Fox Tracks: A Novel

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Even today when they’ll come along and cut the entire plant, it’s not easy,” said Elizabeta. “Someone still has to go out when the plant blooms and pick off the buds. It’s sticky. The best of the best still do everything by hand. Take the top leaves first, watch the leaves change color, know when to pick and throw out the bottom sand lugs. Know whether to air cure, flue cure, all that stuff. That’s why you pay a pretty penny for a premium cigarette. But it tastes like nothing else. There is no cheap way to grow and harvest good tobacco, even with so-called modern improvements.”

  “Who will do the field work?”

  She raised then dropped her shoulders. “Not white people, I can tell you that. The only white people I ever see in a tobacco field are the people who own it, and a lot of them have to work it. The Mexicans smoke cigarettes, but they don’t have a culture of growing tobacco like the U.S. used to have. The black folks that knew so much, well, most of them have passed on and a world of knowledge passed with them.”

  “We’ve lost years of hard-earned knowledge in so many fields,” Sister said. She, too, felt the loss of the old people and the old ways. “Everyone is too good for fieldwork now. Hell, I cut my own hay. Have help baling it, but I get out there and toss those bales. Keeps a person strong and healthy. It’s a lot less expensive than a cabinet full of pills and a trip to the doctor every time you get an ache.”

  “Dad says that, too. He says everyone is scared of their own body.”

  Both women laughed.

  Sister returned to the topic of fascination for both women. “Since both murder victims were Cuban or second-generation Cuban, they might have been mixed up in some anti-Castro group. I mean, have you thought maybe it’s political?”

  “Could be, or maybe they just pissed somebody off.” The pretty woman shrugged.

  Sister paused. “It is strange. I was looking up stuff on the Internet, never a good idea. I waste so much time online, but I was shocked to find that since our country has demolished its tobacco industry the world’s largest tobacco grower is China. The Turks grow a lot, as does Brazil.”

  “Inferior. All inferior. And if you really want to pass out, smoke an Egyptian cigarette. My God, the worst. Their most popular brand, Cleopatra, could kill a cow. If Cleo came back from the dead, she should throw asps at the manufacturers.”

  Sister laughed at the vision of a resurrected queen tossing snakes in a cigarette factory. She looked out the large windows.

  “Sky’s getting dark again. Well, I’d better head home. Thank you for your time.”

  They both stood up and the woman asked, “You said you come in with your boyfriend?”

  “Gray Lorillard.”

  “The black fellow with the silver moustache? He’s so handsome he could be a model.”

  “Please don’t tell him that.” Sister spontaneously hugged the woman, as it had been such a pleasant visit.

  As she headed home, she mused about how her parents would have been shocked that she had just hugged someone she barely knew. Well, a lot of things would have shocked Mom and Dad, but they would have adjusted.

  She thought, too, how strange that the equine business bounced back from nearly going kaput after the automobile became affordable. Horse numbers plummeted, then rose again. Albemarle County alone is presently home to fourteen thousand horses. The tobacco industry once appeared invulnerable, the horse industry seemed doomed. Now the reverse proved true. Odd. Even stranger was that no one seemed to know anything about American Smokes. Gliding past Hangman’s Ridge, Sister wondered why. She had seen the cigarette soft pack on Adolfo’s chest. Someone was making and selling the brand.

  She pulled into the long unpaved drive to her house and then saw where she’d run over some brick walkways when plowing snow.

  “Dammit. I bet I knocked off some bricks. Well, nothing I can do until spring.” She parked the truck by the mudroom door.

  The animal door flew open as Raleigh and Rooster rapturously ran out to greet her.

  “You didn’t take us,” Rooster complained. “You should never go anywhere without us.”

  “And you were gone so long. Forever!” Raleigh leaned against her leg as she retrieved her everyday bag, the bottom wearing badly.

  Golly stuck her head out the animal door to observe the dogs’ thrill at Sister’s return. “Suck-ups.” She ducked back in.

  Once inside, Sister removed the gel pad from the shopping bag, placing it on the kitchen counter.

  She checked her messages, one being from Walter reminding her they could drive together to meet with Alfred, then Binky DuCharme.

