Outfoxed (16 page)

CHAPTER 30

Along with the steady rain, charcoal clouds obscured the mountains, pressing down into the dark green pastures. The tops of ancient oaks, walnuts, and hickories were tangled in the low clouds. Overtop the rivers and creeks the mists hung thick but there the color was bright silver. Occasionally a patch of clearness would appear and the flash of red maple or orange oak was startling.

As Fontaine turned back toward town, his silver Jaguar, swallowed in the rain and mist, was almost invisible save for his headlights. He laughed to himself as he passed Crawford Howard on his way to Sister Jane's. Crawford's Mercedes, a metallic deep red, would be hard to miss even in the thickest fog. Crawford, hands gripping the wheel, eyes intent on his side of the road, neither waved nor acknowledged Fontaine, a breach of manners in the country.

Fontaine laughed to himself as he pulled over to the one-story white store at the crossroads. Low-pressure systems made him sleepy. If he ate chocolate or something loaded with sugar, he could usually keep from nodding out.

ROGER
'
S CORNER
, a long rectangular sign proclaimed on top of the roof. Two lights aimed at the sign illuminated the rain and clouds more than the sign.

Fontaine liked Roger's Corner, especially the worn wooden floors, the ornate black-and-gold cash register.

“Hey, bro,” Roger, amiable, called out from behind the counter. “Cuts to the bone, don't it?”

“Makes me tired.” Fontaine scooped up Moon Pies, Yankee Doodles, and a small round coffee cake. “Your coffee potable today or do I need a sledgehammer to break it up?”

“Ha ha,” Roger dryly replied as he poured him a cup of strong, good coffee, not café au lait or anything fancy, just wake-you-up coffee.

Roger had inherited the store from Roger Senior. Both were attractive men, lean and long-jawed.

Fontaine drank the coffee as he leaned against the counter. The cellophane wrapper on the coffee cake crinkled as Fontaine opened it. “Every time I go to New York City I buy these coffee cakes made by Drake's. Can't get them down here. I mean these are okay but those little Drake's things are the best. I love the crumbs on top.”

“Never been there.”

“Gotta go, buddy, gotta go.”

“If Yankees will stay on their side of the Mason-Dixon line, I'll stay on mine,” Roger joked.

“There is that. Hey, Cody been by here?”

“No. Thought she was in rehab. Betty stopped by last week. Told me. Both kids.” He shook his head, for it was too confusing.

“People are gonna do what they're gonna do.” He polished off the coffee cake. “Maybe those places give folks some understanding.” He beamed. “If it feels good, they'll do it again.”

“That's just it, though, isn't it? Feels good when you're doing it and feels bad when you're not.”

“Life's just one big hangover.” He held out his cup for a refill.

“Had a few of those.” Roger laughed.

“Coming to opening hunt?”

Roger, a foot follower, enthusiastically said, “Best breakfast of the year.”

“Muffin hound.”

“I do my share of running. Tell you who did blow through here . . . Crawford. Not twenty minutes ago. He asked me what my annual take was.” Roger laughed. “I said, ‘Why do you want to know?' and he said, ‘I'd like to buy this place.' I don't know what to make of that guy.”

“Would you sell it?”

“I don't know.” He shrugged. “Man's gotta work at something.”

“If he gives you a fair price, you can work at something else. But that man's a snake.”

“You know, he might be.” Roger, like a bartender, tried to stay out of other people's disagreements and personality clashes. “When I first met him I thought he couldn't pull piss out of a boot if the directions were on the heel. I was wrong. He's smart enough but he's not—what am I trying to say?”

“No practical knowledge. Couldn't start up a chain saw if his life depended on it.”

“Kinda.”

The small pile of cellophane, white wrappers, and napkins diverted Fontaine's attention. “Did I eat all that?”

“Yep.”

He sighed. “Better go straight to the gym. See you, bud.”

However, he didn't head for the gym. He headed for Cody's place, taking the precaution of parking his car behind old holly bushes.

He knocked on the door, rain funneling off his cowboy hat like a downspout.

Hairbrush in hand, she opened the door. “Fontaine, what are you doing here?”

He stepped inside. “You look as wet as I do.”

A towel wrapped around her head looked like a fuzzy turban. Her white bathrobe was worn thin at the elbows.

“I've got an appointment.”

“Why didn't you call me?” Fontaine didn't unzip his raincoat.

“I needed time to think.”

“I thought that's what you were doing in rehab.”

