The Cat Who Had 14 Tales Part 11

"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 s.p.a.ce and poisons in our food."

"I'll speak to the man immediately. Were you able to replace the stableboy?"

"Happily, yes. The school princ.i.p.al sent me a senior who speaks decently. He's well-mannered and has just won a statewide science compet.i.tion. 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 trespa.s.sers 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 gra.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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!"

Mrs. Hopple rang the bell for the next course. "And what kind of voice does this wonderful little animal have, dear? Does he scold like the Siamese or meow like the other cats?"

Donald considered his reply while he properly chewed and swallowed the last mouthful of leek. Then he erupted into a loud babel of sounds: "AWK AWK ngngngngng hhhhhhhhhhhhhhh beep-beep-beep beep-beep-beep AWK." The maid's eyes expressed alarm as she entered the dining room to remove the plates, and she was still regarding Donald with suspicion when she served the next course.

At that moment the boy shouted: "There he is! There's Whiskers!" He pointed to the window, but by the time the adults had turned their heads to look, Whiskers had disappeared.

The main course was the kind of simple provincial dish the Hopples approved: a medley of white beans, lamb, pork ribs, homemade sausages, herbs, and a little potted pheasant.

Their cook, imported from the French wine country, would have nothing to do with microwave ovens or food processors, so they had built a primitive kitchen with a walk-in fireplace to keep Suzette happy. The ca.s.soulet that was now served had been simmering in the brick oven all day. With it came a change of subject matter, and the meal ended without further reference to Whiskers.

After dinner Donald performed his regular ch.o.r.e of feeding the Gang-taking their dinner tray upstairs in the gla.s.s-enclosed elevator, rinsing their antique silver drinking bowl (attributed to Paul Revere), and filling it with bottled water. Meanwhile his parents were served their coffee in the library.

"You were right about the boy," Mr. Hopple remarked. "His imagination runs away with him."

His wife said: "Donald's story is probably an elaboration on an actual occurrence. No doubt the cat is a stray, perhaps the runt of a litter, unwanted, and thrown out of a pa.s.sing car."

"You have an explanation for everything, sweetheart. And you are so efficient. Did you make any plans for the weekend?"

"No, darling. I knew you'd be coping with jet lag. But I invited the gardener's grandchildren to have lunch with Donald. They're his own age, and he needs to meet town children occasionally."

On Sat.u.r.days the Hopples usually breakfasted in festive style in the conservatory, but both maids were suffering from morning sickness the next day, so the family trooped into the kitchen. There they sat at an ancient wooden table from a French monastery, under a canopy of copper pots and drying herbs, while Suzette cooked an omelette in a long-handled copper skillet over an open fire.

After breakfast Donald said: "Mother, can I take some of the Gang's catfood to the kittens in the stable?"

"May I, darling," she corrected softly. "Yes, you may, but ask yourself if it's advisable to spoil them. After all, they're only barn cats."

"Two of the kittens are very smart, Mother. They're as smart as the Siamese."

"All right, Donald. I value your opinion." After he had scampered away, Mrs. Hopple said to her husband: "See? The Whiskers story was only a fantasy. He's forgotten about it already . . . . By the way, don't forget to ask Bobbie about the bonfire, dear." Her husband thanked her for the reminder and went to buzz the stable on the intercom.

"Good morning, Bobbie. This is Hopple speaking. We haven't met as yet, but I've heard good reports of you."

"Thank you, sir."

"Since you live near the south gate, I'm wondering if you've observed any trespa.s.sing in the meadow. Someone had a bonfire there, and that's bad business."

"No, sir. Never saw anything like that," the new stableboy said, "but I've been away for three days at a science conference, you know."

"If you notice any unauthorized activity, please telephone us immediately-any hour of the day or evening."

"Sure thing," said Bobbie.

"One more question: Have you seen any . . . unusual cats in the stable or on the grounds?"

"Only a bunch of kittens and an old mother cat."

"No strange-looking stray with long whiskers?"

There was a pause, and then the young man said: "No, I only heard some funny noises- like a duck quacking, and then some kind of electronic beep. I couldn't figure where it came from."

"Thank you, Bobbie. Keep up the good work."

Mr. Hopple flicked off the intercom and said to his wife: "Donald is making those ridiculous noises in the stable. How long should we allow this to go on before consulting the doctor?"

"Darling, he's just playing games. He'll grow out of it soon. It's common for young children to invent imaginary friends and have conversations with them."

"I can a.s.sure you that I never did," said her husband, and he went to his study, asking not to be disturbed.

Before noon the houseman took the Mercedes into town to pick up the Bunsen twins, a boy and a girl. Mrs. Hopple welcomed them warmly and gave them a picnic basket in which the cook had packed food enough for twelve children. "Wear your beeper, Donald darling," she reminded him. "I'll let you know when it's time to bring your guests back." Donald drove the twins to the meadow in the pony cart. Having observed his father in social situations, he played the role of host nicely, and the picnic went smoothly. No one fell down. No one picked a fight. No one got sick.

When Mrs. Hopple beeped her son, he drove his guests back to the house with brief detours to the dog kennel, rabbit hutch, chicken coop, and horse stable.

"Did you have a nice time?" Mrs. Hopple asked the excited twins.

"I ate four chocolate things," said the boy.

"My mother told me to say thank you," said the girl.

"I saw a snake," the boy said.

"We saw Whiskers," the girl said.

"He's green!"

"No, he's blue with green whiskers."

"His eyes light up."

"Sparks come out of his whiskers."

"He can fly."

"Really?" said Donald's mother. "Did he say anything to you?" The twins looked at each other. Then the boy quacked like a duck, and the girl said: "Beep beep beep!"

