“I don’t want to take swimming lessons,” he announced.
“It will be fun, dear. And someday you might be a champion swimmer, just like Daddy before his accident.”
“I don’t want to take swimming lessons,” he repeated, and he scratched his ear vigorously.
“Not at the table, please,” his mother corrected him.
To change the touchy subject I asked: “What do you like to do best, Spook?”
“Go to the zoo,” he said promptly.
“Do you have any favorite animals?”
“Lions and tigers!” His eyes sparkled.
“That reminds me!” I said. Excusing myself, I ran upstairs for the gifts I had brought: a designer scarf for Jane; a cap for Spook, with a furry tiger head on top. My gift for Stanley—a plastic ball with a bell inside—seemed ridiculously inappropriate for the sedate cat. A videotape of Shakespearean readings might have been more to his taste, I told myself.
After Spook had been put to bed, Jane and I spent the evening chatting in the family room, accompanied—of course—by Stanley. Jane talked about her volunteer work and country club life and Ed’s engineering projects around the globe. I talked (boringly perhaps) about thyratrons and ignitrons and linear variable differential transformers. Stanley listened intently, putting in an occasional profound “mew.”
I said: “He reminds me of a Supreme Court justice or a distinguished prime minister. How old is he?”
“Same age as Spook. They say a year of a cat’s life is equivalent to seven in a human, so he’s really forty-two going on forty-nine. He and Spook were born on the same day, and we always have a joint birthday party. I never told you about Spook’s birth, did I? It’s a miracle that I lived through it . . . . Let’s have a nightcap, and then I’ll tell you.”
She poured sherry and then went on: “Ed intended to have me airlifted to a hospital when my time came, but Spook was three weeks early, and Ed was away—hiring some more construction workers. The doctor was on one of his legendary binges, and I refused to go to the infirmary; it was so crude. The boss’s wife and a woman from Personnel were with me, but I was screaming and moaning, and they were frantic. Finally the sheriff brought a midwife from the nearest town, and then I really did scream! All she needed was a broomstick and a tall black hat. At first I thought she was wearing a Halloween mask!”
“Oh, Lord!” I said. “They sent you Cora! Cora Sykes or Sypes or something. She took care of me when I had that terrible swamp fever, and I think she tried to poison me.”
“She was an evil woman. She hated everyone connected with the dam.”
“It’s no wonder she was bitter,” I said in Cora’s defense. “Her farm was due to be flooded when the dam was completed. She was forcibly removed from the house where she had lived all her life.”
Jane looked pensive. “Do you believe in witchcraft, Linda?”
“Not really.”
“There was a lot of gossip about that woman after you left the camp. She said—in fact, she boasted—that her ancestors had lived in Salem, Massachusetts. Does that ring a bell? . . . She told several people that she had put a curse on the dam.”
“I heard about that.”
“It looked to me as if the curse was working. After Ed’s horrible accident there was a string of peculiar mishaps and an epidemic of some kind. And I never told you this, Linda, but . . . Spook was born blind.”
“Jane! I didn’t know that! But he’s all right now, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he’s okay, but it gave us a bad scare for a while.”
We talked on and on, until I remembered that I had to catch an early plane in the morning.
After I went to bed I felt uneasy. Maplewood Farms and the dam-building experience were so far removed from my familiar world of tachometer generators and standard interface modules that I longed to return to New York. There was something unsettling, as well, about the boy and the cat. It was a situation I wanted to analyze later, when my perspective would be sharper. At that moment, exhaustion at the end of a busy week was putting me to sleep.
At some unthinkably early hour my slumber was disturbed by a strange sensation. Before opening my eyes I tried to identify it, tried to remember where I was. Not in my New York apartment. Not in a Chicago hotel. I was at Maplewood Farms, and Spook was licking my face!
I jumped to a sitting position.
“Mommy wants to know—eggs or French toast?” he recited carefully.
“Thank you, Spook, but all I want is a roll and coffee. It’s too early for anything more.”
