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!”
CHAPTER 32
Thursday night as Cody was pulling socks out of her drawer, tossing them all over the bed, a knock at her door disturbed her.
Irritated at the interruption, she opened the door.
“Found her two miles from Roger’s Corner.” Doug had his arm linked through Jennifer’s.
She was too out of it to protest.
“Oh God!” Cody’s face fell. “Bring her inside.”
As Doug propelled Jennifer to the twin bed–sofa, he whispered, “Should you call your mother?”
“Eventually, yes. Right now, no.” She picked up the phone and dialed Dr. Tandy Zacks. After ten minutes of paging, she finally got Dr. Zacks on the phone. She told her what had happened.
“Bring her to me.”
Cody and Doug were surprised to find Walter Lungrun at the rehab clinic but they were soon glad of his presence. As Jennifer began to be more aware of her surroundings she pitched a major, hateful fit. It took the muscle power of both Walter and Doug to restrain her.
After two hours of pure hell, Cody sat down and sobbed. She was struggling for her own sobriety. She didn’t know if she had the strength to struggle for Jennifer’s.
Walter sat with her on one side; Doug was on the other. Dr. Zacks and two other doctors were in another room with Jennifer, who alternated between snarls and sobs.
“Cody, you’ve done all you can do. Let Dr. Zacks call your mother. Jennifer is a minor and we must notify your parents. My advice to you is to go home or go somewhere where people will support you. Go somewhere safe.” He put his large hand on her shoulder while looking at Douglas.
“Mom’s going to need support herself,” Cody said, crying.
“She is. We’ll do what we can.”
“Dad doesn’t get it. I should be here.”
“Cody, you’ve been through enough. You don’t need any more upset. Go on now. If we need you or your mother needs you, you’ll hear from us.”
“She’ll be with me.” Doug scribbled down his number for Walter. “Top one’s the house. Bottom is the barn.”
Still crying, Cody walked out with Doug. She looked over her shoulder and Walter made a pushing-away motion with the back of his hands.
“Oh God, Doug, I’m afraid she isn’t going to make it.”
“But you are.” He wrapped his arm around her waist. “Only Jennifer can save Jennifer. Come on. Let’s pick up your tack and I’ll help you clean it.”
“Already done.”
“Chinese food? We can take it home and be by the phone.”
“Okay.” She wiped away the tears, then reached in her coat pocket for a tissue. “Did she say why she was wandering around out there?”
“She wasn’t verbal.”
“Her car!”
“When it shows up maybe we’ll know where she was.”
It did show up, right at Bobby and Betty’s house.
Jennifer refused to tell who she met or where they went. Mostly she was still screaming obscenities at everyone, especially her mother and father.
When Betty called Cody later she told her she was all right. Cody should stay where she was.
That night Cody curled up in bed with Doug. Snuggled in his arms she finally fell into a sound sleep.
CHAPTER 33
The first frost usually came around the middle of October. The silvering would melt within an hour of sunup and many nights the temperature still didn’t dip low enough for frost. By November the frosts were steadier.
Sister Jane brought her unwieldy potted ficus tree inside by mid-October, along with two potted Russian junipers, which could withstand the cold, but she’d grown fond of them and thought them decorative. The other potted plants—hibiscus, tiny rosebuds, portulaca, tulips in hopes of spring—had all been covered with a thin layer of straw with about an inch and a half of mulch over that. On the northwest corner of the garden and the back patio she constructed burlap windbreakers. What they lacked in aesthetic appeal they made up in effectiveness. Sister vowed that one day she would figure out an attractive system to protect those plants.
The ficus tree, emphatically healthy, nearly touched the twelve-foot ceiling. The trunk was thick as a strong man’s arm.
Golly lounged in the branches, feeling quite warm toward Sister for providing her with a tree. If in a good mood, she’d swing from limb to limb like a monkey.
If Raleigh offended her, Golly would pull the mulch out of the Russian junipers, scattering it about the floor. Sister would scold the dog, to the cat’s malicious delight.
It was the Friday before Saturday’s opening hunt. Everything that could be done was done.
Sister’s shadbelly, worn on the big days, hung on the old wire mannequin. Sister was one of those people who had to lay her clothes out the night before. Wardrobe decisions and mornings didn’t mix. The cleaned coat hung over the white vest, her great-grandfather’s cut down to fit her, and that was buttoned over a perfect Irish linen hunting shirt she’d picked up at Hunt Country. Her stock tie, same material as the shirt, was draped over the shoulder of the mannequin. The simple gold stock pin was pinned through the bottom coat buttonhole. Her top hat, the true ladies’ top hat, which gracefully curved in toward the brim, hat cord attached, rested on the wire head. Her boots, with a cedar insert to keep them firm, sat under the wire form, the knee-length socks stuffed inside along with a sheer pair of white silk socks in case it was really cold the next morning. Her spurs sat on top of the socks, simple hammerheads. Her mustard gloves, butter-soft, were folded and in her hat. Her father’s pocket watch was in the bottom left vest pocket. A thin, unadorned braided belt, Continental blue, was already threaded through the dark canary breeches laid out on top of the blanket chest, her thin cotton underpants half in, half out of the front pocket.