Crazy Like a Fox

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Shaker, I think even doctors don’t understand it, but going back to bloodlines, you and I were talking the other day about how a quality often skips a generation. Our A line. Ardent, son of Asa, is a good hound and somewhat resembles his sire, but Aces and Angle, the grandsons of Asa, dead ringers. It’s uncanny. Same deep voices, same drive.”

  “Tootie looks more like my mother than I do,” Yvonne noted.

  “Maybe, but everyone knows I’m yours.” Tootie found it difficult to think she looked like her maternal grandmother, who was getting old.

  Mentally, Tootie knew she would get old. Emotionally, she didn’t believe it.

  —

  Back at Roughneck Farm, Skiff and Sam loaded their hounds on the party wagon, a two-level trailer so hounds could choose where to ride. Half of them were asleep once they found their berth.

  Sister, Shaker, Betty, and Tootie called each hound by name.

  “Pansy.” Tootie motioned to the pretty girl.

  “I liked the walk.” Pansy slid by Tootie to go into the girls’ side of the kennel.

  Each hound waited until his or her name was called then stepped forward to go either right or left. Yvonne stood back to watch, surprised at how obedient the hounds were. They were happy creatures.

  Once everyone was in their respective places, Sister offered drinks. They trooped up to the house, gratefully drank iced tea or soda, chatted.

  Then Sister walked everyone back to the kennels.

  “Skiff, before you go, let me show you something. Won’t take long. Yvonne, Sam, you all can come inside, too.”

  She walked them all back to the record room. Betty pulled down a green leather volume from 1972. She opened it on the desk inside that room.

  “You can see our records go back to 1887. We are so fortunate to have them.”

  Betty pointed to a 1972 staff photo. “This was the year before Sister was elected Master. She’s a whipper-in.”

  “Betty, they don’t want to see that.”

  “Yes, we do.” Skiff and Yvonne studied the photo.

  “You look exactly the same.” Yvonne smiled as Tootie looked at Sister.

  “What a fib.” Sister laughed. “But here. This is the biggest help.” She flipped through the hound photos, each accompanied by a pedigree. “I can follow a bloodline for one hundred and thirty years.”

  “Astonishing.” Skiff was impressed.

  “I was seventeen. Last year of high school and hunting with Jefferson.” Sam looked back. “Then off to Harvard, where I hunted with Myopia.”

  “There are hounds in Boston?” Yvonne was surprised.

  “Outside the city. Myopia was founded in 1882. Of course, when they found out I hunted in Virginia, they actually invited me to hunt with them. What a surprise when I turned out to be black plus, forgive me, I could ride.” He laughed.

  “Bet it made them competitive.” Sister knew the story.

  Sam smiled, which made him even more attractive. The man, in his early sixties, didn’t have an extra ounce on his frame, and neither did Gray, his older brother.

  “Sam, tell them.” Sister prodded him.

  “Well, second hunt, they knew I was black, so those that could stand it did. Those that were horrified said not a word to me, but one of the whippers-in didn’t show. I volunteered and did just fine. Anytime you are from Virginia, other hunts do get competitive, but the truth was I was young, fearless, and could ride anything. And I did. Those white folks who were offended to have me in the midst couldn’t keep up, so it was a moot point.”

  “I can certainly understand that. The first time I walked down the runway you could hear the intake of all that breath.” Yvonne relayed her beginning. “But I sold clothing. The stuff I wore brought in the money. Before too long other young women of color, as we used to say, were walking the boards.”

  “It’s hard to believe things were that way, and I grew up in the South.” Betty was sincere.

  “Betty, it’s still that way for some people.” Yvonne looked at her sport Swatch. “When it’s twelve-fifteen here it’s 1930 in Mississippi.”

  “You know, I actually think in some ways Mississippi is ahead of say, Iowa.” Sam defended the often attacked state.

  “You’re probably right—and if I’m correct, I have a riding lesson.” Yvonne looked at Sam.

  “You do. Get in that big-ass car of yours and follow us to Beasley Hall. I’m going to put you up on Don Juan.”

