by Matthew Ward
“Charles Whipple and his clan have won a fantastic victory today,” Grazelby continued, “for themselves and for the entire Grazelby Publications family. Of course, I must send a special note of gratitude to Arthur Whipple, whose spirit and determination won the day for us. Naturally, a full profile of the Whipples’ newest record breaker, as well as a detailed report on this year’s championships will all be included in the new volume of Grazelby’s Guide to World Records and Fantastic Feats—on shelves this November.”
Grazelby is clearly not alone in his appraisal of the Whipples’ achievement. Following news of the family’s stunning victory Sunday night, shares of Grazelby Publications (GRAP) promptly hit an all-time high Monday morning. The Whipples, holding one-third of the company’s shares, are set to see their personal fortune more than double by the close of market Monday.
But besides the thrill of victory and the massive payday, the members of the Whipple family have another thing to celebrate: their very lives.
With the Goldwins’ incarceration, the Whipples have seemingly survived another chapter in the saga of the Lyon’s Curse—a fanciful term given to the string of tragedies that has followed the family ever since rival record breaker Gregory Lyon was killed competing against Charles’s father, some thirty years ago.
But with this last spate of violence, could the curse that claimed Charles Sr.’s life finally be over? Only time will tell. For now, the Whipples seem perfectly content living in the present.
“Today marks the start of a new era for the Whipple family,” stated Charles Whipple, “an era in which character comes before accomplishment, and people are prized above plaques. Of course, it should always have been this way; I am sorry I did not realize it sooner. But then, it is only because of my son Arthur that I have realized it at all.”
Arthur Whipple, hero to the Record-Breakingest Family on Earth—and rising star to the world, had this to say about his sudden success:
“Um—wow. Yeah. I—I can’t believe it. I mean, yeah. Wow.”
Considering the circumstances of his triumph, truer words may never have been said.
For one boy at least, a new era has certainly begun.
• • •
Arthur woke to find the first rays of sunrise shimmering through his window, filling his room with a bright natural glow.
When he’d convinced himself the events of the prior evening had not simply been a dream, an involuntary grin formed across his face. This was the dawn of his new life as a world-record holder; more importantly, it was the first morning he had woken up feeling truly at home.
Arthur stretched his arms and yawned a deep, satisfying yawn. He cast off his covers and rose from the bed, then headed to the wardrobe. He paused a moment before the mirror to examine his reflection.
There was the same clump of light brown hair sticking stubbornly out from the side of his head; there were the same spindly arms—and yet, there was something decidedly different about the boy in the mirror this morning. Something lighter, less burdened—something clearer.
His very surroundings, it seemed, had changed as well. Overnight, the world had become a brighter, better place, in which absolutely anything was possible. He could hardly wait to get started on world record number two.
Arthur began sliding an arm through the sleeve of his robe when his nose was struck by the spicy scent of sausage. Sammy! he thought and ran to the window.
Sure enough, there on the outdoor breakfast table lay the World’s Largest Sausage Link—and beside it, an industrial cement mixer filled with what appeared to be the Largest Batch of Eggs Ever Scrambled.
For one terrifying moment, Arthur feared he’d somehow slept through the breakfast bell—but he promptly realized that nobody else had arrived at the table either. What’s everybody waiting for? he thought to himself. Surely, we’ve been deprived of Sammy the Spatula’s colossal cuisine long enough. Let’s eat!
He slipped the other arm into its sleeve, grabbed his new trophy off the nightstand, and darted for the door.
As soon as he had crossed the threshold, however, Arthur was forced to a halt by a wall of people.
There, in a semicircle around his doorway, stood his parents and the octuplets, as well as Simon, Cordelia, and Henry. Ruby stood with Wilhelm to their left, rubbing her half-closed eyes with the back of her hand.
All of them, Arthur realized, were wearing party hats.
“Good morning, Arthur,” said Mr. Whipple with a smile.
“Oh,” Arthur started. “Good morning.”
“And how is our newest world-record breaker today? You’ve slept well, have you?”
“Very well, thank you. I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting.” He looked again at the party hats. “Have I forgotten a holiday or something? It’s not Haberdashery Day already, is it?”
“No indeed, my boy. Why, today belongs to you.”
“Oh. It does?” Arthur scratched his cheek. “How exactly have I come to possess it?”
“Last night,” his father explained, “it occurred to your mother and me that, in the matter of birthday parties, you have been rather shortchanged—nine of them in all you’ve missed, by my count—and now, we mean to remedy that. Starting tonight, you’ll be having a birthday party every day for the next nine days. You decide the theme for each, select the food, invite whomever you like. And henceforth you will have a birthday party every year—not just in leap years. Do you find the terms acceptable?”
Arthur could hardly speak. Before his throat closed up altogether, he managed to say, feebly, “Quite acceptable, sir.”
“Good,” said Arthur’s father.
He removed a foil-and-paper crown from behind his back and proceeded to place it on his son’s head. “Arthur,” he said, “for the next week and two days, I hereby pronounce you Birthday King of All Christendom—and us, your loyal subjects.”
At that, everyone bowed low, leaving Arthur to stand and marvel. In his wildest dreams, he had never imagined this.
