Outfoxed (13 page)

“I pray for them. It's about all I can do.”

“Me, too. I've had to relinquish my ideal of the omnipotent mother. I thought I could bind all wounds, create all happiness.” She sighed deeply. “I liked it when they were small. I really was the most important person in their world.”

“It's a bit like getting fired, isn't it?” Sister said.

“It is. Well,” Betty waved her hand. “I don't want to talk about it. There's nothing I can do at this point. But before I forget it, I want to go on record.” She whispered into Sister's ear, “I am not in agreement with Bobby. I do not support Crawford. Absolutely not.”

“What are you girls whispering about?” Kitty English, an attractive middle-aged woman, crossed the room.

“You.” Sister laughed.

“Me? What have I done?”

“Best basketball coach the university has ever had. Better than the men.” Betty adored women's basketball.

“And I want to know where you bought those shoes. Just enough heel to look spiffy but not enough to break your neck.” Sister admired the low heels.

“Oh, that.” Kitty plunked herself down on the sofa and they merrily chattered away about shoes, high heels versus low heels versus total rebellion against fashion—always said, never practiced. They talked about basketball and lacrosse, the endorsement deals of professional athletes, and how many of them wind up in court for violence. They decried the lack of any good women's clothing store in town. All three of them hated driving to Washington, D.C., which wasn't that good for women's clothing anyway, and Richmond, which was a fashion joke. They agreed one had to go to New York City, but who could afford it? Then Kitty shared her secret: Charlotte, North Carolina. Five hours by car and two really wonderful women's stores.

By the time Sorrel returned with her environmental trio, high spirits had been restored.

CHAPTER 23

The long corridor between both halves of the new wing of Central Virginia Hospital, lined with large square windows, let in the light. The old part of the hospital, built in the thirties out of brick, although renovated, was dark and depressing by contrast.

Having been in the operating room since seven that morning, Walter was glad to see natural light. He loved his work although at times the sheer intensity of operating drained him. He started med school thinking he would become a surgeon but discovered neurosurgery fascinated him. The hardwiring of the human body, an astonishing edifice, amazed him and not the least because nerves could regenerate. Without his being fully aware of it at the time, regeneration was a necessity in his own life.

Dr. Thesalonia Zacks, young and pretty, called Tandy by her friends, met Walter and they walked to the small cafeteria on that side of the hospital.

One black coffee and a turkey sandwich later, Walter was feeling better.

“Don't know why, but all the research indicates people addicted to drugs, alcohol, even cigarettes”—Tandy emphasized “even”—“don't feel pleasure to the level of most of us. The substance enhances pleasure for them, whether it's nicotine or whiskey or even sugar. The old saw is it passes in families and it does but we still can't explain why, say, child A of an addicted parent does not become an addict whereas child B does. The truth is we are on first base with research and that's because for decades, for centuries, medicine viewed alcoholism or drug addiction as a personal failing.”

“No one puts a gun to anyone's head and says, ‘You will smoke a cigarette today.' There is an element of choice.”

“Yes, but there again—to what level—we don't know. Walter, I have had patients tell me they had their first drink at age twelve and knew they had to have more. Often they didn't even like the taste.”

“How did you become interested in this?”

“My mother. Alcoholic.”

“My father.”

Their eyes met, a sense of understanding between them. “Is he still alive?”

“No. He killed himself when I was fifteen. He'd lost everything in a bad business deal. He drank more and more until he disappeared down that bottle. Death may have been the easy part for Dad.”

“I'm sorry.”

“What about your mother?” he asked.

“She's still alive. My father left her. My two brothers refuse to have anything to do with her. She's a binge drinker. She can stay dry for six months, eight months, and then she'll buy six bottles of vodka, lock herself in the house, and drink until she's wiped them out.” She held up her cup for more coffee. “Of course, this stuff is addictive, too. I read somewhere that Voltaire drank sixty cups of coffee a day.”

“If it would make me as intelligent as he was, I might try it.” Walter accepted a refill, too. “The Franklin girls are being released today. Right?”

“Right.”

