William Ames

William Ames operated a small tannery in a Massachusetts town, working hard to make a comfortable but careful living. He was a covered man, rarely telling the thoughts in his mind, unwilling to expose himself to the gaze of his neighbors. When he came into contact with other children away from his home, he felt that his daughter Cathy was not like other children—a matter more felt than known. He was uneasy about her but could not have said why, and he kept the little flame of suspicion to himself, deciding it was better if he didn't know anything, safer, wiser, and much more comfortable.

The Limits of Paternal Authority

When Cathy, at sixteen, announced she would never go to school again, Mr. Ames delivered a lecture on duty, obligation, and natural love for parents. Toward the end of his speech he became aware that she was not listening, which made him angry and drove him into threats. He spoke of the authority God had given him over his child and of how this natural authority had been armed by the state. She looked him right in the eyes, her mouth smiling a little, her eyes not seeming to blink, and finally he had to look away. This enraged him further, but he ended on a note of weakness, ordering her to stop her nonsense and vaguely threatening her with whipping. Later that night he told his wife with an assurance he did not feel that it just needed a little authority, wishing he were as confident as his words.

The Whipping and Its Aftermath

When Cathy ran away to Boston and was brought back, Mr. Ames was not good at whipping because he had never done it. He lashed at her legs with a buggy whip, and when she stood quietly staring at him with calm cold eyes he lost his temper. The first blows were tentative and timid, but when she did not cry he slashed at her sides and shoulders. Cathy learned quickly: she found him out and knew him, and once she had learned she screamed, writhed, cried, and begged, and had the satisfaction of feeling the blows instantly become lighter. Mr. Ames was frightened at the noise and hurt he was creating and stopped. He told his wife he had hated to do it but had to, and that it seemed to have done her good—she seemed like a changed girl. He knew that although his wife had insisted on the whipping and forced him to do it, she hated him for doing it, and despair settled over him.

The Deceptive Calm

In the weeks that followed, Cathy became thoughtful and helpful, knitting an afghan for her mother, keeping a ready smile for her father, hanging up his hat when he came in and turning his chair properly under the light. She braved the smell of the tannery to visit him, and he was amazed at her questions about business, telling his foreman she was smarter than some men he could name and might be running the business someday. She showed interest not only in tanning processes but in the business end too; her father explained loans, payments, billing, and payroll, and showed her how to open the safe, pleased that after the first try she remembered the combination. He told his wife that everyone had a little of the Old Nick in them, that he wouldn't want a child that didn't have some gumption, and that if you just checked it and kept it in control it would go in the right direction.

The Fire and the Unspoken Truth

When the Ames house burned down and the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Ames were found in the debris, the chief of the volunteers discovered that both locks had no keys in them—the bolts stuck out, suggesting the doors had been locked from the inside. The tannery safe was found open with papers scattered, and in the carriage house there were signs of a struggle and a quantity of blood. A blue hair ribbon and a cross with red stones were found. Cathy was presumed murdered, but no body was ever found. Mr. Ames had carried the rope that had been around Cathy's wrists during the earlier incident with the two boys, and his eyes were puzzled—there were things he did not understand, but he did not bring them up. He had very soon forgotten his haunting reservations, feeling he would have felt bad if two boys were in the house of correction for something they did not do. His first impulse when James Grew committed suicide was to go to the coroner with his story of the midnight call, but he thought, "What good would it do? If I knew anything it would be different. But I don't know a single thing." He had a sick feeling in his stomach, told himself over and over that it was not his fault, and felt guilty and miserable.