The Hounds and the Fury

by Rita Mae Brown

  She glowered at him. "I'll provide Gray with whatever he needs, but don't expect me to fool with him. Or to humor him."

  "I reckon Gray Lorillard can take care of himself."

  "Certainly seems to be taking care of Sister Jane. Can you believe it. She's at least ten years older than he is!"

  Sister was only five years older than Gray.

  "And beautiful. She could wear out two men half her age."

  "Face-lift."

  "I don't know about that, but she's kept herself in shape."

  "Boobs don't sag. Probably got those tucked up, too."

  "Iffy, what have you got against Jane Arnold?"

  She pulled off her black-framed glasses, the latest fashion. "She's an imperious bitch. Just look at the way she walks."

  "Ah." The five-foot eight-inch Garvey finally pushed away from his desk to sit in his leather chair.

  "Ah, what?"

  He shrugged. "Nothing."

  "You think I'm jealous because I hobble around when I'm not in this wheelchair, and I'm overweight."

  "You're not that overweight. If it worries you, go to Jason and get him to put you on a program. Go to physical therapy. You're going to live, Iffy. Think of it this way: you're one of the few people to endure chemo and radiation and gain weight."

  "Very funny."

  "Jason said you beat it. He's the best. It hasn't been easy for you. I'm sorry for that. But you're getting mean."

  Iffy and Garvey had grown up together, as had many of the people in this part of central Virginia. No reason to mince words.

  "Just because I don't like Sister Jane, you think I'm jealous because she still has a great body and I don't. I never did."

  'You weren't fat."

  That did it. "Fuck you!" She wheeled around as he bit his lips.

  "Dammit," he whispered under his breath as he listened to her wheelchair roll toward her office. The light flickered on his phone. "Hello."

  "Sonny here. How you doing?"

  Garvey smiled at the sound of the banker's deep voice. "All right. Iffy just blew up at me."

  "How's she doing?"

  "Just told you."

  "Lot on her plate," Sonny said simply.

  "Oh well." Garvey's tone lightened. "What's the point of having friends if you don't see them through? What's up?"

  "I'm sending over the papers to amend your line of credit. Naturally, I'll review everything, but then I have to send it down to North Carolina. Gone are the days when I could do business on a handshake. You'd better brighten Iffy's mood because this falls in her lap."

  "You have our corporate report and our tax information. Of course, we haven't done this year's yet, but neither has anyone else."

  "The way it is now—thank the federal government for this—I pretty much need to know what you spend for toilet paper on an annual basis."

  "If I had back all the time I waste on paperwork, regulations, insurance, and workers' comp red tape, I'd double my profit, I swear." He sighed.

  "Brother, be glad you aren't a banker," Sonny simply replied. "I used to love this business. Last night I told Liz I'm retiring at sixty-five. Gone."

  'You've got a few years left."

  "Not many," Sonny replied. "Oh, before I forget, Custis Hall has begun the search for a new director of alumnae relations and a new head of the theater department. Let Charlotte Norton know if anyone comes to mind."

  "I will. Be a nice place to work. If nothing else, think of the vacations."

  "Another reason to retire. Liz and I can travel."

  They chatted for a few more minutes. Once finished, Garvey walked down to Iffy's office.

  Hunched behind her oversized computer screen, Iffy, gold earrings dangling, peered up at him. "Now what?"

  "Paperwork from Farmers Trust will be walked over this morning."

  "What are you trying to do? Bury me in paperwork?"

  "It is all coming down at once, I know." He slid his right hand into his pocket. "If I don't buy aluminum now at this price, I'll pay through the nose by spring. Between the Chinese and Hurricane Katrina's aftermath, I'm lucky to get this price. Everyone needs aluminum."

  "I'll get right on it." Her tone was conciliatory, but she didn't apologize for her earlier surliness. "If for some reason this isn't feasible—I mean that in terms of the interest rates, of course—we'll get more credit, but it might make sense to float a short-term loan for the purposes of buying the aluminum. I'll call around and check the interest rates. Could have asked yesterday when I was down in Richmond." She mumbled, as if to herself. "No point paying more interest than needs be."

  "Good idea, but bear in mind we want to keep our relationship with Farmers Trust strong."

  She turned her wheelchair away from the screen. "Money talks. Bullshit walks."

  "Right." He left the office, but they did smile at each other.

  That evening, the snow, having fallen steadily all day, although not heavy, accumulated six more inches. The sun set just before five. The long twilight, enlivened by flakes turning from white to pink to blue, finally surrendered to darkness.

  Raleigh and Rooster slept in their large fleece-lined dog beds in the kitchen while Sister fiddled with garden plans spread over the table, knowing that the best time to plan a garden is in the dead of winter. Colored pencils filled a white ceramic jam jar.

