Riding Shotgun (7 page)

“We’re talking about my daughter, not a leopard.”

“You know what I mean.” Grace sounded flat-out superior now.

“No, I don’t.”

“You can’t force Laura into anything.”

“I’m not. I wouldn’t. But this is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“She was nervous.”

“She wasn’t nervous tonight.”

“Good.”

“What’s good about it? You’re encouraging my child to embark on a life of social rejection, economic hardship, and no security whatsoever.”

“There is no security on this earth, only opportunity.”

“Gag me, Sister. You are sitting in a shitload of security even if you are bored out of your skull.”

Grace flashed back. “Listen, if you resist Laura on this she’ll turn into a motorcycle dyke just to spite you. If you try a little patience, don’t make a fuss, what you’ll get is a
very beautiful girl who likes other girls. It could be a whole lot worse.”

“How can she possibly know who she is or what she wants at fifteen?”

“Don’t be an ass, Cig. People are born that way. If homosexuals were made then we could unmake them. Obviously, we can’t.”

Cig, furious now, demanded, “Why didn’t you come to me the instant she talked to you?”

“I’m not going to betray a trust.”

“You don’t mind betraying your husband.” Cig aimed a low blow, very low.

“That’s different! Sex is not about ethics.”

“And you’re a Republican, speaking about ethics and family values?” Cig steamed, then thought a second. “Actually, of course you are. Goddamned hypocrite.”

“Being a Republican has nothing to do with it and we will bring the party back to the center so just shut up. You don’t know your ass from your elbow when it comes to politics and you don’t know your ass from your elbow when it comes to your daughter. This is a trying time for her.”

“Me, too. A big fat help you are.”

“What do you want me to do? Tell her she has to screw boys?”

“Don’t be crude,” Cig snapped. “And that little hint when you left, ‘Has Laura talked to you?’ “Cig mimicked her sister’s voice. “You could have told me then. I hate innuendo.”

“You hate subtlety. You want it all plain in black and white. You should have been an engineer or an accountant. They always have clear answers.”

“I don’t like futzing around. That’s not wanting the world to be in black and white.”

Grace tacked to a new breeze. “What are you going to do?”

“Wring your neck.”

“After that.”

A long pause. “I don’t know.”

“Scared?”

“No—yes.”

“Of what? What people will say?”

Cig reached over and scratched Woodrow. “I’d like to say I’m immune to public opinion but I’m not. I mean, it isn’t going to send me over the edge if they dog me or my child, but Jesus, life is easier if people like you.”

“They’ll still like you but some will pity you, some will blame you, others will blame it on Blackie’s death at an impressionable age for Laura, and others won’t care as long as she’s happy. That about sums it up.”

“Actually, I’m much more worried for her. I mean, you asked me about other people so I answered but it’s Laura I care about. My life is over in a way.”

“Don’t say that!”

“All right. But Grace, people are so hateful. Strangers will despise Laura without knowing her and she’s a great kid. She could get fired from jobs—if they’ll even hire her. She has no legal protection of any kind. If she ever settles down, I mean. I don’t want to think about this…”

“That’s pretty far in the future. My advice is, don’t make a big deal out of it. If she really is gay she’ll have plenty of time to adjust and so will you. Right now she’s feeling the first flush of puppy love—and look on the bright side: no unwanted pregnancies.”

Cig laughed despite herself. “There is that.”

“Are you done yelling at me?”

“For now.”

“Good. Go to bed. We’ve both got to get up early tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Cig sighed. “Night, Gracie.”

“Night, Ciggie.”

The phone clicked. Cig hung up the receiver, gave Woodrow a pat then walked into the bathroom to brush her teeth. She read the cutout she had taped on her mirror. In Old English typography it read “Shit Happens.”

She mumbled with the toothbrush in her mouth, “Oh, shit.”

Two green eyes stared into her own when Cig awoke at 5:30
A
.
M
. Woodrow, in his sphinx pose, paws under Cig’s chin, stretched over her chest. His purrs rumbled throughout her body.

