“The point, my girl, is that you learn those domestic arts that are common knowledge for every young lady. That are required of every young lady. That is the point, and we shall speak no more about it. Agatha, I do apologize for my daughter’s rudeness.”
She wheeled into the store and returned a minute later with a pair of needles. On the way home, I trailed behind and pretended not to know them, fuming and kicking viciously at blameless clods. They in turn chattered on about sewing and such and pretended not to notice me sulking in their wake.
I thought I could make a dash for it when I got home, but Mother herded me into the parlor before I had the chance to escape.
“Sit,” she commanded. I sat.
She handed me needles, a pattern, and a hank of navy blue wool.
“Cast on,” she said. I cast on and began to knit.
Aggie kneeled on the Persian carpet and cut out shirtwaists and skirts; she and Mother discussed fashions and ignored me some more. Which was fine with me. I wrestled with the pattern and fought with the wool; I muttered and huffed and dropped stitches, and generally worked myself into a fine snit, albeit a quiet one. If they’d left me to my own devices, I’d have hurled the whole sorry mess to the floor and run screaming for the river.
By the time Viola rang the dinner gong, I had nearly finished one tiny glove. Proudly, I held it up for inspection. Mother stared in disbelief. Aggie squawked a harsh, jeering laugh, reminiscent of the seagull and surprisingly cruel. I squinted at the glove, which didn’t look right. I counted up the fingers: one, two, three, four, five. And six.
You’d think that would have been enough to get me out of the glove business for life, but alas, not so. Mother merely demoted me to mittens, which were really just socks for the hand, and a whole lot easier. I’m here to tell you that knitting gloves is devilishly hard, but on the other hand (ha!), mittens are a snap.
And as for Aggie, well, there was no friendship forged over books. (“I have better things to do than read.”) There was no bedtime ritual of hair brushing. (“Get away from me with those newty hands.”) She turned out to not be the sister I’d never had. Thank goodness.
CHAPTER 12
THE BANDIT SAGA
F. Cuvier has observed, that all animals that readily enter into domestication, consider man as a member of their own society, and thus fulfil their instinct of association.
ONE AFTERNOON Travis came into the parlor halfway through my piano practice, an unusual thing for him. Typically my audience consisted solely of Mother, acting more in the role of enforcer than music lover. (Although I have to say that she did enjoy Mr. Chopin’s pieces whenever my teacher, Miss Brown, assigned one of them to me, particularly the nocturnes, all dreamy and pensive. It was a miracle I didn’t put her off him for life, what with my sour notes and my style, which Miss Brown decried as “mechanical.” Well, you’d play mechanically too, with a wooden ruler hovering inches above your knuckles, just waiting to show you the error of your ways.)
I watched the clock on the mantel like a hawk, determined to play not one second longer than my mandatory thirty minutes. Travis beamed and bounced and fidgeted with ill-suppressed excitement while I mangled Mr. Tchaikovsky’s “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.” I doubted my performance was the cause, so something was up. He applauded politely with Mother at the end, and then urgently signaled me to follow him through the kitchen and out the back door. He trotted off to the barn, saying only, “Hurry up—you’ve got to see it.”
“See what?” I said, trotting behind him.
“Come on. I’ve got a new pet.”
Now, I knew that Travis’s pets usually spelled a whole lot of trouble, but his obvious joy and enthusiasm were infectious. “What is it?”
“You’ll see. It’s in Armand’s cage for now.”
“Maybe you should tell me what it is first. To, you know, prepare me.”
But he wouldn’t answer. I followed him out to the barn. And there in a cage in a dim corner was a baby raccoon. She was about the size of a half-grown kitten, with a pointy nose, a bushy ringed tail, and the black mask that gave her the look of a mischievous child costumed as a burglar at Halloween.
“Isn’t she cute?” he said. “I think I’ll call her Bandit.”
Bandit hissed in displeasure. She stared at us warily, her shiny black eyes exactly the size and color of Mother’s jet beads that she wore on special occasions.
