First thing tomorrow morning, your ass better be in that tractor seat.” Gray laughed, then hung up.
The quiet day restored their energy. Being cut off lets the mind go free and the body repair. Even the nighttime chores were fun, as the snows turned deep blue with the fading light.
All was well, even for a stray dog and her four newborn puppies.
The humans sat in the den after supper, Tootie on her laptop, Sister doing needlepoint, and Gray rereading Schumpeter. Gray closed the book for a moment, reached over on the coffee table, and slipped a cigarette out of the pack.
He read the fine print on the cigarette. “Camel.”
“I looked everywhere for soft packs and those were the only ones I could find.”
Tootie looked up from her research on equine veterinary history. “We had to buy a carton because Sister knew we’d destroy some packs.”
“Why is that?” Gray lit the unfiltered Camel, surprised at how it tasted. It had been decades since he’d smoked a Camel.
Wasn’t bad.
“We had to carefully unglue each pack, then turn it inside out so it would be white.”
“Janie!” He laughed. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to fold white paper?” He picked up the pack. “How many packs did you ruin before you got it right?”
“Eight,” Sister replied.
“We wanted to have more to give out, but it was too hard,” Tootie said. “But the American Smokes graphic looks really good.”
He looked up at the pack again. “Does.” Took a few more puffs. “Damn, these burn fast.”
“Less tobacco than the old days,” said Sister. “All the popular and discount brands are cheating on content.”
Snubbing out the cigarette, Gray blew smoke from his nostrils. “Pisses me off.”
“Pisses me off when you smoke in the house,” Golly complained from the desk.
“What are you reading on your computer? You’ve been as quiet as a mouse,” Sister asked Tootie.
“There are no mice in this house,” Golly grandly announced. “I patrol the place. I am a first-class mouser.”
“Smoking opium,” Raleigh, a snoot full of tobacco smoke, said.
“I’m reading history,” said Tootie. “The first vet school in England was established in 1791. We didn’t have one in our country until 1879 and we didn’t have a four-year program until 1903. Iowa State both times.”
“So who treated horses?” Gray was puzzled.
“Blacksmiths,” Tootie answered.
“That explains it.” Gray drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa.
Sister looked up from her needlepoint. “Explains what, sugar?”
�
��Blacksmiths still think they can treat horses. And they never seem to get along with vets.”
“Some of that, to be sure.” Sister returned to her task. “My favorite is the new horse owner who had just read an explanation of some medical condition or hoof problem. They then tell the vet or the blacksmith what to do, based on their research.” She looked at Tootie. “The Internet really creates havoc. Everyone is an instant expert.”
“That’s a fact.” Tootie smiled.
“Then again, think how much you learned about tobacco and taxes from the Internet,” Gray added sensibly to the conversation.
Sister dropped her hands in her lap. “Up in smoke.”
“Smoke gets in your eyes,” Gray fired back.
“Smoke and mirrors,” Tootie chimed in.
“Holy smoke,” Raleigh said, but they didn’t get it.
“We’d better get back out into the world tomorrow.” Sister laughed. “We’re getting loopy.”
CHAPTER 34
Gray drove slowly through the snow, heading out toward Old Paradise with his brother, Tootie, and Tariq in the car. “Plowing is done by independent contractors for the most part.”
The Land Cruiser could go through most anything, so he gladly played taxi.
“Remember thirty years ago, something like that, when we had that odd snowstorm in October?” Sam said from the backseat. “So many branches fell down because leaves hadn’t fallen yet.”
“What about the Easter blizzard in, um, 1969?” Gray recalled.
“I wasn’t born yet.” Tootie teased them.
“We know,” both brothers said in unison.
Tariq, also in the backseat, remarked, “Neither was I.”
“When were you born?” Sam looked at him.
“1986.”
“Well, buddy, it goes fast,” said Sam.
Gray turned on his windshield wipers as he neared a large tractor plowing snow, the driver snug in a heated cab.
“Wonder what he makes an hour?” Sam mused.
“More than you do,” Gray replied.
“Everyone makes more than I do.”
“You’re breaking my heart,” Gray said, then added, “Did Crawford make it home before the storm really hit?”
“Just made it and, you know, a couple of those pellets were close to his eyes,” said Tariq. “He’s actually okay about it. I mean, he’s not mad at Art because he says Art’s too stupid to get mad at. Actually he said, ‘Not the sharpest tool in the shed.’ ”
They crept along, finally able to go thirty-five miles an hour on the freshly cleared part.
Tootie stared out the window, the land resplendent in fresh snow. “It’s good to get out of the house.”
“We were about to drive my beloved crazy,” said Gray.
“Don’t forget we have a five-gallon bucket of kibble with corn oil in it,” Tootie said.
“Why is that?” Tariq inquired.
“Sister says there’s a fox in the barn at Old Paradise. Hounds were heading straight for it. She doesn’t think Crawford knows enough to tend to his foxes so she’ll do it until someone, not her, can teach him.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Sam said. “Tariq, bet you wish you were back with Jefferson Hunt.”
“I do, but he took care of the Rickman mess. I’m grateful and he lends me horses.”
“You’re doing him a favor by riding them in the field,” said Sam. “I can’t ride them all, and Marty, while not a bad rider, can’t really handle a green horse.”
Gray glanced at Tariq in the rearview mirror. “I never asked you where you learned to ride.”
“My father got me lessons as a child in Egypt. Riding, wherever you find yourself, opens many doors. I learned a lot in England, too. In the old days, Nasser and a lot of Army officers rode. Our Olympic teams were pretty much made up of officers or former officers.”
