Full Cry

by Rita Mae Brown

  Gray washed his hands in the big stainless steel sink. “I never realized how much work there is.”

  “All day, every day.” She hung up her lab coat, inspected it, then took it off the hook. “Laundry time.”

  “Ever get tired of this? It’s a lot of physical labor, plus the actual hunting.”

  “I love it.” Her face shone. “I couldn’t live without it. Everyone needs a paradigm for life, and hunting is mine. Hunting is life. The way a person foxhunts is the way he or she lives.”

  “True.” He wiped his hands on a thick terry cloth towel. “I think that’s true about any sport, the way someone plays tennis or golf.” He thought for a second. “Maybe a little less true of the team sports because you have help, but still: character will out.”

  “Hand me your lab coat.” She took the coat and draped it over her arm. “It is funny, isn’t it, how we spend our childhood and adolescence constructing our social masks with the help of our parents, family, friends, and school, and then something unmasks us? Usually sports, love. People are always unwittingly revealing themselves. Me, too.” She opened the door to the laundry room, tossing the coats, plus other odds and ends, into the industrial-size washer. “This thing’s about to go. Can’t complain. It’s been chugging along eight years. You wouldn’t believe the dog hair we pull out of here. Same with the horse blankets. Sometimes I envy those critters their fur. No clothing bills.”

  “Oh, but you look so good in warm colors—peach, pink, red. Now if you had the same old fur coat, that wouldn’t be the case.” He handed her the detergent.

  “You look good in every color of the rainbow,” she countered.

  “Uh-uh,” he disagreed. “Not gray or beige.”

  “Didn’t think about that. Blond colors. Walter colors.”

  “Kill!” Golly screamed from the office.

  Sister and Gray looked at each other as the house dogs ran to the closed office door. “I’m afraid to look,” she said.

  “I’ll go first,” Gray said in a mock-manly tone. He walked out, peeped in the inside office door, which had a window in it, then came back. “Biggest mouse in the county, maybe in all of America.”

  “Good cat.” Sister turned on the washer as Raleigh hurried back into the med room to retrieve his ball before Rooster snatched it.

  The five friends walked back up to the house, darkness deep on this cloud-covered early evening. Golly, mouse firmly in jaws, tail hoisted as high as possible, pupils huge, ran ahead of everyone.

  “She’s the only cat in the world who has killed a mouse.” Rooster watched the fluffy tail swaying in triumph.

  “The trick will be getting her to deposit it outside. She’s going to want to bring it in the mudroom and then into the house. She’ll be parading that damned mouse for days”

  “Why doesn’t she just eat it?” Rooster asked.

  “Look at her” Raleigh laughed out loud, which sounded like a healthy snort.

  Although Golly usually acquired a bit of a potbelly in winter, this winter she had acquired enough for two. As the dogs giggled, Golly laid her ears flat back, then swept them forward.

  She couldn’t open her mouth. The mouse would drop out, and one of the dogs, those lowlifes, would steal it. Something as valuable as a freshly killed mouse, neck neatly snapped, would bring out the worst, especially in the harrier; she knew it. But she thought to herself, Go ahead, laugh. I don’t see either of you worthless canines ridding this farm of vermin. At least the hounds hunt. You two do nothing, nothing.

  Once inside the mudroom, a tussle broke out between Golly and Rooster.

  “All right, Rooster, leave her,” Sister ordered the dog, who obeyed but not without a telling glare at the cat. “Golly, what a big mouse. What a great hunter you are. Give me your mouse.”

  Puffed with pride, Golly opened her jaws, the limp, gray-brown body thumping to the slate floor.

  “Protein,” Gray said.

  Sister picked up the mouse, stroked Golly’s head. “Right. Mouse pie as opposed to shepherd’s pie. Hope you like shepherd’s pie because that’s what we’re having for dinner.”

  “Is there time to dice the mouse?” He hung up his full-length Australian raincoat.

  “No.” She patted Golly again and wondered just what to do with this prize. “Gray, I’m going to put this out by my gardening shed in case Inky comes in tonight. Why don’t you go inside and fix yourself a drink if you’re in the mood?”

  “Sure you can tote that heavy mouse by yourself?”

  “With effort.” She grinned.

  “Can I fix you a drink?”

  “Hot tea. I need a pick-me-up.”

  When she returned, steam curled out of the Brown Betty teapot. Before she reached the oven to check on the shepherd’s pie, Gray poured her a bracing mug of orange pekoe and Ceylon mix.

  “You know how to make real tea.” She lifted the lid, the mesh tea ball floating inside the pot, emitting even more of the delightful fragrance.

  “The English taught me.”

  “Really?”

  “I lived there for five years when I worked for Barclays Bank.”

  “I didn’t know you did that.”