After a few moments, everyone straightened up again, and Mr. Whipple said, “Now, we shall begin planning the first of your parties out at the garden table. To kick off the Arthur Whipple Birthday Party Extravaganza, Sammy’s made a special breakfast in your honor. But before we commence with the celebrations, there’s one last order of business that needs tending. So, if you would all follow me downstairs please. . . .”
Mr. Whipple turned, and the others followed.
At the stairway, Ruby filed in alongside Arthur. “Happy first birthday,” she said. “I must say, you seem surprisingly capable for a one-year-old.”
“I’m glad you think so. It’s not easy feeling twelve times your actual age, you know.”
Ruby smiled, then rubbed her eyes again. “So I take it people don’t sleep in around here either,” she yawned. “Perfect. I escape one loony bin only to end up in another. . . . Hey—perhaps you could use your authority as Birthday King to set the alarm clocks a few hours forward, eh?”
“Listen to you—I’ve been Birthday King for all of thirty seconds, and you’re already trying to corrupt my power. Some royal advisor you’ll make,” Arthur grinned. “But honestly, why would you ever want to sleep in, when there are so many amazing things to be done in this world?”
The girl looked skeptical.
“You’ll see,” said Arthur. “You’re with the Whipples now. We’ll make a morning person of you yet.”
Ruby bulged her eyes and shook her head. “Loony bin,” she whispered.
The party wound its way through the house, its destination soon becoming clear. Upon reaching the entrance to the Whipple Hall of World Records, Arthur’s father heaved open the massive wooden doors and ushered the group inside.
Arthur filed in with Ruby and his siblings, staring in awe at the enormous wall of trophies and plaques before him. For as long as he could remembe
r, he had gazed up at that wall dreaming of the day when he’d finally find a place of his own there. And now, it seemed, that day had arrived.
Mr. Whipple closed the giant doors behind him and strode to the center of the wall.
“The Great Wall of Whipple,” he said reverently. “The place where all our greatest accomplishments are displayed—for the pride of this family and the respect of the world. All the Whipples are represented here. . . .” He paused and turned to look Arthur in the eye. “All, of course, but one. Indeed, there is one name missing from this wall: the name of Arthur Whipple.”
Arthur’s siblings patted his back and mussed his hair, while Arthur grinned bashfully and glanced to the ground. This was the moment he’d waited for all his life.
Mr. Whipple continued. “I have long dreamt of the day when our wall would at last be complete—when all our names could finally be written upon it. . . . And yet, in spite of recent events, I’m afraid it will have to do without Arthur’s name for a while longer.”
The Whipple children’s excitement turned to confusion. Arthur looked up from the floor.
“Though it’s true Arthur has now broken a world record of his own,” their father explained, “I simply don’t feel it belongs here on our wall.”
Arthur’s stomach felt hollow. After all this time, he had just begun to believe that maybe he really did belong there. Had it all been an illusion?
Mr. Whipple raised an arm and gestured over the children’s heads. Arthur and his siblings turned to see Wilhelm walking toward them, pushing a large wheeled object veiled by a purple velvet cloth.
The crowd of murmuring children parted to make way for the mysterious artifact. When the butler had rolled it to the very center of the room he locked the wheels in place, then stepped back into the shadows.
Arthur’s father walked toward the object and halted beside it. Then he slid away the cloth.
Underneath was a large glass case, set atop a dark wood pedestal. At the center of the pedestal sat a vacant velvet pillow.
“As you know,” Mr. Whipple addressed his family, “I have kept this empty trophy case in order to remind myself of that which I have not won—of the attempts I’ve failed—of the opportunities I’ve missed. . . .”
Arthur’s father stared into the glass for a moment, running his fingertip along the rim of the pedestal, then slowly pulled it away.
“I have recently come to realize, however, it was not the things I thought I were missing that I truly needed to find. And now—thanks to one formerly recordless boy— I no longer feel I am missing anything at all. As such, I have no further reason to keep this case empty.”
Mr. Whipple looked to his son with twinkling eyes. “Arthur, my boy—would you be so kind as to lend us your new trophy, that we may finally put this case to its proper use?”
The pit in Arthur’s stomach vanished as his heart swelled in his chest.
“It—” he started, holding back tears and holding up his trophy. “It would be my great honor, sir.”
Mr. Whipple smiled. “I had hoped you’d feel that way.”
He gripped the tall glass dome of the display case and lifted it from the pedestal.
Arthur stepped forward and, savoring every instant, placed his trophy at the center of the pillow, then slowly backed away.
Mr. Whipple lowered the dome back onto its base, then gestured again to Wilhelm, who turned and flipped a switch on the wall behind him.
A spotlight shone down from the ceiling, illuminating Arthur’s trophy like a golden beacon at the room’s otherwise shadowy center.
Arthur’s eyes sparkled as his siblings oohed and aahed around him.
“Well now, that looks rather marvelous, doesn’t it?” Mr. Whipple observed. “Thank you, Arthur, for contributing such a fine centerpiece to our distinguished collection.”
Arthur, unable to speak, simply smiled and nodded. His father grinned back at him, then gave an affectionate wink.