“Used to be that way here, too,” said Gray. “They came from the cavalry and competed in uniform. Looked wonderful. I don’t remember it, but I saw pictures of them.” Gray slowed again as they turned on the road to Tattenhall Station and beyond.
“This hasn’t been plowed,” said Sam. “Bet they don’t get to it until Thursday.” He peered out the window.
“One set of tracks so someone got out.” Gray made sure to get his vehicle in those tracks.
It took them a half hour to reach the entrance to Old Paradise whereas it usually took fifteen minutes.
Turning, Gray noticed that the tracks they followed came from Old Paradise. He passed Alfred’s tidy cottage, then Margaret’s, and finally Art’s, from which the tracks had come.
“Well, Art was the one who got out,” Sam simply noted.
“I’m sure he had a delivery given these long dark nights.” Gray laughed.
“A delivery?” Tariq asked.
“Oh, Art makes moonshine,” said Sam. “Well, he used to. Maybe he had other important business.” Sam paused. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was over at Crawford’s. He does have to see him face-to-face.”
“I was loading up horses. Never saw it, just heard it,” Sam mentioned.
“Me, too,” Tariq said. “I turned and saw Sam running to Crawford. It was snowing hard. So I ran. Art was down on his hands and knees with Crawford.”
“It’s always something,” Gray said, pulling his vehicle near the snowbound two cars. “Let’s see what we can do here.”
They stopped, piled out, and retrieved two snow shovels from the back of the Land Cruiser where a five-gallon bucket with some baling twine wrapped around the handle also sat.
Tariq dug out his car and Sam dug out his.
“Want me to take a turn?” Tootie asked.
Sam grunted. “No, honey. If I can’t dig out my car, I need help.”
“All right then.” She knocked on the window of Sam’s car, where Gray had started the motor, letting it idle.
He rolled the window down. “Yes?”
“I’m going to take the feeder bucket inside.”
“Fine. Let me know if you smell fox.” Gray rolled the window back up.
Tariq had started his car, too, hoping the heat from the exhaust would melt a bit of snow. His years in England taught him a little bit about functioning in snow and cold, but he would never become accustomed to it, beautiful as it was.
He got out, picked up the shovel, and started shoveling out his front wheels.
Tootie slogged to the barn, tried to kick away snow from one door so she could slip in. Without a shovel, this was unpromising. She knelt down in the snow to use her hands. Finally she’d cleared just enough from the front of one of the big doors to crack it open and slip inside.
Looking up, she beheld the rustic beauty of this structure, built to last centuries. February sunlight filtered through the stall windows. They had mesh over them so if they did break they wouldn’t shatter all over the place. The beams were squared tree trunks. She noted everything: the stalls, the old wrought-iron fittings, the hard-packed dirt floor.
Dripping with cobwebs, the inside seemed surreal and majestic. She wondered about the horses who had lived in those stalls.
And, yes, she did smell fox. Carefully walking down the center aisle, she peeked into each stall, for the Dutch doors were opened, fastened to the side.
She found the stall with a large hole in it, a pile of earth around it. The bottom door opened with a creak. She walked softly inside.
Roger heard her and smelled her but the fox didn’t peek. He stayed still to listen.
She looked around for a spot to tie the bucket. No nails protruded low and the hooks for the long-disappeared water buckets hung too high. The thick-planed oak boards for the stall had no spaces between. Defeated on that count, she set the bucket down in the middle of the space. She unwound the baling twine and walked out, closing the door. She knew foxes well enough to know a healthy fox could easily jump to the top of a Dutch door, the bottom part.
Fascinated, she soaked up everything. She touched t
he saddle racks by each stall door, all made from planed and sanded wood to hang down flat when not in use.
She opened the tackroom door. Again, cobwebs festooned the twenty-by-twenty room. It was planed heavy oak, little lines of caulking between the boards to make it airtight. Bridle half moons lined one wall, permanent saddle racks lined another in two vertical rows. Everything else was handmade of wrought iron, even the lanterns hanging on the walls. Covered with dust outside, their candles were still inside.
Tootie knew this was the saddle horse barn. She wondered how many workhorse barns there had been at Old Paradise—mule barns, carriage barns—all fallen down now, probably. Or if they were still here, she didn’t know where, as she had only hunted Old Paradise a few times while at Custis Hall.
She stood in the tack room marveling at the handiwork, imagining the grooms bustling in and out, knowing that many had been slaves. One couldn’t really appreciate the hands that made this country hum until you saw their fine work.
She could almost hear the talk about poultices, the right bit for a young horse, the pride in breeding fine horses and driving horses, too.
Curiosity got the better of her. Laying the baling twine down, she climbed into the huge hayloft, saw the remains of barn swallow nests tucked into eaves and places where joists were. The birds would be back in the summer. Swallows were reliable that way. Looking all the way up, she saw the barn owl’s nest in the cupola. The barn owl looked down at her.
Gave her a chill.
She took a deep breath. Another one. Tobacco.
She followed her upturned nose until she found the place where the hay remnants were completely flattened. The odor was stronger here.
“You in here?” Tariq called out.
“I am.” She walked to the side of the hayloft.
“We’re ready to go,” Tariq said. “Think both Sam and I can make it.” He held up his hand to her.
“I’ll back down.”
After climbing down, she bent over once in the center aisle to pick up the baling twine she’d left there. Silly, but she didn’t want to leave any debris. A pack of the bogus American Smokes fell out of her breast pocket. She bent over to pick them up, a cigarette falling on the floor. She also scooped that up, slipping it back into the soft pack.
Fox Tracks Page 24