“You and I have talked about this before. I’ve talked about it with other huntsmen. Just something we learn. I’m sure there’s science behind it and someone will prove the generational jump, probably about humans first.”
“H-m-m. Makes me wonder about Genghis Khan’s grandchildren.” She picked up her gear, which she’d laid on her desk.
“Only you would think about Genghis Khan.”
“I was thinking about him because if we breed Giorgio to a G girl at another kennel, different bloodline, we will have a G line. We can name a hound Genghis Khan.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know if that’s fair to the hound.”
“Kind of like naming a son Adolf. Italians can name a son Adolfo, but English-speaking people don’t name a son Adolf. Odd.”
Tootie popped in. “Done.”
“None of us got anything to eat because of the uproar. Come on up to the house. I made chicken corn soup last night. It’s always better the next day. Shaker, what about you?”
“Thank you, no. I’m going over to Beasley Hall to walk through Skiff’s kennels. She bribed me with food.”
“Is that so?” Sister’s eyebrows raised slightly.
He smiled as Betty Franklin joined them.
“What a damned mess. How’s Tatoo?”
“He’ll be fine. Once we could examine him I figured we could do the work here, as he is such a good guy even if something hurts. Will save a trip to the vet and the bill, too.”
“He is a good boy,” Betty agreed. “We missed all the gossip. I’ll bet you one hundred dollars someone in our club knows who is growing weed.” She continued. “Do I care? No. But I sure care when a man blasts our hound and threatens Tootie. Even if he doesn’t get caught, he will lose thousands and thousands of dollars.”
“I—” Tootie didn’t finish her sentence.
Sister placed her hand on Tootie’s shoulder and squeezed.
“Betty, I made chicken corn soup. Would you like some?”
“I’d love it, but I have a husband at home who is waiting for his steak. In his defense he cleans up the grill and the kitchen.”
Tootie asked, “I thought men liked to grill. Were competitive about it.”
“Not Bobby, bless his heart.” Betty smiled. “That’s all right. He does other things.” She glanced at the old wall clock. “Let me get going here. Maybe he picked up some news at the breakfast.”
She walked outside to her ancient but cool yellow Bronco, fired up that old motor, and rumbled off.
Sister and Tootie walked up to the house. Gray often spent a Saturday with Sam and Aunt Daniella so it was just the two of them.
Once in the kitchen, pot on the stove, Sister sat at the table, which Tootie had set. She’d even put out a nice bowl on a plate for Golly, who was looking her best.
A timer sat by the stove. Sister had learned to trust the timer rather than herself.
“How do you feel?” she asked the young woman.
“I’m okay.”
“We couldn’t really talk about it because we had to get hounds back. It’s a miracle that only Tatoo was hit.”
“If it hadn’t been for that hunting fellow, he would have shot again.”
“Let me show you something.”
“What I want to know is what do you mean—we got interrupted—he’s been missing since 1954?”
“That’s what I want to show you.” Sister picked up her cellphone lying on the counter. “Look at this.”
Tootie studied the video. “That’s him!”
“Wesley Carruthers. Weevil. He hunted the hounds here from 1947 to 1954, when he disappeared.”
“That can’t be true. This is the man who saved me.” She looked at the image, gratitude and curiosity flooding over her. “There’s no way this man could be…however old he would be. But it is the same blond man, same smile. I have to find him.”
The timer rang out. Sister rose to ladle out two big bowls of soup. Tootie, knowing Golly, opened the large drawer, pulled out some treats, and put them in the bowl. She also picked up two Milk-Bones for Raleigh and Rooster, each of whom thanked her.
As they ate their soup, Sister told Tootie everything she knew about Weevil.
“Sister, he was no ghost.”
“Well, it certainly makes me wonder. Is there anything you can add to what you told me?”
“He knew hounds. He wore ratcatcher. He had the cowhorn on a rawhide string, pushed on his back. He was strong. Wide shoulders, really fit, strong and handsome. He had a kind of light scent. We walked side by side so I could pick it up. Sister, he had such kind eyes. I don’t know what would have happened to me if he hadn’t appeared like that.”
