Part 10 (1/2)
”Save it now, and spend it wisely in the future,” he said, ”perhaps on your hope chest and your trousseau.”
My what? Bridal linens? Clothes? Was he kidding? I searched his face for signs of jos.h.i.+ng but there were none. I couldn't believe it. How had this happened? How could I be so misunderstood by my own father? I was a foreigner in my own home, a citizen of some other tribe, a member of some other genus.
He looked puzzled, waiting for some kind of response.
Words failed me. All I could stammer out was, ”Thank you, Father.”
”You're very welcome. Please send Travis in on your way out.” I plunged the coin deep into my pinafore and left the room with a wounded heart. That he could know so little about his only daughter.
Travis, Lamar, and Sul Ross stood lined up in the hallway. Travis took one look at me and whispered, ”Are we in trouble?”
”No, it's good news.”
”So why do you look like that?”
”Never mind. He wants to see you next.”
I retreated to my room and stewed in ambivalence, delighted with my coin and dismayed with my father. Had I been adopted? Had my rightful parents-whoever they were-slipped me into the Tate nest like a cuckoo's egg to be raised by others? Augh, the unfairness of it all. I could only console myself with Granddaddy, and I thanked my lucky stars for him, wis.h.i.+ng he were my father instead of my grandfather, who necessarily had a limited say about my life. I pondered the coin, a literal treasure, then wrapped it in a piece of tissue paper and stashed it in the cigar box under the bed.
A week later, Mother, relieved and gladdened that Aggie was emerging from her sh.e.l.l, suggested a trip downtown to the Fentress General Store. She asked me to come along, and I agreed; trips to the store were usually fine entertainment. I wisely left my gold coin at home so as not to be tempted to spend any of it. While they fingered the various muslins and linens and calicoes, I perused the latest Sears Roebuck Catalogue chained to the counter, good for at least a half hour's diversion. You could buy everything in the world through the catalogue, from overcoats to underwear, from wigs to watches, from pianos to tubas, from snakebite kits to shotguns. You could buy a Singer sewing machine (it's where we'd gotten ours), or you could buy blouses and skirts and other clothes already made up, saving you the trouble of sewing for yourself. Amazing! You could buy curtains and carpets; you could buy a tractor or even one of the newfangled auto-mobiles, and it would magically arrive on your doorstep a mere three months later. Talk about speedy service! You could also buy such mundane things as huge sacks of flour and sugar and beans. The company had been the savior of many a pioneer housewife living on the plains in some wretched sod hut, anxiously scanning the horizon daily for her delivery.
Mr. Gates, Lula's father, came in and bought some shotgun sh.e.l.ls. He tipped his hat to Mother and said, ”Mrs. Tate, you'd best keep an eye out and tell your husband that we're losing chickens. I can't tell if it's a c.o.o.n or fox or what. I got a shot off the other night, and I thought I got it, but we're still losing chickens.”
”Thank you, Mr. Gates. I will certainly pa.s.s that along to my husband.”
We made our purchases, and with admirable efficiency, the clerk wrapped them in brown paper and secured them with coa.r.s.e twine. We had turned to go when Mother said, ”Oh, wait. I forgot to buy your needles, Calpurnia.”
”My what?”
”Your number-three needles.”
”For what?”
”Your Christmas knitting.”
”My what?” I didn't like the turn this conversation was taking.
”Stop it. You sound like that wretched Polly. Thank goodness Mr. O'Flanagan took him off our hands. What was your grandfather thinking? No, I'm talking about your Christmas knitting. This year we move on to gloves.”
My heart plummeted. The previous Christmas, I'd been forced to learn how to knit socks for all my male relatives, who seemingly numbered in the thousands. This painful exercise had kept me away from my nature studies for weeks, and I'd resented every minute of it. The results were lumpy, pathetic items that only vaguely resembled socks. n.o.body ever wore them, and I couldn't say I blamed them. But now this?
”Why should I have to knit,” I said, ”when you can buy perfectly nice gloves from the Sears Catalogue?” In desperation I trotted back to the counter and started riffling through it. ”Look, I can even show you the page. Why would anybody want my gloves, when you can have much nicer ones from Mr. Sears?” I stabbed frantically at the page. ”Look at this: 'Available in all sizes and many pleasing styles and colors.' And look here: 'Your Satisfaction Guaranteed.' That's what it says, right here.”
Mother's lips compressed, always a dangerous sign. ”That is not the point.”
”What is the point?” I said, a sudden flash of anger overwhelming my normally excellent judgment about not asking such insolent questions.
Noticing the clerk displaying an excessive interest in this exchange, Mother threw him a grim smile, took me firmly by the elbow, and pulled me out the door. I won't go so far as to say she yanked me into the street but it was pretty darned close. Aggie scuttled along behind with our parcels, a smirk on her lips.
”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 s.h.i.+rtwaists and skirts; she and Mother discussed fas.h.i.+ons 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 st.i.tches, 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 friends.h.i.+p forged over books. (”I have better things to do than read.”) There was no bedtime ritual of hair brus.h.i.+ng. (”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 a.s.sociation.
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, a.s.signed 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 racc.o.o.n. 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 s.h.i.+ny 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 racc.o.o.n. 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.”