The Fantastic Family Whipple (2 page)

“But what about your streak of Coincidental Birth Dates? This marks the sixth member of your family born on the first of March. Surely,
that
is a world record?”

Mr. Whipple’s smile grew even more strained. “Unfortunately, Arthur was born several minutes before midnight, giving him an actual birth date of February the twenty-ninth. But we are perfectly satisfied with continuing to share our record of five coincidental birth dates with the Nakamoto family in Osaka.”

The crowd looked stunned. They had come to rely on the Whipple family’s unbeaten track record in the realm of world-record breaking. Nothing was certain anymore.

Stepping forward through the crowd, a grizzle-faced reporter peered out from under a dark-brimmed hat.

“Mr. Whipple,” said the man, “do you think this setback might be explained by—how shall we say—
other-than-natural
means?”

Mr. Whipple arched his brow, his smile vanishing altogether. “I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning, sir.”

“My apologies, Mr. Whipple. What I mean to say is: Mightn’t your son’s unremarkable quality be the result of a certain
family curse
? A curse that has gone so far as to claim the life of—”

“Who is this man?” cried Mr. Whipple. “Who let him in here? Wilhelm!”

A burly, handlebar-mustachioed man rushed forward, clapped the reporter about the shoulders, and proceeded to drag him down the hall as the crowd looked on with wide eyes.

When the two men had disappeared from view, Mr. Whipple straightened his shirt and cleared his throat.

“Terribly sorry about that,” he addressed the onlookers. “We can’t have just anyone attending the births of our children, you understand. But please, let me assure you—the so-called Lyon’s Curse has nothing whatsoever to do with my son’s momentary recordlessness. Any family tragedies resulting from such a curse are all in the distant past.” Mr. Whipple wiped his brow with his handkerchief. “And besides, this is hardly a tragedy: I have every confidence Arthur’s unfavorable status won’t last more than a matter of days—certainly no more than a month or two.”

The crowd said nothing.

Amidst some awkward shuffling of feet and a few nervous glances, Mr. Whipple thanked everyone again for coming.

It was not until Mr. Whipple’s valet and butler, Wilhelm, returned with a forklift—and presented the men with the World’s Largest Box of Cigars—that the memory of the strange interruption faded.

After distributing the seven-foot, three-hundred-pound cigars into giant cigar holders, Wilhelm—whose title of World’s Strongest German had made him uniquely suited to the task—promptly donned a flamethrower and proceeded to light them.

The men sat about smoking their colossal Cubans through large funnel-shaped tips while the women formed gossip clusters and flitted from one to the next. Just before dawn, when all had had their fill of gossip and smoke, the
guests offered their closing compliments and bid the Whipple family farewell.

Mr. Whipple gazed out of the maternity ward window onto the procession of cars leaving the hospital, each with a giant half-smoked cigar strapped to its roof or secured to its tail, as the sun rose in the distance, drenching the whole scene in a warm amber glow. He looked back toward the hospital room where his wife lay holding their recordless newborn son, and thought about the past. He couldn’t help but wonder if his family’s incredible legacy had come to an end.

When the octuplets arrived—on schedule—the world could finally relax. The Whipples had returned.

Seven years after Arthur was born, Eliza Whipple was in labor again. The doctors had told her she was to have plain old quintuplets—but Abigail, Beatrice, and George had been hiding behind their siblings in order to surprise the family. It was true, of course, that Arthur had tried to surprise the family at his own birth—by arriving early—with unfavorable results. The octuplets, however, proved to be masters of surprise. They waited until the last minutes of March the first—and then made their move.

The world had expected a repeat of Arthur’s recordless birth, but when the quintuplets showed up just before midnight and brought three extra Whipples with them, everyone was astounded with joy. At the moment they were born,
the Whipple octuplets broke two world records: Highest Number of Healthy Babies in a Single Birth, and Highest Number of Coincidental Birth Dates.

The Nakamoto family soon telephoned to concede defeat.

O
n the morning
the curse came back, Arthur was jolted awake by the Whipple family breakfast bell. He found himself lying on his bed—on top of the bedding—still wearing his clothes from the day before. He was filled with the sinking feeling this was not the morning he had planned for himself—but he could not remember why. Then Arthur noticed the sound of accordion music coming from the next room, and it all came rushing back to him.

The music was being performed by Arthur’s older brother Simon, who was now six days into his attempt at the Longest Continuous Time Playing an Accordion.

On the first day, Arthur had found the music coming from his brother’s room enchanting and beautiful—that is, until he had tried to go to sleep. Arthur then found the music rather loud and entirely sleep prohibitive. But the
boy soon saw it as just another opportunity to finally break his first world record. He got out of bed and decided to attempt the Longest Time without Sleeping. He knew if he could just stay awake one day longer than his brother’s projected seven-day accordion-playing streak, he would set a new record for sleep deprivation—and just maybe earn the respect of his family in the process. Nothing could stop him now….