“I did. I needed time to think in my own place.” She stuffed her hairbrush in her pocket. “I need to change a lot of things, break a lot of habits.” She took a deep breath. “I can't see you anymore. I guess this is as good a time as any to end it.”

“Why don't you settle back in before you make sweeping decisions,” he smoothly replied, his voice pleasant, seductive.

“I need to be clear. Look, you'll always have a mistress somewhere. It's your nature. For all I know you've got two or three stashed in Richmond or Washington. I don't know. You're a player.”

“Only you,” he lied.

While he chased skirts with a kind of predictable boredom, he liked Cody. He liked any woman that could ride well, hold her liquor, and make love with abandon.

“I can't do it.” Her lips compressed.

“Anyone else?”

“That's not the point.”

“Yeah,” he said sarcastically.

“One other thing, Fontaine, and I mean this. You stay away from my sister.”

His eyes opened; he took a half step back involuntarily. “I resent that.”

“I know you.”

“Nobody knows anybody.” He turned on his heel and left, far more upset than he imagined he would be.

Cody locked the door behind him, sat on the edge of the twin bed that served as a sofa, pushed against the wall, embroidered pillows everywhere. Love didn't enter into this decision. She'd never loved Fontaine. He was fun, spent money like water. His approach to life was “Do it now.” There was a kind of wisdom to that, since you only have the moment you're in, but Fontaine never gave much thought to the future. Again, that was part of his charm.

Cody was realizing she had to think a great deal about her future. She'd seen too many human shipwrecks at forty and fifty and sixty in rehab. Seeing and hearing the old druggies and drunks knocked sense into her head far more than the counseling sessions with the doctors.

She had to get some training, find a decent job, and forget going out at night to the bars until she could handle it—or maybe forever. What was there about the soft wash of neon light over a polished bar that made her reach for a vodka martini or sneak into the back for a toot? Night seemed to absolve her of tomorrow but then tomorrow would come. Wasted, the sunrise rarely gave her hope. A panic would set in. She'd snort another line until there wasn't anything left except the shakes and a black hole into which she'd tumble.

She wasn't going down that rabbit hole again.

Tears ran down her face. She knew better than to take up with Fontaine in the first place. She thought she could forget Doug. She did for a while. Maybe she'd treated him badly last spring before he got fed up with her boozing and coking. That way she felt in control. Junk him before he'd junk her.

She'd thought a lot about him in rehab, too. She dreaded the apologies she needed to make. She knew her mother and father would forgive her. She knew Doug would forgive her, too. In his way, he already had but she had to sit down, face-to-face, and truly apologize. She thought after opening hunt she might have the courage.

She rubbed her hair with the towel, tossed it toward the bathroom, shook her head. She brushed out her long sable hair.

“Hell.” She reached for the phone, dialing Doug's number. The answering machine came on. “Doug, I bet you're at the stable. I know this is an intense week. Why don't I take you to dinner after opening hunt? Bye.”

CHAPTER 31

The last week before opening hunt kept everyone frantically busy. Turnout for cubbing was heavy and people who should have been legging up their horses starting in July thought that two shots of cubbing would do it.

Shadbellies for the ladies, weaselbellies or cutaways for the gentlemen, frock coats, Meltons, were brushed out and hung on the line or brought back from the dry cleaner. Caps were knocked off with a small wisk brush as were top hats and the always charming derbies. Spurs submitted to rigorous polishing. Shirts and stock ties were ironed, buttons wiped clean, on the coats. Stock tie pins dangled in open buttonholes, where they wouldn't be lost in the nervousness of preparation. The last thing a hunter did was to fasten that stock pin horizontally across the tie.

Ties would be four-in-hand or just flipped over in a cascade of white. Not a hint of yellow or gray for opening hunt; those ties had to be white, white, white.

Garters—and many still used them, as was correct—were also polished. They'd be just above the boot line and if a lady or gentleman wore the old buttoned pants, the garter would be between the third and fourth button.

Breeches, whipcord or the newer materials, were checked along the seams, the suede knee patches checked, too.

The one item everyone appreciated most and talked about the least was a good pair of underpants. Anything with a raised seam eventually rubbed your leg raw. A few underpants were even padded on the crotch to protect that sensitive area from damage. Of course, if they were riding properly, the next generation should be safe.

Vests also dotted clotheslines. The fortunate few wore white vests handed down from the nineteenth century and the most proper attire for the High Holy Days of hunting: opening hunt, Thanksgiving hunt, Christmas hunt, and New Year's hunt.