Cig thought the Sphinx had been a Maine coon cat—the Egyptians just didn’t get it right. Snuggling was his second favorite activity. Eating was his first, and he trilled when she opened her eyes. His tail swished like a windshield wiper in high gear. He was blissfully unaware of the cause of last night’s tensions, nor did he set store by anniversaries. For Woodrow, today was all that mattered.

“Morning, Woodrow.”

He meowed his greetings as Cig swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet touching the smooth heart pine floor. Peachpaws woke up, yawning.

Cig found her worn slippers and hurried into the bathroom.

Old houses exude a charm, a gathering of all the energies poured into them. They’re also cold as a witch’s tit. The bathroom, added to the house in the 1920s, had some insulation,
which Cig and Blackie had augmented in the 1980s. Dashing into the bathroom provided relief since it was warmer than the bedroom. As she washed her face, brushed her teeth, and quickly twisted her hair into a braid, Woodrow purred, rubbing against her legs.

“Come on, pussycat. Tuna treat this morning? What about you, pooch? Lamb stew on crunchies?” She threw on her red robe, and they hurried down the narrow curving back stairway leading directly into the kitchen with its large fireplace. Woodrow managed to purr even as he ate. Peachpaws inhaled his food. Cig put up coffee, set three bowls on the table and checked the thermometer. Thirty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. As she looked out the tall windows toward the stable she could see that ground fog hung over the pastures like old cigar smoke, a leftover perhaps from a stag party for the gods.

She walked through the kitchen, out to the center hall of the federal home and to the foot of the big staircase. She thought about yelling and then decided against it. So she climbed the stairs, the banister railing worn shiny through generations of use, and entered her son’s bedroom.

“Hunter, get moving, honey.” She shook him awake. He blinked at her with deep brown eyes like her own.

“Good day for scent, Mom?”

“I think so. Breakfast in fifteen minutes.”

“Okay.”

She headed down the hall and opened the door to Laura’s room, plastered with posters of Anne Kursinski, Katie Monahan Prudent, and Charlie Weaver. A small photo of Parry Tetrick had been placed on the wall last night. Cig sighed and touched Laura on the shoulder. “Up and at ‘em.”

“Uh.” Laura was loath to leave her warm bed.

“Come on, hotshot, breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes and we’ve got worms to turn and eggs to lay.”

“Uh-huh.” Laura emerged from under the down comforter and groped her way to the bathroom.

Woodrow enjoyed presiding over breakfast or any other meal. He sat in Blackie’s chair and gravely watched each forkful of egg as it made its way into the various mouths.

Hunter gave a piece of egg to the cat.

“Hunter, don’t feed Woodrow at the table,” Cig chided.

“You do.”

She thought a moment. “Well—only when you’re not looking.”

They laughed. They had been laughing more recently. The weight of numbness having passed, intense grief had set in. But during the last few weeks they’d begun to awaken. Blackie’s death had blindsided his family. It took a year to accept that he was gone. Cig, Hunter, and Laura had gone over and over his last day as though grasping every minute would keep him closer longer. Blackie had stopped at Grace’s house to drop off contracts for will concerning a small downtown rental property will wanted to buy. Blackie was Will’s lawyer. Such an ordinary visit, a drink offered and a drink accepted. He died when Grace returned to the kitchen for more ice. No one could believe he’d slip away that quietly or quickly. There was nothing quiet about Blackie.

Grace and Cig, known as Beauty and Brains when they were children, both possessed cool heads. Grace called 911, administered all the first aid revival techniques she knew, and then had the painful duty of driving out to the farm to tell Cig that she was a widow. She didn’t want to tell her over the phone.

Cig shut the door on that memory this morning, cracking the whip over Hunter’s and Laura’s heads to hurry them up.

Grace pulled up at the stable, and shortly after, the phone rang.

“I’m on my way,” Cig told her sister, who called from the tackroom. “Let’s just table all significant topics, all right?”

“All right,” Grace agreed.

“Hunter, Laura, come on!” They shoved extra doughnuts into their mouths as they washed their cereal bowls.

Cig stepped into her L.L. Bean duck boots and opened the back door. Woodrow and Peachpaws shot out, both pausing to inhale the crisp October dawn, which promised a beautiful sunrise, the odor of turning leaves rich yet melancholy, a perfect day for a foxhunt.

