Full Cry

by Rita Mae Brown

  He shrugged. “I certainly hope not.”

  “And I know a tornado of gossip will swirl upwards, ah yes, talk so quickly turns into a gaseous state.” She ruefully smiled. “There will be those who think I should let them settle it without the hunt club’s intrusion, those who think I should throw their asses—excuse me—out now. So it goes.”

  “Actually, I don’t think there will be that much second-guessing.” He motioned with his head to those singing in the next room. “They trust you. It takes years to build that trust.”

  She laughed. “Well, why are they always fussing then? ”You go too fast.“ ‘You go too slow.” ’Why did you take us over that jump?“ ‘

  “Who says that? Only the ones who aren’t tight in the tack. If you can ride, Janie, you ride.”

  “That’s the God’s honest truth. But you and I grew up when riding was one of the social graces. In the South you learned to ride, shoot, play cards, and hopefully speak a foreign language—French was the one always shoved at us girls. That’s gone. Middle-class people had high social expectations of their children. Now both parents work, and expectations aren’t uniform. Maybe in some ways that’s good, Edward, because if a little girl wants to play soccer instead of learning to ride, she has the choice. I never had much of a choice, although if I wanted to go to the symphony or something cultural, Mother took me.”

  “Our culture has fragmented. Part of it is the pushing upwards of people who aren’t WASPs. Maybe part of it is just the change that occurs at any time in history, but I believe, sooner or later, some kind of cultural consensus will emerge. We’ll see more cohesion. I hope so.” Edward, a man of his time, thought long and hard about large issues.

  “Just as long as foxhunting is part of it.” She put down her cup and saucer, an attendant smoothly picking it up.

  “More, Sister?”

  “Oh, thank you, no.” As the white-coated server left, she turned her attention back to Edward. “We’re old, Edward. Our memories encompass things the young can’t even imagine, such as being expected to dance, shoot, ride. And yet… and yet—” She burst into the biggest infectious smile. “—I feel young. I feel better than I have felt in years.”

  He put his arm around her shoulder. “Honey, you’re a twelve cylinder engine that’s been running on six cylinders since 1991.”

  Startled, she said, “What?”

  He kissed her forehead. “How long have we known each other?”

  “Good God, Edward.” She thought. “Forty years. More.”

  “More. Time is jet-propelled. I saw how you handled Rayjr.”s death in 1974. You grieved, then in time you came back to us in spirit. You had Big Ray and the two of you pulled each other along. But when Big Ray died in 1991, who was there to pull you along? Who was there to say, “Sugar, it will be all right. We’ll get through this‘?” She started to say something, but Edward held up his hand. “I’m not saying you moped around. You carried on. That’s your nature. And Archie’s and Peter’s deaths were blows. But remember, I knew you before all those losses, just as you knew me before Nola died,” he said, referring to his beloved daughter. “Such blows take something out of us even as they give us depth and heart, more heart.”

  Quietly, she replied, “Yes.”

  “For whatever reason, your other cylinders have fired up again. I’m happy for you.”

  “And I’m happy to have such a good friend.” She hugged him.

  As she looked for Walter to thank him for the breakfast, Jim Meads touched her arm.

  She turned around. “Jim. I hope you’re having a good time.”

  “Wonderful, Master. I’ll have proofs for you to look at tomorrow.”

  “That fast?”

  “Now, I don’t know how I should take a lady calling me fast.” He winked.

  Clay Berry, back to Jim, twisted slightly. “Fast. Is it beautiful horses and fast women, or fast horses and beautiful women?”

  “Clay, you should know.” Sister laughed, as Clay was known to stray off the reservation.

  “Oh, I took your silver fox fur out of storage. You forgot to pick it up this winter, and I know you’ll want it. In fact, I put it in your truck.”

  “Thanks. I did forget. This hunt season has been jam-packed, and I think I’d forget my head if it weren’t attached to my body.” She then said to Jim, “I’ll come by tomorrow morning if that’s a good time.”

  “Perfect.”

  An animated group of people blocked the front door. As Sister picked up her fleece-lined Barbour coat from the low coatroom, she turned around, bumping into Dr. Dalton Hill, who was searching for his coat.

  “Splendid day, Master.”

  “I’m happy you could join us. That Cleveland bay you were riding is a handsome fellow.”

  “Yes. One of Mr. Wessler’s breedings. A friend over in Green Springs, Louisa, lent me the horse. I think I’ll rent him for the season.”

  “You’ll be here then?”

  “Yes.” He wasn’t a warm man, but he was proper. “I’m teaching at the university for a semester. My partner is keeping up the practice in Toronto. We take turns when opportunities like this arise.”

  “How do you like the university?” Locals always referred to the University of Virginia as “the university.”

  “Quite, quite beautiful.”

  “Dr. Hill, do you hunt with any of the hunts in Ontario?”