“How do you think they'll do?”

“They have as good a chance as any. The parents are supportive. The mother more so than the father. He's not hostile but he still doesn't get it. Betty said she'd spoken to you.”

“Yes, at Fontaine Buruss's party. She asked me to check in. I'm glad I did. Your program is impressive.”

“It is and it isn't.” She leaned back in her seat to stretch out her long legs. “I don't like treating drugs with drugs. In some cases it's the only treatment we have. Especially heroin users. My personal feeling is we substitute one dependency for another but if we don't use what little we have available to us they often backslide. You know the story.” She appraised Walter. He was more handsome than she remembered from passing him in the halls. “Fortunately, that's not the problem for Cody and Jennifer. Cody has a longer history of abuse, obviously. She's burned more bridges behind her and has more messes to clean up. Jennifer's rebelling and the drugs are mixed in with that so-o attractive stage of life. How does anyone survive adolescence? I didn't smile from age eight to twenty because of my braces.”

“Good orthodontist.”

She laughed. “Thank you. Do you know Cody and Jennifer well?”

“No. I know Betty and Bobby somewhat. I grew up near here. Kids don't pay much attention to older people. I've started foxhunting and that's how I've come into contact with the Franklins again.”

“The girls are very beautiful.”

“Pretty is as pretty does.”

“Men don't usually say that.”

“Then you're talking to the wrong men.”

“Not now.”

He laughed. “Keep talking.”

“Really. My experience with men is that they are completely undone by looks. That's why Cody has gotten away with her addiction as long as she has. There's always a man to rescue her. Only makes it worse, of course.”

“I'd rather look at a pretty woman than not, but maybe I've seen enough in my life to know that if there isn't more, it's never going to work. You know?” He leaned forward. “One of the most fascinating and beautiful women I know is seventy years old. She walks into a room and you can't look at anyone else. She's electrifying and on a horse she truly is the goddess of the hunt.”

“Jane Arnold.” Tandy smiled. “Yes, Cody and Jennifer have mentioned her. She scares them half to death. I'd like to see her.”

“Opening hunt is the first Saturday in November. Ten o'clock at Sister Jane's place, Roughneck Farm. If you'd like to come, I'll call Sister Jane.”

“I can't ride.”

“Don't have to. Come and enjoy the spectacle and then eat all that good food.”

“Thank you. I don't have my Filofax with me but if I'm free I'll call you. I'd like to see a hunt.”

“Before I forget. Do you know where the girls get their drugs?”

“If I did, I'd tell the sheriff. Even in rehab people protect their sources. Talk about misplaced loyalty but . . . There's something more going on. Cody's not protecting a dealer boyfriend. I don't know what it is. I just know there's something more.”

CHAPTER 24

“You people make me sick.” Alice Ramy shook her finger in Sister Jane's face. “You think you can do whatever you please. A bunch of rich idiots!”

“Alice, show me the hound.”

Without a reply the disgruntled Alice, as wide as she was tall, waddled out to her chicken coop. The plump bodies of chickens lay about inside and outside the coop.

Rooster, Peter's harrier, rested amid the carnage.

“I locked the gate. I'm not touching him. You take that damn hound out of here and you pay me for my chickens!”

Sister opened the gate. “Hey, Rooster.”

The harrier pricked his ears.
“I've been framed!”

Sister quietly approached and petted him. “It's Peter Wheeler's hound. He's bred to run rabbits, small game.”

Alice grumbled. “I'll call the animal control officer.”

“Don't do that. I'll take him to Peter.”

“Thank you. I didn't kill these chickens but I'd like to eat one. I'm afraid of that harpy, though.”

“He ought to be shot!”

“Alice, if this hound had killed these chickens, he'd have eaten at least one. Have you counted your dead?”

Alice quickly counted the two roosters and seven hens.

A cluck from under the henhouse gave hope to all.

Sister knelt down. “The rest are here.”

Alice couldn't kneel down. “How many?”

“One, two, three, uh, some are hiding behind the others but I'd say you have eight. No roosters, though.” Sister stood up, brushing off her knees and her hands. “Let me take this big Rooster home.”

