Full Cry (18 page)

The waiter put the check on the table. As both were members, he did the correct thing, placing the bill midway between them, rather than assuming the man would pay.

Walter reached for it to sign it, but Sister was quicker and grabbed it. “I asked you to lunch.”

“Sister, let me. You do so much for all of us. I don't know how to repay you. Allow me.”

“No. Speaking of passion, I'm here because of that passion.” She scribbled her name, club number, then added a tip. “When I look at you, Walter, I am reminded of love. I'm reminded of being young. I'm reminded of how life is one surprise after another, a jumble of emotions, events, but, ultimately, joy.” He sat stock-still as she spoke, her low voice resonant. “I am reminded that I must tend to my passion, for I want others to experience the same sharp grace that I have experienced in the hunt field.” She took a deep breath, reaching for his hand once more. “Walter, I want you to be my joint-master.”

CHAPTER 19

At eight o'clock Tuesday evening, the skies turned crystal clear. The last wisp of noctilucent cloud scudded toward the east. The mercury plunged to twenty-two degrees.

Like most horsemen, Sam Lorillard obsessively listened to the radio weather reports. Before he left Crawford's, he double-checked each horse's blanket. For those with a thin coat, typical of many thoroughbreds, he took the precaution of putting a loosely woven cotton blanket under the durable turnout sheet.

Like Sister, Sam believed horses needed to be horses. He kept them outside as much as possible, bringing them in to groom, feed, weigh, and carry on a conversation. Sam liked to talk to the horses. Roger Davis, his assistant, also took up the habit.

Crawford's thoroughbreds knew a great deal about Super Bowl picks, college basketball, and socks—quite a bit more about socks because Sam's feet remained cold until the middle of May.

The Lorillard home place, improving now that Sam was back on his feet, had a huge cast-iron wood-burning stove in the middle of the kitchen.

Sam was also trying to improve his eating habits. He hunched at the kitchen table, a heavy leather-piercing needle in his right hand, a workday bridle in his left. The small keepers, which kept the cheek straps from flapping, had broken. He patiently stitched them.

Jabbing a needle through leather hurt his fingers, which ached in the cold. Sitting by the wood-burning stove helped.

His cell phone rang. He no longer bothered with a line to the house, using the cell for everything.

“Hello.”

“Sam,” Rory croaked, “come get me. I'm ready.”

“Where are you?”

“Salvation Army. Thought I'd clean up.”

“Hang on. I'll be right there.”

Sam hurried to his battered 1979 Toyota truck, which, despite age, ran like a top.

One half-hour later, after a fulsome discussion with the sergeant in charge, Rory left with Sam.

“It's a three-hour ride. Can you make it?”

A haggard Rory slumped on his seat. “Yes.” He produced a pint of Old Grand-Dad. “This is the last booze I'll ever drink. If I don't, I'll get the shakes. You don't need that.” Rory took a swig.

A pint was nothing to Rory Ackerman's system. Sam said nothing about the whiskey, was surprised that he didn't crave it himself.

The long ride to Greensboro, North Carolina, was punctuated by sporadic bursts of talk.

“Expensive?”

“The clinic?” Sam kept his eyes on the road.

“Uh-huh.”

“Not as bad as some.”

“How am I gonna pay for it?”

“Don't fret about that now. Just get through it.”

Rory licked his lips after another pull. “You got some secret source of money?”

Sam smiled, the lights from the dials on the dash illuminating his face with a low light. “If I did, I wouldn't tell you.”

“Am I gonna work this off for the rest of my life?”

“I told you, don't worry about that. You and I can work that out later. Your job is to dry out, clean up, sober up, wake up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rory responded with little enthusiasm.

As they crossed the Dan River, then over the North Carolina line, Rory spoke up again.

“Heater works good.”

“Truck's a keeper.” Sam smiled.

“Pisses me off that the Japs make better cars than we do.”

“Nah,” Sam disagreed, “not anymore. But if I get enough money together, I'll buy another Toyota Tacoma. Easy on the gas. And red. I always wanted a red truck.”

“Sure I got a bed?”

Sam nodded. Rory stretched out his feet, not far since the cabs of Japanese vehicles are made for people smaller than Americans. “Been thinkin'.”

“I figured.”

“No. Been thinking about Mitch and Tony.”

“Oh.”