  “I really don’t want to go,” she said to her animals.

  She thumbed through her All Saints calendar. Today was the presentation of Christ at the Temple, so it was a day dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mother. Jeanne de Lestonnac (1556–1640)—another French saint named Jeanne—had nursed plague victims in Bordeaux. She’d also dedicated herself to the education of girls.

  Raleigh nosed up at her, placing his paws on the table as she read from the calendar.

  “Raleigh, get down.”

  “Tell me.” The Doberman stared at her with soulful eyes.

  “Théophane Vénard—1829 to 1861—was persecuted and killed when he was sent to Vietnam to serve as a priest. It was called Tonkin then. I look at this calendar and it always overwhelms me how some of these people suffered.”

  “That’s why you need to take us with you wherever you go,” Rooster said. “So you don’t suffer.”

  Sister stood up, placing her hands in the small of her back, stretching backward. Then she noticed Golly curled up on the gel pad.

  “Pussycat, that is not for you.”

  “Oh, yes it is.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The old Gulf sign swayed high up on a sturdy metal white pole, while below the white cinder-block station from the 1930s sat on the north side of the crossroads known as Chapel Cross. The station’s new and computerized pumps indicated some concessions to the twenty-first century. Binky DuCharme loved his old gas station. Inside, colorful nostalgic posters from the thirties, forties, and fifties hung on the walls.

  Binky’s wife, Milly, kept a tidy office: a counter and two small tables with oilcloth tablecloths. She had painted the wooden chairs orange and dark blue, the old Gulf colors.

  Traveling east, this was your first shot at gas. Traveling west or north, this was your last because you’d run into the Blue Ridge, and the roads deteriorated into rutted dirt ones. I-64 and Route 250 gave the only good driving west to Augusta County. One would need to go all the way north up to Route 33 for a decent paved highway or south to Route 56 in Nelson County to get over the mountains.

  The ancient Blue Ridge Mountains, while softened by time, were still mountains and not easily traversed. In their youth, they towered above the Alps, the Rockies, the Andes. Now, trees covered them so they blazed magenta from the redbuds and white from the wild dogwoods in spring. People journeyed from around the world to see their vibrant fall colors. The entire Appalachian chain dazzled onlookers from Maine down to Georgia, but Virginians nodded and smiled when people said they’d seen such lovely color in Vermont. Of course, it was, but it wasn’t as sensational as the colors in Virginia. Not that a true Virginian would ever say that. Never wise to brag. But you can be sure they believed it.

  Driving with Walter to the Gulf Station, Sister stared out the Jeep window at the sun in the western sky. Deep Prussian blue shadows filled the hollows. The spine of the mountains blazed with millions of tiny rainbows from the ice on the conifers, as well as the ice wrapping the deciduous trees. Creamy cumulus clouds in a turquoise sky completed the beautiful tableau at three in the afternoon.

  Walter, behind the wheel, said, “Supposed to snow a bit Friday night, light, but continue on into Saturday.”

  “I know. I think we’ll be able to hunt, though. The Bancrofts always get After All in shape even if it’s a blizzard.” She smiled, thinking of how much the Bancrofts had d
one for the club during her tenure as master. Nudging into their late seventies, Edward and Tedi were slightly older than Sister. They showed no sign of slowing down, despite a bit of a stoop when walking, but this is often the case with horse people. They go until they drop. If they drop during a hunt so much the better. They died doing what they love.

  The two-century-old church for which the crossroads was named, Chapel Cross, came into view.

  Binky’s father had tactfully built the gas station just out of sight of the beautiful chapel. Old Francis DuCharme was a thoughtful fellow. His two sons usually were, too, so long as they were apart.

  Walter pulled into the gas station. Milly opened the door to the office as they got out of the Jeep.

  “Made hot chocolate,” she called, waving them in from the cold.

  Binky was behind the counter, a red greasy rag in his back pocket. He stuck his head into the garage, and yelled at his son. “Art, he wants a new muffler, too.”

  Up under a 2002 Ford F-250, Art grunted, “Okay.”