“Travis,” I said, halfheartedly, “she’s adorable, but you can’t keep a raccoon. Father will be furious. He shoots them on sight. They raid the henhouse, and they tear up the vegetable patch, and they eat the pecans off the trees.”
“Watch this,” he said. He pushed a bit of lettuce through the wire, and she immediately grabbed it in her paw-hands, washed it carefully in the water bowl, and ate it like a miniature human at a picnic. No wonder they were called Procyon lotor, meaning “washer dog.”
“And,” I went on, “if Father doesn’t shoot her, then Viola will. You know how she is about her garden.”
He cooed at Bandit and fed her another lettuce leaf.
“And they grow wild as they get older. They don’t make good pets. You know that, right?”
“I found her in the scrub. She was all by herself and crying.”
“Was it near Lula’s place? Her father says they’ve been losing chickens.”
Travis did not answer.
Exasperated, I said, “Did you look for the mother?”
“What? Oh. Well … yes.”
“Travis.”
“She was starving! She was lonely! What could I do? You wouldn’t have left her, either. Just look at her, Callie. She’s cute as a bug’s ear.”
Bandit munched on her lettuce, turning it in her clever little hands, all the while gazing at us with alert black eyes. Yep, completely adorable. At least for a while.
“Besides,” he went on, “nobody has to know.”
“Do you really think you can keep a secret like this?” I said skeptically.
“Of course. No one has to know.”
That night at supper, Father said to Travis, “So, young man, Alberto tells me you are keeping a coon in the barn. Is that right?”
Travis gaped. He obviously hadn’t had time to work up a good story and had been caught flat-footed. Alberto was the hired man, and Father paid his wages. Of course he would report such goings-on.
Father said, “You know how I feel about coons and such. Varmints, all of them.”
“Yes, Father,” he said, head bowed. “I’m sorry.” He raised his head and mustered his arguments: “She’s an orphan, you see, and she was starving when I found her. I couldn’t just leave her there. And I promise to take good care of her. I’ll keep her away from the henhouse, I promise.”
Father looked at Mother, who sighed deeply but had nothing to add, having no doubt been worn down by variations of the same argument over the years.
“All right,” said Father grudgingly. “But if there’s any trouble, any trouble at all, I’ll shoot it myself and feed it to the dogs. Is that understood?”
“Yessir.” Travis beamed his heartbreaking smile, which even drew a half smile from Father, so potent was its force.
Thus began the saga of Bandit. What made her more troublesome than Armand and Jay put together were her boundless curiosity and her busy little paws. They were more like hands than paws, really, in that she could open anything. Travis put a puppy collar on her, and she had it off within five minutes. He made a tiny harness for her from leather scraps, and she had it off within ten minutes. Then he hit on the idea of putting the buckle between her shoulder blades, the one place she couldn’t reach. Yet. He put her on a leash and tried to take her for walks, which so infuriated her that she leaped and thrashed like a hooked trout to the point of exhaustion. He figured out that he could coax her to follow him for a few feet with bits of cheese, discovering along the way that she would eat anything—literally anything—that could remotely be construed as edible. Potato p
eels, kitchen scraps, garbage, rotting fish heads—she relished it all. After carefully washing it, that is; her fastidiousness about the disgusting things she put in her mouth amused us both.
“She’s what’s called an omnivore,” I said, “an animal that’s somewhere between an herbivore that only eats plants and a carnivore that only eats meat. Granddaddy says it’s a survival mechanism that allows such creatures to adapt to all sorts of habitats. Coyotes are the same. They can live practically anywhere.”
And she could escape practically anything. There was no cage that could hold her for more than a day or two. She quickly became attached to Travis, chirruping in distress when he locked her up at bedtime.
“I hate to leave her by herself at night,” he said. “She gets so lonely and unhappy.” He cast his eyes at me sideways.
“You must be joking,” I said. “You can’t possibly take her in the house.”