  He drew himself up to his full height, five foot eleven inches, good shape. “Toronto and North York, founded in 1843. Oldest hunt in Canada. And it’s my good fortune to go out with Ottawa Valley, founded 1873, and London Hunt, founded in 1885. Did you know there are eight hunts just in Ontario Province?”

  She did know, but elected to murmur, “It’s in the blood.”

  “Ah… yes.” Took him a moment.

  “While it is not to say we are the same… just that we share many of the same disciplines and pleasures. If I didn’t live in Virginia, I would certainly consider myself lucky to be in Canada.” She wasn’t indulging in flattery.

  “Thank you.”

  “As I recall, your specialty is endocrinology. You must treat unusual cases.”

  “Yes, and the medicines and technology are changing at warp speed.” He didn’t use medical terms, which was thoughtful. “If I can get a patient in time, in childhood, often a humiliating condition like dwarfism can be cured or tempered. Mrs. Arnold, in the next ten years, you and I will see breakthroughs that are miraculous.”

  “I see you love your work.”

  “I do. I always liked science, but science in the service of healing, of improving the human condition.”

  She paused before returning to the subject of hunting. “You can reach so many hunt clubs within an hour and a half or so of Charlottesville. You’re in a perfect spot.”

  “I can see that. I’ve rather struck up a friendship with Walter. I’d like to continue with Jefferson, if that can be arranged, and cap with the others. And I assume there will be joint meets.”

  “Of course. Are you a member of a recognized hunt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, we have a buddy program—that’s my term. If you’re a full hunting member, say of London Hunt, you can join us for half price. Many hunts in central Virginia have instituted this type of program. The bells and whistles might be slightly different, but the point is to pull together. Who can afford full memberships at all these hunts, and one can only cap three times in a season. It’s working quite well.”

  “Virginia has more foxhunting clubs than anywhere in the world, I believe.”

  “For a single province—” She used the Canadian term. “—we do. To live here as a foxhunter is to be in nirvana.” She smiled broadly.

  “I would like to avail myself of your program. To whom do I write the check?” Dr. Hill didn’t waste time as he slipped his checkbook out of his Filson tin cloth packer coat.

  Surprised, Sister replied, “I’ll give it to Ron Haslip, our treasurer.”

>   “Very light rider.”

  Sister realized Dr. Hill knew a little something about riding. “Yes, he is, was, light on a horse since childhood. I notice you have a Filson tin coat. Ever notice how foxhunters usually wear Barbour coats or the Australian coats? Every now and then, I’ll see one of these.”

  “Indestructible. I wear the tin cloth pants, too, during pheasant season. I bought this coat twenty-five years ago when I visited Seattle the first time. I had just finished my residency, and the trip was my present to myself.”

  “You have an eye for quality.”

  He smiled slightly. “Well, I hate squandering money. Buy the best then, you weep only once.”

  She laughed appreciatively. “I’m looking forward to seeing you in the hunt field.”

  “I’ll arrange my schedule to come out as much as possible.”

  As she left Mill Ruins, she wondered if Dalton Hill had a wife. He hadn’t said anything. The ladies of Jefferson Hunt would ferret out this information in no time.

  She also reflected on the persistence of hunting in the English-speaking world. Piedmont Hunt, outside of Upperville, Virginia, was founded in 1840, the oldest organized hunt in the United States. But colonists had hunted from 1607 on. And they did so in Canada, in Australia, in New Zealand, and in India under the raj. She thought the English language and hounds were intertwined, from Beowulf and beyond to today. Curious yet somehow comforting, satisfying.

  Later, as she checked the hounds, the horses already snug, thanks to Jennifer and Sari, she watched Darby, Doughboy, and Dreamboat, first-year entry.

  Shaker came out of the feed room. “What do you think?”

  “Well done, thou good and faithful servant! I haven’t had a second to catch up with you. I hope you ate something at the breakfast. What a show Walter put on.”

  “Stuck my head in. That turkey with the herbed dressing was something.”

  “Sybil did a good job today.”

  “She did. I asked her how she rated the hounds. She said she first called out Dragon’s name since he was in the lead. He ignored her. She then used her whip. He ignored her, so she hauled out the ratshot. Gave the other mutineers something to thing about.”

  “They weren’t a hundred percent wrong.”

  “No, they weren’t, but when I blow them back, they’d better come.” He spoke with conviction.

  “Let’s take Dreamboat and Darby on Tuesday. Oh, Doughboy, too. They ought to be all right. We can take Dana, Delight, and Diddy on Thursday.” She mentioned the girls from the same litter.

  “Those girls are high, boss. Let’s just take two.”

  “All right. Thursday put in Diddy and Dana, and then we’ll see if Delight can handle a Saturday. She’ll have steady eddies all around her.”

  “You sure did the right thing back there at Chapel Cross.”