Most people wore a canary vest. Tattersalls were used during formal hunting but not during the holiest of holies, although a few hunts demanded tattersall in the hunt club colors. A vest in the hunt's colors was also proper, although few wore them because they needed to be specially made.

Jefferson Hunt, formed by veterans of the Revolutionary War, had Continental blue with a buff piping for its colors. A hunter could earn his or her colors only in the field. No amount of good deeds or financial support could buy colors. They were not given lightly and they were given only at Thanks-giving hunt.

Winning your colors meant a gentleman was entitled to wear a scarlet frock with three buttons. A master rode with four buttons, five if the master carried the horn. A gentleman could also wear a scarlet weaselbelly, which is a coat with tails, with a top hat, colors on the collar. This was the most elegant of all outfits, although a black cutaway or tails might also lay that claim. There was something about a man in tails and top hat, scarlet or black, that proved irresistible to women.

The gentleman with colors was also entitled to wear a contrasting cuff on the top of his black boots. Ideally this cuff would be champagne-colored but that, too, was proving hard to find since World War I. A tan top was now acceptable, although the champagne was coveted and those men who cared paid leather craftsmen or leather buyers to find them the exact right color with the right toughness to withstand the rigors of the hunt. A few men would wear mahogany tops, which were certainly acceptable but actually more proper for coaching.

A woman with colors wore a black coat, frock, Melton or shadbelly, tails, with the colors on the collar. The tops of her boots could be black patent leather.

Both genders also wore the special hunt button if awarded colors. For the Jefferson Hunt it was a simple intertwined
JH
.

Not only were the clothes being aired out, polished to a mirror shine, inspected and inspected yet again, but the horses were going to the beauty parlor. Braiders, paid plenty, showed up at barns at dawn to weave tight little braids, always on the right side of the neck, yarn the color of the mane woven into them. An even number of braids for a gelding, an odd number for mares was the rule. Many members braided their horse's manes but as they aged and those fingers hurt on a frosty morning, they engaged braiders. Often the top of the tail had a braid laid into it, a nice touch. Staff might even braid the entire tail and then fold it up, since they traversed rough country. The last thing a whipper-in wanted was his or her horse's tail dragging thorns or vines. On regular formal days staff executed a mud tail, a simpler version of the braided, folded-up tail.

The night before the hunt, the horses would be washed in special shampoos, some even concocted for the horse's color. People might put a little Dippity-Do on the manes. The next morning the animals would be brushed down with brushes and then crisscrossed with rubbing cloths until they literally gleamed. Hooves would be painted black or, if white, painted with a clear hoof paint, a mixture that wasn't like house paint but filled with emollients as well as color. The old adage “No hoof, no horse” was as true today as it was in Xenophon's day.

The hunters with experience packed a gear bag for themselves and one for their horse. In their gear bag they folded an extra stock tie, extra stock pins, safety pins to help keep the stock tie in perfect position, Vetrap, extra socks, rawhide strings for last-minute tack repair. A pair of white string gloves would be in the gear bag and those would be put under the saddle billets, one on each side, before mounting up. A second pair of formal gloves, ideally deep mustard but tan was acceptable, since deep mustard was hard to come by, was also in the bag—just in case. Gloves seemed to walk away. Hair nets, the color of a lady's hair, were in the gear bags and if a single gentleman was smart, he'd put a few different-colored hair nets in his own gear bag.

Few things impress a lady more than a single man who has thought of something particular only to women. Fontaine always carried a box of tampons in his trailer. This earned him more than the normal gratitude.

Then there was the question of flasks. Gentlemen could carry a large flask on the left front side of their saddle, above their knee. These expensive heavy handblown flasks with silver tops created instant popularity in the hunt field. Hunting flask recipes were as zealously guarded as four-star-restaurant specials. Invariably, later in the season, one club would issue a challenge to the others as to which person had the best flask contents. Judging this contest was hotly contested itself. Whereas a master might pull out his or her hair trying to find volunteers for fence building, no master ever had to work to find judges for the flask contest.

The contest would take place after that day's hunt. This meant beds in stables, homes, even horse trailers would be thoughtfully provided.

Ladies, too, could carry a flask but theirs was a small rectangular affair, also handblown, nestled in a square case that also contained a sandwich tin. The smallness of their flask in no way detracted from the lethal contents. Ladies, too, entered the flask contests.