“Well…”
“Absolutely not. I’ll do some research on what we can do to calm her down. But you have to promise—promise—not to even think about taking her inside.”
“Okay. I sure hate to see her sad.”
“Doing some research” sounded much grander than the reality, which was that I went and talked to Granddaddy, the font of all knowledge when it came to kingdom Animalia.
He listened gravely and said, “The kits are admittedly appealing. They are gregarious creatures when young and can be tamed if caught early enough. But the adults rarely make satisfactory pets, and when they reach adulthood, their temperaments change. They are no longer in need of human company, and are, in fact, capable of biting the hand that feeds them.”
“So they really do turn mean later on.”
“Quite so. As for your question about how to keep the animal content in a cage, I suggest you read the Guide to Texas Mammals for suggestions.”
I pulled down the volume and read that baby raccoons are social creatures that become distressed when separated from their family and are happiest when sleeping in a pile of their siblings. And yes, the book confirmed Granddaddy’s pronouncement about the adults.
But when I told Travis that Bandit might turn on him someday, he merely pooh-poohed the idea, saying, “Look at that sweet little face.”
We both looked at Bandit who, at that opportune moment, as if understanding we were discussing her future, sat on her hind legs, cocked her head, and held out her paws as if begging.
“Awww,” my brother and I said together.
We ended up giving her one of J.B.’s old stuffed toys to sleep with, a teddy bear about her size, and she took to it immediately, snuggling with it and trying to groom it, gently exploring the plush fur for fleas and ticks. Having a “littermate” definitely calmed her down and improved her behavior. She grew fat and playful. She and the barn cats cautiously investigated one another, and as they grew accustomed to each other, she even began lining up with them at the twice daily milking of our cow Flossie to have warm milk squirted into her mouth straight from the teat.
After a while, Bandit even gave up on the tug-of-war and submitted to the leash. Then she and Travis began to take actual walks together. Ajax, who knew a varmint when he saw one, charged her on one of these walks. She scampered for her life up the nearest object, which happened to be Travis, climbing up him at great speed, all the way to the top of his head, where she perched, growling and hissing, her claws digging into his scalp. It would have been amusing except for Travis’s cries of pain. I ran to the rescue and hauled the excited dog away. When I scolded him, he looked terribly confused, and why wouldn’t he? He’d been encouraged to chase varmints his whole life; in fact, raccoons were one of his specialties.
Bandit grew, if anything, even more adorable. And she kept us busy figuring out how to secure her cage. Finally we hit upon the perfect combination of latches and levers, all wired shut, and stood back to admire our escape-proof cage.
I said to Travis, “You misnamed her.”
“What do you mean? Bandit’s the perfect name.”
“You should have called her Houdini.”
Two days later, Bandit/Houdini escaped from her “escape-proof” cage. Travis ran to me and begged for help.
“We have to find her. The dogs will get her, or some farmer will shoot her,” he said, fighting back tears. We searched for her everywhere, even going into the scrub, but I knew that if she’d made it that far, we’d never see her again.
Travis was bereft. Lamar mocked his grief and called him a titty-baby well out of earshot of our parents, which was fortunate, as they couldn’t hear Lamar yelp when I kicked him in the shins.
When Travis went out to feed Bunny early the next morning, there was Bandit sitting on top of her cage, waiting for breakfast. I wasn’t witness to the poignant reunion but I heard all about it in detail. The sun returned to Travis’s face and stayed there, at least until the next time she disappeared. This became her pattern: disappearing for a while, returning for a while; happy to see Travis and accept a handout and just as happy to slip away again. Her absences gradually grew longer, as Granddaddy had predicted they would.
Unfortunately, they didn’t grow long enough. One Sunday after returning from church, my parents went upstairs to rest before lunch. Travis was grooming Bunny in the barn when he heard a terrible ruckus in the henhouse, and there crouched Bandit, at her feet a dead hen covered in blood, its neck awry. Travis flew into a panic, knowing she had called a death sentence down upon herself.