“I’m glad he did show up. I hunted behind Weevil once as a child. Mother took me around. He was good, forward with hounds, and handsome as you said. At that age, it didn’t exactly register but he was handsome. I recall his voice, which was deep.”
“This man had a deep voice and an accent. Light. Maybe Canadian. I don’t think anyone here would notice it because the Tidewater accent is like a Canadian one. Think of how people pronounce ‘out and about.’ ”
“Interesting. Canada has eleven hunts, I think.” She paused. “Wherever there are English-speaking people there are horses and hounds. New Zealand, Australia—there used to be hunting in India under the Raj. Don’t know if there still is. We do excel at chasing things on horseback with hounds. You know, Tootie, some things are so deep in a culture it’s harmful to fool with it. Know what I mean?”
“Like music for African Americans? Think of what we brought to the New World. Just the rhythms alone. Dad would talk about how we gave jazz to America. The problem is, I don’t much like jazz but I like the old music from the 1940s, you know, like Ella Fitzgerald.” She thought a moment. “If Weevil is a ghost, that would be his time, wouldn’t it?”
“He was born in 1922. More soup?”
“No. I should be hungry, but I’m not very.” Tootie’s cellphone went off. Looking down, she made an apologetic face. “Hello.”
Her father’s voice, loud and clear, perked up Golly’s ears as well as Sister’s. “If you will testify against your mother in court I will reinstate you in my will.”
Without a second’s hesitation, she fired back. “And how long before you cut me out again? Dad, I’m not stupid.”
A pause followed this. Vic didn’t really underestimate his daughter but he was a businessman and if he could short you, he would.
“One hundred thousand dollars. Now. And I will sign a contract promising not to cut you out of the will in future.”
“No. I don’t want any part of this. I saw the video, Dad.”
An even longer pause followed that. “I’ll fire up the jet and come to you.” He mentioned his Gulfstream G150. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Well, I am. I will never testify against Mom.”
“Triple-digit millions probably before you’re fifty. Money is power. Why stand by your mother? She didn’t really stand by you.”
“No.”
“Those Virginia snobs have turned you.” His voice took an edge.
“They aren’t snobs. They’re my friends. They’ve done more for me than you have.” She nearly spat that out.
“The hell! I sent you to the best schools. I paid for your riding lessons. I bought you whatever you wanted including Iota. I paid for your coming out and that cost a half a million. I outdid and outspent all those goddamned clabberfaces.” He used the old country word for white people although he was a city boy.
Calm now, Tootie acidly replied, “I didn’t ask for any of it except for Iota. You used me to reflect your power. I didn’t want to be a debutante. You don’t own me, Dad. You never will. You know what’s really sick? You believe white people are your oppressors. You hate them. Some were and some are. I know our history.
“I know my opportunities came from you and from all our people before me. I know how lucky I am. But Dad, you are defined by you
r oppressor.
“No one defines me but me. I will never testify against Mom. I never want to see you again.” Tootie threw her phone on the floor. “I hate him.”
Sister, bending over, picked it up, and dropped it in Tootie’s hand. “Still works. These things are tough.”
“I was stupid to throw it down. I’m sorry.” She looked to see if it had dented the random width pine floor.
Had, a tiny bit.
“You’re upset. You have good reason to be upset.” Sister put her arm around Tootie’s shoulders. “I’m no psychologist but I figure he’s fighting for the only thing he knows: money and power. A lot of people are like that. They’re empty.”
Tootie searched Sister’s cobalt eyes. “You know what scares me? What if I turn out like Dad or even Mom? She’s trying but I wasn’t the daughter she wanted. She wanted a carbon copy of herself….”
Sister kissed Tootie on the cheek. “As she learns to really know you, she’ll be proud that you’re not a carbon copy. You are exactly yourself.”
Tootie nodded, wanting to believe that, then said, “People must look at me and think of my father naked, not a pretty sight, with those two women. Gross. It is so gross.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You and Gray mean more to me than Mom and Dad.”
