The Hounds and the Fury

by Rita Mae Brown

  Some creatures possess this magnetism. Secretariat had it. Archie, Sister's late anchor hound, had it. You just had to look at him, the way you had to look at Sister.

  Freddie wanted to be like Sister, but she was too concerned with her effect on others. Beautiful as she was, this made her vulnerable. She needed praise to feel feminine, to feel good. Sister woke up in the morning feeling good. If people liked her, fine. If they didn't, well, there were six billion people on earth. There ought to be someone out there they liked.

  "I heard your parting with Mick was stormy."

  Freddie pursed her lips. "I vented to all my girlfriends, and now I'm ashamed of myself. I should have kept my mouth shut."

  The wind rattled the windowpanes. A downdraft sent spark showers flying up in the fireplace and glowing on the fire screens.

  Jason made his way to the two women.

  "Ladies."

  "Jason, you've met Freddie Thomas before, I believe."

  "That has been my pleasure, but"—he inclined his head toward the lovely woman—"she was always guarded by a two-toed sloth."

  Freddie and Sister burst out laughing.

  "You haven't been out hunting," Jason remarked.

  "I've been so busy this season, I haven't been out once."

  "Freddie has reached that critical juncture in her practice where she needs to either take a partner or partners or cut back on work so she can enjoy life—which of course means foxhunting." Sister leaned toward Freddie. "I mean it."

  Freddie was a certified public accountant. Gray thought highly of her.

  "I'm sitting at the crossroads being a big chicken." She sighed in agreement.

  "If you don't get off the crossroads you'll be squashed. Listen to the sage of Roughneck Farm," Sister teased.

  "Funny, my image of accountants is of someone dull. I was wrong." Jason assiduously avoided staring at her cleavage.

  "I love accounting. I get to study businesses from the inside. I guess I'm a little like Sonny Shaeffer." She nodded toward the florid-faced banker. "I know a little bit about every business, but perhaps not enough to run one."

  "Freddie, you could do anything you set your mind to because you're so intelligent." Sister meant that. She turned to make her exit so these two could discover one another but was nearly run over by Iffy, who hit her brakes.

  Sister was pinned between Iffy on one side, Jason and Freddie on the other.

  "Happy New Year." Iffy appeared festive, although resentment bubbled beneath the surface.

  "Happy New Year," the others replied.

  "Freddie, did you know that Jason is my doctor?"

  "I did."

  "He saved my life. If you ever feel a lump anywhere, go to him." She stared at Freddie's bosom.

  "I'll bear your advice in mind, although I hope I never need it."

  Jason put his hand on Iffy's shoulder. "I've never seen you so lit up."

  "How do you mean that?" Iffy sounded a little testy.

  "The lights." He pointed to her wheelchair. "If you all will excuse me, I'm going to find Gray."

  "He's with Garvey." Iffy's lower lip jutted out. "And I'm mad at both of them."

  "Don't stay mad long, Iffy; it's New Year's Eve. And I need you to back up."

  "Oh." Iffy turned her head, beeped her horn, and backed up a tad as Binky and Milly DuCharme moved out of the way.

  "Happy New Year," Sister greeted husband and wife.

  Binky, golden hair laced with gray, wrapped his arm around her waist. "Here's to the two-faced god, Janus. He looks to the past; he looks to the future." With that he gulped his champagne.

  Milly, a less enthusiastic drinker, clicked glasses with her husband and Sister. 'You look divine in that color."

  Sister, in royal blue, laughed. "Thank you, but I'm not divine, or I guess I'd be like Janus."

  Leaning very close, Milly whispered, "I don't want to see the future."

  "Me neither," Sister agreed.

  "What'd you say, Honeybun?" Binky hadn't caught the whispered conversation amidst all the noise.

  "That it's best for us not to know what tomorrow brings," Milly chirped.

  "We know to not count our chickens before they've hatched." He laughed, then stopped. "One thing is consistent: Alfred."

  "Sometimes old wounds are lovingly tended." Milly had lived with the situation since the middle seventies and felt justified in speaking her mind.

  Sister, not wishing to criticize either brother, kissed both Binky and Milly on the cheek. "Whatever the year brings, I hope we stay healthy and thankful for our friends." As she sidled through the crowd she thought to herself that the statute of limitations on youthful traumas had run out.

  When she reached Gray and Garvey she noticed Iffy doing her best to butt into everything Jason and Freddie had to say to one another.

  Garvey noticed, too. "I think she's like a lot of women. She fell in love with her doctor."

  "Perhaps," said Sister. Then she added, "Iffy's motto is, 'If I have made just one life miserable, I have not lived in vain.' '

  Gray and Garvey laughed, for the sting of truth was in it.

  "I'll get my share." Gray smiled.

  "Hey, take mine, too. I've been on the short end of her stick for the last week."

  "Hopefully Iffy will bow to the inevitable. She'll have her nose out of joint for a while about the audit, but it takes too much energy to stay angry," Sister sighed. "She needs a positive outlet."