  Skiff exclaimed, “What a sweetheart. He’s called Don Juan because you’ll fall in love with him.”

  After everyone left, Sister returned to the record room, pulling down the books from 1947 to 1954. Tootie happily played with puppies in the puppy palace. She’d attack her other chores later.

  Sister studied every single pedigree in those seven years. Slapping shut 1954, she leaned back in the seat, exhaled. “I’ll be damned.”

  She hurried back to the house. The landline proved clearer than her cellphone.

  “Marion.”

  “What did you find out? You have that tone,” Marion replied, not at all surprised.

  “Weevil had an odd way of naming hounds. If a mother’s first initial started with B, he might name some of the girls Birdie, Betty, etc. But then he would, out of the blue, name a girl Christine. Never did this with the boys.”

  “Yes.” Marion waited.

  “The nonconforming names were those of women he was rumored to have had affairs with, like Christine Falconer. Two years later, Christine bred, had her puppies properly named except for Madge, Christine’s—the human’s—daughter, in real life. He used every name you gave me plus the ones down here.”

  “That devil.”

  “And he called his bitch pack his ‘Fast Ladies.’ That’s brazen if ever anything was.”

  “Well, I don’t know if we’re any closer to finding out what’s going on but we’re certainly getting a sharper picture of Weevil.”

  Sister had informed Marion of the Weevil sighting, plus his protecting Tootie.

  “This is what drives me crazy, Marion. I feel like I’m so close, like it’s right under my nose and I don’t see it.”

  “Want a wild guess?”

  “From you? Always.” Sister trusted Marion, as did most people who had the good fortune to know her or work with her.

  “Tootie is beautiful, heavenly, a beautiful rider. She’s so intelligent. If Weevil is Weevil and he has seen her, I predict he will…maybe not make a pass, but he will try to make a connection. Do ghosts make passes?”

  “Well, there’s The Ghost and Mrs. Muir.” Sister cited a wonderful movie from the forties.

  “A ghost in love,” Marion mused.

  “The longer this goes on, the more I think this is a flesh-and-blood man. Why be Weevil, I don’t know. He knows hunting. He asks questions about the past. He blows the cowhorn. Is it a signature or is it a warning?”

  “You’ll find out.”

  “You might be right about Weevil contacting Tootie again. She has no interest in men or women, as much as I can gather.”

  “Sister, a drop-dead gorgeous man protects and defends you. I know drop-dead gorgeous is a play on words, but there you have it. Any woman, even if she were gay, would be drawn to this knight in shining armor. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course, but then I always displayed a weakness for good-looking men, as have you, my sweet.”

  “But when?”

  “When what?”

  “When did you discover men?”

  “I can’t think that far back.”

  “Yes, you can. Don’t be coy.”

  “Really, my first little whiff of lust? I guess I was sixteen. I didn’t really get it until I was twenty.”

  “I rest my case.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Margaret walked with her cousin Arthur on the Charlottesville Mall. He’d driven down to pick up a tiny Bokhara rug from a store on the Fourth Street side street. Margaret met him for an unusual lunch. She rarely had time for
lunch, but given that both their fathers proved difficult they carved out time.

  “Martha Jefferson,” Arthur cited the old hospital at a new site east of town, “how can you find your way around it?”

  “Compass,” she replied, slipping her arm through his.

  “I guess when Mom and Dad’s time comes, that’s where they’ll go.”

  “Not soon, I hope.”

  Arthur, a decent fellow with no ambition, murmured, “I thought selling Old Paradise would solve problems. Money problems, sure. But the constant back and forth between my dad and yours. If one said ‘A,’ the other would say ‘B,’ and then you and I would spend hours, months, working it out. I can understand fighting over our grandmother’s jewelry, what’s left of it, but fighting over the manure spreader? There were six manure spreaders at the farm.”

  “Yeah, but only one worked.” She stifled a laugh.

  A smile crept onto his face. “How hard would it be to install new chains in an old one?”