  Binky closed the door, grabbed two cups to help Milly, and sat down without ceremony. “Crawford.”

  “Yes.” Sister gratefully took the hot chocolate.

  “I hear through my niece that he’s made big promises.” Binky, mid-fifties, getting chunky, stared at his cup. He loathed Crawford, but the promises were tempting.

  “He keeps his word,” Sister replied. “I serve on the Custis Hall board with him. If he says he’s going to do something or pay for something, he does it.”

  “He’s so pushy,” said Milly, unable to hold it in. “Driving around in that big red Mercedes. He certainly wants everyone to look at him.”

  Binky patted her hand lovingly. “He’s all those things, Baby, but he’s also filthy rich and we need the cash.”

  “I know, dear, I know.” She sighed, then turned to Sister. “I hate this. We’ve been friends for over forty years and now Richie Rich wants to hunt our land.”

  Walter responded: “I can speak for Sister although she’s known you longer than I have. Nothing will change our friendship, but it would help us if we knew exactly what Crawford has offered.”

  Binky cleared his throat. “He will put up new fences on our property, which means we can run cattle again. Cattle are bringing in top dollar.”

  “I estimate the fencing alone to be about two hundred thousand dollars.” Having had to fence his own farm, Walter guessed roughly what the lower pasture land on the DuCharmes’ five-thousand-acre estate would need.

  “I don’t know what the cost would be,” said Binky. “We always cut and dried our own timber when I was young, but we can’t do that anymore. The sawmill might could start up again, but Milly and I have to run the station with Art, of course. I hate to say it, if you decided to help out in a similar way with fencing, I don’t know if I could run the sawmill equipment which would reduce the fencing costs.”

  “You could if you put your mind to it. You’re still strong,” Milly, still slender bordering on skinny, offhandedly mentioned, which Binky liked, naturally.

  “Binky, you’ve always been strong,” Sister agreed.

  “Vitamins.” He laughed. “Oh, Crawford also said he’d put in a new furnace in the big house, new plumbing, too. Now that sounds good for Alfred. Doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

  The house, so imposing with its four white Corinthian columns, hadn’t had heat for fifteen years. All the pipes had burst during the first hard winter. With reliable heat and hard work, the rest of the place could be restored.

  “If Margaret marries, the place will be hers.” Milly and Binky dearly loved their niece, a sports physician.

  Margaret had acted as the go-between since the mid-eighties when the DuCharme brothers fell out over the disposition of the family estate, which neither of them could afford to keep up. There were other reasons, too—old emotional scores to settle, overheated and irrational—often the case in family disputes.

  “Umm.” Binky remained noncommittal.

  “Milly, Binky, there’s no way we can match that generosity. You must take it.” Sister said this without rancor.

  Binky looked down. “I hate that son of a bitch, too. He’s only doing this to get back at you.”

  “He always wanted to be a master, and when he kept getting passed over, he left in a huff, started his own outlaw pack,” said Sister. “Crawford is a man who has to appear to be on the top of the pole. He was very generous to Jefferson Hunt when he was a member.” She paused. “I can’t stand him either. I can see his good qualities, but they’re overshadowed by his overweening ego. Yes, he’s made a fortune. He’s an astute businessman, but he doesn’t know squat about hunting. He’s one of those people who could ride for fifty years and never know what was really going on.” She shrugged.

  Walter got to the point. “It would be glorious if Old Paradise were reborn,” he told Binky and Milly. “As you know, Kasmir Barbhaiya’s land now runs up to your easternmost acres. We will be hunting his land, of course. Should the fox cross over into Old Paradise, however, according to the laws of the Masters of Foxhounds Association of America, we have the right to pursue it. Hard to knock hounds off a hot line anyway.” He folded his hands together. “Will you be all right with that?” Walter asked.

  “Sure,” Binky said. “I don’t care if you hunt it along with Crawford. He’s the one with the grudge.”

  “Well, there’s not a lot Crawford can do about the MFHA since he’s an outlaw pack,” said Walter. “He can’t buy them off because he’s not obedient to their regulations. Nor do they recognize him.”

  Binky remarked, “Bet he could buy his way in.”

