Crazy Like a Fox

by Rita Mae Brown

  Red bandanna hanging out of a grease-stained pair of pants, Binky called back, “I promise.”

  She hopped in her Mazda 6, which she loved. Being married to a car mechanic she knew better than to buy one of the fancy brands. She loved her Mazda, loved to drive it, and loved the gas mileage. Nothing went wrong and she’d owned it for a year now, bought with the money from the sale of Old Paradise. She could have bought a Rolls-Royce dealership if she’d wanted. She thought it all silly. She lived in a wonderful new house where everything worked. She could afford a cleaning company to come in once a week. The place sparkled. They even did windows. Thrilled, just thrilled to no longer be chained to Old Paradise, she tuned in the forties radio station on Sirius, and sang along with Duke Ellington’s band.

  As she drove off, Binky rapped the rear axle with a heavy wrench. He used sound to guide him. Fortunately, the axle on the heavy Silverado truck wasn’t bent, but something had secreted itself into the wheel well.

  He didn’t hear the door open and close, nor the footfall. On his back on the roller, he started to roll out to grab another tool when he saw a pair of cowboy boots.

  “I’ll be right with you. Didn’t hear you come in.” He pushed off, rolled out from under the truck, stopped.

  “How time flies,” Weevil said.

  Binky, flat on his back, moved his mouth but nothing came out.

  Weevil put his right foot onto Binky’s chest. Not hard, but Binky stayed put.

  Eyes wide, Binky said loudly but to himself, “I did not have a drink. I am sober.”

  “You are. I dropped by to tell you, Binky, you were always an asshole.” Weevil lifted his foot and walked out, boots crunching on the concrete floor as he left, closing the door.

  Binky, shaking, swung his legs over, sat upright. “I’ve got to call Alfred.”

  He stopped, held his right wrist with his left hand to stop the right hand from shaking. “The hell I will. Nothing will ever make me speak to Alfred. Nothing.”

  CHAPTER 25

  “Take your feet out of the stirrups,” Sam, in the middle of Crawford’s enclosed arena, ordered.

  Yvonne, one eyebrow raised, lifted her chin, did as she was told. “Bet you thought I’d make an excuse.”

  “No. You’re tougher than that,” he complimented her. “Now, relax, shoulders relax, wiggle your toes. There you go. Toes up. Toes down. Feet level. Okay. Now take your stirrups and cross them over the front of the saddle. Now I want you to walk with energy. Squeeze.”

  Squire, a kind gelding, moved out a bit. Yvonne, in synch, moved along.

  “Hands down, Yvonne. Now ask him to stop. There you go.”

  “Can I put my feet in the stirrups now?”

  “No. You are going to trot without stirrups along one side of this ring. When you reach the end, stop, and remember, downward transitions take more thought than upward. Ready?”

  “You think I’m going to bounce off. I will not,” she declared.

  Those first few steps without the stirrups woke Yvonne up. She wasn’t lurching, but she used muscles trotting she never knew she had.

  “Whoa,” she softly said as she pulled back, not hard, and the angel glided to a stop.

  Hands on hips, Sam called out, “Now, walk up to me. When you reach me, stop and dismount.”

  Turning Squire’s head to the center, Yvonne, still no stirrups, walked up to Sam. “May I drop my stirrups now?”

  “No. I want you to dismount without pushing off your right foot. You’ll slide a bit but you can do it.”

  She did slide off, knees bent a moment, then she stood up straight. “What’s the purpose of that?”

  “Just in case you lose a stirrup, you need to function without. Most of us push off when we dismount and swing our leg over. But what if you’ve lost that stirrup? I want you to be comfortable, confident, no matter what. When you can trot for twenty minutes without stirrups, you’ll have your leg.”

  “Is that what Tootie calls an ‘educated leg’?” She pulled the reins over Squire’s head and held them, following Sam out of the arena and to the stable.

