As usual. Jack had thought that the whole thing was funny. He thought everything Fox did was a real scream, even when he'd been Fox's CO back in Korea. He laughed and laughed at the fish gag, and then he started telling stories about Tin Tits Ridgway, the general who swaggered around the Korean battlefield with two grenades hooked to his uniform like a couple of deadly falsies.
Bobby remained subdued. Fox could see why the senator might not laugh at dead fish, but how anyone could keep from busting up over Jack's Tin Tits stories... well, that was almost superhuman. No, it was inhuman, just the kind of studied restraint that made Fox watch what he said around Jack's kid brother. It was obvious to Fox that Bobby spent too much time in Washington, watching the polls and waiting about three days before reacting to anything. Fox didn't like that about him. He wondered what Bobby's wife got in the bedroom, wondered if Bobby ever allowed himself to come inside his beautiful bride except when procreation was the order of the day. Sometimes Fox thought about Bobby, and Bobby's wife, a lot. And sometimes, when his glance was very quick and the dinner table conversation was very quiet, he caught Bobby's wife looking at him.
But when his future brothers-in-law entered his house for the first time (actually the house was owned by his betrothed's family, but this was the first time anyone besides Fox had set foot inside it since the construction company had completed the special refurbishing job he'd ordered), Bobby seemed happy enough. And when Fox joined them in the kitchen, Bobby seemed downright jovial. Fox didn't know if Bobby was just in a good mood over catching more than his limit or if the senator's wife had played the especially cheerful alarm clock earlier that a.m., but he was relieved to find that Bobby was willing to join him in a beer before the clock on the mantelpiece struck noon.
Bobby set to work cleaning fish, kidding Jack all the while because he'd supplemented his own catch by finishing his big brother's limit. The two of them were always like this —playing cards, touch football, or politics. They were competitors, and Fox had to laugh at that. Two Ivy Leaguers playing at being hunters. Catching fish, shooting boar, bringing down deer and elk with good old bow and arrow. Fox scratched his ribs, not because they itched, but because he suddenly missed having the bayonet strapped to his side.
Now that was a real weapon. Not like the flimsy blade Bobby wielded as he shaved gold and silver scales from the side of a plump trout. Not some silly little fishhook with a plastic-faced lure that could pass for the star of a Saturday morning cartoon show.
Unaware of Fox's disapproval, Bobby finished cleaning the trout with studied, senatorial aplomb. He said, "With fare like this little beast, we'll have one heck of a bachelor party for our friend Fox."
"One hell of a bachelor party," Jack corrected. "Loosen up, Robert. Jesus, it's not every day we add a war hero to the family lineup."
"A retired war hero," Fox put in.
"All the better," Jack said. He was obviously smarting from the jabs he'd taken from Bobby over the fishing contest and meant to get his licks in. "With me nailing down the Agency, I sure as hell can't play the knight in shining armor. Nope, I knew back there on that hill in Korea that I'd found an authentic hero for the family, just the guy who could anchor my little brother's presidential ticket."
Bobby severed the head of a trout that Fox judged to be a tad short of keeper status. "Now slow down, big brother," Bobby said. "Let's not put the cart before the horse."
Fox grinned, anger suddenly boiling. "Who are you calling a horse, Bobby?"
"Now you know I didn't mean...." Bobby flicked the cleaned trout onto a piece of tin foil, searching for a diplomatic way to frame his complaint. "I'm certainly not challenging your record. Fox, but, after all, I am the one with political experience."
"And a medical that saved you from Korea. Undescended testicle, wasn't that the trouble, Bob?" Fox jabbed Bobby a good one on the shoulder and the littler man listed to one side, the silver fishhooks pinned to his vest jangling like the merry cymbal crash that punctuates a comedian's punchline.
Jack laughed. Bobby didn't.
"C'mon, Bobby," Jack coaxed. "He was only joking."