  “Well, I got my law degree then my accounting. I did it backwards, I suppose. I thought if I had a strong background in banking before finding the right firm, I’d be a triple threat. And when I graduated, I had a choice between Atlanta—where my color would actually help me at that time, remember those were the days of Andrew Young and Maynard Jackson; they put Atlanta on the map in terms of banking and investing—or London. Well, I wanted to experience other cultures, and I thought England would be easier than if I tried to crash Germany.”

  “Aren’t you the smart one?” Another ten minutes and the pie would be ready. The crust was browning up.

  He smiled. “In some ways. People think tax law is boring. Not me. The power to tax is the power to destroy. I learned a lot about taxation in England. Here I was, a kid really, negotiating a culture mentioned by Roman writers, finally subdued by Agricola in a.d. 84, wasn’t it? I soaked it all up. Haunted Hatcher’s.” He mentioned the venerable bookstore. “Didn’t have enough money to shop at Harrod’s but I liked to stroll through. And on weekends for pennies I could go to France, Germany, Spain. Loved Spain and the Spanish. Couldn’t get into what were then Soviet satellite countries, but I met people, high-level types, visiting Barclays. You know, it was just the right time, the right place.”

  “Sounds fabulous. What are you drinking?”

  “A perfect Manhattan. I make a mean Manhattan—a good dry Manhattan or Manhattan South. Name your poison.”

  A suddenmemoryof thedrunksguzzlinghemlock shot through her. “Tea. I’m not much of a drinker, although my flask has port in it.”

  “I drank a lot. Not as much as Sam, but a lot. Especially when my marriage tanked.” He helped her set the table. “One day I realized I needed to slow down. I didn’t want to wind up like Sam. Alcoholism floods both sides of the family.” He folded a white linen napkin in thirds. “One drink in the evening, even if it’s a party. One.”

  “Good rule.”

  “You never drink?”

  “Champagne to celebrate, but I don’t have a thirst for it. It’s a true physical drive, and I don’t have it.”

  “Sam said even when he was in high school, he’d be plotting how to get liquor, where to hide it. When he rode competitively, he would secrete a bottle in the trailer. He stashed booze in the tack trunks. Carried a thin flask in his barn jacket. Controlled his entire life. Still does. He has to fight it every day.”

  “Insidious.”

  Golly sauntered through, warbling, “A Mighty Fortress Is Our Puss.” The cat had no sense of religious decorum.

  “Still crowing.” Sister laughed at her friend.

  The dogs, chewing greenies, ignored her. The problem was that Golly wouldn’t ignore them. Their scratched noses bore testimony to her relentless need for attention.

  “When
did you have time to make shepherd’s pie?”

  “I just slaved over this stove.” She giggled. “Lorraine brought it by. She’d made them for Shaker and me. Those two are getting along, but he’s close-mouthed. They’re inching toward each other, and, truth is, he’s scared to death. The divorce took a big chunk out of him.”

  “Always does.”

  As they enjoyed their meal, Sister asked, “You don’t speak of your first wife, your only wife, I assume.” When he nodded in affirmation, she continued. “That bad?”

  “No. Few romantic relationships can last a lifetime. We’d probably be better off with different people at different times in our lives. The person you marry changes. That can be good, but for me those changes were filled with resentment, anger, feelings of abandonment. Nothing too original.”

  “Who changed?”

  “We both did. The focus of our relationship was our children and my career. We lost sight of each other. Theresa and I get along better today than when we were married. We see each other once or twice a year, usually something involving our kids. I expect in the next few years, we’ll be dealing with grandchildren.” He stopped for a moment. “I talk to her once a week. After the first year of the divorce was over, we both calmed down. I kept telling myself, even in the worst of it, ”Whatever you saw in her in the beginning is still there.“ And I went into therapy. That helped.”

  “You did?”

  “You didn’t?”

  “I foxhunt three times a week, and attend other hunts if I can. Does it for me. I figure things out. I may not use the same language a therapist does, but I really do figure things out.”

  “You’re smarter than I am.”

  “Not at all. It takes a lot of courage, especially for a man, to ask for emotional help. Actually, I don’t know if I could do it. Too big an ego.”

  “You?” His voice lifted upwards.

  “Me. I think I can fix anything, including myself.”

  “Whatever you do, it works.”

  “Well, I hope so. Lately the truth jumps up at me like a jack-in-the-box. I wonder how I missed it.”

  “Unhappy?”

  She shook her head. “No. Actually, I love my life, and I suppose, for lack of a better way to put it, I love myself, but I’m blind to things, inside things.”

  “Everyone is.”

  “I know, but Gray, I think I’m smarter than anyone else. Isn’t that awful to say? But I do. I’m not supposed to be blind. I’m supposed to be the master. I’m supposed to know hounds, horses, territory, people, weather, scent, the game, game trails, plants, wildlife, and I’m supposed to know myself. I surprise myself these days. Like right now. I can’t believe I’m babbling all this.”

  “You’re not babbling.”

  “Gray, I was raised a WASP. Grin and bear it. Stiff upper lip.”