Frankly, I was glad to say goodbye and head for the airport. The situation at Maplewood Farms was too uncomfortably weird. I dared not think about it while I was driving. After I had boarded the plane and fortified myself with a Bloody Mary, however, I tackled the puzzle of Spook’s tree climbing, bird stalking, and face licking. He did everything but purr! Could Jane’s inordinate fondness for cats have imprinted her son in some . . . spooky way?
Everything added up. I recalled the way the boy had rubbed his head against me when he was pleased, smiling and squeezing his eyes shut. He was afraid of dogs. He was reluctant to swim. At the zoo his preference was for the big cats! He was always licking his fingers to smooth his hair. Then I remembered something else: Like a kitten, he had been born blind! I shuddered involuntarily and ordered another Bloody Mary.
While the boy had so many catly traits, Stanley had none at all. How could one explain the situation? Well . . . they had been born on the same day. They had been born in the same cottage. For both mothers—Jane and Maple Sugar—it had been a difficult birth. And that disagreeable woman—Cora What’s-her-name—had been in charge.
Other old friends from the construction camp had told me about Cora’s curse on the dam, and although I don’t believe such nonsense, I had to admit that the project and all those connected with it had suffered a run of bad luck. My marriage broke up, and Bill became an alcoholic. Jane’s vain, handsome, athletic husband lost a leg in a bulldozer rollover. Other men were crushed under falling trees or buried in mudslides. And, ironically, the dam was never completed!
After lives were lost and the environment was desecrated and billions of dollars were spent, the dam was abandoned. They blamed it on political pressure, cost overruns, a new administration in Washington—everything.
Now I began to wonder: Was there some truth in what they said about Cora? When she was brought to the camp to nurse me during my fever, she was always moving her lips soundlessly. Was she muttering incantations under her breath?
Could she have cast some kind of spell on the two newborn creatures? Would it be possible to transpose the personality traits of the boy and the cat? Transpose their souls, so to speak? I know more about thyratrons and ignitrons than about souls, but the notion was tantalizing. At thirty-two thousand feet, it’s easy to fantasize.
That was in early June. I wrote my thank-you note to Jane and in August received a postcard from Alaska. She and Ed were showing Spook the icebergs and polar bears, but he was fascinated chiefly by the puffin birds.
Then in December the usual expensive Christmas card arrived, with a brief note enclosed.
Dear Linda . . . Sad news! . . . My dear Stanley was run over by a bakery truck on Halloween. It was delivering a birthday cake for him and Spook. There’ll never be another cat like Stanley. I still miss him . . . . Otherwise we are well. Spook is seven now and turning into a real boy. He’s stopped ear scratching and people licking and other childish habits that you probably noticed when you were here. He’s taking swimming lessons at the clubhouse, and he wants a dog for Christmas. I suppose he was just going through a phase. Love, Jane.
My speculations were right! The mix-up was conjured by that bitter, hateful woman at the construction camp. And Stanley’s death—in some mysterious way—had broken the spell.
A Cat Too Small for His Whiskers
Compared to other country estates in the vicinity, Hopplewood Farm was not extensive.
There was just enough acreage to accommodate the needs of Mr. and Mrs. Hopple and their three children—an eight-bedroom house and six-car garage; swimming pool, tennis court, and putting green; a stable with adjoining corral, fenced with half a mile of split rail; a meadow just large enough for Mr. Hopple to land his small plane; and, of course, the necessary servants’ quarters, greenhouse, and hangar.
The house was an old stone mill with a giant waterwheel that no longer turned. Its present owners had remodeled the building at great cost and furnished it with American antiques dating back two centuries or more. Twice it had been featured in architectural magazines.
The Hopples, whose ancestors had been early settlers in America, were good-hearted, wholesome people with simple tastes and a love of family and nature. They enjoyed picnics in the meadow and camping trips in their forty-foot recreation vehicle, and they surrounded themselves with animals. Besides the four top Arab mares and the hackney pony, there were registered hunting dogs in a kennel behind the greenhouse, a hutch of Angora rabbits, some Polish chickens that laid odd-colored eggs, and—in the house—four exotic cats that the family called the Gang.