In the old days, masters might spot-check the sandwich tins just like a Corinthian class at a horse show. The sandwich had to be chicken, no mayonnaise, on white bread, crusts trimmed off.

Today few masters were that fierce.

No makeup was allowed on a lady, although lipstick finally triumphed by the 1970s. Small pearl stud earrings were acceptable but most women had learned the hard way not to wear anything in their ears.

Sister Jane, a lenient soul during cubbing, put the fear of God into her field for opening hunt. Years ago she dismissed a very popular lady member for wearing overlarge earrings and too much rouge. She also dismissed a gentleman for having a running martingale on his horse—only a standing one would do. The running martingale's further strap divides after passing through the neck strap. The standing martingale had one thick further strap and this was the only proper hunting martingale. Naturally both people were humiliated and furious even though Sister did not single them out verbally but rode up to them and whispered in their ears. The gentleman finally forgave her, since he realized a running martingale could cause harm to the horse and rider even if stops were correctly placed on the tack. Flying through rough and close territory it would be possible for a stop to be torn off or bent in such a way that the rings of the running martingale could flip over a full cheek bit. The chances seemed remote but after a person had hunted for a few decades, he or she had seen a lot of things that could have been prevented with forethought, things that seemed irritating or silly to the novitiate.

The lady, of course, never forgave Sister and harrumphed off to another less strict hunt where she lambasted Sister until that master finally told her it was imprudent to criticize a master to another master.

But every person preparing for opening hunt knew Sister had a sharp eye for turnout as well as territory. Proper turnout is a sign of respect for the master and the landowners.

The hounds, too, prepared for the great day. Anticipation built. Arguments flared. Young entries feared they wouldn't be called out on this day because the huntsman or the master felt they might fumble the ball. Old hounds counseled the younger ones, often repeating themselves, which only further upset the younger ones, who couldn't absorb any more information thanks to the tension.

The horses loved the constant grooming. Since they had to follow hounds, the burden of proof was not on them. The excitement rippled through the stable but there was little anxiety with it. A green horse might fret but the tried-and-true hunters believed the foot followers came out to see them. Good manners kept them from saying this to the hounds but every hunting horse believed this and acted accordingly, which caused a snipe and a snip from a few hounds on the great day.

The staff horses affected a world-weariness laced with pride. Being a master's horse meant one had acquired special knowledge plus one was bold. Lafayette oozed confidence and leadership. The huntsman's horse also swaggered and the whipper-in horses bordered on belligerent. These paragons would trot or walk by the field horses and bid them hello, a hello bursting with egotism.

The foxes, too, prepared for opening hunt. Since 1782, hunters had gathered on Hangman's Ridge by the oak tree. When the private packs coalesced into a subscription pack they continued meeting there.

The foxes, knowing this, often slept in on that day. But over the years they learned that Sister Jane and Shaker Crown treated them fairly: no earthmen to dig up their dens, no Jack Russells for the same purpose, no traps, and help for foxes in times of trouble. During the winter of the three blizzards in the mid-1990s, Sister, Shaker, and Doug fought their way through the snows to feed their foxes within a two-mile radius of the kennel. Once the roads were plowed they also drove to the other fixtures and pushed their way through the snows to put out corn, grain, and dog food for all their foxes.

The foxes attributed this to Sister and she was a good master, but the times had changed drastically in America. Few hunts had ever used earthmen or Jack Russells as they were used in England, although hunts in poultry-raising counties did in the old days. Trapping a fox and carrying him to another territory, called dropping a bagged fox, was made illegal by the Masters of Foxhounds Association. Apart from being cruel, it was a serious offense because such a fox could spread disease. The practice could result in a hunt being excommunicated from the MFHA. That meant no other hunt could draft hounds to the excommunicated hunt. No other hunt could enjoy a joint meet with them. No member of a recognized hunt could hunt with them.

Sister believed strongly in sporting chance. The foxes knew that and in gratitude for her work during the year of the blizzards they mapped out their routes for opening hunt to ensure that Sister and the Jefferson Hunt always had a rip-roaring opener. This was one of the few times when the reds and the grays cooperated.

This year they determined to move straight away east for four miles, working in relays, then curve northwest and finally come back to the ridge. They figured this ought to take two and a half hours. They agreed on their checks, too, those places where they'd disguise their scent. Given the importance of the occasion, they demanded that too young or slower foxes stay in, or within fifty yards of, their dens.

They did not want a nonparticipating fox to mess up their route.

Butch would tell his children,
“It's not the hounds you fear on opening hunt; it's the humans!”