  Humming to herself, she drew a purple line around a corner bed. "More iris. Masses of iris."

  Golly, on the table holding down the papers, flicked her fluffy tail. "Catnip. Don't forget to plant catnip. "

  The phone rang. Sister rose to lift the receiver off the wall phone. "Hello."

  "Sister, it's Tootie." None of Anne Harris's fellow students at Custis Hall called her anything but Tootie, nor did anyone else.

  "How good to hear your voice."

  "I wanted to hear yours." Her young voice betrayed her loneliness.

  Sister heard the emotion. "The hounds will be glad to see you. Mrs. Norton and Bunny hunted yesterday. Great day, really. You would have loved it."

  "We'll be back on Wednesday the fourth, so if Bunny says it's okay, I can hunt Thursday. I miss it. Hope Val and Felicity can come, too." She named her two best school friends.

  "I'll cross my fingers," Sister replied.

  Tootie said, "Wonder when we'll find out which colleges accepted us? Dad really wants me to go to Princeton."

  "It's a great institution."

  A long pause followed. "I know."

  "Tootie, you have a little time to sort this out. I know you aren't too enthused about Princeton even though you applied. It will all work out, one way or t'other." She used the old pronunciation "t'other." She added, "And you can always talk to me."

  "And Iota." Tootie mentioned her horse, already feeling better.

  "Iota knows more than all of us."

  Sister hung up and returned to her rough drawings. Golly, paw on colored pencils, was now sprawled over them. Judging from the teethmarks, Sister surmised the calico favored something yellow.

  The phone rang again. It was Anselma Wideman, who with her husband a year ago had bought Little Dalby, a lovely old place of two thousand acres. The middle-aged couple dedicated themselves to refurbishing the house, restoring the outbuildings.

  Once owned by the Viault family, it had been one of the main fixtures used by the Jefferson Hunt. When the last Viault died, the place, sliding downhill anyway, picked up speed, so the Widemans' efforts were welcomed by hunters as well as by those who valued architecture and history.

  "Sister, Harvey and I agreed to allow Crawford to hunt Little Dalby. He said he wouldn't be here when you are, and Marty has been so good to us, I didn't see how we could refuse."

  Marty Howard, Crawford's wife, had designed and helped renovate the house gardens at Little Dalby. She and Anselma had become friends in the process.

  "I understand, and I'm sure Crawford and I can work out some accommodation." Sister hung up and cursed, "Goddammit, it's already started
."

  CHAPTER 6

  Central Virginia Medical Center, although not part of Jefferson Regional Hospital, sat two blocks away from that highly respected institution. Many of the doctors at JRH, as they referred to it, rented space in the two-year-old complex.

  A lovely black band of bricks in a diamond pattern halfway up the four-story structure broke up the red brickwork. The large double-paned windows allowed much natural light into the rooms.

  What was distinctive about the offices was their layout. The developer, Melvin Sweigart, knew physicians liked to group together by specialty, if possible. He figured it was the same principle as car dealers setting up shop next to one another.

  Melvin had created internal squares, small quads. The offices surrounded the quads, and hallways connected the various quads.

  Garvey Stokes had made special stainless steel sinks and tables for the center, as some procedures could be performed in the office. This saved a patient money.

  The cardiac quads were on the first floor. The cancer quads were on the second. The third floor was dedicated to sports medicine. The top floor, flooded with light from gorgeous pyramidal skylights, housed the plastic surgeons.

  A further advantage of this arrangement was it allowed the doctors in the various specialties to pool their resources if they wished.

  Walter Lungrun and his associates bought the highest-tech heart monitors available, just as Jason Woods and his associates purchased an x-ray machine for forty-two thousand dollars.

  The sports medicine group on the third floor went so far as to buy a magnetic resonance imaging machine for eight hundred thousand dollars. The other physicians rented time on it.

  While the hospital provided this equipment, too, the doctors at Central Virginia realized nine out of ten people never want to set foot in a hospital. The antiseptic odor alone upset people, and the impersonality of it added to the psychological discomfort.

  The more procedures that could be performed in this pleasant environment, the better from the patient's point of view.

  Business exploded. Walter had just hired another nurse, and Jason had to hire another head nurse and another secretary. Even with those expenses and the exorbitant insurance the doctors were forced to carry, they made money.

  So successful was the design for Central Virginia Regional Center that Melvin Sweigart was buying up old houses downtown to build another. Crawford Howard was a partner in this enterprise. He was considering buying out the company that disposed of waste—biological hazards, as they were now coined—since he thought he could do this more profitably than Sanifirm.

  While the snow continued to fall, the survivors' party hit high gear at seven in Jason's quad.

  Birdie Goodall, a pert thirty-two, office manager for this quad, ladled out the nonalcoholic punch.

