RMBrown - The Hunt Ball

by The Hunt Ball (v1. 0) [lit]

  “All right.” He settled in to a club sandwich.

  They batted around more ideas. Charlotte discreetly kept her eye on the time.

  “You know, we were lucky no one smashed a case,” Al said. “How could we ever replace Washington’s epaulettes? We were really lucky.”

  Knute replied, “That’s exactly why I think the cases should stay locked, and I agree with Amy, the kids don’t need their hands on those things.”

  “Do we have a value on that stuff?” Amy was curious.

  “Well, we really don’t.” Charlotte wrinkled her brow for a second. “I guess we could hire an appraiser, but how would you value a page from George Washington’s diary or his wife’s hunting crop?”

  “That’s just it, Charlotte, someone has to, because those things are irreplaceable. National treasures.” Christopher’s pleasant voice filled the room. “Course, if the girls smash the cabinets, I’ll have to get them on breaking and entering.” He smiled.

  “Would you like me to find an appraiser?” Al asked. “I’m sure many of our alumnae have valuable items and would be a source for recommendations.”

  “Al, with all due respect, I don’t think we should go that route until the waters are becalmed.” Knute sailed in his spare time and dotted his conversations with sailing terms.

  “That’s a thought.” Charlotte leaned toward Knute. “If we discuss what we have in our care in terms of cold cash, at this moment, we may invite more reprisals. But I definitely think this is necessary for the near future and we must find someone whose credentials are impeccable.”

  “You know, if I’d known it was going to be this much trouble, I’d have picked the cotton myself,” Amy commented and languidly sipped her coffee.

  “That is so insensitive! Amy, you astonish me.” Al’s face reddened.

  “For Christ’s sake, get a sense of humor.” She stared at him.

  “But that’s always it, isn’t it?” He bore down on Amy. “The oppressed are supposed to laugh when the oppressor makes fun of them. How can you laugh at your own suffering? I mean, do you think it’s funny if someone white wears blackface? Used to be a scream. Do you think it’s funny if a man gets up in drag?”

  “Watch it, Al, you’ll kick off the transgender discussion.” Christopher, unlike Amy, chose his words with some care.

  “Oh, balls!” Al put down his coffee cup with force.

  An assistant quickly took it away, replacing it with a filled one that hadn’t spilled.

  “Al, Amy is direct. Perhaps she is insensitive sometimes, but give her credit for being honest.” Knute wearied of these two sparring.

  “You can be honest and dead wrong,” Al replied.

  “I suppose you’d like to emphasize the dead.” Amy did have a sense of humor.

  “With all due respect, this has been a trying morning. I value each of you for your contributions, but I’m not up to being a referee for my faculty and staff at this exact moment.” Charlotte’s voice was firm. “Everyone here has appointments. If you haven’t had enough to eat, take a sandwich, we can put a drink in a carry mug for you. But let’s get back on course.”

  Charlotte cleared her office in ten minutes. She thanked the assistants, then she walked out to Teresa. “Can you believe those two?”

  “I tune them out.” Teresa glanced over a list of calls she’d taken while Charlotte met with the group. “Your husband called. He’ll be home by six. He said he has a surprise.” Teresa looked up and smiled. “Bunny called. Said call her back when you have a minute. Nothing urgent. Um, Sonny Shaeffer called, you’ll receive an invitation for the bank’s Christmas party but he wants you and Carter to put it on your calendar now, um-m, December sixteenth, Friday.”

  “Teresa, what do you think of all this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you saying that because I’m white?” Charlotte didn’t hold back.

  “After all we’ve been through? Now you’re getting as sensitive as Al Perez.” She waited a beat. “If I’d had reporters in my face and Pamela Rene, you know, I’d be a little touchy myself. I don’t know what I think except—”

  “Except what?”

  “I have a strange feeling. I can’t pin it on anything. I know you hate clichés but, Charlotte, I think this is the tip of the iceberg.”

  C H A P T E R 5

  “Lights, camera, action!” Marty Howard threw up her manicured hands, one magnificent marquise diamond catching the light. “Every year every hunt club puts on the standard, three-speed hunt ball. We’re breaking out.”

  “As long as break out doesn’t mean break bad,” Sister slyly inserted into Marty’s eruption of ideas.

  “Oh, Sister, how bad can it be?”

  At that, Betty roared, “You have no idea. Get a mess of foxhunters in their best duds liquored up, all that cleavage suddenly in view, and fistfights and running off with other people’s spouses seems normal.”

  Marty exclaimed, “Nothing like that ever happened in Indiana.”

  “That’s why you moved here, dear,” Sister said in a silken voice.

  Marty, while bright, missed the gradations of Virginia humor. She blinked. “Well, we came because Crawford wanted to retire at forty and get into the horse business, but I guess we got more than we bargained for. He’s built the hunter barn, the steeplechase barn, and now he wants to breed Herefords, the kind with horns. He’s either researching bloodlines on that computer he had built—to the tune of fifteen thousand dollars—or he’s reading stock market quotes on it.”

