Boys Life

going out to the porch. Before he went out the door, he gave a low whistle of appreciation. “Hey, you oughta come take a look at this!” he said, and then he went outside. We couldn’t resist this invitation, of course. And there parked in front of our house was a long, sleek car with a paint job that gleamed like black satin. It had wire wheels and a shiny chrome grille and a windshield that seemed a mile wide. It was the longest and most beautiful car I’d ever seen, and it made our pickup truck look like a crusty old scab. The driver’s door opened and a man in a dark suit got out. He came around the car and stepped onto our lawn, and he said, “Good evening” in an accent that didn’t sound like he was from around here. He came on up the walk, into the porch light’s circle, and we all saw he had white hair and a white mustache and his shoes were as shiny and black as the car’s skin.
    “Can I help you?” Dad asked.
    “Mr. Thomas Mackenson?”
    “Tom. That’s me.”
    “Very good, sir.” He stopped at the foot of the steps. “Mrs. Mackenson.” He nodded at my mother, then he looked at me. “Master Cory?”
    “Uh… I’m Cory, yes sir,” I said.
    “Ah. Excellent.” He smiled, and he reached into the inside pocket of his coat and his hand came out holding an envelope. “If you please?” He offered the envelope to me.
    I looked at Dad. He motioned for me to take it. I did, and the white-haired man waited with his hands clasped behind his back as I opened it. The envelope was sealed with a circle of red wax that had the letter T embossed in it. I slid from the envelope a small white card on which there were several lines of typed words.
    “What’s it say?” Mom leaned over my shoulder.
    I read it aloud. “‘Mr. Vernon Thaxter requests the pleasure of your company at dinner, on Saturday, September 19, 1964, at seven o’clock P.M. Dress optional.’”
    “Casual wear recommended,” the white-haired man clarified.
    “Oh my,” Mom said; her worry-bead words. Her brows came together.
    “Uh… can I ask just who you are?” Dad inquired, taking the white card from me and scanning it.
    “My name is Cyril Pritchard, Mr. Mackenson. I am in the employ of the Thaxter household. My wife and I have looked after Mr. Moorwood and young master Vernon for almost eight years.”
    “Oh. Are you… like… the butler or somethin’?”
    “My wife and I serve as we’re required, sir.”
    Dad grunted and frowned, his own mental worry-beads at work. “How come this was sent from Vernon and not from his father?”
    “Because, sir, it’s Vernon who wishes to have dinner with your son.”
    “And why is that? I don’t recall Vernon ever meetin’ my boy.”
    “Young master Vernon attended the Arts Council awards ceremony. He was very impressed with your son’s command of the language. You know, he had aspirations of being a writer himself at one time.”
    “He wrote a book, didn’t he?” Mom asked.
    “Indeed he did. The Moon My Mistress was its title. Published in 1958 by Sonneilton Press in New York City.”
    “I took it out from the library,” Mom admitted. “I have to say I wouldn’t have bought it, not with that bloody meat cleaver on the front. You know, I always thought that was odd, because the book was more about life in that little town than the butcher who… well, you know.”
    “Yes, I do know,” Mr. Pritchard said.
    What I didn’t know until later was that the butcher in Vernon’s book had cut out a different intestine from a number of ladies every time the moon was full. Everybody in the fictional town raved over the butcher’s steak-and-kidney pies, spicy Cajun sausages, and lady-finger meat-spread sandwiches.
    “It wasn’t bad, though, for a first novel,” Mom said. “Why didn’t he write another one?”
    “The book unfortunately didn’t sell, for whatever reason. Young master Vernon was… shall we say… disenchanted.” His gaze returned to me. “What shall I tell young master Vernon in regards to the dinner invitation?”
    “Hold your horses.” Dad spoke up. “I hate to state the obvious, but Vernon’s not… well, he’s not in any mental shape to entertain guests up at that house, is he?”
    Here Mr. Pritchard’s stare went icy. “Young master Vernon is perfectly capable of entertaining a dinner guest, Mr. Mackenson. In response to your implied concern, your son would be safe with him.”
    “I didn’t mean any offense. It’s just that when