“Tootie, for all their faults, they gave you life. One can only hope he will grow up, see the error of his ways, and make amends. And let’s give your mother credit; she is turning over a new leaf.”
Silent, Tootie got up, put on the tea kettle, sat back down, then got up, more treats for Golly, Raleigh, and Rooster.
“You spoil them,” Sister said.
“Learned it from you. It’s you who says, ‘What’s the point of loving someone or something if you don’t spoil them a little?’ ”
“Well, I guess I do. This day has been overwhelming. I thank the good Lord no one was really hurt. You never know about these people with illegal crops, although I know what drives them to it.”
“Money?”
“Yes, but so many people in Virginia and Kentucky, they’ve been wiped out by the war on tobacco, the war on coal. They only know but so much. They aren’t going to be computer coders. As for tobacco, it takes years and years to learn how to successfully grow that crop, the varieties—and then curing it, that’s a real art. Is smoking bad for you? You bet, but does anyone hold a gun to your head and say, ‘You will smoke this cigarette’?”
“No, but someone just about held a gun to my head.” Tootie was bouncing back. “And smoking is vile.”
“It is, but this is where our generations possibly diverge. I believe in people. I believe they should make their own decisions, even if those decisions are not always the best. I have no right to tell someone else how to live. If you started smoking, I would be horrified, but it isn’t hurting me.”
“I could blow smoke in your face.” Tootie laughed, spirits restoring.
“You would, too.” Sister laughed with her. “While I’m thinking about it, let me show you Weevil’s horn. Maybe you will have an idea about it, something that Marion and I missed. She was able to send me the complete pictures of it, since the museum catalogues everything. In case you noticed the carvings.”
Tootie clicked through all the images. “Look, here’s my cottage, what was left of it. Comet’s ancestor is underneath.”
“I saw that. By the time Ray and I inherited Roughneck Farm, it was teetering, but good chestnut logs, I might add, and we’ve used them. Used to be chestnut everywhere. Same with elm.”
Tootie clicked through again. She peered. “My cottage fox, he’s looking at the kennels.”
“Smart.”
“The chase scrimshaw sort of goes from Roughneck Farm to Chapel Cross, the four Corinthian columns. The stables and the fox at the tack room door.”
“Does.”
Tootie returned to Weevil himself. “I must find him. I will find him.”
“Just a minute, now. Whether Weevil is a ghost or has found the fountain of youth, he’s back, but no one knows why. He’s secretive and, remember, this started with a theft.”
“A cowhorn!”
He broke into the case at the Huntsman Hall of Fame. That’s a theft.” Sister said so with feeling.
“Sister, if you had a pencil in that case used by Dickie Bywaters,”—Tootie named the great huntsman from the first half of the twentieth century—“you would think it valuable.”
Sister laughed. “You’re right, but still.” She breathed in. “Sometimes, Tootie, I think you are older than I am.”
“Past lives,” Tootie replied.
Under the circumstances, that was a mouthful.
CHAPTER 23
Sugar maples flashed red on the top leaves, oaks blushed with a bit of yellow or orange on top. High color, about ten days away, perhaps a few more, electrified everyone; humans, horses, hounds, foxes, and all the birds who didn’t fly south became extra busy. Dens, nests, and roofs were repaired. Chimneys, if they hadn’t been cleaned, were cleaned now. Windows were caulked, firewood stacked. Neither man nor beast could afford to be lazy during fall, all the more so since you never really knew when winter would arrive.
This Monday, hounds had a day to relax, recharge after Saturday’s memorable hunt. Skiff trailered over Crawford’s hounds, which blended in with Jefferson Hounds as they walked out.
The air sparkled so Sister, Shaker, Betty, Tootie, Sam, and Yvonne walked across the footpath of the wildflower field, crawled over the hog’s-back jump into the now cut cornfield at After All. Black-eyed Susans, deep purple flowers as well as tiny white ones enlivened the long walk to the covered bridge. There hounds stopped, dashed into strong-running Broad Creek, drank, played a bit, then packed in as both huntsmen called them.
Roger, shiny and mostly black, walked shoulder to shoulder with young Angle.