Aggie was out for the afternoon, so I was upstairs reading on my comfy old bed instead of the lumpy pallet for a change. He burst into my room without knocking, something he’d never done before, eyes wild, stark terror in his face. For one terrible moment, I thought that someone in our family had died.
“It’s Bandit,” he choked. “She’s killed one of the hens. You’ve got to help me!”
“Help you what?” I said, leaping to my feet, wondering what on earth could be done.
We ran out to the henhouse, where the hysterical inhabitants milled about Bandit in fear and confusion. Her paws and muzzle were smeared with blood, and there was a crazed look in her eyes. I realized she was nearly fully grown and impossible to control. A feather dangled clownishly from the corner of her mouth. Now there were two dead hens instead of one.
“What’ll we do?” he cried.
“Go in there and stop her, Travis.” I ran to the barn and retrieved a stout canvas sack. By the time I got back, Travis had cornered Bandit away from the hens and was trying to entice her within reach, his voice shaking. She looked like no one’s pet; she looked like a wild animal.
I hissed at him, “If you calm down, then she’ll calm down.”
He got himself under control and spoke to Bandit in low, soothing tones. I retrieved a newly laid egg from one of the nests and broke it open on the ground. She was so busy trying to scoop up the runny mess in her paws that she didn’t notice me sneaking up behind her. I flung the sack over her, and she screamed in fury. I held the sack closed but knew I couldn’t contain the boiling raccoon within it for long. It was like grabbing a tiger by the tail.
I wheezed at my brother, who stood there wide-eyed and useless. “Get some rope or some baling wire. Hurry!”
The urgency of my words got through to him, and he jumped into action. A few moments later, he returned from the barn with a length of twine. We tied the neck of the sack, then paused to catch our breath. Travis had streaks of blood on his hands. I was sticky with egg yolk. The sack on the ground chittered and writhed.
We stared at each other, and the light dawned simultaneously that our troubles, far from being over, were in fact multiplying. What swamp of trouble had he mired us in?
In anguish, he whispered, “They’ll kill her if they find out.”
For a split second, I wavered. I could do the responsible thing, the adult thing: go to Father, and thereby break my brother’s heart. Or I could cast my vote with Travis, and we could face the fire together.
&
nbsp; I said, “First we have to get her out of sight. Help me.”
Together we lifted the thrashing sack and carried it into the barn. We hid Bandit near her old cage and then regrouped. Hauling a thirty-pound raccoon around was harder work than you’d think.
I grabbed a shovel and said, “We’ve got to bury the evidence.”
We returned to the pen, where the hens, calmer now, were starting to investigate the bodies of their former sisters. I thought about burying the corpses right there, but we were in sight of the back porch. Better to get them out of there and bury them later. While I spaded dirt over the blood, I ordered Travis to take the dead hens into the barn.
He said, “I … I don’t think I can.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, this is no time to be queasy.” I handed him the shovel and grabbed both hens by the feet and carried them, necks flopping, into the barn.
The next order of business was to clean ourselves up. We went to the trough and took turns scouring each other with my wet handkerchief. Having no mirror, I wiped the blood from his cheek (without telling him what it was), and then he rubbed the egg from my chin. We inspected each other and, although we were somewhat disheveled, decided we could pass cursory inspection.
“Now what do we do?” he said.
“We have to take her as far away as we can. Far enough so that she won’t come back.”
“We could put her in the wheelbarrow and take her down the road to Prairie Lea.”
Although this wasn’t the best plan in the world, I was relieved that he was at least now thinking on his feet.
“We could do that,” I said, “but we’d probably run into someone we know, and it might get back to Mother and Father. I think we’ll have to go downriver on one of the deer paths.” Lucky for us, Sunday afternoons were relatively relaxed, a time of loosened supervision. I figured we could get away with a few hours’ absence.
“Stay here,” I said. “I’ll tell them we’re going on a nature walk.”