To Sail Beyond the Sunset (41 page)

Nevertheless Susan remained committed to taking her kitten with her. We did not discuss it but the deal was never renegotiated.

I went to the front door—no cat. Then I went to the back door. “Come in, your Highness.”

Her Serene Highness, Princess Polly Ponderosa Penelope Peachfuzz, paraded in, tail high. (“It’s about time! But thank you anyway and don’t let it happen again what’s for lunch?”) She sat down, facing the kitchen cupboard where canned cat food was kept.

She ate a six-ounce can of tuna and liver, demanded more and did equally well on veal in gravy, then ate some crunchies for dessert, stopping from time to time to head-bump my ankles. At last she stopped to clean.

“Polly, let me see your pads.” She was not her usual immaculate self and I had never seen her so hungry. Where had she been the past three days?

I was certain from examining her paws that she had been on the road. I thought of some grim questions to ask Susan when she telephoned. If she did. But in the meantime the cat was here and this was home and the responsibility was now mine, by derivation. When I moved out of this house, the cat had to go with me. Unavoidable. Susan, I wish you were unmarried just long enough for me to spank you.

I rubbed Vaseline on her paws and got back to work. Princess Polly went to sleep on a pile of books. If she missed Susan, she didn’t say so. She seemed willing to pig it with just one servant.

About one in the afternoon I was still sorting books and trying to decide whether to make do with a cold sandwich or go all out and open a can of tomato soup—when the front door chimed. Princess Polly looked up. I said, “You’re expecting someone? Susan, maybe?” I went to the door.

Not Susan. Donald and Priscilla.

“Come in, darlings!” I opened the door wide. “Are you hungry? Have you had lunch?” I did not ask them any questions. There is a poem by Robert Frost, well known on that time line in that century: “The Death of the Hired Man,” which contained this definition: “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” Two of my children had come home; they would tell me what they wished to tell me when they got around to it. I was simply glad that I had a house to let them into and that I still had bed clothes for them. Cat and children had not changed my plans—but those plans could wait. I was glad that I had not managed to clear out the day before, Monday the fourth—I would have missed all three. Tragic!

I got busy rustling lunch for them—fancy cooking; I did open Campbell’s tomato soup, two cans. “Let me see. We have quite a lot of not too stale cake left over from the reception, and a half gallon of vanilla ice cream that has not been opened. How much can you two eat?”

“Plenty!”

“Priss is right. We haven’t eaten anything today.”

“Oh, my goodness! Sit down. Let’s get some soup into you fast, then we’ll see what else you want. Or would you rather have breakfast things, seeing that this is breakfast for you? Bacon and eggs? Cereal?”

“Anything,” answered my son. “If it’s alive, I’ll bite its head off.”

“Behave yourself, Donnie,” said his sister. “We’ll start with soup, Mama.”

While we were eating Priscilla said, “Why are the books piled all around, Mama?”

I explained that I was getting ready to close the house, preparatory to selling it. My children exchanged looks; they both looked solemn, almost woebegone. I looked from face to face. “Take it easy,” I advised. “There is nothing to look sad about. I’m not faced with any deadlines and this is your home. Do you want to fill me in?”

Most of it was fairly obvious from their condition—dirty, tired, hungry, and broke. They had had some sort of trouble with their father and their stepmother and they had left Dallas “forever”—“But, Mama, this was before we knew that you were planning to sell this house. We’ll have to find somewhere else to go…because Donnie and I are not going back there.”

“Don’t be in a hurry,” I said. “You are not out on the street. I’m going to sell this house, yes—but we’ll put another roof over our heads. This is the right time to sell this place because I let George Strong—he’s in real estate—know that this place would be available once Susan was married. Hmm—” I went to the screen and punched up Harriman and Strong.

A woman’s face came on screen. “Harriman and Strong, Investments. Harriman Enterprises. Allied Industries. How may I help you?”

“I am Maureen Johnson. I would like to speak to Mr. Harriman or to Mr. Strong.”

“Neither is available. You may record a message—scramble and hush are on line if needed. Or our Mr. Watkins will speak to you.”

“No. Relay me to George Strong.”

“I am sorry. Will you speak to Mr. Watkins?”

