Riding Shotgun (37 page)

In desperation she lifted out the enormous family Bible, turning to the birth and death entries written in a variety of strong cursive hands.

She scanned to find the names:

She found herself whispering thanks to God that Margaret’s child by Tom survived.

Cig gasped. “He got what he wanted! Oh Margaret, were you happy with him?”

She studied the handwriting again. The entries for Tom’s and Pryor’s deaths, and Tom II’s birth were in Margaret’s hand. Eight subsequent births, some of the babies dying in infancy, were also in Margaret’s hand. Tom II’s death date was written in a different hand.

“Poor Margaret, dead at forty.”

Cig wiped her eyes and got up for a tissue, she was crying so hard. She made another cup of tea to settle herself then sat down to read more. Lionel was shot in front of the House of Burgesses in 1717, so he survived Margaret by only two years. Thomas Deyhle II married Isabeau Venable. His first daughter was named Pryor; the second, Sophia, in honor of his wife’s mother; and the son born much later was Ruppert.

Stuck inside the Bible at various favorite passages were lists filled with tobacco tonnages and prices… and peanut prices.

A folded piece of parchment wedged in First Corinthians read, “Today, April 12, 1715, our mother, Margaret Woodson Deyhle deVries passed from this earthly realm to another, better one. She caused no harm, and did a great deal of good. Industry, prudence, and kindness were her natural virtues. In her final moments her mind took flight and she imagined she was with her first beloved husband, my father, and his sister. This fancy gave her great happiness.”

Signed this day by Thomas Deyhle II.

Cig put her head on her crossed arms and cried until she felt nauseated.

The back door swung open and Laura, home from school, surprised her mother. She raced over and put her arms around Cig. “Are you okay? Can I do anything?”

Cig lifted her head and patted Laura’s hands. “Just love me and know that I love you.”

A warm wind swept up from the Gulf, bathing the reds, oranges, yellows, and deep russets in a magnifying haze. Full Throttle, ears forward, trotted down the winding dirt road to the back acres. Cig posted without thinking about it.

“Are you sure you should be riding?” Roberta asked, the mascara on her eyes caked up. “You just got out of the hospital yesterday.” Much as Roberta wanted her lesson and much as she needed it, she worried about Cig, who was unusually distant and preoccupied.

“Can you think of anything better to do than to ride on a day like this?”

“One or two.”

“Ah, Roberta, the soul of romance.”

“You don’t know if that’s what I was thinking”—Roberta loosened her reins when she observed Cig’s gaze move in that direction—“but I wouldn’t mind a little hot romance.”

“Speak to my sister, she’s the expert.”

Roberta frowned. “When you’re that pretty it’s easy.”

Cig twisted in the saddle. “You know something, Roberta,
maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with pretty. Maybe some women send off a scent and men pick it up.”

“Maybe.” Roberta wasn’t buying it.

“You think it’s all looks?”

“A lot of it. Men don’t care about substance or intellect. It’s an animal thing with them,” said the lady who had a lot of substance but little else.

“It’s an animal thing with us, too.”

They trotted over to three big tree trunks lashed together to make a jump. Cig made Roberta go first.

“Talk to him, Roberta, he’s got a mind, you know.”

“Good boy, slow, slow.” Roberta spoke to Reebok who flicked his ears back then carefully snapped his front legs up over the jump like the good boy he was.

“See. Now pat him on the neck. He deserves it Wish I had twenty more like Reebok in the hunt field.”

“It’s good of you to ride with me today,” Roberta said. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“I needed to get out and he needs light exercise. He’d been run so damn hard that he was tucked up when I rejoined you all.”

“Cig, what did happen out there?”

“I don’t know—guess I never will.”

Suddenly animated, the normally timid Roberta rejoined, “They say that a near-death experience crystallizes your direction and that people change after something like that.”

“I don’t know if I had a near-death experience, more like near-life.”

“Billy Dominquez said that if the arrow had pierced you from the side instead of across your back it might well have hit your heart. Whoever shot at you was behind you but off to the side. I just can’t imagine someone doing something like that. This is a sick society.”

“Violence is part of life.”

“When you’re primitive. This is 1995. There’s no reason for anyone to shoot anyone else. No reason.”

“I suppose as long as A wants what B has, and B doesn’t want to give it up or negotiate, there is reason enough.”

“Whoever loosed that arrow at you had to be doing it
purely for the thrill. They couldn’t get anything by killing you.”

Cig wanted to argue, to say the times had been different then. The struggle for sovereignty over America was just beginning in earnest. “You know what, I’m not sure I even care. I’m just glad to be here.”

“You’re a better woman than I’d be under the circumstances.”

Cig shrugged, turned Throttle, and they cantered back to the barn.

“Mom, Harleyetta called,” Laura told her as Cig and Roberta walked their horses into the clean center aisle.

“Give her the fixture time?”

“No, she said she wants to catch up with you. She said to call on the car phone,” Laura said.

“Catch up with me? She saw me day before yesterday.”

“Binky’s on the warpath again, most likely,” Roberta said, leading Reebok into the wash stall, not realizing the true meaning of the word
warpath
. Cig now knew what it meant.

“Sometimes I think Binky West is living proof that the Indian fucked the buffalo.” Cig’s hand flew to her mouth. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“You should hear what Hunter calls him.” Laura giggled at her mother’s uncharacteristic blast.

“What’s that?” Roberta called out from the wash stall.

“Antimatter,” Laura replied.

“That’s good. That’s why your brother will be a star at William and Mary.” Cig smiled.