“Day jobs.” Rory glanced out the window at the flat landscape. “They knew something.”

“Like something illegal?”

“I reckon. You know how it is. We work a farm for two days, paint a fence, however long we can hold it together. Anyone who needs someone fast doesn't mind scraping the bottom of the barrel, rides on down to the train station.”

“Yeah.”

“Loading docks. Once when storms dropped trees over the tracks, we even worked for the C and O, cutting them up. If you talked to all of us, we've about covered every odd job in the county. You notice things even if you're hung over.”

“Mitch and Tony notice anything out of the way?”

Rory closed his eyes. “Brain's no good. I remember sometimes they'd be flush.”

“You'll remember when you're back to yourself.”

He paused, then whistled. “If I can figure it out, I might be drinking the next bottle of Thunderbird enhanced with poison.” He cackled for a second. “Like those wine snobs would say, ‘a floral top note,' or maybe in this case, a hemlock finish.”

As Sam drove to Greensboro, only to turn around and drive back to get to work by six-thirty in the morning, Sister sat up in bed, wood crackling in the big fireplace. Propped on her knees was a yellow legal pad, much scribbled upon.

Each time Sister would write something else with her Number 1 lead pencil, Golly would bat at the pencil.

“Gotcha.”

“You're a frustrated writer.” Sister batted back at the cat, who loved this game.

Rooster got up from his bed, walked over, and put his head on the bed, eyes imploring.

“No.”

“Why does she get to sleep up there?”

“Rooster, go to bed, honey.”

“I want to get on the bed.”

Raleigh, disturbed, joined the harrier.
“It's not fair. It's
not fair that that snot cat gets to be up there and we sleep
in dog beds. We're man's best friend. What's she?”

“The Queen of All She Surveys,”
Golly replied.

“I can't think. Boys, go to sleep. The dog door isn't locked downstairs, so you can go out if that's what this is about.”

Sister usually locked the door at night so Rooster, particularly, wouldn't hunt. But on a cold night, Rooster had no desire to chase fox, rabbit, or bobcat, hence the unlocked dog door.

“Disobedient dogs don't get treats.”
Golly rolled over to display her stomach, adding further insult to the barb. She fetchingly turned her head, too.

“Smart-ass cats get tossed over our heads,”
Rooster threatened.

“I am so scared I think I'll pee on the comforter,”
Golly purred.

“Then she'll throw you off the bed,”
Raleigh said.

“I can't hear myself think.” Sister scratched Golly's tummy while the cat peered down at the dogs. They sighed, gave up, and padded back to their beds.

“One of these days that fat cat will go too far,”
Rooster grumbled.

“No sense of restraint, obligation, or duty.”
Raleigh put his sleek black head on his tan-tipped paws.
“She does
nothing to earn her keep.”

Golly righted herself.
“Oh, yes I do, you two sanctimonious toads. Dogs are so, so—”
She pondered.
“—goody.
Makes me want to cough up a fur ball. I kill mice. It's why
we have a mouse-free barn and house.”

“Ha! Inky comes in and gets the mice and what she
doesn't want, Bitsy gets. The last time you caught a mouse
was an eclipse of the sun.”
Raleigh kept his eyes open in case she shot off the bed to attack him.

“You just thought there was an eclipse of the sun. You
had your head up your ass.”
Golly giggled.

That made Rooster laugh, so Raleigh now growled at him instead.

“I am going to throw everyone out of this bedroom and shut the door. I need to concentrate.” Sister's voice took on that
listen-to-me
edge.

Golly moved to sit behind Sister on the pillow. She peered down at the tablet, covered with names, squares beside some, X's beside others, question marks by a few.

“Looks complicated.”
Golly exhaled through her tiny nostrils.

Squares rested in front of the names of those on the Board of Governors who would oppose her plan. X's meant agreement. A question mark was just that.

Tomorrow was the board meeting. She would announce her decision concerning a joint-master. After initial shock and some good questions about just what she expected from him, Walter had happily said yes.

Now she had to get this through the board. She had spoken to the people with an X by their name. Bobby Franklin, stepping down as president, was the first person she talked to after Walter. She'd been politicking. She wondered how elected officials did this morning, noon, and night. Guess they liked it.