“Good. He can kill Peter's chickens!”

Sister accepted Alice Ramy's choleric nature. She was a woman only happy when airing a complaint, some terrible thing that had happened to her. Her narcissism was such that she even shied away from the disasters of others, their shortcomings. She concentrated solely on her own dramas. Sister patted the harrier on the head, then walked around the inside of the pen. “Here you go, Alice.” She pointed to a shallow tunnel dug under the wire.

Alice thumped over. “That's how he did it.”

“Look at the size of this hound. Look at the size of the tunnel. And look at these tracks.” Sister pointed to clear fox prints.

“Dog. I told you.”

Sister knelt down again. “Hey, sweetie, give me your paw.”

“Give it to you. Wouldn't give it to that bitch. I was on the trail of that fox. Aunt Netty. I'd know Aunt Netty anywhere. By the time I got here, Aunt Netty had had her jubilation.”

Sister pushed the paw into the dirt right next to the fox print. “See the difference?”

“Yes.” Alice shut her mouth like a carp.

“This hound couldn't have shimmied under the wire. My guess is he was on the fox but far behind. It's a good day for scent.”

“What am I going to do with all these dead chickens?” Alice chose not to apologize, since she could never be wrong. She simply accepted that the fox had killed the chickens but that didn't mean she was wrong.

“Give you fifty cents apiece.”

“Two dollars apiece.”

“Fine.” Sister reached in her jeans pocket, counted out eighteen dollars, handed them to Alice. Then she picked up the chickens, tossing them in the back of the truck. Alice threw in the two dead roosters.

“I'll shoot that fox if I see him.”

“Put a thin strip of concrete on the outside of your chicken coop or even a hot-wire. Might work. But don't shoot a fox, Alice. It's unsporting. If the fox comes back, I'll replace your chickens. Just don't kill him.”

“Maybe.”

“When the scared chickens come out, I'm willing to bet you another ten dollars that you're missing a chicken. Fox carted it off.”

“What I want to know is why was this hound sitting in the middle of the chicken yard?”

“I just got here!”

“My hunch is, like I said, scent was good so he could have been a half a mile or even a mile behind the fox. Be easy to keep on the line today. By the time Rooster got here the fox was gone and as luck would have it, you walked out just then.”

“You can't trust people. You'd say anything to cover a precious hound of yours or Peter Wheeler's. All you foxhunters stick together.”

Sister whistled softly to Rooster, who followed her. “Can't trust some people, Alice. Let me know if the fox comes back.”

“I could pee on her leg,”
the harrier offered, but Sister trotted him out of there, putting him next to her in the truck. She wanted to get to Hangman's Ridge before anyone saw the dead chickens in the back of the truck. No point in wasting good chickens. She'd strategically place them throughout that fixture after filling them full of ivermectin, a wormer.

By the time she reached Peter's, she and Rooster were good friends. She honked the horn. Peter opened the back door. “Hey, Pete. Rooster was in the middle of Alice Ramy's chicken pen. It's confusing calling him Rooster in the middle of roosters.”

He slowly walked out, saw the dead chickens. “Guess these chickens won't be crossing the road. Alice Ramy's a good five miles from here. Rooster, what are you doing?”

“Fox killed her chickens. She blamed your hound, who doesn't have a drop of blood on him. God, she's a miserable bitch.”

“Yeah,”
the dog agreed.

“Guess I'd better keep an eye on you, buddy.” Peter clapped his hands and Rooster jumped out of the truck when Sister opened the door. “Come on in for a drink.”

“Thanks. I'll take a rain check. I want to put out these chickens.”

“Good idea.” He turned for the house. “I forgot to ask you the other day. . . . When I go, will you take care of Rooster and my chickens?”

“Yes. I wish you'd stop talking about dying.”

“Well, I feel just fine but I need to put my house in order. I've lived a long time. I'm damned grateful but it may be worth dying to get away from Crawford Howard.” He then related how Crawford had dropped by, giving him the hard sell. Sister didn't get the chickens out until sundown.