Lifting his head, Roger noted, “Deer.”
“After All is full of them,” Angle replied. “A lot of fox, too. We hardly ever have a blank day here.”
“Good. Blank days mean hard work for nothing. Well, getting out of the kennels is good, but I want to run foxes,” Roger declared.
As hounds chattered so did the people.
“Ben Sidell had the marijuana burned. Yesterday,” Shaker informed them, a big smile on his face. “Wish I’d known. I’d have gone over for the spectacle.”
“Wonder if we’ll ever know who the planter was, or is,” Betty mused. “He couldn’t have been that bright. You don’t pass a rifle over someone’s head when dozens of people sit on the other side of your crop. He heard the horn. He saw the pack of hounds. Pretty stupid. As for burning crops, I think burnings aren’t made public. People would descend upon them to inhale.” She laughed.
“Hundreds of stoned people.” Yvonne kept her eyes on Pickens, who would turn his head to look at her. “You know, this dog is flirting with me.” She pointed to Pickens.
“Mom, he’s still young and he wants to be friends. The P litter is so sweet.”
“And I’m not,” Dragon sassed.
“What you are is an arrogant cur,” Cora pronounced with finality, making the other hounds laugh, that little intake of air they do.
“I guess protecting his crop blinded the man’s judgment,” Shaker said.
“If you point a rifle at someone or shoot their hound, you think that person isn’t going to retaliate?” Skiff found the episode unsettling.
“Years ago, Binky DuCharme’s son Arthur kept a still farther back from Old Paradise. There’s always been a still back there. Water’s so good. Of course, hounds got on a blazing run and smashed through it. All I could hear was tinkling glass.” Shaker laughed. “And the miracle was, not one hound with cut pads. We didn’t tell the sheriff’s department because Arthur is the son of one of our two non-speaking landowners. What a mess. Poor Arthur.” Shaker shrugged. “Binky had higher hopes for his son.”
“And his cousin, Margaret, is whip smart. So much for breeding
,” Betty remarked.
“Brenden DuCharme, father of Alfred and Binky, wasn’t intellectual but he worked hard, was smart about business things,” Sister remembered; Brenden and his wife were alive, just barely, when she moved here.
“Margaret died your first year here. Now there was the paragon of fashion,” Betty recalled.
“She was kind to children. She patted my pony, said some good words when Mom brought me here,” Sister said. “Had to be 1953. I was old enough so I wasn’t a pain when we traveled. Remember those two-lane highways? You’d crawl through every town.”
“Funny how things pass, isn’t it? We see it with horses and hounds. The DuCharmes, a mixed bag.” Betty returned to intelligence being inherited. She mentioned her late father-in-law. “Mr. Franklin said Margaret died of a broken heart. She never complained. She put her energy into her sons, but there was a sadness there. At least, that’s what he said.”
“Don’t you think some people are just born sad?” Yvonne piped up.
“Depression, but that’s beyond sadness. Most drunks are depressives.” Sam surprised them. “I was not. I liked the taste. That’s the best explanation I can give.”
“You fought it off.” Sister complimented him.
“Thank you, but I am an alcoholic. I don’t drink but I will always be an alcoholic. I’m on guard,” he said.
“Your aunt Daniella can drink us all under the table.” Sister laughed.
Sam, laughing as well, agreed. “Woman’s got a hollow leg but you know, she’s not an alcoholic. A heavy drinker, yes, but not an alcoholic. Gray and I take her to church every Sunday, as you know. She’s a walking history book in search of a double bourbon.”
“It’s a genetic trick. Like a good nose in a hound, a genetic program. People aren’t any different. I think a lot of things run in families. I swear cancer does.” Skiff patted Reagan’s head as he slipped next to her.
“I believe that.” Yvonne nodded. “But maybe we all have cancer and something trips the wire. Know what I mean?”
“Well, something’s going on.” Shaker slid over the hog’s back. “I’m forty-four. Already lost three high school buddies to it. A couple of my friends have wives battling breast cancer. Scares me. Scares me because I don’t understand it.”
Crazy Like a Fox Page 19