Whipple's Castle

by Thomas Williams

They stood in front of the fire in their bathing suits while they drank the potion, which was something with green creme de menthe in it, and then changed back into their clothes. When she came back, Gordon had moved the leather sofa up in front of the fire. His white shirt gleamed. “Here’s your second portion of potion,” he said, handing her the tall glass.

  They sat in front of the fire. She asked him what time it was and he told her eleven-thirty. She knew he wanted to put his arms around her, and she wanted him to, but there was that sobering question. It was all too serious now, too meaningful. She had to trust him because he had declared himself. For seconds at a time she eased slowly into considering it, really considering marrying Gordon and having it all over with. All the messing around and the dating and the embarrassed glances would end, because she would be an entity not herself. She would be Mrs. Gordon Ward, who would know who she was and what she was for. She would be for this man to love, to make real love to and to have his babies. How soft and simple that would be.

  No.

  After a while he took her glass and put it on the floor. Such a firm, authoritative thing it was, his strong arm coming around her. She let go, wondering, melting with pleasure, yet still wondering. Soon his parents would be home, wouldn’t they? Her lips made a noise like silk against the sand of his face. She was conscious of their receiving softness. They were lying next to each other; she had moved lightly as though obeying thoughts, without thinking, and let him use her own body to place them here. How had he done that so beautifully? A warning, a tick of warning. He was too good, but how could a man be too good? His hand held itself firm upon her ribs, and she didn’t want him to and wanted him to move his hand up over her breasts so badly it seemed unfair that he didn’t right now gently caress her breasts. The hand wouldn’t move. Warning, warning, she heard. Look out. She was all slow honey. One step more and she would dissolve into rapture, be impaled by rapture.

  How could it remain and grow, the fresh desire for more and more of him, for more and more of his weight? Now she would let him touch her breasts; the moment she decided that, his hand moved over her breasts toward the very edge of reason. Beware, a small voice—her own from far away, a long time ago—spoke thinly. You don’t know what he can do, what he will do. His lips and hands half covered her. Again and again she received his touch without satiation. How strangely slow it was, how the great movements of heat gathered and washed her, and the clean cold Kate let herself be gathered again into heat.

  Hadn’t hours passed? How many thousand times had they kissed? Their teeth touched—then, familiar yet always burning, their tongues. He loved her, and his moan broke her—that she caused that pain. Who was this force that grew, that before had only been a boy? His hands were everywhere—border violations, childish business, hot on the forbidden skin of her breasts, the soft brittle nipples. In a wave’s trough she was afloat in a sultry tropical night. She had been prepared, made royal, and awaited the young god who had chosen her from all the virgins of the world. Bathed and delicately scented, she had been placed among ferns on the golden shore. The galleys had sailed away, heaving in the green sea, and she trembled and yearned for his power. Then he appeared, golden and gloriously naked before her, trim of body and shining with his dangerous power. He smiled, and his eyes were kind yet full of dark intent. Pain like a blue spark, a flash, and the saddle of the man was all against her. She was impaled. He was the beloved lovely rack that softly broke her, over and over.

  30

  David spent the night in Leah, in his old room with the cobwebby De Oestris moose sternly watching over him. He woke at dawn, feeling a strange mixture of pleasure and dread, and it was a few moments before he remembered that he had to take Tom to the vet’s. It was a thing he had to do, and the pleasure came from that clear task; it would end in the most certain and final way. Tom would be out of his misery, an era would be ended, Tom would be no more. The dread came from that finality too.

  He came downstairs before anyone else was up, and knelt by Tom’s washtub. The old gray tiger stirred, looked up with his slit yellow eyes and gave a short rasp of a pun. If a cat could be said to have favorites, David had been that one. When Tom was younger he used to run in front of David and throw himself down with a thud upon his back, wanting his chin and belly scratched. He loved to box then too, and though in his play he sometimes bit hard enough to pinch and hurt, he never unsheathed a single one of his bodkins.

  “Thomas,” David said uncertainly. “Old friend, old fellow murderer, I bring sad tidings.”

