Riding Shotgun by Rita Mae Brown Page B

chase.
    Another time, she ran a red for forty minutes. She knew the fox, a vixen with forelegs that were white up to her elbows, a distinctive looking animal. The vixen ran to her den, which Cig expected since she was tiring, but instead of ducking in, the vixen lay down right on the lip of the den. She lowered her head and asked to die. The hounds killed her in seconds. When Roger called them off and examined the vixen, he discovered that she had shingles, an extremely painful disease, fatal for foxes. The vixen chose a swift death. There was a nobility in the animal’s final moments on earth, a nobility denied fatally I’ll humans who were carted away to hospitals, sterile, clear tubes jammed in every orifice, drugs coursing down those tubes.
    Cig hoped she could go down like the vixen when her time came. Blackie, the son-of-a-bitch, had had a good death. Roger, Wilco, over and out. A surge of fury welled upin her. She unconsciously squeezed Full Throttle, who broke into a trot. She relaxed. Fattail shot a look back over his shoulder.
    Cig would have given anything to be a fly on the wall when Blackie died. Was he in the act with Grace? It was almost funny. She could just picture Grace, horrified, rolling the six-foot-four carcass off of her or hopping off if Blackie had decided to take his ease and lie back. Or perhaps she’d given him a blow job. Probably not. Not that Blackie didn’t enjoy them but he was a grappler, he liked to get up close and personal, as ABC sportscasters used to say.
    How could Grace do it? There were times when she had suspected, like at the Christmas party the year before Blackie died. Not that anything untoward occurred but Blackie’s gift to Grace, a nineteenth-century stock pin, a fox head with ruby eyes, was extravagant. When she questioned him he replied, “Well, it just looked like Grace to me. Besides, you always bitch and moan that you have to do all the Christmas shopping.” She wound up being proud of him for doing his own shopping. Then, too, he bought four new tires for her Wagoneer so she felt she got the better value. If he’d given Grace a more expensive present than he’d given her, she’d have known.
    Did will know? Did he care? The great thing about being a doctor was that a doctor can retreat into work. Since his work might mean life or death for someone, everyone rewarded him for his retreat.
    But Grace. How many times had Cig dragged over to her sister’s to cry when she had uncovered Blackie’s latest infidelity? How many times had Grace told her he wasn’t worth the tears? And Cig would say, “I know that but I love him.” Grace’s affairs, discreet ones, sometimes amused and distracted Cig, who lived vicariously. It never occurred to her that Grace’s mischief would hit so close to home.
    The more Blackie strayed the more she forgave him, at least on the surface. She sensed she had the admiration of the community for her stoicism. Admiration was some reward, surely, but it never got her what she wanted: a real partner. Hunter at seventeen was more emotionally responsiblethan his father was at fifty. Blackie felt that if he provided a high standard of living for his family then he was responsible, above reproach. The money made everything all right.
    Cig came back to the present. She was lost. She had no idea where she was or how far she’d ridden as her mind churned over Blackie and Grace’s betrayal. She checked Full Throttle. His flanks weren’t tucked up so she supposed she hadn’t been out too long. It was curious how time could collapse when you were in the grip of great, conflicting emotions. In this case love and pure-D hate. She loved Blackie and she hated him. Same for Grace.
    Fattail merrily moved along. His ears swept forward, his tail had a gay swag to it. Every now and then he’d look around to check on Cig.
    She stopped for a moment. She heard music. So did Full Throttle. If Fattail heard it, he paid no mind, which was unusual.
    How silly