  A long silence followed this, then Sister said, “As far as I know, that hasn’t happened in my time but I can’t say that it hasn’t happened in the past. The beauty of the MFHA is that the founders and the board were always people of wealth. They couldn’t be bought. But today, it sure seems that money can be a crowbar into whatever you want.”

  “Ah, hell, look at Congress.” Binky’s mouth turned down.

  “Honey, don’t start,” said Milly.

  “She’s right. She’s right.” Binky cut off a brewing tirade.

  “We are living through a time of complete corruption,” Sister sadly remarked.

  “Maybe it was always that way,” said Walter. “Maybe now we just know it, thanks to constant media coverage.”

  “Hell, they’re corrupt, too!” Binky nearly shouted.

  Emerging from the garage area, Art closed the door behind him. “Sister, Walter, how are you doing?”

  “Good. Yourself?” Walter inquired.

  “Keeping body and soul together. Walter, do you still want me to drop off those big rubber water troughs?”

  “Sure. Anytime. Just leave them outside the barn. Art, before I forget, if you need to add a surcharge since gas prices have gone up again, do it.”

  Art’s face relaxed. “Thanks, Walter. Gas prices are killing me. Even just hauling stuff around the county. Both my trucks are diesel. Through the roof.” He stopped for a moment. “A lot of people are putting off buying stuff, fewer deliveries.”

  “It’s happening all over the nation,” Sister chimed in. “Not that knowing other people are hard up makes it any easier.”

  “Misery does love company,” Milly said.

  “No, it doesn’t, Mom,” Art replied good-naturedly before returning to the garage.

  Driving farther west to Old Paradise, Sister and Walter discussed the meeting. They passed the brick chimney, all that remained of the estate’s old gatehouse.

  “Glad I took the Jeep.” Walter negotiated the packed snowy road.

  “Wranglers can go through anything. You know what else is incredible, the old Land Rovers. Now they’re so plush. I mean they still can go through everything, but I’d feel guilty taking a hundred-thousand-dollar SUV through two feet of snow or mud. Gray’s Land Cruiser costs a lot, too. With a Wrangler, you don’t worry about the expense.”

&nb
sp; “No, you just worry about the gas.” Walter pulled his vehicle into the brick dependency where Alfred lived.

  In the 1840s, over one hundred fifty people lived and worked on Old Paradise. Many were slaves, whose skills as wheelwrights, cartwrights, blacksmiths, and gardening experts proved useful. After the war, those Old Paradise people who stayed in the county began new lives as tradesmen. Those who stayed on Old Paradise, often less skilled, kept working the fields. That became tremendously difficult during these barren years, as there was no seed or horses to pull ploughs. But the DuCharmes and their former slaves kept plugging. Mostly, vegetables kept people alive. There was no meat. They finally scratched together enough money for two draft horses so a much larger area could be cultivated. By the 1880s, things improved enough that a decent future no longer seemed impossible.

  Alfred also agreed to Walter’s request, allowing Jefferson Hunt to stay on the trail of a hunted fox if he ran west onto Old Paradise’s property. The two masters of that hunt tactfully did not mention their earlier meeting with Binky.

  Alfred knew full well that Walter and Sister had to have seen him. “Heard Binky’s lost weight,” he said.

  “Did. I think he’s still working on it,” Sister replied. “Alfred, you’re the one who does your best to keep up the fields. Crawford’s money has to be a big help to you.”

  “It’s fencing that’s the key. Cattle will turn this ship around. Fertilizer’s come down from the original gas panic, still thirty percent higher than it was ten years ago. I tell you, well, I don’t have to tell you, it’s harder and harder to farm. But his money, the free labor, well, it’s a godsend.”

  “I think it is, too, Alfred,” Sister agreed.

  Walter said, “What about corn? It’s bringing high prices.”

  Alfred laughed. “Ethanol will ruin engines in about ten years’ time. So the auto markets build these great engines, then we’re forced to put in gas that will create problems. You mark my words. But, yes, if we grew corn, it should be profitable. I’d rather stick to cattle. Don’t need to buy so much equipment. Can’t afford the labor either.”