  “Back to this hunt ball. Marty, I so appreciate you taking on this task. Getting Bill Wheatley and the theater students to help with decorating was a master stroke,” Sister praised Marty. “And I know even if you don’t make it public that you and Crawford have given a generous donation to Custis Hall for the theater department’s services.”

  “We were happy to do it.” Marty glowed, for she did like being useful, and after eleven years she was finally feeling like part of the group.

  “Betty as vice chair—and I accentuate thevice —really does know where all the bodies are buried and she can take care of the table sittings.” Sister smiled at Betty. “What else? Forgive me, by the way, for not being better organized. Over the years our social chairs have kept the Jefferson Hunt hopping and popping. I didn’t have to do but so much. Also, I’m not too good at this kind of thing.”

  Betty was scribbling on a notebook Sister had given her. “Your job is to show sport. Our job is to show we’re sports.”

  “What a good way to put it,” Marty agreed. “Well, this will be the hunt ball to end all hunt balls.”

  “Key position: head of the silent auction. Hunt balls can’t pay for themselves. The silent auction is your one hope to get in the black.” Betty reminded them of the ever-present need for money. “How’s Sorrel Buruss doing on getting items?”

  “So far so good. She’s gotten the usual stuff—framed prints, weekend getaway spots, and dinners. What we’re lacking are the big, flashy items,” Marty answered.

  They chatted awhile longer, drew up lists, again picked through the budget.

  They experimented with different days over the years, throwing the ball the evening of Opening Hunt, or the evening of Closing Hunt. They found December to work the best. Everyone was in a holiday mood, people could get off work, and the bills had not rolled in to spoil everything. This year’s ball was set for Saturday, December 17.

  The venue, the Great Hall at Custis Hall, had been used by Jefferson Hunt for over one hundred years. The vaulted ceilings added a medieval air to the many celebrations, concerts, convocations that took place there.

  Ten years ago the whole facility had been rewired, refurbished. A rock band could play without frying the electrical system.

  The serving kitchen had also been updated.

  The Great Hall supplied Custis Hall with bonus money, as groups would rent it to the tune of thirty-five hundred dollars before food, service, linens, tables.r />
  Given the long relationship with Jefferson Hunt, the club need only pay for the food, service, and tableware.

  Their century-plus relationship was the reason Jane Arnold sat on the board of directors. The senior master of the hunt club had served in this capacity since 1887.

  As the ladies finished their coffee and biscuits, wrapping up details, Marty’s cell rang.

  “Hi, honey,” she answered. “You’re exactly right.” She listened some more. “I’ll be home shortly. At least you and Sam could hunt this morning before all this happened.” More listening. “You know best.” She made a big smooching sound. “Bye bye.” She pressed the off button. “His computer blew up again. I use my Dell, got a good deal, and I have a real nice printer. Whole thing about nine-fifty.” She laughed. “But Crawford hires some geek from New York, builds the whole deal, has to have an ASUS motherboard, this bell and that whistle. And now my dear, darling husband is on the phone once a day to this computer whiz because he can’t figure out how to work the expensive piece of junk.” She sighed dramatically. “Men.”

  “Boys and their toys,” Betty laughed.

  “I can’t pick on them. I’m just as bad. If there’s a gadget in the hardware store that promises bliss, I buy it.” Sister’s workshop bore testimony to this small passion.

  “Before I forget. Are you going to make an appearance at Custis Hall’s Halloween party?” Betty asked the master.

  “No, are you?”

  “We’ll be there,” Betty replied.

  “Crawford and I will be going, too. That’s our second stop that Saturday. Halloween is a major party night.” Marty smiled. “Full moon on the seventeenth. There won’t be enough light to cast an eerie glow.”

  Halloween fell on Monday this year, but all the parties would be on Saturday, naturally.

  “Well, I know Charlotte will be glad you all are attending. I can’t go. Delia might whelp that night. I don’t want to leave her because I told Shaker he could go to the party with Lorraine at the firehouse. He was going to sit up with Delia. He hardly ever gets out. He is the most conscientious man. We’re lucky to have him.”

  “Hear. Hear.” Betty adored the huntsman.

  “This thing with Lorraine might just work out,” Sister winked.

  The phone rang. Sister got up. Caller I.D. showed the number was Charlotte Norton’s.

  “Excuse me, girls.” Sister picked up the phone. “Charlotte, hello.” She listened. Then she listened intently. “I see.” She was quiet again, then said, “Well, it can’t be ignored, but perhaps it can be contained.” More listening. “A special meeting Tuesday afternoon.” She checked her wall calendar. “I’ll be there. We’ll be finished hunting. Actually, you might need the exercise to get your blood up for all this.” She scribbled on the calendar with a 0.7 thickness of lead mechanical pencil. “I’ll be there and let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  As she hung up, Betty’s eyebrows raised, she pursed her lips. “What?”

  “There’s been a protest at Custis Hall. About fifty girls, black and white, called the school a plantation. They appear to be particularly upset over the displays.”

  “What, a bunch of dresses and hair ribbons?” Betty threw up her hands.

  “The girls feel there has to be better recognition of slave contributions. That’s what I’ve gotten out of this so far. Charlotte said she’ll be meeting with the girls to dig underneath.”