Bobby grunted and Jack made him pay for his bad manners. "Jesus, Fox, I hope you never do anything like that in public. We wouldn't want to tarnish Bobby's tough-guy image. I mean, here's a fellow who can hook more than his limit, for chrissakes, and all you ever did was take out a full battalion of screaming Red Chinese — "
"All right. All right, damnit." Bobby rubbed his shoulder. "Point taken."
Fox's voice was quiet and conciliatory. "Really, Bob, no hard feelings?" he asked, and Bobby nodded. "I know you would have been there if they'd let you. I know that. And you've more than made up for it, anyway. You've done one hell of a job for the family up in Washington."
Again, Bobby nodded. But his hand wasn't steady now, and the next silver-scaled fish that he took from the basket slipped from his grip, slid across the tiled counter, and flopped onto the floor.
Fox picked up the trout. Felt its torn scales. Glanced at its dull, dead eyes. Smelled blood and deep lake water and cold bone and flesh.
Grinning uncontrollably, he slapped the fish onto the chopping block.
Calm down, Mister Fox. Clam up, Mister Fox. Put the lieutenant away.
Nobody said anything for a minute. Jack was waiting for Fox to make a crack about Bobby's clumsiness. Bobby was waiting, too.
Fox let the opportunity pass, seeming magnanimous.
"Okay then. Jack and I will get the charcoal ready. Our guests should arrive around noon, and then the revels shall commence." He placed a big hand on Bobby's shoulder. "A crown prince and his court. Right, Bobby? The noble old house that the prince has deeded to his honored champion—along with the hand of his fairest sister — is christened by the men of the clan. Get me?"
"And the royal revel shall set the tone." Jack laughed. "Camelot... that's the image. The genius and the he-man. We're going to start selling it tonight, and the vacationing lords of Washington will be buying, believe you me."
Bobby stared down at the dead trout, "That's the image, but I'm the reality. And we're not going to forget that."
"Not a chance, brother Bob," Fox said, catching but not acknowledging the wink that Jack delivered from behind his brother's back.
The cat was so wonderfully warm and so alive. Mary stroked it, listening to the rhythmic purr that seemed loud enough to fill the house, which was empty but for Mary and Alma Reilly.
Mary's father was dead, of course, as was his first wife, her mother. Her stepmother —Bobby's mother —was off checking with the florist, and then she was to dine with her own parents, who were driving in from out of state. Mary's brothers were at her intended's bachelor party. And her sisters-in-law were God knows where, probably hunting up love in a quiet motel or bar.
Mary knew all about her brothers' wives, and no one else in the family knew that, not even Jack, who had all those supersecret spies at his disposal. No one else in the house knew but loyal Alma. The maid had told Mary many secrets about comings and goings; she had given Mary letters that had never been delivered to the object of one wife's desire. Mary had kept those secrets well, sharing them with no one but Puss.
Who else would she share them with? She was alone.
But Puss was here, and Alma was here, and she was here.
And it was almost as if the house were another place. When those other people were gone, it seemed that it was her place, and that was an idea so delicious that it made Mary shiver. She could close her eyes and imagine that the summer house was a castle, far away, where she lived alone but for cat and servant.
No, she wouldn't live there. Not in a castle. Not quiet, dutiful Mary.
No. Such a place would be home to her secret self.
Mary tried to imagine it — tried to dream the smell of heavy stone and paintings of dark oil, the feel of rich red velvet —but her room betrayed her. She could only smell the girlish, flowery perfumes that her brothers gave her each Christma
s. She could only feel the bedspread of lavender lace. And all at once she remembered dozens of awful stories from childhood about suffering princesses locked in tower rooms. Wilting, crying girls who dreamed of heroic princes.
Mary shivered and Puss sprang from her lap.
She stared at the door of her room.
It wasn't locked.
The house was empty.
Though Mary was a wilting, crying sufferer, her secret self was not.
She rose, not bothering to straighten the ruffled bedspread.
She could go anywhere.
"So, this is the house that the princess can't enter until her wedding night," said the Speaker of the House, a big man who evinced a lyrical bent when he was in his cups.