She had not spoken to the few people with squares by their name, Crawford being one. She knew she'd face opposition. Why give the two people she knew would oppose this plan time to pressure the question-mark people? Better to lay this out tomorrow night and hope the X's could help her swing the question-mark people right there at the meeting.

As for Crawford, she had a plan so he would be kissed and socked at the same time.

Not for nothing had Jane Arnold been Master of the Foxhounds for over forty years.

As she scribbled, she stopped and then spoke to the dogs. “I think this will work. I'm excited about having a joint-master. Oh, I know there will be bumps in the road. I've had my own way here, captain of the ship and all that, but Walter and I will be a good team. Oh, la!” She threw up her hands. “I might be seventy-two, but, I'm telling you, I feel thirty-five!”

“Sometimes she gets simple.”
Golly yawned.

“Humans worry about their age. The whole cosmetics
industry would collapse, plastic surgery would tank if people accepted themselves as they are,”
Raleigh shrewdly thought out loud.

“I figure if you can't bring down a rabbit, it's time to sit
on the porch,”
Rooster added his two bits.

Thrilled with her plan, Sister checked the clock on the nightstand, picked up the phone, and called Tedi Bancroft to again discuss bringing in Walter.

The two dear friends laughed and chatted. Tedi and Edward thought electing Walter as joint-master was inspired. Sister told Tedi how young she felt, light, elated.

Just before hanging up, Tedi said, “You know, Janie, I think aging is a return to your true self.”

CHAPTER 20

“But look how much money the showgrounds have already generated.” Clay Berry, first year on the Board of Governors, glanced down at his notes. “Surely by next year there will be enough to hire a part-time manager, at the least.”

The board meeting was held the third Wednesday of each month except July. Every member took a turn hosting, a practice that drew them together. Although they hunted together, board members didn't necessarily socialize. This was not because of personality conflicts, but the group's interests varied widely. There wasn't as much time to sit around in one another's homes as there had been for Sister's parents' generation. People worked long hours, even those with money. They ferried their children to and fro, their kids as overcommitted with activities as their parents.

The other factor, true of most hunt clubs, was that members involved themselves in community projects: political campaigns, the Heart Fund, Easter Seals, 10K runs to raise funds for breast cancer research. Let there be a fund-raiser, a ball, a horse show, a trunk show to raise money for a worthy cause, and someone from the Jefferson Hunt would be there or in the chair.

Perhaps foxhunters, by their very natures, possess more animal energy. One can't fly fences in heat, rain, sleet, or snow for two to four hours without brimming with high animal spirits. This spilled over into many activities. Sister was proud of the good work her members had done for the community. She even believed in a few herself, notably the No Kill Animal Shelter, which was her pet project—her pun.

Ronnie, tough about money, punched numbers into his handheld calculator. He looked up at the faces gathered in Sister's front room. “Now look, Clay, it's not a half-pay kind of deal. You know that from your business. There's payroll, taxes, health insurance—”

“If they're contract labor, there are no payroll, taxes, or health insurance,” Crawford interrupted.

Xavier folded his hands together. “Ronnie's right. In order to have someone we can trust, someone who isn't going to wreck the tractor, who will take some pride in the task, you can't go with contract labor. I mean, we can't head on down to the Salvation Army and pluck up one of the winos before a horse show. Either we keep going as we are or—”

“It's the ‘or' that worries me,” Walter spoke up. “Right now, the showgrounds are under my umbrella since I'm head of the Building and Grounds Committee. This is our first year, and we've been keeping everything together. For instance, the Lions Club left the grounds immaculate. The Antique Auto Club left the grounds immaculate, but grease was everywhere. Jimmy Chirios and I had to scrape down the ring, haul off the oil-soaked sand and bring in a thousand dollars' worth of twice-washed sand. And we told them not to drive cars in the ring. It's a sharp learning curve. Much as I'd like a full-time person, we can hold off for another year. Let's see if the rentals hold up. Right now we're a novelty in the county.”

Betty Franklin, the newsletter editor, spoke up. “I agree. Actually, I think we're going to have more and more activity there. The grounds are more beautiful than I expected, and the county has nothing like this. We've saved the county commissioners a headache. Not having a showgrounds or fairgrounds has been a sore spot since the old fairgrounds burned down twenty years ago. Every year since then the commissioners would say, ‘Costs too much to build.' Every year construction costs went up and up. Nothing got done. That we did it is thanks to the Bancrofts for the land and thanks to Crawford.”