When they’d all stared at the new fixture for several moments, Mr. Whipple turned to the others and said, “Well then—now that’s settled, who’s hungry for a bit of colossal cuisine?”
The children all raised their hands.
“Let’s go get some then, shall we?” their father said, smiling. “Arthur’s first birthday breakfast awaits!”
The octuplets bounced up and down with excitement as their mother turned to the butler.
“Wilhelm,” she said, “go and fetch Mrs. Waite, would you please? Tell her she and Ivy may continue whatever it is they’re working on as soon as Ivy has had her breakfast. Surprise birthday gift, I believe she said. Hard to tell what Mrs. Waite was saying last night, the poor woman was so emotional, bless her heart.”
“Right avay, ma’am,” the butler replied as he made for the door.
“Thank you, Wilhelm,” said Mr. Whipple. “Now, everyone else—to the breakfast table!”
• • •
Taking his dinner fork in one hand and his dinner machete in the other, Arthur carved off a large lump of sausage and dropped it onto his plate. Sitting there with his family, he couldn’t help but be reminded of a particular morning months back, when Sammy had served French toast, and all of their adventures had begun.
Arthur cut himself another bite, pausing for a moment to make sure the fifteen-foot sausage link wasn’t wobbling just a bit more than it should be.
“. . . And after the fire-breathing porcupines finish their routine,” his father continued, “it’ll be time for cake. Now, if Sammy gets to work straight away, he may just have enough time to break the size record we set at the Birthday Extravaganza. What do you think? Shall I have him get started?”
Arthur thought back to his experience with his family’s last birthday cake. “Actually,” he said, “I was thinking we might do something a bit smaller this time—still record-breaking, of course—but with a little less potential for destruction. I don’t know—World’s Fluffiest Cake, perhaps?”
“Hmm. I’d never thought of that one before. Won’t be nearly as dramatic, of course—but then, I suppose we could benefit from a fresh approach on the matter of cake. Wouldn’t want our guests to think we’re becoming predictable, would we? All right then—World’s Fluffiest it is.”
Arthur smiled and had another bite of breakfast. It was hard to believe how far he’d come in the span of just a few months. Before today, he’d barely been given a party at all—and here, he was about to be given the Best Birthday Party of All Time.
Breaking a world record was one thing—but now, wishes he’d never even made were coming true. Finally, things were going his way. The constant turmoil that had plagued him from birth seemed like a distant memory. For the first time in his life, his heart was truly at peace.
Arthur began dreaming of ways to make each of his other eight birthday parties even better than the one before, when he happened to notice Wilhelm approaching across the east lawn.
The butler had never been one to convey himself sluggishly, but his current pace struck Arthur as being rather more hurried than usual.
Wilhelm stopped when he reached the table and stood panting at the lawn’s edge. Alone in a sea of green, the champion strongman appeared much smaller than Arthur had remembered him to be. His typically rosy cheeks were now all but white.
In his hand, he clutched a small sheaf of papers.
Upon seeing the butler, Arthur’s father wiped his mouth with his napkin and exclaimed, “My goodness, man—you’re white as a sheet! I hadn’t noticed earlier—but it looks as though you could use a bit of sun and a good meal, eh, old boy? Come on then, pull up a chair—and try not to eat the whole thing in one bite!”
The butler did not move, but opened his mouth to speak.
“They—” he wheezed, “they are gone.”
Mr. Whipple rose from his seat with a puzzled expression a
nd approached his valet. “What’s that you say, Wilhelm? Who’s gone?”
“I—I vent to fetch Mrs. Vaite,” the butler replied, “as Mrs. Vhipple asked, but nobody answered vhen I knocked. I began to vorry that something vas wrong, so I opened her door, just to make sure everything vas okay—but there vas nobody there at all.”
The other Whipples, troubled by Wilhelm’s tone, excused themselves from the table and came to stand behind their father.
“Please, Wilhelm,” said Mr. Whipple, “this hardly seems reason for alarm. She’s no doubt off somewhere with Ivy planning Arthur’s birthday surprise as Mrs. Whipple suggested.”
“I’m afraid,” said Wilhelm, “it is not the sort of surprise you are thinking of. Before I decided to search Mrs. Vaite’s quarters, I had already searched all the other places I thought they might be. Vhen I finally vent inside, I found the room tidy and the bed made, but there vas still no sign of them. And then—then I found this.”
The butler held out the papers.
“Well, what is it, man?” Mr. Whipple asked impatiently, panic seeping into his face.
“It’s . . . a letter, sir. From Mrs. Vaite.”
Mr. Whipple took the papers from Wilhelm and held up the first page so he and the others could see it. Neat lines of handwritten text cut back and forth across the thin parchment.
Arthur’s heart lurched at the sight of the familiar seal. It was a crown made of flames.
“Dad!” he cried. “That’s the seal that was on the Treasurer’s note!”
Mr. Whipple turned to his son with a look of powerless dread, then shifted his eyes back to the letter—and began to read aloud.
My Dearest Whipples,
You needn’t worry about your precious little Ivy. I have taken it upon myself to look after her for the foreseeable future. I assure you, she is quite safe. For now.