  An evil stench came from the box of sand they had, since his sickness, kept in a corner of the kitchen. Though it caused Tom considerable pain to climb out of his bed and go to the box—pain signified by a muted, furry snarl that had given David a dull pain in his own lower regions—Tom wouldn’t foul his bed. David went to shovel out the half-buried bloody stool and then remembered that they would need the box no more—the washtub could soon go to the cellar or the shed. He felt that loss. Tom had been with them on and off for nearly ten years—nearly half of David’s life.

  Outside it was a gray day with mist on the leaves and grass, although the trunks of the maples were dry. He thought of breakfast and decided he wouldn’t make himself any. He didn’t like the vet or the vet’s snitty wife, who had a gushing, patronizing manner toward animals that immediately sent their temperatures up. When they’d first noticed, in June, that Tom had something wrong, they took him to the vet’s and Tom had become absolutely hysterical. He had screamed, arched and turned all into prongs like an animated gray cactus. David had several observable scars left from that visit. Now he had to pay that vet to kill Tom.

  Another possibility occurred to him, and for a moment took his breath. He had dealt death competently enough; he had the proper tools. Should he hire out this murder? Tom was his old friend, not the vet’s or the vet’s wife’s with all her flashing dim bicuspids. Shouldn’t this quietus have some dignity about it, he and Tom alone in the woods, Tom trusting and calm even past the final clap of darkness? Suddenly he knew the place, a cathedral-like room of tall pines just above the old sugarhouse. Light filtered down green upon the soft pine needles. There was an old spade at the sugarhouse, and he would dig Tom’s grave deep beneath the needles, just north of the largest white pine. The old cat could sleep there in peace.

  This way (he still only considered it) Tom wouldn’t have to ride in the truck—another thing that always brought out his cat apprehension. In a car he lay his ears back and watched for the first possible escape hatch.

  There were all sorts of good reasons leading toward that last aim and squeeze. The barrel at the back of the head. Half a breath, and the slow squeeze.

  Tom’s neck trembled, and his neat little cat smile disappeared into a great yawn full of teeth, pink pallet and the curled tongue. Dry clicks came from his stretched jaws, then his head closed back down into the demure smile. “Urr,” he said, and neatly licked the roots of his white whiskers. He didn’t stretch because stretching gave him too much pain. The fur at the base of his tail was matted and stringy, like wet feathers. He began to get up, then froze and gave a sudden stare and a low, warning yowl toward his hindquarters.

  “All right,” David said. “All right.” He would no longer patronize the cat by speaking to him. He went up to his room by the back way and got his duck-hunting jacket and his Iver Johnson revolver. Six commercially loaded .32 S & W Longs were in the cylinder, but he would need to use only one.

  Now wait, he thought. What was he doing? Why had he chosen the revolver rather than the shotgun, which was surer medicine? Did he want to use the revolver because he wanted to feel in his hand that quick push of death? No, he chose the revolver because he could hide it in his jacket pocket and no one would know what he was going to do. Anyway, the S & W .32 Long cartridge, with its 98-grain bullet, was more than adequate to smash the skull of a cat. Who was he arguing with? Wasn’t it better to bloody your own hands and take your medicine than to hire
it done?

  He went back to the kitchen and watched Tom’s stiff progress toward his food dish. Tom smelled the canned cat food once and then stood over it, looking at it as though wondering why he didn’t want to eat it. The grainy food smelled like sardines and it had always been Tom’s favorite. He turned toward David, who could have sworn the look was a question. Tom came back to his washtub; David gingerly lifted him into it and pulled a flap of burlap over him like a blanket.

  “All right,” David said out loud. With a feeling of at least some relief he took the washtub in his arms and left by the kitchen door, carefully opening and closing the door and screen door with hands he couldn’t see. On the way up the shortcut through the woods, Tom’s face swayed close to his, Tom’s yellow eyes half closed. He seemed unworried by this strange journey. Didn’t he know what was going to happen? He must think it strange to be carried through the woods. But animals had those they trusted as well as those they didn’t trust.