  "I thought Alfred was an outlet. Course he's not here tonight, since Binky is." Garvey looked over the room. Gray succinctly summed it up. "Iffy and Alfred are so used to being unhappy they don't want to upset the status quo. They're perfect for each other."

  Sister held up her champagne flute. The men touched theirs to hers, and the crystal chimed, a high, clear note. "Here's to a New Year filled with new ways and old ways. Over solid bedrock the earth keeps shifting." She knew the Blue Ridge bedrock was granite more than one billion years old. However, no need for her to be pedantic.

  "Hear, hear," the men toasted.

  Then Garvey laughed. "I don't think I've ever heard a geological toast. Makes me wish I'd been in your geology class at Mary Baldwin."

  "How about a toast from your profession?" Gray teased him.

  "Put the pedal to the metal." Garvey raised his glass.

  "That was too easy!" Sister laughed at him.

  "You didn't say it had to be hard." Garvey then looked to Gray. 'Your turn."

  "Put your money in your head; no one can steal it from you there."

  Sister and Garvey clicked their glasses once more.

  Meanwhile, Iffy drove right under Freddie's bosom as if to find shade. It's doubtful Iffy could have found a toast for the occasion, but she could have wedged her champagne flute in Freddie's cleavage. Of course, Freddie could have used Iffy as an end table.

  Ben Sidell, sheriff of the county, his back to Freddie, half turned and caught Jason's eye. "Dr. Woods, Happy New Year. Iffy"—and he included Freddie when she turned round— "Happy New Year."

  "Why aren't you in uniform?" Iffy blurted out, oblivious to the fact that the sheriff was entitled to a private life.

  "I worked Christmas Eve and Christmas." He smiled broadly. "Interesting hunt this morning."

  "Interesting hunt tonight." The corner of Jason's mouth turned upward.

  Ben looked at Jason, then Freddie, then Iffy, and thought this a strange triangle. "I was wondering if any of you could introduce me to the lady standing by the fireplace."

  Champagne flute in hand, Dr. Margaret DuCharme leaned against the end of the fireplace.

  Jason, unwilling to surrender his spot with Freddie, didn't move.

  Nor would Iffy.

  Freddie, happy to ditch both of them, took Ben's hand for an instant. "I'd be happy to."

  Iffy and Jason were abandoned to one another.

  Iffy smiled. Jason's eyes followed Freddie.

  Meanwhile, Freddie, voice low, said, "She's a sports m
edicine doctor. I'm not exactly sure what that means, but she must be very good because the Washington Redskins send her their wounded. Professional golfers fly in to see her, too."

  "Married?"

  "To her work."

  As they drew closer Freddie stepped forward.

  Margaret, diminutive and attractive, extended her hand to Ben. "I didn't recognize you out of uniform."

  The touch of her hand befuddled him. He stood there speechless.

  Freddie, wise in such matters, chatted for a moment. "Everyone knows our sheriff."

  Ben recovered, dropping Margaret's hand. She smiled. "If you two will excuse me." Freddie skillfully slipped away.

  Jason watched her every move from behind Iffy's wheelchair.

  People are like colors: they complement each other or they clash. Ben and Margaret complemented each other. Once Ben had regained his composure they talked easily, lighting up like the sparks flying in the fireplace. And the conversation veered from the superficial immediately. Their physical attraction was obvious. What a partygoer observing them couldn't have known was that their minds were on fire.

  Driving home from the party, Sister and Gray noticed Donny Sweigart's truck by the side of the road a quarter of a mile from Crawford's entrance.

  The headlights revealed blood on his camouflage fatigues as Donny walked to his truck.

  Gray pulled over. Sister opened the window. "Donny, are you all right?"

  'Yeah. Deer blood."

  "If Crawford catches you here, he'll put the law on you."

  Donny smiled slyly. "He's celebrating. Anyway, I'm out of here."

  As they drove home, Gray, who planned to spend the night with Sister, said, "He pushes it."

  "What I want to know is, where's the deer?"

  "Could be down in the meadow."

  "He can't drag it out by himself unless he dresses it in the field, and then he runs the risk of Crawford catching him. No deer in the truck bed."

  "What the hell is he up to?"

  Sister, lips taut: "I don't think we want to know."

  CHAPTER 9

  The New Year fell on Sunday. It was also the Feast of the Circumcision, a festival honoring the removal of the infant Christ's foreskin. No doubt the early church introduced this celebration to replace pagan New Year frolics whose devotees found other things to do with their foreskins.

  Sister, up before dawn, as usual, left Gray in bed sound asleep under a down comforter. Not a drinker, she had enjoyed last night's champagne, but at this moment she enjoyed her hot tea even more.

  After feeding the dogs and Golly, she pulled a heavy three-ply cashmere sweater over her head, wrapped a scarf around her neck, slipped her arms into her fleece-lined bomber jacket, and slapped on her cowboy hat.