  “I was raised that way, too. Not so bad. We don’t need to know everyone’s intimate details, but it’s good to know your own.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a rare woman who will admit she has a big ego.”

  “Gargantuan. I hide it well. In fact, I’ve hidden it pretty effectively for close to six decades. My first decade I gave my mother hives. With a great effort on her part, she taught me how to cover it all up. She harbored a pretty big ego herself.”

  “Funny.”

  “What?”

  “What we’re told as children. It may be damaging, on the one hand, but it’s the truth. Our parents, family, older friends tell us what the world is like.”

  “They tell us what the world was like for them. They don’t know what it will be like for us because we will change the world.”

  He put down his fork. “Sister, no wonder you take your fences as you do.”

  She laughed. “Every generation changes the world. You hear what went before you: your parents’ victories, miseries, and fears as well as hopes for you. They tell you their truth. You’ve got to find your own.”

  “But remember the past.”

  “I do.”

  “Idon’t think I’veever met anyonelike you.I’m sure I haven’t.”

  “I’ve never met anyone like you. Maybe we’ve reached a point in our lives when we molt. We shed our feathers. But this time, instead of growing the same feathers, we grow different ones: the feathers we’ve always wanted.”

  “Your metaphors come from nature.”

  “Nature is what I know. Now if you speak in metaphors, do I have to get a law library? Do I have to study Marbury versus Madison or the Dred Scott case?” She knew her history, those being landmark American cases.

  He laughed. “No.”

  “Tell me about those Manhattans you mentioned. I thought a Manhattan was some blended whiskey and a bit of sweet vermouth.”

  “The basic Manhattan.” He leaned back in the chair. “Well, a dry Manhattan is the same, only you use one-fourth ounce of dry vermouth instead of sweet. Easy. A perfect Manhattan is one and one-fourth ounces of blended whiskey, one-eighth ounce of dry vermouth, and one-eighth ounce of sweet vermouth, and you garnish it with a twist of lemon. The dry Manhattan you garnish with an olive, the standard Manhattan, use a cherry.”

  “What about a Manhattan South. Such mysteries.”

  “One ounce dry gin, half ounce dry vermouth, half ounce Southern Comfort, and a dash of Angostura bitters, no garnish, and it’s not served on the rocks as the others can be. You always mix it in a glass filled with ice, stir, then pour it into a chilled cocktail glass.”

  “You know, the first party I gave after Ray died, a year and a half after he died, I never even thought about mixing drinks. When one of my guests asked for a vodka stinger, I had no idea what to do. My throat went dry, my heart pounded. I missed Ray and I had learned once more how dependent I was on him for so many things, the small courtesies, the minutiae of masculinity, for lack of a better term. I no more know how to make a vodka stinger than how to fly. Thank God, Xavier was there. I asked him if he would mind, and he graciously tended bar. Ever since, if I give a party or if the hunt club has a real do, I hire a bartender.”

  “For me, it was fabric. Theresa knew all this stuff about fabrics, for shirtings, for sheets, for towels. She wasn’t dead, of course, but that was my first big clue that there was another side to the moon that I needed to explore.”

  “Well said. You know, earlier we were talking about sports, about how the way a person foxhunts or plays a game shows who they are. I don’t know, it crossed my mind, do you think the pressures of high-level competition drove Sam toward more drinking?”

  “Yes, but he had it in him already. He could just as easily have become a drunk without that career. I learned a lot about alcoholism, thanks to my brother. I thought for the first years that Sam drank a lot, but he wasn’t an alcoholic. The bums at the railway station were alcoholics. Well, they represent about five percent of alcoholics. Most alcoholics sit next to you in church, stand next to you at the supermarket, work next to you at the office. They function quite well for years and years, and then one day, it’s like the straw that broke the camel’s back. All those years of hiding, lying, performing even while hung over, just collapse. I think Sam would have become a drunk no matter what. He’s full of fear. Drunks, basically, are afraid of life. I learned that much.”

  “Then it is possible that Mitch and Anthony wanted to end it all?”

  Gray thought about this for a long time. “Yes.”

  “Do you think they committed suicide?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t either, and I wish I could stop thinking about them, especially. All three of them were part of our community. To see familiar faces year in and year out is a great comfort; ties that bind, even if you don’t know someone well.”

  “Some people realize that quite early, but for most of us, it doesn’t come until middle age.”

  “We’re pack animals. We need a community. Giant cities, where are the communities? Maybe the neighborhood, maybe not. It might be a shared interest lik
e dancing or professional associations. We need to be part of one another.”

  “Hard to imagine Anthony Tolliver and Mitch Banachek being part of a community. I guess the drunks at the station are their own little world. Sam doesn’t talk about it. Winding up there is really the bottom of the barrel.”

  “We couldn’t reach those men. But we saw them. They saw us. And maybe, in the darker corners of our souls, they made us feel better about ourselves. At least I’m not as useless as Mitch Banachek. I’ve still got my teeth unlike Anthony Tolliver. They allowed us the secret thrill of superiority.”