  “Not hard, just costs money. Those chains, for lack of a better word, are flat metal. Metal always costs, and both of our fathers are so damned cheap.”

  “They have millions now and Dad still keeps the Gulf station open, repairs a few cars. I tell him, close it down, spend time with Mom in your new house. I’ll keep the station running if he doesn’t want to shut it down. You don’t have to work. Travel. Nope. Change terrifies him.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “She’d love to go to Hawaii.”

  “Arthur, they’re comfortable in their hostility, their misery, their pinched little lives. I blame some of this on our grandfather. When the boys were young there was still money. Old Paradise meant something. Binky and Alfred were at the top of the social pile. Went to their heads, I think.”

  Arthur nodded, quiet for a few steps. “I love my mother. Without her I don’t know if I could stand Dad. But much as I love her, was losing her worth decades of anger and silence? Your father went ballistic.”

  “He did. Now he’s retreated into a kind of coldness. He loves me, he has a few social friends, but Dad’s in the deep freeze.”

  “Margaret, ever wonder if there’s more to it?” Arthur turned his head to look at her directly.

  “Funny you should ask. I was thinking that myself. Have off and on for years. It’s just so—extreme.” She paused. “Has your mother ever talked about when she dated Alfred?”

  “Only that she and Alfred liked a lot of the same things. I asked her why she ditched Alfred. She shrugged and said that Dad paid more attention to her.”

  “H-m-m. Ever wonder if neither of us got married because of their example? Actually, Dad and Mom got along pretty good, but she died so young. At least I think they got along,” Margaret second-guessed herself.

  “Mom says your mother just wanted the social prestige. Then she always adds in the next breath that that doesn’t mean she wanted her to die of lung cancer.” Arthur put his hand over Margaret’s. “I don’t get this latest flare-up.”

  “Can’t stand seeing Old Paradise come back to life without them. That’s all I can figure.” Margaret, like Arthur, was sick of their behavior. “You’d think they’d enjoy it. You’d think my dad would like his new easy-to-take-care-of house in Crozet. That dependency had electric wire wrapped in silk. Nothing had been done since the 1930s. I swear. He complains about the fireplace in his new house. He misses his stone fireplace. He asked me would I ask Crawford if he could remove the old one? I flatly refused. Crawford is touchy.”

  “You can be so diplomatic, cuz.” He praised her.

  “I get along with him but I don’t have much to do with him. We had a joint meet, which you know about. Actually was a fabulous hunt. Crawford rode right up there with Sister and all went well.”

  “That’s a miracle.”

  “The strangest thing happened, though. Both Shaker and Skiff blew ‘Going Home.’ ” Sounded beautiful, and then it was followed by an echo that lingered. Deep. Mournful.”

  “Sometimes the mountains will do that.”

  “Yeah.” She squeezed his arm. “So what do we do?”

  “About Grandmother’s earrings?” He shook his head. “Hell, when Mom dies, I don’t want them. I’m not a drag queen.”

  “Oh, Arthur, there’s still time.”

  He burst out laughing. “Can I wear a dress with a beard?”

  Arthur, a touch vain, sported a trimmed well-kept beard. He almost looked like a rich Spanish grandee from the sixteenth century.

  “I don’t see why not. You’ll have to borrow falsies. I do not recommend breast surgery and while I’m on that subject, be glad you don’t have to carry them around.”

  “I don’t mind holding them.” He laughed.

  “Worthless. If you like holding them, why don’t you get married? Haven’t found the right size? D? C? I am shocked.”

  A wry smile crossed his lips. “Much as I worship the female body, I am not always happy with the female mind.”

  Margaret was not one to scream sexist. “You can’t stand that we’re smarter than you?” Then she paused. “You know, Arthur, I actually know what you mean. There are some women, like some men, who exemplify the worst of their gender. For instance, what I have found working with other doctors and the nurses is if I have a disagreement with a man, we fight it out. Might get hot but when it’s settled, that’s it. Might settle a disagreement with a woman—but she will never forget it. Never. Sooner or later it will reappear. I just can’t stand that. So I’m a pig.”