Also, for one brief period there was a cat too small for his whiskers.
The Gang included a pair of chocolate-point Siamese, a tortoiseshell Persian, and a red Abyssinian. Their pedigrees were impressive, and they seemed to know it. They never soiled their feet by going out-of-doors but were quite happy in a spacious suite furnished with plush carpet, cushioned perches, an upholstered ladder, secret hideaways, and four sleeping baskets. Sunny windows overlooked the waterwheel, in which birds now made their nests, and for good weather there was a screened balcony. Four commodes in the bathroom were inscribed with their names.
When the cat who was too small for his whiskers came into the picture, it was early June, and only one of the Hopple children was living at home. Donald, a little boy of six with large wondering eyes, was chaffeured daily to a private school in the next county. John was attending a military academy in Ohio, and Mary was enrolled in a girls’ school in Virginia. Donald. John. Mary. The Hopples liked plain, honest names rooted in tradition.
On their youngest child they lavished affection and attention as well as playthings intended to shape his interests. He had his own computer and telescope and video library, his child-size guitar and golf clubs, his little NASA space suit. To the great concern of his father, none of these appealed to Donald in the least. His chief joy was romping with the assorted cats in the stable and telling them bedtime stories.
The subject was discussed one Friday evening in early June. Mr. Hopple had just flown in from Chicago, following a ten-day business trip to the Orient. In his London-tailored worsted, his custom-made wing tips, and his realistic toupee, he looked every inch the successful entrepreneur. The Jeep was waiting for him in the meadow, and his wife greeted him happily and affectionately, while his son jumped up and down with excitement and asked to carry his briefcase.
Then, while little Donald showered and dressed for dinner, his parents enjoyed their Quiet Hour in the master suite. Mr. Hopple, wearing a silk dressing gown, opened an enormous Dutch cupboard said to have belonged to Peter Stuyvesant, and now outfitted as a bar. “Will you have the usual, sweetheart?” he asked.
“Don’t you think the occasion calls for champagne, darling?” his wife replied. “I’m so happy to see you safely home. There’s a bottle of D.P. chilling in the refrigerator.”
Her husband poured the champagne and proposed a sentimental toast to his lovely wife. Mrs. Hopple had been a national beauty queen twenty years before and still looked the part, whether wearing a Paris original to a charity ball or designer jeans around the farm.
“First tell me about the small fry,” Mr. Hopple said. “They’ve been on my mind all week.” The Hopples never called their children “kids.”
“Good news from John,” said his wife, looking radiant. “He’s won two more honors in math and has made the golf team. He wants to attend a math camp this summer, but first he’d like to bring five schoolmates home for a week of fishing and shooting.”
“Good boy! He has a well-balanced perspective. Is he interested in girls as yet?”
“I don’t think so, dear. He’s only ten, you know. Mary is having her first date this weekend, and it’s with an ambassador’s son—”
“From which country?” Mr. Hopple cut in quickly.
“Something South American, I believe. By the way, she’s won all kinds of equestrian ribbons this spring, and she wants our permission to play polo. Her grades are excellent. She’s beginning to talk about Harvard—and business administration.”
“Good girl! Someday it will be Hopple & Daughter, Inc. And how is Donald progressing?”
Mrs. Hopple glowed with pleasure. “His teacher says he’s three years ahead of his age group in reading, and he has a vivid imagination. We may have a writer in the family, dear. Donald is always making up little stories.”
Mr. Hopple shook his head regretfully. “I had hoped for something better than that for Donald. How much time does he spend with his computer and his telescope?”
“None at all, I’m afraid, but I don’t press him. He’s such a bright, conscientious child, and so good! Cats are his chief interest right now. The calico in the stable had a litter last month, you remember, and Donald acts like a doting godfather. Sometimes I think that he may be headed for veterinary medicine.”
“I hardly relish the prospect of introducing ‘my son the horse doctor.’ I’d rather have a writer in the family.” Mr. Hopple poured champagne again. “And how is the household running, dear?”