  “Thanks.”

  He nodded, she thought, then said, “Shaker, how bad was I after Big Ray died?”

  Surprised, he answered, “You held up.”

  “Mmm, well, I said to Edward that I feel fabulous, that I feel young again, and then he said that I’ve returned to myself.”

  Shaker kept watching the gyps. “He’s right.”

  “The funny thing is, I don’t know why. But I think you’re kind of coming back, too.”

  “Me?”

  “It’s good.”

  “Yep.” He did feel different.

  Neither one mentioned why they thought they were happier. Perhaps they didn’t yet know why.

  CHAPTER 16

  Atrocious. Can you believe it? Fifty million Americans can’t read or understand anything above the eighth-grade level.“ Marty Howard, chair of the Committee to Promote Literacy, warmed to her subject as Sister and Jim examined his photographs.

  Crawford had flown to New York on business, which meant Marty had center stage, an unusual and pleasant experience for her.

  Jim, although living in Wales, was an Englishman to the bone. He said, “How can someone get through school without learning to read and write?”

  Marty, admiring his photos with Sister, replied, “That’s just it, twenty-nine percent of American students drop out of high school. Drop out. Do you know what the drop-out rate is in Japan?” When he indicated that he did not, she jumped right in. “Five percent. And in Russia, poor torn-up Russia, the drop-out rate is two percent. Something is dreadfully wrong with our schools.”

  Jim, without looking up from die dramatic photograph of Xavier taking a swing at Sam, said wryly, “Maybe Americans should go back to teaching reading, writing, and arithmetic instead of self-esteem, right?”

  Sister, not terribly interested in education, politely listened as this conversation raged on. Her attitude was that if you wanted to learn, you would. If you didn’t, you pretty well deserved what happened. If 29 percent of Americans wanted to drop out of school, they could push brooms, dig ditches, or suck up welfare. After performing these exciting tasks, if they had a lick of sense, they might want to learn to read.

  She didn’t feel it was her job to be nanny to the nation. People made their own decisions. If they made bad decisions, they had to live with them, and sometimes so did she. We all bump up against one another. But in her heart of hearts, Sister really believed that some people are born stupid. One couldn’t introduce a new idea or a provocative thought into those thick skulls even with a crowbar.

  Marty, on the other hand, truly believed that with ameliorative agencies, plus her own good works, life could be made better for some. Imbued with a Protestant drive for self-improvement, and a perfect society, it was her duty to do these things. She did them well.

  “Sister, what do you think?” Marty inquired.

  “The photographs are wonderful.”

  “No, about illiteracy.”

  “Marty, you are a dynamo of organization. That group is fortunate to have you, and I would be most happy to write a check. You know how much I admire your good works.” While not wanting to lie, Sister, being a Virginian, did not feel compelled to tell Marty what she really thought about the issue. Find the positive, and, in this case, it was Marty herself.

  Jim left Marty with a fat book of proofs for club members. They could order those photographs they wanted.

  Sister, her checkbook fetched from her worn Bottega Veneta purse—a favorite given to her by Ray before he died—wrote a check for five hundred dollars to the Committee to Promote Literacy. Another check to Jim for the photographs she’d selected.

  He’d fly back across the ocean tonight, and she already missed him. They had managed a bit of time to visit, and she had laughed herself silly. Jim was a tonic to her. His deadpan sense of humor never failed to lift her spirits.

  “Marty, I know it’s working hours, but do I have your permission to have a word with Sam before I leave?”

  “Of course.” Marty fretted a moment. “I feel terrible about what happened yesterday, but it wasn’t his fault.”

  “Not yesterday, but there are years of bad blood—not just with Xavier, but with many people in the club.”

  Jim folded his hands. “One thing to straighten yourself out, another to pay back the damage.”

  “He can’t.” Sister held up her hands, palm upwards. “That’s the hardest part of life, I think.”

  Marty, ever eager for a discussion of substance, sat down as she pushed more scones toward her guests. “Meaning one cannot make amends, achieve closure?”

  Sister stifled a laugh. “Marty, there is no closure. That’s a made-up word. Whatever happens to you, whatever you’ve done to others, yourself, to the wide world, in general, sticks with you like chiggers.”

  “Oh, Sister, you can’t mean that!”

  “I do. The past doesn’t go away. It’s in your head; it’s in your heart. What’s hard is finding the balance. Recognizing that you can’t, say, in Sam’s case, pay back the money, restore the damage to the sullied marriages. All you can do is ask forgiveness. A few people truly will forgive you; most
won’t. They’ll turn their backs and try to forget it and you.”

  “Or strike back.” Jim drank his tea with pleasure. Marty, for an American, brewed a decent cup of tea.

  “Yes.”

  “But that solves nothing!” Marty exclaimed. “That just keeps the pain alive.”