“No. Just get this message to Mr. Strong: George, this is Maureen Johnson speaking. That parcel is now available, and I punched in to offer you first refusal as I promised. I have carried out my promise but I am going to deal today. So now I will call the J. C. Nichols Company.”

“Will you hold, please?” Her face was replaced by a flower garden, her voice by a syrupy rendition of “In an Eighteenth-Century Drawing Room.”

George Strong’s face came on. “Greetings, Mrs. Johnson. Good to see you.”

“Maureen to you, old dear. I called to say that I am moving. Now is the hour if you want to bid on it. Do you still want it?”

“I can use it. Do you have a price in mind?”

“Yes, certainly. Just twice what you are willing to pay.”

“Well, that’s a good start. Now we can dicker.”

“Just a moment. George, I need another house, a smaller one. Three bedrooms, within walking distance of Southwest High. Got something like that?”

“Probably. Or across the line and close to Shawnee Mission High. Want to swap?”

“No, I’m planning to skin you on the deal. I want to lease by the year, automatic renewal unless notice given, ninety days.”

“All right. Pick you up tomorrow morning? Ten o’clock? I want to look over your parcel, point out to you its shortcomings and beat your price down.”

“Ten o’clock, it is. Thank you, George.”

“Always a pleasure, Maureen.”

Donald said, “Dallas phones are all tanks now. How come KC still uses flatties? Why don’t they modernize?”

I answered, “Money. Donald, any question that starts out ‘Why don’t they—’ the answer is always ‘Money.’ But in this case I can offer more details. The Dallas try-out turns out not to be cost effective and the three-dee tanks will be phased out. For the full story see the
Wall Street Journal
. The back issues for the past quarter are stacked in the library. It’s a six-part series, front page.”

“I’m sorry I brought it up. They can use smoke signals for all of me.”

“Be glad you brought it up and make use of the opportunity I offered you. Donald, if you intend to cope with the jungle out there, you need to make the
Wall Street Journal
and similar publications such as the
Economist
your favorite comic books.” I added, “Ice cream and cake?”

I put Priscilla into Susan’s room, and Donald into the room Patrick had had, just beyond my bath. We went to bed early. About midnight I woke up, then got up to pee, not bothering with a light, as there was moonlight streaming in. I was about to flush the pot when I heard an unmistakable rhythmic sound—bed squeaks. Suddenly I was goose flesh all over.

Priss and Donnie had left here almost as babies, two years old and four; they probably didn’t realize that this old house was about as well soundproofed as a tent. Oh, dear! Those poor children.

I kept very quiet. The rhythm speeded up. Then I heard Priscilla start to keen and Donald to grunt. Shortly the squeaks stopped and they both sighed. I heard Priscilla say, “I needed that. Thanks, Donnie.”

I was proud of her. But it was time for me to hurry—much as I hated to, I must catch them in the act. Or I couldn’t help them.

Seconds later I tapped on Donald’s door. “Darlings? May I come in?”

Cats and Children

It was after one o’clock before I left the children; it had taken that long to convince them that I was not angry, that I was on their side, that my only concern was to see that they did not get hurt—because what they were doing was exceptionally dangerous in all sorts of ways, some of which I was sure they knew but some of which they might not know about or at least had not thought about.

When I had gone in to see them, I had not grabbed a robe. Instead I had gone in as I was, bare naked, because a fully dressed authority figure such as a parent, walking in on two children caught in delectable flagrente, is all too likely to scare it out of them—cause bladder and bowel to cut loose. But another human as naked and vulnerable as they were themselves simply could not be a “cop.” As Father had taught me years earlier, to know which way the frog will jump, you have to put yourself in the frog’s place.

They still would not like being caught—they didn’t!—but, if I did not catch them in bed together, they would lie about it later if I tried to question them. It is parallel to the old rule about puppies: If you don’t catch a puppy at it, it is useless to bring the matter up later.

So I tapped and asked to come in, and waited.

A suppressed gasp, then dead silence—

I waited awhile longer, then counted ten chimpanzees and tapped again. “Donald! Priscilla! Please! May I come in?”

