A small linen handkerchief, an O embroidered on it, was neatly folded into the top vest pocket, left. The O stood for Overdorf, her maiden name. In the right lower vest pocket was a small, sharp penknife. The upper pocket carried ten Motrin in a tiny plastic bag just in case the weather got really raw and her myriad battle scars and breaks talked back. Although hunt staff were not allowed to carry a flask on their saddle, Sister, as the master, could carry one and she used her grandfather’s flask. Since she was the master the masculine bit of tack was acceptable, as was scarlet, which she chose not to wear, although younger lady masters were doing it. Sister could never get used to the sight of a woman in scarlet although she thought it was handsome.
Usually she filled her flask with iced tea but today she filled it with hunting port. A small silver flask, a bold roman A in the center, was slipped inside her left shadbelly pocket. This carried straight Scotch, Famous Grouse. She rarely used it but sometimes a member of the field needed restoration.
She read down her checklist. The only thing she didn’t have was a stirrup leather, used as a belt. For opening hunt she didn’t want that peeping out from under her shadbelly, although her vest points should cover it. She thought it a good idea to carry an extra stirrup leather. Her couple straps, used to collect hounds if needs be, were already attached to her saddle, as was her pistol case, the Ruger .22 inside, filled with birdshot. Used only in extremes to ward off a bolting hound, the sight of it often upset nonhunters. Better a butt full of birdshot than a hound running in front of a car.
Usually she carried a .38 under her jacket or on the small of her back. She’d only had to use it once when a dying deer, hideously injured, front leg blown mostly out of the socket, crossed her path. She was glad to deliver the coup de grâce. Wearing a shadbelly left no room for the .38 but Shaker, Doug, and Betty would have theirs under their coats.
She walked downstairs, her footfalls reverberating throughout the house. No radio or TV was ever turned on unless she wanted the news. She detested noise of any kind save the cry of her hounds.
A small cooler squatted on the kitchen table. A checklist was beside that: two bottled waters and two Cokes and a sandwich. Sister could never eat at a hunt breakfast because no one ever gave her time. She was crowded from the minute she walked in the room. Self-preservation taught her to pack a cooler and eat in the trailer before going in to the breakfast. Since hunting people knew not to bother a master who was gathering hounds, she could usually eat.
“Ham or chicken?” Raleigh asked. “Ham will make you thirsty.”
She sliced a loaf of fresh pumpernickel, buttered two thick slices, slapped on chicken, tossed pieces to Raleigh, and tore smaller pieces for Golly, who happily shinnied down the ficus tree.
The phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Back at you,” Betty Franklin said.
“Ready?”
“Had to let my britches out a notch. Clearly I’ve failed at my diet and”—she tried to make her voice light—“I’ve failed as a mother. Jennifer went back to rehab last night for an impromptu visit and I apologize for not being at hound walk.”
“You left a message—”
“I did but I didn’t tell you why I wasn’t there. Anyway, I sat there for four and a half hours while she cursed, cried, kicked. Oh yes, kicked. Bobby lasted thirty minutes. He couldn’t take it. I told him to go work late.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Is Cody still there?”
“I saw her at the kennels this morning.”
“Cody, thank God, had the sense to call rehab and hustle her down there. Doug found Jen a couple of miles from Roger’s Corner. Did I tell you that?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“No. He wouldn’t unless it was necessary.”
“He’s a good boy. Or man. I keep seeing that little boy with the big green eyes. Jane—I don’t know what to do.”
“Honey, I’m just sorry. I wish I could tell you what to do. Is she at rehab now?”
“No. She’s home in her room. Dr. Zacks, who I like a lot, by the way, said let’s try her on an outpatient basis. If it doesn’t work, back she goes.”
“This is going to cost a fortune.”
“So far, a week’s stay cost $6,280. Counseling is $120 a session and she’ll need to go in at least twice a week. Once a day all next week and then twice a week. One hates to focus on the money but it is a factor.”
“Are there statistics about the success rate of this kind of thing?”
“Yes. They aren’t impressive. Over half the patients relapse. Dr. Zacks believes the Alcoholics Anonymous and the Narcotics Anonymous help tremendously if people will commit to it. Jennifer is so young. How many seventeen-year-olds will be sitting in a Narcotics Anonymous meeting?”
“I often wonder if Raymond would have—”
“Ray. No. He would have gotten drunk with his fraternity brothers when he got to college. He would have smoked a little weed but Ray was a happy kid. That boy was like sunshine. Jennifer came out of the womb unhappy, honestly.”
“They come into this world ready-made. Betty, want to have a slumber party? Come on over.”
“I’d love it but I’d better stay here. Bobby can hardly speak to Jennifer. She’s got his number. If he corrects her, she blames him. If he doesn’t pay attention to her, she says he doesn’t care. Right now he’s guilty and useless.”
“It’s harder for men.”
“Some men. I’m not making excuses for him based on gender. You know, I’m getting to the point where I’m not making excuses for anybody and I don’t want to hear any either. Goddammit, Jane, we are each responsible for our own lives. That’s it. No passing the buck. If Helen Keller, blind and deaf, could make something out of her life, I don’t want to hear this shit about being a victim. Jennifer Franklin is not a victim no matter how much she wants to be. Right now she’s a spoiled, rotten brat and I’d like to knock the stuffing out of her.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Betty, if you’re mad you’ll do something. If you’re sad you’ll bawl and sit on your ass. And you’re right, Jennifer has no excuse for her behavior.”
“I wish I’d known the signs. I could have caught Cody earlier. I was so obtuse.”
“Drugs aren’t part of your life.”
“Well, I was born in 1952. It’s hard not to have some awareness of drugs but I was never part of that scene. You were lucky. You missed it.”
“Because I’m older than dirt.” Sister laughed at herself.
“You’ll never be old. God, here I’ve dumped my troubles at your door and right before the big day. I’m sorry.”
“Opening hunt will take care of itself. This is a little more important.”
“I can’t make up my mind whether to let her hunt or make her stay home. It’s one of the only two things that make her happy.”
“What’s the other one?”
“Sex.”
“Oh dear,” Sister blurted out.
“I say ‘Oh shit.’ They’re all doing it. I mean at that age I thought about it but I didn’t do it. So we’ve drawn blood to test for AIDS and other unsavory consequences. She had the sense to use contraceptives. Foam. She used foam because she didn’t want to go with me to the doctor to get the Pill or to get some other kind of contraceptive. She thought it would upset me. Well, it would have but not as much as not knowing. Bobby can’t even talk about the sex. He gets red in the face and stammers.”