  “No. An educated leg covers a lot of ground. For instance, when you foxhunt, your leg might be on the girth. If ground becomes difficult or you take a downhill jump, you’ll move your leg forward, the amount determined by the challenge. Then there’s turning your horse around your leg. It goes on, but my task is to make you a strong rider, a survival rider. Hunting is about surviving. You encounter obstacles, tricky conditions, sometimes just dumb stuff you would never face in the arena. Like what if you’re going into a jump and the horse in front of you falls, slides right into the jump? Do you pull up going at a canter or do you jump both horse and rider, and the jump, yelling for the rider to stay down? You have to think fast out there, and you have to trust your horse and yourself.”

  “Seeing a few hunts, I’m beginning to understand that. Of course, I want to jump. I know it will take time.”

  “You’ll get there. A jump is an interruption in your flatwork.” He smiled. “Anyway, lots to do. Next lesson: your first canter. It’s easier than the trot. At least, I think it is.”

  “Whatever you say.” She untacked Squire as they were now in the center aisle of the stable.

  “How’s everything going?”

  “Good. Funny, I’m in my early fifties and I have never lived alone. I quite like it.”

  He nodded. “Beveridge Hundred is beautiful.”

  “You live alone, right?” she inquired.

  “I live on the old home place. It’s behind After All. Gray and I have been fixing it up over the years. He usually spends three days with me and four with Sister or vice versa.” He paused. “I owe my brother everything. He saved my life.”

  Brushing down Squire, she looked over his dappled gray back. “How so?”

  “I lived down at the train station. Not so bad when the weather was good, but when it rained or snowed, we’d live under the bridge there. If we started a fire, the police would pick us up or chase us off. No one wanted to go to the Salvation Army because of the Bible readings and stuff. I was a drunken bum. I couldn’t stop.” He inhaled. “People must have told you. Everyone knows everything around here.”

  She smiled, giving Squire another brush. “Nobody knows everything but, yes, I’ve heard of your fall from grace. Met your aunt at the Old Paradise hunt. Formidable.”

  He grinned. “Diplomatic. How very diplomatic. Anyway, Gray picked me up, drove me down to Greensboro, put me in a thirty-day program. I couldn’t get out, couldn’t call, had to face myself. He paid for everything, came and picked me up. I have no one to blame but myself for my fall from grace, as you put it.”

  “Doesn’t that apply to us all? My soon-to-be ex-husband—I do like saying that—had everything. Thought he was above the rules, thought he could lie. It’s the same thing. We don’t face ourselves. I finally had to. No, I’m not a drinker, but I had to face that I was living a lie.” She walked around and kissed Squire on the nose. “Why does it take so long?”

  “Beats me. These horses in the barn are smarter than we are. They live in the moment, have no illusions, and trust their hearts. Horses are emotional and sensitive.”

  “That means he likes my kisses.” Yvonne laughed.

  “Well, yes, but he’d like you even more if you gave him a Mrs. Pastures cookie.” He pointed to the feed room where a bucket hung on the wall overflowing with the expensive cookies.

  Naturally, horses, like cats and dogs, like the costliest food best. For people, it’s Louis Roederer Cristal.

  She fetched a few cookies—what a happy horse, as she led him to his stall. “Do you want me to turn him out?”

  “No, we just switched to our winter schedule. Inside at night. Outside during the day.”

  Yvonne slid the stall door closed. The top of it was bars so horses couldn’t reach out and nip you, but lots of air and light flowed in. The nipping is often a pay-attention-to-me move. However, if it’s directed at another ho
rse, harsh words can be spoken.

  She slid her hand in her britches pocket, pulled out a fifty-dollar bill, handed it to Sam.

  “Yvonne, that’s too much. I only charge twenty-five dollars.”

  “Oh, I had a good time, but I can feel my inner thighs.”

  He laughed. “Yes, you will. Tell you what, this means you’ve paid for two lessons.”

  She started to argue but Sam spoke again. “How about after your first hunt, we’ll go celebrate? A twenty-five-dollar lunch.”

  “Will I make it before the end of the season?”

  “Easy.” He smiled.

  “What about the clothes? I don’t want to embarrass my daughter.”

  “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. If you’re willing, I’ll drive you up to Horse Country in Warrenton.”

  Having seen his car, she smiled. “Deal, but you can drive my car.”