“Hear! Hear!” Everyone sang Crawford's and the Bancrofts' praises.

Golly, having disgraced herself during dinner before the meeting, perched behind Sister on the wing chair, and cackled.
“There! There!”

“I move we table the employee issue, showgrounds, for a year.” Ron moved.

This was seconded and passed.

“Now let me bring up an idea.” Sister smiled. “Actually, it was Ronnie's idea. You tell them.”

“Why don't we ask each member to buy a lottery ticket once a month? One dollar. If the ticket wins, they split with the club.”

“Great idea!” Betty Franklin clapped her hands together.

“Who can argue with a dollar?” Her husband, Bobby, president of the club, smiled.

“How do you know they'll be honest about the winning ticket?” Crawford tilted his head slightly to one side.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Sorrel Buruss, social chair, always the diplomat, quietly said, “It is hoped that anyone who is a member of this hunt has integrity, honesty, humor, and courage. Naturally, we also have feet of clay, but let's hope for the best.”

“Why can't members buy a ticket, write their names on the back, and turn it in to the treasurer?” Crawford nodded to Ronnie. “It would remove temptation if someone hit Lotto South's big jackpot.”

Another silence followed.

“That makes work for Ronnie. It might work, but let's start with a little trust,” Betty remonstrated.

“Trust is a wonderful thing—” Crawford's light voice filled the room. “—but removing temptation will yield more results.”

After wasting too much time on this issue, the board voted to trust to luck and the membership.

Bobby Franklin checked off another item on the agenda. Two remained: the election of a president and the election of the master, which was announced on February 14. Whatever board meeting was closest to February 14 before that date was the elective meeting. It usually fell in January. If the membership did not accept the board's recommendation, people could be proposed from the floor.

The board did not elect new members until the start of cubbing season. Each year three members cycled off the twelve-person board, after having served three years. This provided continuity and also avoided the stress of too much change all at one time. None of the members present, with the exception of Sister and Edward Bancroft, had lived through an upheaval of masterships. The disarray for those two years before Jane Arnold became master left such a bitterness at the time that a huge effort had been made to unite behind Jane. It worked because over time she demonstrated not just knowledge of hounds, game, territory, and wooing landowners, she could get people to work together. She always said she had more patience with animals than people, but being a master forced her to develop patience with people, and to examine other points of view. She felt becoming an MFH was one of the best things that had ever happened to her.

“We are now coming to the election of a president and a master.” Bobby's eyes swept over the gathering. “As you know, I am stepping down as your president after serving seven years—seven years that I wouldn't change for anything in the world. But it's time for new blood and time for me to make a big decision in my life about whether to expand my business or sell it. Betty and I really need to think about all that. I am grateful to you for allowing me to serve.”

“You'll still lead the Hilltoppers, won't you?” Sorrel asked. “You're so good at it.”

Bobby smiled. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Sorrel. Yes, I will.” He paused a moment, getting even Golly's attention. “It is customary for the outgoing president to name his successor after convening with the master and to give the reasons why he thinks this individual will be a good president. Of course, nominations will be entertained from the board, too.” He paused again. The gathering sat still; the only ones in the room who knew what was coming next were his wife and Sister. “I have given the matter of who should follow me a lot of thought. One of the greatest things about Jefferson Hunt is that I think any member of this board would be a good president. That says a lot about the depth of our leadership and commitment. But the more I thought about it, the more I kept coming back to one man: Crawford Howard.”

As he said this, eyes widened. No one expected Bobby Franklin to pass the torch to a man he loathed.

“This is more interesting than I thought it would be,”
Golly purred.

“Crawford has drive, experience in the world of business. He also has a vision. He's not afraid to express himself directly and—” Bobby held up his hand and smiled. “—we Virginians can't always do that. Or at least this Virginian can't. And I don't pretend I always like that, but I have learned that when Crawford says something, he believes it. He doesn't try to ruffle feathers; he tries to get the job done. At this point in our club's history, I believe that Crawford Howard is the president we need.” He turned to the surprised Crawford. “Do you accept my nomination of you as president?”

Crawford understood that this meant he would not be joint-master, at least not for a while. What a disappointment. On the other hand, this was a chance to prove himself as a leader.