  Iffy held out her glass cup. "Did you put ginger ale in for sparkle?"

  "I did."

  Alfred DuCharme tiptoed behind Iffy, reached around, and, holding a paper bag with a bottle inside, poured in a touch of something stronger. "Here's your sparkle, girl."

  Birdie winked at Alfred. "Works for me."

  He reached over and poured some into her own cup. "Say goodbye to your troubles." Then he held up his glass to the twenty partyers, all of whom had their hair again, "Here's to a New Year!"

  "Happy New Year," they agreed.

  Another raised his glass cup again. "And here's to Mr. Jason, without whom we wouldn't be here."

  A clamorous cry filled the quad.

  Jason demurred, then lifted his own glass. 'You have fought the good fight. It was a team effort."

  The patients all knew one another, if not before treatment, because of treatment. They were all in it together. Jason made a point of speaking to each person, wishing each one health and happiness.

  Birdie called out at one point, "Hey, don't forget your insurance forms if you haven't turned them in! I promise no more business."

  This brief interruption was followed by more partying. Iffy, using a cane, wearied of standing and sat behind the table of treats, so she enjoyed many conversations. Her demeanor, so different from that at work, was relaxed and warm. Among the other soldiers, as they thought of themselves, she flourished.

  Birdie glanced out the window at eight-thirty. "Still coming down."

  Alfred also noticed the heavier snows as he walked over to Iffy. "Would you like me to drive you home? I'm going to leave."

  "No, thanks. I don't have as far to go as you do, and the plows have been pretty good."

  "That they have. Now if only they'd plow the roads on the farm." He smiled. "Well, Old Bessie will get me through." He named his rusty four-wheel-drive truck.

  "By the way, Al, whatever you put in my punch makes me feel warm all over."

  He patted the flat bottle, still in brown paper, in his inside jacket pocket. "And here I thought it was me."

  "You, too." She smiled.

  He leaned down conspiratorially, kissing her on the cheek. "To health and wealth."

  The small gathering broke up at nine. Birdie handed Jason three insurance forms.

  "Paperwork." He sighed.

  "Well, if you'd asked Alfred for his bottle you'd fly through it." She smiled.

  "I would. Of course, whatever I wrote would be illegible."

  "I'll see you next year."

  "Next year, Birdie. And may it be a good one."

  Fifteen minutes later, Walter knocked on Jason's open door.

  'You missed the party," said Jason.

  Walter smiled. "Special group. They didn't need an intruder. Hey, do you have a Tom Thumb Pelham I can borrow?" Walter mentioned a type of bit.

  "Rocketman?" Jason smiled, for Walter's young horse could be strong.

  Clemson, the older hunter who had given Walter confidence when he started foxhunting, went in a simple snaffle. The Clemsons of this world were worth their weight in gold.

  "Thought I'd try it before buying one."

  "I'll bring it by."

  Walter stared down at the papers on Jason's desk. "Me, too. I'm determined to get the damn paperwork done so I can really enjoy New Year's. I love the bowl games."

  "Even with Birdie, I can't keep up with this shit." Jason disgustedly pushed the papers away.

  "Insurance."

  "Biggest scam in America." Jason's dark eyebrows knitted together.

  Walter folded his arms across his massive chest. "Remember when we thought forty thousand a year in insurance was a rip-off?"

  Jason rose from his chair. "What I don't understand is why we put up with it."

  "Two reasons." Walter obviously had thought about this. "Doctors are scientists, right? We aren't by nature businessmen. We don't have a lot of free time. Our work can be emotionally exhausting."

  "Right. That's more than two reasons." Jason smiled at him, one eyebrow now quizzically raised.

  "One. Let me go back to the fact that we are scientists. That means we aren't accustomed to banding together for political purposes."

  "We have the AMA," said Jason, referring to the American Medical Association.

  "And what have they done about these crushing insurance burdens?" Walter uncrossed his arms. "In my darker moments I think the AMA is in collusion with the insurance companies."

  "No." Jason shook his head. "The AMA isn't corrupt. Ineffective sometimes."

  "I don't know." Walter walked to the window, which looked out over the back of the building.

  "One thing, we lose hospital privileges if we don't carry the insurance."

  'Yep."

  "Look on the bright side, Walter. We could be OB/GYNs."

  Walter sighed but nodded in agreement, for gynecologists and obstetricians were bent double by their insurance load.

  "Donny Sweigart, in the snow, picking up the trash." Walter looked sideways at Jason, who now stood next to him. "Ever notice that Sweigarts are either really smart or . . . really not?"

  "We know where Donny falls. Funny how after his
father died in that warehouse fire he demanded that no one call him Junior."

  "Was." Walter watched as the younger man, of medium build and wearing heavy coveralls, lifted tightly tied plastic bags into the large truck.

  "He's a good truck driver."