“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, isinquisitive,” 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!”
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 cassoulet 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 chore of feeding the Gang—taking their dinner tray upstairs in the glass-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 passing 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 Saturdays 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?”