Laura brushed down Throttle as Cig picked up the phone in the tackroom and dialed Harleyetta.

“Hi, Harley. Cig.”

“Cig, how are you feeling?”

“Fine, thank you. Ready to hunt. How about you?”

“Always. Could I come by in a little bit?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. See you later.”

The phone clicked.

Cig filled the water buckets in each stall and then walked back up to the house. A contract came through on the fax
machine, which was a bright sign. Although the sale was small, any commission was better than no commission. A
beep, beep
alerted her to the fact that another sheet of paper was coming through the machine. She glared as it slowly squeezed through the aperture like a white tongue. She yanked it out.

“Goddamned fax. Goddamned Max.” She crumpled the paper and threw it on the floor, which delighted Woodrow who skidded to attack it.

As the cat batted the paper around the kitchen, Harley clumped in through the mud room door.

“Cig.”

“Keep walking. I’m in the kitchen.”

The door flung open and Harleyetta, her eyebrows well drawn today, wide bronze arches, walked through it, her flats squeaking on the floor. “I’m so glad to see you starting to look like yourself again.”

“Thank you. Coffee, tea, Coke, spirits?”

“Tea. I’m on the wagon.”

As Cig fixed a pot of tea Harleyetta plopped at the table. “I am. Really. I know you don’t believe me. Nobody does. But I am. I’m bloated. I say things I shouldn’t say when I’m drinking. I fight with Binky, that worthless bucket of guts. I don’t like me much. So I’m signing off.” She made a cutting motion with her left hand and her bangle bracelets clanged.

“Good for you. It’s a hard thing to do but you’ve taken the first step.” Cig handed her the tea, put out a tin of shortbread and joined her.

“I’m here to apologize.”

“AA?”

“Yes. I’m doing the twelve-step program and I’m here to make amends.”

“Harley, you haven’t done a thing to me or mine except sometimes you can’t hold Gypsy in the hunt field.”

“Maybe if I’m sober in the hunt field I’ll be a better rider.”

“Or worse.” Cig jabbed at her with her spoon.

“That, too.” Harleyetta grimaced. She was working up to something. “Cig, I want to apologize for blabbing to you about Blackie’s condition when he came to the E.R. I had no right to do that and I’m sorry. Even though you knew about his carrying on, I had no right to intrude on something so private. I apologize for that. I apologize for sometimes not knowing my place.”

Cig put her cup back in the saucer. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Blackie wasn’t famous for fidelity.”

“You didn’t need the details and I know that you knew but still.”

“You want to hear something funny? I didn’t know.”

“Oh, God.” Harley’s face blanched. “What a stupid idiot I am! I just assumed—I mean, we all assumed. Oh, I could die.”

Cig reached over and touched Harleyetta’s elbow, feeling the nubby texture of her beige sweater. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I think we’re blind when we want to be and I was. Not your fault.”

“You must have felt
awful”

“Yeah, I did. If we hadn’t been in the woods with that skeleton, I think I could have taken a pistol and peppered Grace full of ratshot.” Cig reached for a rectangular piece of shortbread. “But I’ve had some time to reflect on the situation. They didn’t take anything away from me—not really.”

“We all kind of knew why Grace did it.”

“Why?”

“He was a sexy man, and maybe it was one way not to be your little sister. Know what I mean?”

“No,” said Cig, now intensely curious.

“Well, maybe I shouldn’t say this.”

“Say it.”

“Umm—Grace has always been in your shadow.”

“My shadow?” Cig exploded. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

“You did everything better than Grace.”

“Grace is one of the most beautiful women God ever put on this earth. I am not. What score has she got to settle?”

“Beauty doesn’t mean anything until you’re old enough to control men. When she was little? She tagged along after you in school. Ail the teachers knew she was your little sister. She wasn’t smart and she wasn’t as good at sports. Well, I just think those things fester.”

“I never once thought of that. It—” She caught herself. She was going to say, “It doesn’t make sense,” but given a minute to think about it, it did. “I love Grace.”

“I don’t know if I would,” Harleyetta flatly stated. “I think when you got engaged to Blackie, she was one jealous sophomore at William and Mary. She had a crush on him.”

“She did have a couple of muley moments at my shower but that was so long ago. Anyway, she married better than I did.”

“No, she didn’t. She married up, not necessarily better. Hell, Binky West is First Family of Virginia and a disgusting drunk but there are plenty of women who would grab him.”

“What are they teaching you at Alcoholics Anonymous?” An amused tone crept into Cig’s voice.

The bangles flew into the air again. “Nothing. This is my own work. I never talk to you, I mean, really talk to you, I haven’t really talked to anyone.”

“Guilty.” Cig held up her hand. “Lots of us are guilty of that. It’s not only you.”

“Thank you for saying that.” She threw her shoulders back, gearing up for the big subject. “I’m leaving Binky.”

“I can’t say I’m sorry.”

“I can’t either. It’s dragged on for too long and now that the booze is seeping out of my system, I have no hope of deadening my nerve endings. I make enough as a nurse to live. He took my Harley as hostage, too. Can you imagine that? He’ll hire the most vicious divorce lawyer in Charlottesville, and they’ll play starve-the-wife. It’s all about money.”

“Old game.”

Harley shrugged. “I don’t care. I’m going to get healthy. He can piss in the wind.”

“Probably will.”

Woodrow zoomed by with a piece of fax paper between his teeth. “That cat is having a fit.”

“He loves paper and those little green plastic rings from the milk gallons. You know when you open the gallon you have to twist off the bottom of the cap. His favorite.”