  “No, you’re honest. Obviously not all women are like that, just like not all men are arrogant and not very insightful, but there are enough to make you wonder how the human race ever survived. Back to marriage. If I found a woman I could talk to, honestly talk to her and vice versa, I’d give it a shot. I see Mom wrap Dad around her little finger. I don’t ever want a woman to try that with me.”

  “I understand. But, Arthur, you aren’t going to find the right woman with your head under the body of a car. Exhaust pipes don’t make for fascinating conversation. Who do you meet? Get out.”

  “Ah, Margaret. I never know what to say.”

  “You talk to me just fine.”

  “We grew up together. You’re really my sister.”

  “Then talk to a woman as though you were talking to me. You’re a good athlete. Take up golf or tennis or kayaking. You’ll meet interesting people. I golf, as you know. I’d be happy to set you up with a good pro. Won’t take you long—well, golf is a bitch, but you’ll learn more quickly than others.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Consider this. I buried myself in my work. I met lots of young male doctors. They were okay but the spark wasn’t there. I think we were all too focused on what we had to learn, and our career path. You don’t meet too many doctors who don’t want to make money and be set by our forties. Then I started foxhunting. Walter Lungrun sandbagged me into it. I met Ben. Chemistry.” She grinned.

  “Mom says no DuCharme should be dating a sheriff. Beneath us. You should be with another doctor, or preferably a senator.”

  “Interesting coming from a woman who married a garage mechanic.” Margaret couldn’t resist.

  “But a DuCharme?”

  “Do you give a shit?”

  “About the name? Hell, no. But I am kind of proud of being descended from Sophie Marquet.”

  “Me, too. She must have been something. If they’d caught her they could have executed her. Probably not. But she’d have been imprisoned or sent to England. So we know we’re descended from someone smart and tough, who loved our country.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. Back to the damned earrings. Let’s make a deal: You just tell your mother and father that when they leave this earth, you do want the Schlumberger Tiffany earrings. Worth a fortune, I might add, and they are stunning. If you marry, they go to your wife. If you don’t marry, they go to me, unless you change your mind about being a drag queen. You’d b
e the only drag queen in America with real Schlumberger earrings.”

  “That’s motivation. Will you help me dress?”

  “Sure. You need to start practicing walking in high heels now.”

  “That means I have to shave my legs. If I keep my beard why can’t I keep the fur on my legs?”

  Margaret shook her head. “Not the same. You’re handsome with your beard. You might get away with it, and the earrings would really set off your beard. Legs, never.”

  He pressed closer on her as they walked. Arthur loved Margaret. He felt she was the only person who actually understood him. Who wanted to do so. She accepted him for himself. She never once, never, chided him for being a car mechanic.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  They walked in silent companionship to the rug store, where Margaret stopped. She needed to get back to the hospital.

  “Arthur, are you worried about your mom and dad?”

  He looked straight into her eyes. “He’s getting frail. As long as Dad and Uncle Alfred had Old Paradise, even though they couldn’t repair one fence board, they felt important, you know? People would come to stare at the columns, the stables. They’d drive by Alfred’s house all the way to the other side of the thousands of acres to see our house, an exact replica. People would tell newcomers the story of Old Paradise, of the brothers who hated each other because of a woman. They were somebody. Now Dad bitches that he has pots of money and lives on one acre.”

  “My dad’s going down, too.” She inhaled deeply. “They made this life. They can damn well deal with it. I’m not going to be in the middle anymore. When there was no money, and I was starting to climb in my profession, I tried to make peace. You did, too. Arthur, the hell with it.”

  “I think they never grew up. But I’m with you. I’m not taking messages from one to the other. And before I forget, your solution to the earrings is good. I agree.”

  She kissed him on the cheek, turned, then turned back. “Remember, shave your legs.”

  —

  Milly DuCharme closed up the front of the Gulf station, stuck her head in the garage. “Binky, I’m going home. Try to get there by six, will you? I don’t want to warm up lamb chops.”