And yet, there he was on the present morning, waking up to the realization he had fallen asleep after only five days.

Arthur looked up at the slowly clicking time-lapse camera, which had been set up in the corner of his room to verify his state of wakefulness—and gave a frown. The boy was not unfamiliar with failure, but he could not help but feel a bit disheartened. He’d really thought he’d had this one.

Still, the Whipple family breakfast bell was ringing—and it took excuses from no one, disheartened or otherwise—so Arthur stood up and walked to the mirror. He straightened his shirt and did his best to flatten the clump of light brown hair that was sticking straight out on the side of his head. Nothing seemed to work, so he cut his losses and went to the wardrobe. The finely carved cabinet—one in a matching set of thirteen made for the Whipple children by champion woodworker Alan Splinterson—had once been part of the World’s Thickest Tree Limb, before it was severed from its trunk by the Most Powerful Lightning Storm in Recorded
History. These days, it simply held Arthur’s clothes. Opening the wardrobe, he promptly found his robe, put it on over his matted clothing, then walked to the bedroom door.

Now, if Arthur had known the chain of catastrophic events that would be set into motion that day, he might have turned himself right around and opted instead to attempt the record for Longest Time Staying in Bed. But since he did not have the luxury of a working crystal ball or a subscription to
Tomorrow’s News Today
, he simply turned the doorknob and stepped through the threshold.

Once inside the corridor, Arthur joined the procession of Whipple children as they made their way toward the sweet smells wafting up from the kitchen. They had all lined up in age-descending order, just as they always did at meal time. Leading the way was Henry Whipple, who, at seventeen, was the eldest.

Henry, being the most athletic of his siblings, was never quite comfortable unless he was competing at something. Because his parents had recently banned hurdles, bicycles, and horses from the upstairs passageways, he was presently in a contest with his brother Simon to see who could hold his breath the longest. Simon, a thirteen-year-old musician/mechanical engineer, was at a slight disadvantage, as he was, of course, still playing his beloved accordion as he walked. Graciously, Henry had agreed to give him a five-second delayed start to compensate for this, but Simon
had already begun devising plans for a “breath-holding machine” in his head.

Next came twelve-year-old Cordelia. She was the overachiever in a family of overachievers. Not to be outdone in music by her brother Simon, Cordelia had already mastered both the violin and the harpsichord. She also dabbled in brain surgery and model-rocket science. But her true passion was for architecture. On her back, she carried a T square like a barbarian battle-ax; in her hand, she carried a perfect
¹
⁄
₁₀₀₀
th scale model of the Taj Mahal, constructed entirely out of toothpicks.

And then came Arthur. He was eleven. Already trying to make up for his most recent failure, Arthur was now hopping on one foot in another attempt to break a world record.

At the end of the breakfast procession were the octuplets: Penelope, Edward, Charlotte, Lenora, Franklin, Abigail, Beatrice, and George—all age four.

Penelope wanted to be an entomologist when she grew up. She carried a small cage in which she had just the day before captured the Largest Common Housefly Ever Recorded.

Edward was an explorer. That summer, he had become the Youngest Person to Summit Kanchenjunga, the third-highest mountain in the world. He had indeed considered climbing the
Very
Highest, but after a bit of soul-searching and a stern chat from his mother, he’d decided he should wait until he was at least five before he attempted Everest.

Charlotte was the Most Accomplished Four-Year-Old Painter on Earth. One month earlier, she’d had her first exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The reviews were impressive: “Exquisite!”; “A tour de force!”; “The finest collection of teddy bear paintings since Victor Flambeau’s Stuffed Bear series!” Her hands were usually stained with paint, and today was no exception.

Lenora was destined for the opera house. Under the tutelage of the esteemed Madame Bellissaria, she had recently hit the Highest Note Ever Sung in Live Performance. She carried out her usual vocal exercises as she walked.

Franklin belonged at sea. He wore an eighteenth-century naval lieutenant’s bicorne hat, with one of its points jutting out over his face and the other shielding the back of his neck. It had been a fitting birthday present from his parents one year earlier, when Franklin had disappeared off the Whipple family frigate during a sailing excursion and was feared dead. Amazingly, he had turned up three days later in one of the ship’s dinghies and recalled to his family how he had set off alone to venture a closer look at some sea caves on the coast of a nearby island.

Abigail had a way with animals. She had recently returned from a semester abroad in Saskatchewan, where she had lived with a pack of wolves through a nursery school exchange program. She was now riding on the back of one of the Whipple family dogs, a giant Great Dane called Hamlet, who held the record for Tallest Dog in the World.

Beatrice was a champion competitive eater, but one would never have known it by her size. She was a petite girl with a shocking appetite who astounded bystanders and participants alike by winning every eating competition she entered. But unlike most competitive eaters her age, she had refined tastes well beyond her years. Though it was true she held the record for Most Frankfurters Eaten in One Minute, it was her filet-mignon and crème-brûlée trophies she cherished most.