  She stepped outside into a charcoal-gray world and looked east, where a faint sliver of lighter gray lined the horizon. The snow clouds had cleared out last night. Breathing in the cold air, she felt seventeen years old. Raleigh and Rooster plowed behind her as her boots sank deep into the snow. Hard going though it was, she told herself this was terrific exercise for her thighs.

  Not one hound mumbled as she approached the kennels. They always slept well after a hunt, and yesterday's go had pooped them out.

  Once inside the kennels, she put the two house dogs in the office. Removing her bomber jacket and draping it over the back of the office chair, she double-checked the clipboard on the desk.

  Each hunting day, those hounds selected to go out had red checks by their names. She'd check their pads again, then note if anyone needed a little extra feed. She used the day's roster to determine who would go out next hunt. One of her favorite times was going over the draw list with Shaker. They rated each hound's work during the last hunt and each hound's condition. She loved few things in life as much as her hounds. Raleigh, Rooster, Golly, and all the horses ranked right up there, too.

  Then she walked into the feed room, a large square room with a huge drain in the center of the gently sloping concrete floor. The room could be power washed in ten minutes. The temperature inside the feed room was forty-five degrees, but it would rise when the hounds came in, and it would also climb a bit as the sun did.

  Keeping hounds at temperatures humans find comfortable produces a sick hound. Their body heat when they sleep together keeps them warm, as does good food. It's cruel to pamper a hound who, God forbid, might become separated from the pack and spend the night hunkered down in a covert or outbuilding somewhere. Hounds need to be hardy, fit, and resourceful.

  The best thing any person who keeps animals can do is feed them properly, taking activity and season into account.

  Sister filled the troughs with high-protein kibble: 26 percent during hunting season, 21 percent the rest of the time. She then poured a little hot water over it, along with corn oil.

  First she pulled in the dog hounds. If the girls were fed first, their lingering enticing aroma could sometimes cause problems with the dog hounds.

  Jefferson Hunt had separate housing away from the main kennels for gyps, the females, in season, connected by an arcaded walkway to the main kennel. Even when playing with hounds, Sister played with the dog hounds first. Sad to say, the girls evidenced much less interest in the boys than vice versa. After the dog hounds ate, she checked them. Everyone was fine—no bruised or cut pads, no barbed wire streaks on anyone's back.

  She repeated the process with the girls. When those exuberant ladies finished, she brought in the youngsters, who cheerfully gobbled every morsel. Finally, she brought in Asa and Delia, two older hounds, fed separately to give them time to relax. She mixed in vitamin powder with their warm kibble. As Asa was stiff in the mornings, she let him eat Rimadyl out of her hands. He thought the medicine was a treat, it tasted so good.

  "Asa, this is your last year hunting. After this, I'll need you to help me train puppies. If you don't like that, you can come on up to the house, but you have to put up with Raleigh and Rooster."

  "It's Golly that plucks my last nerve, " the gentlemanly hound smiled.

  "Is that good?" Delia, sniffed as Asa ate his Rimadyl.

  "Candy.'

  "Here." Sister patted Delia on the head and let her eat one from her hand. 'You don't really need it, Delia, but one tab won't hurt you."

  Asa and Delia then ambled to their separate quarters.

  Usually Shaker fed the hounds. Sister tried to be there as often as she could, but being a master took time. Landowners called, as did members, each needing information or wanting to impart the same to her. She and Walter both secured and opened territory—another time-consuming process.

  Apart from foxhunting, Sister sat on the board of directors for Custis Hall, helped raise funds for the SPCA, and had her farm to run. Seed and fertilizer, if ordered early, often came with a 10 percent discount. Each year what the fields needed varied. Fences might need repair or replacing. A household chore would always pop up: a dying refrigerator, a crack in the wall. It never ended, but she was never bored.

  Gardening, second to foxhunting in her passions, restored her spirits if they happened to be flagging. Even in winter, looking over glossy holly bushes and various conifers delighted her and inspired her to plant more trees, bushes, and flowers come spring.

  Sari would return to Colby tomorrow. Today would be Shaker and Lorraine's last day with her until semester's end, which was why Sister fed the hounds. When Shaker roused himself in about a half hour, he'd find everything done: hounds fed, yards picked, the manure spreader full.

  A long low pink ray of light fell over the snows. She left a note for Shaker, tacking it on the bulletin board in the office. She couldn't wait to get outside, for soon the world would be bathed in pink, then scarlet, and last, gold.

  She put her bomber jacket back on. The dogs rose. The phone rang.

  "Hello, Jefferson Hunt Kennels."

  "Sister, you come over here this instant and pick up your goddamned hounds!"

  She recognized Iffy's voice. "My
hounds are in the kennels."

  "Oh, sure, that's what you hunters always say. You pick up these hounds or you'll never pass through my land again." Iffy slammed down the phone.

  "That girl needs charm school or Prozac. Maybe both." Sister replaced the receiver as she talked out loud to Raleigh and Rooster. "Well, let's crank up the party wagon. I don't know whose hounds are out there, but we'll pick them up."