  He laughed. “Deal.”

  Sam swept out the aisles. Yvonne had told him she’d gotten what she wanted from Vic Harris. He could only imagine the sum but Sam didn’t much care. He liked her. She was game.

  He hung the broom up on the wall in the small implement closet, brushed hay off himself, hopped in his aging truck, and drove to Aunt Daniella’s.

  She was out the door before he could knock on it. She pointed to Mercer’s car, hers now, a BMW 5 Series. Sam climbed in, fired her up, and off they drove to Harris Teeter, the high-end supermarket.

  He rolled the cart while she tossed stuff in, including a few items for him.

  The shelves, crammed with foodstuffs, forced decisions. Actually, Sam liked the Food Lion in Lovingston better. The produce was so fresh and the lighting so good. The produce at Harris Teeter was fresh, too. Food Lion, a little less expensive, irritated Aunt Daniella. She remembered when it was mostly for poor whites and poor African Americans. She was not going in. So Harris Teeter it was, with stops along the way as she visited with everyone. Given her age, she knew everyone.

  A jar of sweet gherkins in her hand, she looked down the length of the aisle.

  In a stage whisper she said, “Alfred and Margaret. Let’s roll right on over.”

  Sam did as he was told.

  “Why, Margaret, how lovely you look.” Aunt Daniella complimented her as she nodded in recognition of Alfred.

  “It was so good to see you at Old Paradise. I hope you come out more often. Tom Tipton was so happy to see you.” Margaret held a jar of Jif peanut butter in her hands, which Alfred took from her, placing it in the cart.

  “Tom Tipton can talk a tin ear on you.” Alfred laughed.

  “Can, but he was a good man in his day. You were in your very early twenties as I recall, Alfred. You rode with Jefferson Hunt.”

  “Did.”

  “You’ll be surprised to know I spoke with Wesley Carruthers.” She beamed, a hint of malice in her voice.

  He looked at her as though she was crazy, then replied, “I see.”

  “Perhaps he will call on you.” She smiled, then rolled away.

  “Dad, who’s Wesley Carruthers?” Margaret knew nothing.

  “Old foxhunter.” Alfred clamped his mouth shut.

  Of course, Daniella was losing it, but why Weevil? What was going on in her brain? Puzzled, Alfred pushed the cart.

  In the next aisle, Sam, who had heard a bit about the museum video from Gray, cocked his head. “Aunt Dan, what are you up to?”

  “Revenge. Revenge for myself and for Weevil. Alfred told tales about Weevil. He’s what, twelve years younger than I am? As I recall, when I was in my middle thirties, Alfred was just busting twenty and so arrogant. A DuCharme, you know. He figured that as I was a lady of color—the description in those days—I would be eager to sleep with an FFV, First Family of Virginia. I was not and would not. Course, now he probably can’t even get it up. Revenge.” She smiled broadly.

  “Aunt Daniella,” Sam spoke in wonder.

  “Oh, Sam, I may forgive, but I never forget.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Sister peered at her phone as she listened to hounds merrily eating in the large feed room. Not that she could hear them chewing; what she heard was the enthusiastic pushing of the long metal feeders.

  She was smiling, for they’d worked well at Close Shave this morning, pushing out one fox, one coyote, and a huge herd of deer. They ignored the deer, ran the coyote until he zipped out of the territory. On the long walk back to the trailers, they hopped another fox. This particular fellow headed for Foxglove Farm, but they lost him in the woods between Foxglove and Close Shave.

  Sister had hunted in her mother’s womb. She toddled after hounds as soon as she could walk. In the early part of her seventh decade she still had no idea how a fox can vanish. As near as she could tell, neither did anyone else throughout the centuries.

  One could always tell a bullshitter in foxhunting, an individual who answered all the mysteries. How she would love to inflict the shade of Squire Osbaldeston, an extraordinary Master in nineteenth-century England, upon said know-it-all. Osbaldeston wrote an autobiography about his hunting life, which she would reread for fortification. He obviously couldn’t write an autobiography about the rest of his life—too many ladies of quality would have been compromised, as well as ladies kept by a gentleman for pleasure. Thinking about the squire, a small, well-built man, a true natural athlete, she returned to Weevil. Medium height, also well built, it would seem that the gorgeous man had much in common with the rather handsome squire, with the exception that he lacked a great fortune. A fortune the squire and his family squandered. He rather unchivalrously blamed his mother for extravagant tastes.