Fox pretended to enjoy the congressman's humor. "A man's got to appreciate his bachelorhood while he's got the chance."
"Now, now," Jack said. "That's almost my sister you're talking about."
They all laughed. Jack steered Fox away from the speaker. "Good job, m'boy. I think you've spent enough time pressing the flesh. Time to segue to the main event."
Fox agreed, but Jack hardly noticed. He was saying, "I'll announce that we're adjourning to the gallery for brandy and cigars — "
"Slow down. Jack," Fox broke in. "This is my house. I'm the host. Just sit back and let me steer everybody in the right direction, and you can pump them up when I'm done steering."
"Hey, Foxy, I didn't mean—"
"No need to apologize. Let's get down to business."
Fox set his drink on a silver serving platter. His voice rang out and all other voices were instantly still. He led the men of Washington from the walnut-paneled dining hall, through the mirror-lined entry hall, and across to the opposite side of the mansion. They passed through several heavy doors that were decorated with brass lions, bears, and other animals. Fox all the while detailing how he'd had even the most minor decorations fashioned to his exact specifications. Finally, the company came to a door before which Fox paused. With all eyes fixed upon him, he pointed to a spot above the door where a silver plate was mounted with silver screws. Upon the plate was etched:
"Be bold, be bold."
Puzzled expressions crossed the men's faces. Fox had counted on that. He glanced to his left, at Jack, and saw the appreciative grin creasing his comrade's face. Instantly, Fox knew that he'd done right, and he launched into his well-practiced speech. He explained how his war experiences had changed him. He painted a picture of his innocence pre-1951. He even postulated that he might not be the man he was today if not for Korea. Finally, Fox said that when it came time for him to design a bar for the home which he intended to occupy for the rest of his natural life, he could think of no greater purpose than to make it a shrine to the war that had made him what he was.
It was all a lie, of course.
"But the words," the Speaker broke in, unafraid to interrupt his host's introduction. "'Be bold, be bold.' What do they mean?"
Jack grinned. "It was part of a motto that our squad adopted in Korea. Fox came up with it, and we all swore that it would remain our private watchword, shared only among those of us who survived. This is only part of it, so I don't think that our host has broken that pledge."
Fox said, "And now, gentlemen, I would be very proud if you would do me the honor of christening this very special, very personal place. In other words, THE BAR IS OPEN.”
The room was very cold. No one lived there and the door was rarely opened, for this room was kept as a shrine.
Mary stepped inside, closed the door, and turned on the lights.
Her brothers' room. The place where they'd spent their boyhood. The place they'd forgotten when they became men.
Mary smiled. They'd abandoned so many boyish things here — model airplanes and baseball pennants and novels by Robert Louis Stevenson and Zane Grey — but they'd also left behind the very things that had allowed them to become men. The trophies were still here, signifying victories in sport and scholarship, some tarnished, others peeling metal coats that were as thin as paper. Diplomas hung framed above work-worn desks. Here too were examples of the taxidermist's craft — a gigantic trout, gasping for breath, arched over the door; a mountain lion crouched in one corner, eternally vigilant, forever ready to spring.
The corner closet housed the tools that had been denied her, a simple girl. The bows, the guns, the boxing gloves and footballs.
Yes, these were tools, for they brought the trophies. And the trophies led to everything else.
The trophies made her brothers men.
Adults.
Mary stepped into the shadowy closet. It smelled of gun oil and mothballs and rotted leather. She touched a rifle and the barrel was colder than night. She fingered a bow and it seemed impossibly flimsy. The tips of the arrows felt much too blunt to do harm.
Mary wept. It was far too late to learn.
No, Mary. Never too late.
The voice startled her, for it was the voice of her secret self.
The voice of a hunter.
Let her brothers play with bows and arrows, the voice whispered. Let them find pleasure in the petty victories that had always been denied her, for the hunter inside her knew of other game, other victories far more satisfying....
Other weapons, far more dangerous.
If only sweet Mary would listen.
