Sister Wolf Read Online Free Page A

the night.
    Mrs. Paul Gilliam was a native of Virginia. She had known Lola Brevard’s mother since girlhood, and they had grown up to be each other’s bridesmaids. When she wanted to engage a social secretary, she thought of Mary Brevard’s daughter. It was a nice job for a nice girl, and it left Lola free on Saturday afternoons, which she reserved for Marit. The sun was hot for the second week of June, so the two friends hosed down the lawn chairs and brought a pitcher of ginger ale and grape juice out to the terrace. At the moment, the ice was melting and watering down the mixture in their glasses. Marit stood at the parapet and pointed her binoculars toward the meadow by the sanctuary gate, moving the instrument up the meadow and toward the woods, at the entrance of which was a grove of white paper birches.
    Lola was watching a bobtail cat stalking the peonies. The cat was a gypsy, not a stray, one of the barn cats from Jullian’s dairy farm, more than five miles away. He emerged from the bushes carrying a chipmunk by the neck. He dropped it and started to bat at it, leaping from side to side and pretending to pounce. Released from the monster’s mouth, the chipmunk played dead. By this time the cat was sitting back on his haunches. The chipmunk rose up on his two hind feet and did a dance step. Then he lifted his leg as if he were squirting or spraying.
    “Get over here, Marit,” called Lola. “They’re playing a little death game.”
    Marit kept her binoculars trained on the birch grove. She turned the dial that adjusts the focus, and got down on her knees so that the railing could support her elbows.
    The cat had opened the chipmunk’s stomach, and sat washing his paws while it cooled. Lola walked over to Marit, scolding her as she went.
    “You’ve got no business to be squeamish. What kind of nature person acts so squeamish?”
    Marit did not address the question. She raised her hind end and leaned farther over the parapet.
    “I don’t want any pious anarchic goddamned backpackers on my property.”
    Lola grabbed the field glasses and moved them over the meadow.
    “Where, darlin’?” She rubbed her eyes. “I swear I just see worse through these things.”
    “Fling that riot of curls off your forehead and you might see better. There. That red spot.”
    Lola pushed back her bangs and tried again. This time she succeeded.
    “My, he’s puny. Why carry on about him?”
    “They report the wild animals,” said Marit. “They want bunnies and bluebirds.”
    “I thought you told me big animals didn’t go by the fence because it’s out in the open.”
    “This is not a state park. I won’t have it. I’m going to do some reporting of my own.”
    Marit made a move to recapture the binoculars, but Lola kept on spying. The figure below sat down and leaned against a birch, one leg extended and one knee cocked, a poet in repose.
    “Gorgeous head,” said Lola, “like a falcon. He just might convert me.”
    “Give me those, you Tidewater sapphic.” Marit raised the glasses and took another look. “Lord, you’re right. He’s what we used to call ‘cute.’ I was too mad to notice.”
    Lola fanned her face with her hand and pinned her hair in a knot on the top of her head. Before she settled herself in her chair, she inspected the scene of the carnage. There was nothing left of the chipmunk but the tail, the ears, and a wet patch. The cat was rolling on the flagstones, having a dust bath. Lola sat down and began to rub baby oil on her face. Drops of oil kept landing on her sunglasses. She hiked her skirt up to the middle of her thighs, and pulled her blouse down to bare her shoulders. She closed her eyes and waved a hand at Marit.
    “Keep an eye on your watch for me, honey; don’t let me go to sleep.”
    “Why?” asked Marit, who had brought her chair to the full upright position, since lazing in the sun was not one of her talents. “Does that silly woman want you to sharpen the bridge