Mrs. Hopple thought: Donald has coached them! Still, the mention of sparks made her uneasy. Living so far from town, the Hopples had an understandable fear of fire. She left the house hurriedly and rode a moped to the stable.

Bobbie was in the corral, exercising the horses. Donald was unhitching the pony. The barn cats were in evidence, but there was no sign of a creature with red-hot whiskers. Her usual buoyant spirit returned, and she laughed at herself for being gullible.

On the way back to the house she overtook the head gardener, laboring arthritically up the hill, carrying a basket of tulips and daffodils. She rebuked him kindly. "Mr. Bunsen, why didn't you send the flowers up with one of the boys?"

"Gotta keep movin'," he said, "or the old joints turn to ce -ment."

"Mr. Hopple is arranging to hire some more help for you."

"Well, 'twon't do no good. n.o.body wants to do any work these days."

"By the way, you have two delightful grandchildren, Mr. Bunsen. It was a pleasure to have them visit us."

"They watch too much TV," he complained . . . . "Lookit that gra.s.s turnin" brown. No rain for ten days! . . . Somethin' else, too. Some kind of critter's been gettin' in the greenhouse. Eats the buds off the geraniums. And now the tractor's broke. Don't know what happened. Just conked out this afternoon."

"You must call the mechanic early Monday morning," Mrs. Hopple said encouragingly.

"Ask for priority service."

"Well, 'twon't make no difference. They come when they feel like it." The gardener's grouchy outlook had no effect on Mrs. Hopple, who was always cheerful.

Mentally reciting a few lines of Wordsworth, she carried the flowers into the potting shed, a room entirely lined with ceramic tile. There she was selecting vases from a collection of fifty or more when a commotion in the nearby kitchen sent her hurrying to investigate.

Suzette was standing in the fireplace-which was now cold and swept clean-and she was banging pots and pans and screaming up the chimney. From the cook's raving- three parts English and two parts French-it appeared that a diable up on the toit was trying to get down the cheminee into the cuisine.

Mrs. Hopple commended the cook on her bravery in driving a devil off the roof but a.s.sured her that the chimney was securely screened and nothing could possibly enter the kitchen by that route, whether a racc.o.o.n or squirrel or field mouse or devil.

Back in the potting shed she found a silver champagne bucket for the red tulips and was choosing something for the daffodils, when the buzzing intercom interrupted.

"Tractor's okay, Miz Hopple," said the gardener. "Started up again all by itself. But there's some gla.s.s busted out in the greenhouse."

She thanked Mr. Bunsen and went back to her flowers, smiling at the man's perverse habit of tempering good news with a bit of bad. As she was arranging daffodils in a copper jug, Donald burst into the potting shed. "I couldn't find you, Mother," he said in great distress. "The rabbits are gone! I think somebody stole them!"

"No, dear," she replied calmly. "I think you'll find them in the greenhouse, gorging on geranium buds. Now, how would you like strawberries Chantilly tonight?" It was the family's favorite dessert, and Donald jumped up and down and gave his mother a hug.

Later, she said to Suzette, speaking the cook's special language: "I'll drive to the ferme and pick up the fraises and the creme. " Mrs. Hopple liked an excuse to breeze around the country roads in the Ferrari convertible with the top down. Today she would drive to the strawberry farm for freshly picked fruit and to the dairy farm for heavy cream.

First she ran upstairs to find a scarf for her hair. As she pa.s.sed the door of the Gang's suite, she heard Donald making his ridiculous noises and the cats replying with yowling and mewing. She put her hand on the doork.n.o.b, then decided not to embarra.s.s her son by intruding.

When she returned a moment later, silk-scarved and cashmere-sweatered, Donald was leaving the suite, looking pleased with himself.

"Are you having fun, darling?" she asked.

"Whiskers was in there," he replied. "He was climbing around the waterwheel, and he looked in the window. I let him in. He likes our cats a lot."

"He likes them very much, darling. I hope you closed the window again. We don't want the Gang to get out, do we?"

Blithely Mrs. Hopple went to the garage and slipped into the seat of the Ferrari. She pressed a b.u.t.ton to lift the garage door and turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. There was not even a cough from the motor and not even a shudder from the big door. She persevered. She used sheer willpower. Nothing happened.

The houseman had not returned with the Mercedes after taking the twins home, but there were three other cars. She climbed into the Rolls; it would not start. The Caddy was equally dead. So was the Jeep.

Something, she thought, is mysteriously wrong. The houseman would blame it on the KGB or acid rain.

Resolutely she marched back to the house and confronted her husband in his study, where he was locked in with computer, briefcase, and dictating machine. He listened to her incredible story, sighed, then went to inspect the situation, while Mrs. Hopple did a few deep-breathing exercises to restore her equanimity.

"Nothing wrong," he said when he returned. "The cars start, and the doors open. I think you need a change of scene, sweetheart. We'll go out to dinner tonight. Wear your new Saint Laurent, and we'll go to the club. Suzette can give the boy his dinner."

"We can't, darling. We're having strawberries Chantilly, and I promised Donald." So the Hopples stayed home and enjoyed an old-fashioned family evening. Dinner was served on the terrace, followed by croquet on the lawn and corn-popping over hot coals in the outdoor fireplace. Donald made no mention of Whiskers, and his parents made no inquiries.

Early Sunday morning, when the June sunrise and chattering birds were trying to rouse everyone at an abnormal hour, the telephone rang at Hopplewood Farm.

Mr. Hopple rose sleepily on an elbow and squinted at the digital clock radio. "Four-thirty! Who would call at this unG.o.dly hour?"