"Not really. But you can call me Aunt Linda. I'd like that." Then the four of us a.s.sembled on the redwood deck overlooking a flawless lawn and a wooded ravine, its edge dotted with clumps of jonquils. Jane and Stanley and I made ourselves comfortable on the cushioned wrought-iron chairs, while Spook-now wearing a camouflage jumpsuit-chose to sit on the Indian gra.s.s rug at my feet. He was an affectionate little boy, and his Buster Brown haircut was charming. He leaned against my legs in a possessive way, and when I rumpled his hair he looked up and smiled happily, then licked his fingers and straightened his blond bangs. I thought to myself: He's as vain as his good-looking father.

As we sipped orange juice and vodka, I asked how Spook got his name.

"He's really Ed Junior," Jane said, "but he was born on Halloween, and Ed called him Spook. At school the teacher insists on calling him Edward, but he's Spook to all the neighbors . . . . Linda, you're the perfect image of a successful young woman executive- just like the pictures in the magazines. I envy you." Spook said: "Are you a lady engineer?"

"No, I'm an industrial electronic supply sales manager."

"Oh," he said, and after a moment added: "Is that hard to do?"

"Not if you like Zener diodes and unijunction transistors."

"Oh," he said, and then he climbed onto my lap.

"Spook dear," his mother admonished, "always ask permission before sitting on laps."

"That's all right," I a.s.sured her. "I like little boys."

"He loves to be petted, you know."

"Don't we all? . . . How long will Ed be gone, Jane?"

"Another three weeks."

"Don't you mind his long absences?"

She hesitated. "Yes . . . but it's a good living. It's paying for a housekeeper five days a week and a good college for Spook and some fabulous vacations." As we talked, the cat listened, turning his head to watch each of us as we spoke. "Stanley looks so intelligent," I remarked.

"He's good company. He's almost human . . . . Linda, you never told me why you and Bill divorced."

"I wanted a career of my own," I said. "I was tired of being a dam-builder's wife. The construction camp was driving me up the wall, and Bill was drinking heavily. Things were all wrong."

At this point a robin flew into the yard and tugged at a worm, alerting Spook, who jumped from my lap and chased him. The crafty bird took flying hops just lengthy enough to stay beyond the boy's grasp.

"That robin comes every evening during the c.o.c.ktail hour," Jane said. "He likes to tease Spook, I think. Stanley isn't the slightest bit interested."

"Are you going to have any more children, Jane?"

"We'd like to adopt a girl. After what I went through with Spook, I couldn't face childbirth again. He was born at the camp, you know-a year or two after you left. I didn't have proper prenatal care because I refused to go to that so-called doctor at the camp. Do you remember him?"

I nodded. "His office smelled more of whiskey than antiseptic."

"He made pa.s.ses at everybody, and I do mean everybody! "

"They couldn't get a really good doctor to go up there and live in those conditions." At that moment a large dog bounded over a fence and headed straight for the boy. Spook had been lying on the lawn, chewing a blade of gra.s.s, but he scrambled to his feet and headed for the nearest tree.

"Spook, no more climbing, please," his mother called. "Juneau won't hurt you. She just wants to play."

The man in the Mexican shirt came to the fence, calling: "Here, Juneau. Come on home, baby." To us he explained: "She broke her chain again. Sorry." Precisely as we finished our second drink, Stanley jumped down from his chair with a fifteen-pound thump and went to Jane, putting one paw on her knee.

"Stanley's telling me it's time for dinner," she said. "Linda, I'll put the ramekins in the microwave while I'm feeding the cat. Mrs. Phipps fixed chicken divan for us before she left. You might see if you can find the son-and-heir and tell him it's time to wash up." I wandered around the grounds, noting the professionally perfect flower beds, until I found Spook. He was digging among the jonquils. "What are you doing?" I asked.

"Digging," he said.

"You're getting your jumpsuit all muddy. Come and clean up. It's time for dinner." He raised his nose and sniffed. "Chicken!" he squealed, and headed for the house, running in joyful circles as he went. A few minutes later he appeared at the dinner table, looking spic and span in chinos and a tiger-striped shirt, with his face and hands scrubbed and his Buster Brown haircut combed to perfection.

We dined at a table on the deck, and Stanley tried to leap onto the redwood railing nearby, but he missed his footing and fell to the floor, landing on his back.

"Honestly, he's the most awkward cat I've ever seen," Jane muttered. "Come on, Stanley. Aunt Linda won't mind if you sit with us at the table." She indicated the fourth chair, and he lumbered up onto the seat, where he sat tall and attentively. She said: "Stanley's mother was Maple Sugar. Do you remember her, Linda? She had a litter of five kittens, but he was the only one who survived. He's a little odd, but isn't he a beaut?"

Spook was picking chunks of chicken out of his ramekin and gobbling them hungrily.

"Don't forget the broccoli, dear," his mother said. "It makes little boys grow big and strong. Did you tell Aunt Linda you're going to take swimming lessons?"

"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, Ma.s.sachusetts. 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 a.n.a.lyze 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 tortoisesh.e.l.l 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 s.p.a.cious 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 s.p.a.ce suit. To the great concern of his father, none of these appealed to Donald in the least. His chief joy was romping with the a.s.sorted 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 amba.s.sador'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 G.o.dfather. 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."