  “The girls may have gone about it the wrong way, but we do need to recognize slaves’ work. History, at least the way they taught it in Indiana when I was in school, was and probably still is about great men and wars.” Marty, a liberal in most respects, instinctively sided with the protesters.

  “Who will ever know the truth?” Sister shrugged as she sat back down. “Whoever wins writes history. The truth has nothing to do with it.” She stopped herself. “Well, I doubt this protest will dampen the Halloween dance.”

  “Oh, it will all blow over,” Betty predicted.

  C H A P T E R 6

  The ivy climbing over the brick buildings of Custis Hall swayed gently in the light breeze.

  This October 29 the twilight surrendered to darkness after a sunset of flame gold and violet.

  The air already carried a bite to it. Revelers slipped through the various quads. The parking lot behind the Great Hall was filled with faculty cars, administration cars, and one white Miller School bus disgorging the boys in costumes. One fellow came dressed as Queen Christina of Sweden, an interesting twist since she often dressed as a man. The other young men wore clothes reflecting manly images: pirates, cowboys, spacemen, Batman, Spiderman, a robot, generals from all epochs, Richard Nixon, and a few desultory ghosts.

  William Wheatley, head of the theater department, prided himself on the high level of teaching in his department.

  Tonight, the girls specializing in set design made him proud. Bill was nearing retirement. This year would be his last hurrah.

  Al Perez, one of the chaperones, dressed as Zorro, stood outside the massive front doors to greet the partyers. Valentina Smith, as senior class president, stood next to him. Charlotte Norton flanked her. The other uncostumed chaperones—Amy Childers, Knute Nilsson, Bunny Taliaferro, and Bill Wheatley—moved through the crowd, stopping to talk to students. From time to time, Knute would slip out back to check the parking lot. The kids were ingenious in sneaking weed and booze.

  Green light bathed the outside doors. Inside, three-foot wall sconces flickered with fake flames, while the other sconces were held by dismembered hands à la Cocteau’sBeauty and the Beast. The girls had done good work.

  The light from both the permanent and the theater-built sconces infused the Great Hall with splashes of light in ponds of shadow.

  A giant spiderweb hung overhead with a large black widow, her red eyes complementing the red hourglass on her body. She slid up and down the main strands of her web, causing shrieks from the costumed humans below. Smaller spiderwebs, dusted in various colors, blacklit, added to the scary decor. Witches flew about on brooms, the whir of motors distinguished as they passed over. The moan of a werewolf swelled into a howl and blended into the screams. A fake moon rose behind the stage constructed for the band.

  Outside, the darkness contrasted with the false moon inside the Great Hall. Betty and Bobby as well as Crawford and Marty left at ten-thirty, bidding Zorro, who guarded the front doors, good-bye. The kids would dance until midnight, then load up on school buses, go to Hangman’s Ridge, then back to the dorms after an hour there.

  The Miller School boys were dazzled by the technical display.

  At midnight, the sconces were extinguished. The spider’s eyes glowed in the blackness. She slid down to the center of the web, and from her silkjets came a stream of little sparkly flashlights, which clattered to the floor. The girls who built all this picked them up first and turned them on. Tiny blue lights, red lights, white lights beamed. The other students, now down on their hands and knees, scooped up the lights. Dots of light danced as the spider moved back up to the corner, the witches flew about one last time, jack-o’-lanterns cackled, and the ghosts groaned.

  Charlotte and her husband, Carter, stood by the doors to send the revelers off while Bunny Taliaferro and Bill Wheatley rounded them up. Al Perez and Amy Childers, squabbling at low volume, shepherded everyone out to the parking lot.

  School buses painted in school colors awaited the kids. The Custis Hall bus was parked immediately behind the Miller School bus. Bill Wheatley was already on the Custis Hall bus.

  “Honey, I should be home by one-thirty,” Charlotte said as she kissed Carter on the cheek.

  “Oh, what the heck, I’ll go with you.” He grabbed her hand, and they walked to the station wagon as Zorro waved and sprinted by to his car.

  As Charlotte settled behind the driver’s seat, she leaned over, kissing Carter on the check. “Thanks, honey.”

  She turned on the motor and slowly backed out. As they drove out the wi
nding, tree-lined road they noticed Zorro walking in the opposite direction.

  “Al must have forgotten something,” Charlotte smiled. “If he ever lost his Palm Pilot he wouldn’t know his own name. As it is, he usually forgets something. Makes me laugh. At least he can laugh about it, too.”

  They glided through the large stone gates, turning onto the state road. Within five minutes they’d turn onto Soldier Road.

  Given the darkness of the night and the few cars in front of them it took twenty minutes to reach Hangman’s Ridge from the Soldier Road side. The dark, dank mists hung in the lowlands, covering the last wild roses of the year. Cumulus clouds, gathering in the west, were moving toward the ridge.

  “Sister said she’d clean up the bushes on this old road off Soldier Road.” Charlotte held the steering wheel firmly as they bounced in the ruts. “She’s a good sport about this. We didn’t want to come in from the other direction. We’d disturb the hounds.”