There was a whispered conference, then Donald’s strong, manly baritone called out—and cracked. “Come in—Mother.”

I opened the door. There were no lights on, but there was moonlight and my eyes were adjusted to low light level. They were in bed together, sheet pulled up, and Donald was simultaneously protecting his sister against all dangers with his strong right arm around her while pretending hard that she was not there at all and that he was just waiting for a streetcar—and my heart went out to him.

The room reeked of sex—male musk, female musk, fresh ejaculate, sweat. I am expert in the odors of sex, with many years of wide experience. Had I not known better I would have judged that this was the site of a six-person orgy.

I must add that some of the odor came from me. Perhaps it is perverse that I should be sexually excited by catching my son and daughter in the most scandalous of all sex offenses. But volition does not enter into it. From the moment I recognized those squeaks and deduced what and who, I had been flowing. If King Kong had wandered by, he would have found me a pushover. Paul Revere I would have pulled from his horse.

But I ignored my state, reminding myself that they could not possibly smell me. “Hello, dears! Is there room in the middle for me?”

Silence, then they moved apart. I went quickly to them before they could change their minds, pushed down the sheet, crawled over Donald, got between them on my back, snaked my right arm under Priscilla’s neck, reached for Donald. “Have a shoulder pillow, Donald. Turn toward me, dear.”

He did so, stiffly, then remained tense. I said nothing and cuddled both my children, breathed deeply and tried to slow my heart. It began to work, and my youngsters seemed to relax somewhat, too.

Presently I said softly, “How sweet to have both my darlings in bed with me,” and gave them each a quick squeeze and relaxed, still holding them.

Priscilla said timidly, “Mama, you’re not mad at us?”

“Mad at you? Heavens, no! I’m worried about your welfare. But not angry. I love you, dear. Love you both.”

“Oh. I’m glad you’re not mad.” Then curiosity got her. “How did you catch us? I was very careful. I listened at your door, made sure you were asleep before I snuck in here and woke Donnie.”

“I probably wouldn’t have noticed anything if I hadn’t been drinking lemonade before going to bed. I woke up, dear, and had to pee. That wall on Donald’s side of the bed is a wall of my bathroom. Sound goes right through it. So I heard you.” I hugged her to me. “It sounded like a dandy!”

Brief silence—“It was.”

“I believe you. There is nothing, just nothing, as good as a gut-wrenching orgasm when you really need one. And you seemed to need that one. I heard you thank Donald.”

“Uh…he deserved thanks.”

“And smart of you to tell him so. Priscilla, there is nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated for his lovemaking. So keep it up all your life; it will make both you and your love happy. Mark my words. Remember them.”

“I’ll remember.”

Donald apparently had trouble believing what he was hearing. “Mother? Do I have this straight? You don’t mind what we were doing?”

“Tell me what you were doing.”

“Uh—We were screwing!” He said it defiantly.

“‘Screwing’ is something dogs do. You were loving, you were making love to Priscilla. Or, if you like long medical words, you two were copulated and engaging in coition to climax…which is about like describing a gorgeous sunset in wavelengths of the electromagnetic spectrum. You were loving her, dear, and Priscilla is lovable. She was a lovable baby and she is even more lovable as a grown woman.”

I decided that now was the time to grasp the nettle, so I went on, “Loving is sweet and good. Just the same, I’m extremely worried about you two. I suppose you both realize that the society around us strongly disapproves of what you were doing, has severe, cruel laws against it, and would punish you both horribly if they caught you. Priscilla, they would take you away from Donald and me, and put you in a home for delinquent girls, and you would hate every minute of it. Donald, if you were lucky, they might try you as a legal infant and do to you something like what they would do to Priscilla—reform school until you are twenty-one, then registration and supervision as a sex offender. Or they might decide to try you as an adult—statutory rape and incest, and about twenty years at hard labor…and then supervision the rest of your life. Do you know that, dear ones?”

Priscilla did not answer; she was crying. Donald said gruffly, “Yes, we know that.”

“Well? What’s the answer?”

“But, Mother, we love each other. Priss loves me and I love Priss.”

“I know you do and I respect your love. But you didn’t answer me; you avoided answering. What is the answer to your problem?”