  Peering at the close-ups and complete views of Weevil’s cowhorn she wondered if the legendary squire’s horn was in someone’s hands. All those great huntsmen from the late-seventeenth century to today—what had become of their crops, horns, hats, coats?

  Nose to the phone, she flipped through the views. Rising, she placed the phone on her desk and walked to the feed room.

  “They earned it,” she said to Shaker and Tootie. “Aces, what a good puppy.”

  The sleek youngster, still a bit skinny, lifted his head, softened kibble falling out of his jaws. “Thank you.”

  “I ran ahead of him!” Aero bragged.

  Sister listened to Aces’s littermate, remarking to Shaker, “He’s so keen, Aero, but he did overrun the line today. Aces has an old head on a young body. A careful boy.”

  “Is.” Shaker beamed at his charges. “The young entry will settle though, even Aero. It’s the magic of the A line.”

  “Tootie, I need your young eyes. Come into the office when you’re done.”

  Shaker said, “She can come now. We’re done here.”

  “Well, that was a fast power wash.” Sister was impressed.

  “Since the hounds spent most of the night outside in their condos, not much to do. Building those condos was one of the smartest things we ever did. They love them.”

  “Has turned out. I figure part of it is lounging on the decks in the sun. There are enough condos that they can be with friends. Really they’re no different from us. Some get along and some don’t. Which reminds me: Saturday’s hunt starts at After All. I expect a large field. All to the good, of course, until we get in tight territory or jammed at Pattypan Forge. You know we’ll have to reverse field. I dread it.”

  Shaker laughed. “You’re the field master, cuss ’em out.”

  “Right. They’re nervous enough as it is, trying to back their horses into the bush. I’m amazed none of us has ever been kicked in there.”

  “There’s always a first,” Shaker replied as he opened the door to the boys’ room.

  The girls stood over the feed troughs. First, they were obedient. Second, they could still lick the troughs with less competition.

  “What a reassuring thought,” she called over her shoulder.

  Tootie, in tow, took a last moment to pat Cora.

  Once in the office, she pulled up a chair,
for Sister motioned for her to do so. Wedged next to the tall woman, she watched the tiny screen.

  Sister stopped on one angle. “Look at this.”

  “The fox under the then fallen-down cottage. He’s looking at the kennels.”

  “I wonder about that, too. This scrimshaw is delightful, but a bit crude in spots. Keep looking.”

  “The kennels, the arcades.”

  “And?”

  Tootie squinted, held the phone up to her face. “Kind of looks like a mark on a brick.”

  “Like an X?”

  More scrutiny. “Yes.”

  “Let’s go find it.”

  Out they walked, the sun bright, the sky now sparkling blue, for it had been cloudy. The possible mark was on the arcade leading to the girls’ big indoor room.

  Both women looked up at the arcades.

  “Shaker.”

  Answering her raised voice he hollered back. “Yo.”

  “Bring the little light hammer.”

  “Why?”

  “Just bring the damned hammer and while you’re at it, the stepladder.”

  They could hear his grumbling—good-natured grumbling, that of a man taking orders from his beloved Master. He soon appeared, the stepladder over his shoulder, the hammer in his belt. “Madam.”

  “I love it when you listen.” She teased him. “Right here, under the third arch, but next to the pillar.”

  He unfolded the six-foot ladder, sturdy.

  “I think this ladder is as old as you are. They don’t make them like this anymore.” He teased right back.

  “It’s older than I am. Was here when Ray inherited the property. And you’re right, they don’t make them like that anymore, nor people like me either.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Tootie, up you go. Next to the top step.”

  Sister then slipped the hammer from behind Shaker’s belt and handed it up to Tootie. “You saw the X. Tap those bricks.”

  Tootie leaned over, tapping the pillar, not the arch. They all listened.