“The week was rather eventful, darling. I’ve made a list. First, it appears there was a power outage Wednesday night; all the electric clocks were forty-seven minutes slow on Thursday morning. There was no storm to account for it. I wish there had been. We need rain badly. Ever since the outage, television reception has been poor. The repairman checked all our receivers and can find nothing wrong. The staff is quite upset. The houseman blames it on secret nuclear testing.”
“And how is the staff otherwise?” The Hopples never referred to “servants.”
“There are several developments. Both maids have announced that they’re pregnant . . . . I’ve had to dismiss the stableboy because of his bad language . . . . And the cook is demanding more fringe benefits.”
“Give her whatever she asks,” Mr. Hopple said. “We don’t want to lose Suzette. I trust the gardeners are well and happy.”
Mrs. Hopple referred to her list. “Mr. Bunsen’s arthritis is somewhat worse. We should hire another helper for him.”
“Hire two. He’s a loyal employee,” her husband said. “Is the new houseman satisfactory?”
“I have only one complaint. When he drives Donald to school he alarms the boy with nonsense about Russian plots and visitors from outer space and poisons in our food.”
“I’ll speak to the man immediately. Were you able to replace the stableboy?”
“Happily, yes. The school principal sent me a senior who speaks decently. He’s well-mannered and has just won a statewide science competition. He may have a good influence on our son, dear. Today Donald wore his NASA suit for the first time.”
“That’s promising. What’s the boy’s name?”
“Bobbie Wynkopp. He lives in the little house beyond our south gate.”
“Remind me to inquire, dear, if he’s noticed any trespassers in the south meadow. I saw evidence of a bonfire when I came in for a landing this afternoon. I don’t object to picnickers, but I don’t want them to start grass fires in this dry weather.”
A melodious bell rang, and the Hopples finished dressing and went downstairs to dinner.
Donald appeared at the table in his little white Italian silk suit, basking in his parents’ approval and waiting eagerly for the conversation to be directed his way. After the maid had served the leeks vinaigrette, Mr. Hopple said: “Well, young man, have you had any adventures this
week?”
“Yes, sir,” the boy said, his large eyes sparkling. “I saw a weird cat in the stable.” Elevated on two cushions, he attacked the leeks proficiently with his junior-size knife and fork, crafted to match the family’s heirloom sterling. “I don’t know where he came from. He’s got long whiskers.” Donald held up both hands to indicate roughly eighteen inches.
“That sounds like a fish story to me,” said Mr. Hopple with a broad wink.
Donald smiled at his father’s badinage. “It’s true. He’s too little to have such long whiskers. He’s weird.”
His mother said gently: “Young cats have long whiskers and large ears, darling. Then they grow up to match them.”
Donald shook his head. “He’s not a kitten, Mother. He acts grown-up. Sometimes his whiskers are long, and sometimes they’re short. He’s weird. I call him Whiskers.”
“Imagine that!” his father said, striving to maintain a serious mien. “Retractable whiskers!”
Donald explained: “They get long when he’s looking for something. He sticks his nose in everything. He’s nosy.”
“The word we use, darling, is inquisitive,” his mother said gently.
“His whiskers light up in the dark,” the boy went on with a sense of importance as his confidence grew. “When he’s in a dark corner they’re green like our computer screens. And his ears go round and round.” Donald twirled his finger to suggest a spinning top. “That’s how he flies. He goes straight up like a helicopter.”
A swift glance passed between the adults. “This Mr. Whiskers is a clever fellow,” said Mr. Hopple. “What color is he?”
Donald thought for a moment. “Sometimes he’s blue. Most of the time he’s green. I saw him turn purple yesterday. That’s because he was mad.”
“Angry, darling,” his mother murmured. “And what does the new stableboy think of Whiskers?”
“Bobbie couldn’t see him. Whiskers doesn’t like big people. When he sees grown-ups he disappears. Whoof! Like that!”
The Cat Who Had 14 Tales Page 11