  The path had grown up in the last few years, in brush and poplar and gray birch saplings. Occasionally a long red blackberry stalk leaned toward him and scratched its thorns along the washtub. One caught his hand and drew across his fingers. He knew that it made him bleed, but he didn’t stop to look; he didn’t want to tamper with Tom’s strange calmness. A big maple branch, split from its trunk and full of dirt, had fallen across the path, and a small balsam grew from its rich center.

  He decided that he would not hesitate, just put Tom down, aim and shoot. There should be no ceremony, no words, nothing but the quick and efficient deed. He might even admit to the family, if they asked, that he had done it himself. He could hear himself explaining: “Tom was my friend—it seemed the honorable thing to do. And you know how he hated the vet’s.”

  The sugarhouse still stood, but it seemed much lower, as though the ground were rising up around it—which the ground was, he supposed. Green moss grew on its doorstep, and the rusted spade leaned against the door as if to hold it shut. With some difficulty he took the spade along with him. The tub grew heavier as he climbed into the deep woods. When he came to the place he remembered, he put the washtub on the silent needles. One side of the chamber formed by the pines was a cragged wall of ledge. The light here had a dim, interior look, as though it were allowed to enter only by design, by spaced windows high above.

  Moist air, even a wafting of mist, slowly crossed. His legs were wet from the droplets on the brush he had come through. Tom turned his head, then nodded again, and David decided not to remove him from the tub. He would bury him in it. The last thing he did right was to hold the silver revolver behind him to cock it. Three cold clicks as the hammer rose and the cylinder turned and locked. He brought the gun forward and down. He aimed at the gray skull, between the delicately cocked ears, his heart thudded and he fired.

  Instantly Tom was out of the tub, all wire and springs, cocked on his spread legs. He stared at David with total knowledge. His scalp was ripped like a tear in a carpet, and one ear hung on that flap. His eyes shone, wide and bright. He looked once, then was gone out of there.

  David was in shock. Tom’s monstrous act of escape, that judgment so accurate and instantaneous—was all the truth at once. He almost cried to Tom to stop, to be dead. His knees gave way and he went down into the needles. The bullet had keyholed the side of the washtub; that jagged hole seemed to grow. He crawled for a moment, then got his weak legs under him and staggered across the opening toward the thicket of basswood and witch hobble where the cat had disappeared. His eyes hurt him, as though they burned like searchlights. That gray opinion, that half-life, was somewhere, betrayer and betrayed. He crashed into the thicket, his revolver cocked. He had five shots left.

  When Wood hadn’t come downstairs by ten o’clock, Peggy began to feel dread. She had walked up High Street at eight, in the misty light, wanting to see the turrets of the old castle at that hour. Henrietta, Harvey, Kate and Horace were just finishing breakfast, so she had a cup of coffee with them. Horace, who looked exhausted, went upstairs as soon as he finished. She and Kate sat talking at the round table in the gray light that was barely bright enough to do without the electric ones. Kate drank coffee like mad, but after three cups Peggy’s hands were trembling. They talked about school, and she hadn’t realized how unhappy Kate was about going back.

  “But I don’t necessarily want to be in Leah, either,” Kate said, shrugging her shoulders. Unhappy or not, Kate glowed in the cool light. She was still the most beautiful girl Peggy had ever seen, anywhere, even in pictures.

  “Doesn’t Wood eat breakfast?” she said.

  “Usually he does,” Kate said. “He’s usually up by now, anyway.” Kate watched her, and suddenly said, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I’m sorry. Was I staring or something?”

  “It reminded me of high school,” Kate said. “I’m sorry I startled you, Peggy.”

  “I know you’re not happy,” Peggy said. She reached out and touched Kate’s slim hand; Kate’s other hand came over hers, and Kate smiled gratefully, her smile so much like the sun. When they were younger Kate had been her teacher. She’d told Peggy what to read, how to dress, how to straighten a hemline, how to fix a bra strap in an emergency. They had seldom talked of secret things, and always Peggy felt that beautiful Kate was touched by some kind of doom. It shone upon her like a sad summer light. Peggy was the one with the hard common sense.