“I accept. And I want to pay tribute to a president with whom I have come to blows, physical blows. Much as we have disagreed, and violently, I have never doubted your commitment to what you believe is best for the Jefferson Hunt. Over time, I have learned to somewhat temper my ways, thanks to your example. Yours are big shoes to fill.”

“Hear, hear!” all spoke.

Bobby patted his ample girth. “Big pants, too.” He laughed at himself. “Do I have a second?”

Edward Bancroft, himself no fan of Crawford's, who also had learned to work with him and appreciate his acumen, said, “I second the nomination.”

“Are there nominations from the floor?” Bobby waited an appropriate time. “If there are no further nominations, then I move we vote on our candidate for president. Because there is only one, we can do this with a voice vote. All in favor, say ‘Aye.' ”

“Aye,” came the unanimous chorus.

“Crawford Howard is our new president, term effective as of the February board meeting. Congratulations, Crawford.”

“Thank you.” Crawford stood up. “Thank you all for your confidence in me.” He sat down.

“One last item: the election of our master.”

Before Bobby could continue, Ronnie called out, “I nominate Jane Arnold.”

“Second,” Clay said.

“Any nominations from the floor?” Bobby waited. “All in favor of Jane Arnold continuing in her duties as master, signify by saying ‘Aye.' ”

Everyone said “Aye.”

Sister smiled. “Well, I guess you're not tired of me yet. Thank you.” She waited a moment. “As you know, I have been your master since 1957. I hope I die in the saddle, literally. I have never done anything I love as much as being master of the Jefferson Hunt Club, proudly wearing our colors of Continental blue piped in buff, what our forefathers wore when they beat back the British in the Revolutionary War.” She took a deep breath. “And I am sure for some of our younger members, they must think I've been master since the Revolutionary War. It's time to bring along a joint-master, dear friends. It's time for me to ensure when my day has ended that this club will have a master who knows our hounds, cherishes our heritage, and ensures that our grandchildren and great-grandchildren have available to them what we have had available to us: open land, a respect for all living creatures, an understanding of our place in nature, and a love for the fox, our most worthy adversary.” People held their breath as she then said, voice firm, “I would be grateful to this board if you would elect Dr. Walter Lungrun to serve as our joint-master.”

Silence followed. Then Edward, in his patrician accent, said, “Janie, that is an inspired choice. Walter is young, vigorous, dedicated to foxhunting, and eager to learn. I believe you two will make a wonderful team. I wholeheartedly support this idea.”

“Walter?” Bobby realized the handsome man needed to indicate his willingness to serve, even though Bobby knew what was afoot.

“This is an honor I could never have imagined.” Walter meant it, too.

Betty spoke up. “Yes. Yes.”

Her simple affirmation allowed everyone else to speak at once, but the consensus was favorable, despite the twofold shock. The assembled thought Sister would go through one or two more terms alone, and many feared Crawford's ambition to be master would, in time, split the club.

“Can we have a vote on this?” Bobby asked.

“I second the nomination,” Ronnie said.

“All in favor—”

Everyone said “Aye” before Bobby could finish his Robert's Rules of Order drill.

“Congratulations.” Bobby got up and shook Walter's hand, then walked over and shook Crawford's hand. “Oh, I forgot,” he said as the board members got up, “any unfinished business?”

“Meeting's adjourned,” Sorrel called out.

Betty hugged Sister. One by one other board members also hugged and thanked her.

Then they all hastened to the bar or the coffeepot in the kitchen, breaking up into small groups. Everyone congratulated the new joint-master and the new president.

Neatly stacked on her desk were the proofs Jim Meads had sent of all the photographs he had taken at Mill Ruins. Sister had put them out for board members to peruse. Order forms were next to the proofs.

She had prudently taken the eight-by-ten glossies of the fight at Chapel Cross up to her bedroom. She'd glanced at them briefly and thought she'd look at them more closely later.

When the gathering finally broke up, Walter, the last to leave, hugged and kissed Sister.

“Any words of advice, Master?”

She kissed him back. “Produce the pumpkins. Pies will follow.”

Later, snuggled in bed, Golly at her elbow, she congratulated herself on how smoothly the meeting had run. She sighed with relief. Walter would make a fine master. She felt as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders; broad though they were, she had felt the weight of ensuring a proper succession.