“Great day,” Grace hollered at Cig as she strode into the stable. “Passed Harleyetta on the road. I expect shell be the first one at the meet. And I should have spent the night here. Will came home last night in a foul mood, apart from everything else.”

“Sorry. Was Binky with Harleyetta?”

“No, her consort was missing.”

“I don’t suppose he’ll miss the hunt. He’ll throw another drink down his throat and get to the fixture somehow.” Cig smiled as she took Full Throttle out of his stall, put him on the crossties, and grabbed a soft grooming brush. He was a 16.I handsome bay with good bone, a fabulous equine athlete.

“By this time you’d think those two would be pickled given the amount of alcohol they’ve gargled.” Grace turned as Hunter, soon followed by Laura, padded into the barn. “If will keeps being such a crab, I may turn to it myself.”

“Hi, Aunt Grace.” Hunter waved.

Woodrow raced into Full Throttle’s empty stall, the attraction being a family of mice that lived behind the wall boards. Peachpaws stole a galloping-boot then dropped in the tackroom for more sleep, his booty by his long nose.

“Morning.” Laura skidded into the tackroom and deftly removed yet another extra bridle, which she carried out to the horse trailer.

“Aunt Grace, do you know what Jeffrey Dahmer said to Lorena Bobbitt?” Hunter said.

“I have no idea.” Grace’s dark eyes sparkled.

“Are you going to eat that?”

“Hunter!” Cig reached out to punch him.

“That’s really gross,” Grace replied. “I’m so glad you didn’t tell me that last night at dinner.”

Cig peeped over Full Throttle’s neck as Grace blithely gave Hunter and Laura, spinning through their chores, a blow-by-blow description of Will’s silent sulk last night.

“Don’t look at me like that, Cig. These two are old enough to figure things out.”

“Mom, how long were you married to Dad?” Laura piped up.

“Laura, sometimes it amazes me how you forget these things.”

“I don’t forget exactly it’s just it’s—”

“Out of the Dark Ages—I know. Like, why remember the dates of Vietnam?” Grace filled in for her beloved niece.

“Yeah.”

“Grace, you spoil her.” Cig’s voice had an edge.

“Someone has to,” came the saucy reply,

This made them all laugh. Even Cig.

“I was not quite twenty-two when I married your father. So—nearly eighteen years.”

“And Hunter was born ten months after the wedding. Thank God because everyone in central Virginia is an expert at math,” Grace added.

“Dad was old, wasn’t he?”

“Ancient, Laura,” came the acid reply. “He was thirty-six going on thirty-seven.”

“I didn’t mean old, Mom, I meant older. Don’t get weird.”

“Everyone gets weird when they hit forty,” Grace, thirty-eight, added.

Hunter brought Tabasco into the aisle. Laura picked out Go To’s hooves. “About ready here.”

“They don’t look brushed to me.” Cig cast a careful eye over the horses.

“Mom, that takes two minutes. They’re really clean ‘cause I washed everyone yesterday afternoon,” Hunter replied. “You just didn’t notice.”

“Okay, okay. We’ve got Mosby and Reebok to load up for Bill and Roberta.”

“Chill out, Mom. We haven’t been late yet.” Hunter tried to pacify his mother. For whatever reason, it was easier for Hunter to communicate with Cig than it was for Laura who was always ready to come back with a full-scale defense about how she was on time, she was always prepared, she would always be on time and prepared. Hunter deftly headed off his sister while calming his mother.

As the kids loaded the horses, Cig and Grace repaired to the tackroom to throw off their duck boots and pull on their good boots. Grace’s had black patent leather tops while
Cig’s had brown leather tops. Then they tied each other’s stock ties, careful to stick the pin through the knot horizontally, although Cig was tempted to stab Grace in the throat. They put on their canary vests and rummaged around for their deerskin gloves. Grace brushed off her coat with the plum colors piped in gold on the collar. Cig wore scarlet, bold for a woman in this part of the world, but she was the Master of the Foxhounds and she knew from her own experience that it was a lot easier to find the MFH in the field if she was wearing scarlet. This also entitled her to wear the brown tops on her boots, normally a flourish reserved for men. Male masters always wore scarlet.