“That they have. Now if only they’d plow the roads on the farm.” He smiled. “Well, Old Bessie will get me through.” He named his rusty four-wheel-drive truck.
“By the way, Al, whatever you put in my punch makes me feel warm all over.”
He patted the flat bottle, still in brown paper, in his inside jacket pocket. “And here I thought it was me.”
“You, too.” She smiled.
He leaned down conspiratorially, kissing her on the cheek. “To health and wealth.”
The small gathering broke up at nine. Birdie handed Jason three insurance forms.
“Paperwork.” He sighed.
“Well, if you’d asked Alfred for his bottle you’d fly through it.” She smiled.
“I would. Of course, whatever I wrote would be illegible.”
“I’ll see you next year.”
“Next year, Birdie. And may it be a good one.”
Fifteen minutes later, Walter knocked on Jason’s open door.
“You missed the party,” said Jason.
Walter smiled. “Special group. They didn’t need an intruder. Hey, do you have a Tom Thumb Pelham I can borrow?” Walter mentioned a type of bit.
“Rocketman?” Jason smiled, for Walter’s young horse could be strong.
Clemson, the older hunter who had given Walter confidence when he started foxhunting, went in a simple snaffle. The Clemsons of this world were worth their weight in gold.
“Thought I’d try it before buying one.”
“I’ll bring it by.”
Walter stared down at the papers on Jason’s desk. “Me, too. I’m determined to get the damn paperwork done so I can really enjoy New Year’s. I love the bowl games.”
“Even with Birdie, I can’t keep up with this shit.” Jason disgustedly pushed the papers away.
“Insurance.”
“Biggest scam in America.” Jason’s dark eyebrows knitted together.
Walter folded his arms across his massive chest. “Remember when we thought forty thousand a year in insurance was a ripoff?”
Jason rose from his chair. “What I don’t understand is why we put up with it.”
“Two reasons.” Walter obviously had thought about this. “Doctors are scientists, right? We aren’t by nature businessmen. We don’t have a lot of free time. Our work can be emotionally exhausting.”
“Right. That’s more than two reasons.” Jason smiled at him, one eyebrow now quizzically raised.
“One. Let me go back to the fact that we are scientists. That means we aren’t accustomed to banding together for political purposes.”
“We have the AMA,” said Jason, referring to the American Medical Association.
“And what have they done about these crushing insurance burdens?” Walter uncrossed his arms. “In my darker moments I think the AMA is in collusion with the insurance companies.”
“No.” Jason shook his head. “The AMA isn’t corrupt. Ineffective sometimes.”
“I don’t know.” Walter walked to the window, which looked out over the back of the building.
“One thing, we lose hospital privileges if we don’t carry the insurance.”
“Yep.”
“Look on the bright side, Walter. We could be OB/GYNs.”
Walter sighed but nodded in agreement, for gynecologists and obstetricians were bent double by their insurance load.
“Donny Sweigart, in the snow, picking up the trash.” Walter looked sideways at Jason, who now stood next to him. “Ever notice that Sweigarts are either really smart or…really not?”
“We know where Donny falls. Funny how after his father died in that warehouse fire he demanded that no one call him Junior.”
“Was.” Walter watched as the younger man, of medium build and wearing heavy coveralls, lifted tightly tied plastic bags into the large truck.
“He’s a good truck driver.”
“Think Crawford will buy Sanifirm?”
“I don’t know, but if he does I bet Donny still has a job.”
“Not if he keeps poaching, he won’t.”
“Deer?” Jason wasn’t a deer hunter.
“Donny will sneak on your property and pretty much shoot whatever he can, although deer are his preferred target. He’ll do it out of season, too.”
“He doesn’t shoot foxes, does he?” Jason sounded scandalized.
“Sister put a stop to that.”
“I’ll bet she did.” The corner of Jason’s lips curled upward in a half smile.
“She’s too much of a fox herself to crack on him. She pays him off.”
“No kidding?”
“Out of her own pocket. No hunt club funds are touched. She asks him to tell her where the dens are, so he’s a consultant.”
“But she knows where they are.”
“Like I said, Jason. She’s part fox.” What Walter wanted to add, but didn’t, was “Never underestimate the old girl. Never.”
CHAPTER 7
December 31 is St. Sylvester’s Day, commemorating a pope who died in 335 AD. He tolerated all religions and is credited with building many churches, including the first St. Peter’s in Rome.
St. Sylvester probably would have stayed inside this Saturday, for the snow lay deep on top of the foot-deep base. Occasional squalls still cast down flurries. Snow plows worked through the night, so the roads were reasonably decent if one drove prudently.
As it was the New Year’s Hunt, the last of the four foxhunting High Holy Days, forty-two people braved the weather to gather at Beveridge Hundred, a Jefferson Hunt fixture since 1887, the founding year of the club. Beveridge Hundred remained in the Cullhain family. The current crop of Cullhains struggled on. Their money had disappeared in 1865 along with some of their men, dying agonizing deaths in America’s worst war. The survivors had pulled themselves back up, only to fall destitute again during the Great Depression. In deference to their pinched financial position, club members brought dishes for the traditional hunt breakfast. Walter supplied the drinks, which eased the burden on this most genial collection of relatives.
Hounds got up one fox for a short burst and then another, but the deep snows kept foxes close to their dens. By noon, everyone had filled the old mansion, whose outside and inside were badly in need of paint. A few spots, plaster off, revealed laths stuffed with horsehair. The piano in the parlor was put to good use. Jason Woods, a clear tenor, paired with Walter’s baritone. Soon everyone sang with them.
Hounds were already back in the kennels by the time the humans reached the desserts.
Hunt staff’s first responsibility was the hounds or staff horses, depending on their position. Rarely did Shaker attend a breakfast, although he might be able to get to a tailgate once the hounds were in the party wagon, the small horse trailer outfitted to carry them. A quick sandwich or muffin before he pulled out, accompanied by hot coffee, kept him going until he could really replenish his body. Huntsmen burn calories the way prairie fire burns grass.
Betty Franklin and Sybil Bancroft Fawkes, although honorary whippers-in, not paid staff, still performed all staff functions. They too didn’t attend the breakfasts until hounds were in the party wagon or in the kennel, horses cooled out, blankets thrown over them.
Later, back in the barn, Betty Franklin and Sister cleaned tack in the heated tackroom. Shaker, with Sybil’s help and that of her two sons of grade-school age, had fed all the hounds and even rubbed soothing bag balm on their pads. No one’s pads had been cut up, as there wasn’t much ice, but Shaker figured an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure. The two boys felt important to help with a big job. Sybil appreciated Shaker’s thoughtfulness. Her marriage, a disaster, had left her a single mother. She liked her sons to be around real men, and Shaker was about as real as it got.
Sari, Lorraine Rasmussen’s daughter, and Jennifer, Betty’s daughter, were home from Colby College on Christmas vacation. They washed down the staff horses and asked to clean tack, but Sister sent them on their way. She knew both girls wanted to primp for a big New Year’s Eve party, although first they had to attend Betty’s party.