  “I’ll tell you how screwed up I am,” Kate said. “Gordon wants me to marry him and I almost said yes. It seemed like such a relief. I mean to get married and get it all over with.”

  “Oh, Kate!”

  “Well, you can talk about marrying for love and all that!” Kate said angrily. “Sometimes I wish I could just drop dead and make a ‘beautiful’ corpse.”

  “No you don’t!” Peggy said. She held up her hands, they were trembling so much. It was the coffee, and Kate’s unhappiness, and Wood—where was he?

  Kate startled her in the middle of that thought. “I know how you feel about Wood. You love him! You shine all over with it!”

  Peggy’s skin grew warm.

  “You turned all dark,” Kate said.

  “I’m going up and see if he’s there.”

  “Why, he’s there, Peggy.” Kate looked worried now, and with this recognition of her own dread Peggy jumped up.

  “Oh!” she said, trying to get a breath. “Oh! Why am I so worried? What’s the matter?”

  “Go up and see. Go on, Peggy. Don’t keep worrying about it.”

  “All right. It’s silly, but all of a sudden I’m so scared. Come wifti me.”

  “All right,” Kate said. They took the back stairs, up the narrow stairs past Peggy’s old room in the servants’ quarters. She went first and Kate followed. Peggy was almost running. They hurried down the hall, out of the servants’ quarters into the bigger hall, and came to Wood’s door. She stopped, feeling silly. But her dread was there still. She knocked, and they waited, both trembling. The tall heavy door was Wood’s, the big brass knob should turn only at his will. There was no answer. Peggy knocked again, harder.

  “Wood?” she said in a tiny, constricted voice. Then, “Wood?” They listened. A clogged, grunting sound came from inside, but that was all. “Wood!” Peggy called. They listened, unbelieving, to that strange sound, and finally Peggy took the cool knob and opened the door. She looked into the room, which all at once was a huge dark box. There was the bed, the desk, the shades pulled over the windows. The bed—she searched the room as though feeling with her hands in a closet. In the middle of the room the grunting came again, from Wood where he lay on his bed. He seemed incomplete, out of focus. Kate ran past her and opened the shades. Wood had no eye on one side, and his face and hands were a dull rose color, as even and smooth as if he had been painted.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Kate cried. He breathed too slowly, with that wet sound. Kate ran out, calling for David and her mother.

  Wood seemed to be
strangling on his own breath, so Peggy got her arm under his broad back and hauled him up into a sitting position. His head fell over her shoulder. She knew what was wrong with him; she saw the empty pillbox, the whiskey bottle. Last semester a girl in her dorm had been found like this. The girl had taken twenty-five sleeping pills and later called the dean so they could discover her and pump out her stomach before it was too late.

  “Kate!” she yelled. She shook Wood, trying to wake him up, and miraculously he did partly wake up. His eye opened, nearly all black pupil, and he coughed before going limp again. “Kate!” she yelled again, and both Kate and Henrietta came running in.

  “It’s pills!” she said to them. “Tell Dr. Winston what it is!” She gave them the box. “Read him what it says!” Henrietta came to Wood, and though Kate was crying she took the box. At the door she stopped and cried, “I can’t! I can’t!”

  “Here! Hold him up and shake him! Slap him!” Peggy made them both hold Wood up, and went down to the telephone herself.

  She was surprised that she remembered Dr. Winston’s number, and surprised at the calmness of her voice. Thank God, he was there. “It’s Wood Whipple. He’s taken sleeping pills. Veronal, it says on the box—from the Veterans’ Hospital.”

  “He’s home?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’s his breathing?”

  “Slow, and noisy.”

  “Will he wake up at all?”

  “Yes, a little.”

  “All right.” Dr. Winston’s steady voice seemed to reflect her coolness. “Make him sit up. Keep him moving and try to keep him awake. I’ll be right there.”

  Harvey had come out on his canes. “What in God’s name?” he said. “Wood what?”

  She left him with his mouth open and ran back upstairs to find Horace standing in the hall in pajamas. “What? What?” Horace said in a voice ragged from sleep.

  “It’s Wood,” she said. “Come and help.”