The celebration went splendidly, and the best thing about it was that Fox didn't have to say a word. The room spoke for him. The photographs, dozens of them, framed in silver and hung on the walls. Fox in battle. Fox with the president. Fox speaking to students at the Point. His medals, encased in glass globes that dominated small tables, globes that captured the room's muted light and made the medals seem somehow larger and brighter. His army-issue rifle, its butt still scarred, its barrel notched with dozens of hatch marks, hung above the bar.
The room spoke, and the lords of Washington heard its words.
Jack knew it. Bobby knew it. Fox knew it, and most of all, he was thankful, for it saved him from dangerous blunders. Oh, he'd made it through the first part of the evening okay, but that was only because he'd drilled that simple speech into himself over a period of days, practicing and memorizing and praying that he wouldn't sound stilted.
But he still had a long way to go, and while Mister Fox wouldn't blunder, the lieutenant might. That was why he had to put the lieutenant away. The fool might say "gooks" instead of "Reds." He might smile as he explained a particularly gory photograph. He might even volunteer to open the heavy door behind the bar, the one that led to the broad stairway, the final door, and the trophies that he had never shared.
No. He wouldn't think about that. The lieutenant was a dead man. Finished. Tomorrow Mister Fox would sign the prenuptial agreement, and after that the private chambers that opened onto the bar would be locked. He would hold the only key. The secret rooms would be a museum, nothing more, a place where he could admire his beloved bayonet (for it would never again leave this house, never again pierce flesh).
And with sweet Mary at his side, he'd have the power to resist. Love would keep him strong. Love would bury the urge. Mary would be enough. He'd lose himself in her. He'd be the man of the hour, only shadowed by one man — and then but faintly — and one day he would stand with his Mary on the steps of the nation's greatest palace, and he would tell her about the room and the past and all the things that made him do what he did, all the awful things he knew before he knew her, and she would understand.
The revelers swarmed around him. He looked above their gray heads, at the silver plaque mounted over the door behind the bar. It revealed another sliver of his squad's motto, as much as could be shared without betraying the memory of the men who had fallen in battle:
"Be bold, be bold, but not too bold."
Yes, he'd be bold. For his lovely Mary.
But not too bold.
Fox smiled, in perfect control, knowing perfectly well that the battle was won. And then Jack and Bobby grabbed h
is elbows and spun him around so that he faced a gigantic cake, all yellow and white with silver sparklers, and the music started, and a woman burst through the top layer, her breasts sugared with frosting, and the lieutenant laughed and laughed and laughed.
"Just now she brought me another letter and told me to take it to him. But I did like you told me and brung it to you instead."
"Very good, Alma." Mary took the sealed envelope and stared at the short, eager woman. "You may go now. We'll discuss this later, when I've had time to think about it."
Alma didn't move. Mary knew that the maid was deciding if she should be hurt by Mary's desire to examine the letter in private. "Yes, miss," Alma said after a moment. "We'll talk later. I'm sure it's just like those other letters I brung you, anyhow. Why, that hussy just won't leave nobody's man alone."
Mary nodded in agreement and closed the door of her brothers' room. She opened the letter and read the love-words Bobby's wife had written to Mr. Fox. That hussy, as Alma had called her, couldn't understand why Fox hadn't acknowledged her other messages. She couldn't believe that he wanted quiet Mary when a former star of stage and screen was willing to give up everything just to have him. She was going to meet him, late tonight, at his house. She was going to make one last attempt, face to face, and she promised, quite salaciously, to do her best.
Mary smiled, for every word was a knife, a bullet, an arrow. Every word could maim the brothers that had hurt her so many times.
It would also hurt Mr. Fox, of course, and he was an innocent. At least he appeared that way when he was near her, so quiet and meek and breathless in her presence was he that she nearly felt that they were indeed close in a way that meant they should be man and wife.
And that was the way it would be.
But not for long.
Because Mr. Fox was the ultimate weapon. He was a sword that could slash Bobby down at the height of his power and send Jack scurrying for cover.
Mr. Fox and Other Feral Tales Page 4
