The Curious World of Calpurnia Tate (15 page)

“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.

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.”

I ran to the back porch, took a moment to smooth myself down, and went into the kitchen, where Viola was cooking lunch. The second she laid eyes on me, she said, “What is it? What's wrong?” There was real worry in her face, so apparently I didn't look as normal as I thought. Her concern, along with the stress roiling within me, was almost too much. How easy it would be to break down in tears right then and there, but this was a luxury neither I nor Travis could afford. For better or worse, my brother's happiness depended on me.

I got a grip and said, “Will you please tell Mother that Travis and I are going on a nature walk? We won't go far, and we'll be back by supper.” I ran out the door before she could quiz me further, and before I broke down.

Travis spoke soothing words to Bandit, who uttered sporadic protests. I was grateful that the sack was made of thick canvas, but with her wily brain and dexterous paws, I worried about how long it would hold her. She was probably plotting her escape at that very moment.

“Come on, we have to hurry. We'll take the path to the inlet.” Neither of us owned a watch, but I reckoned by the sun that we had about four hours, maybe five at the most.

I took the two dead hens. Travis lifted the sack to hissing and muttering; we set off, alternately trotting and walking through the scrub. At the inlet I dropped the two sad corpses into the shallow water, where the assorted wildlife would be grateful to receive them.

We pressed on, taking turns with our unhappy burden. If you think it's easy carrying a grumbling, thrashing sack of raccoon for miles, think again. Sometimes we lugged her between us, and sometimes we slung the sack over our backs like Santa Claus toting the world's most uncooperative gift. Often we had to stop and rest. We had not a crumb of food between us and nothing to drink but river water. At one point, Travis proposed we open the sack and give Bandit some water too, but hastily retracted his suggestion when he saw the look on my face.

We struggled on, branches whipping us in the face, thorns tearing our legs, sweat bees and no-see-ums adding to our torment, but thankfully, we saw no one and no one saw us. Finally, when we could go no farther, we collapsed in a heap. I judged we were about halfway to Prairie Lea.

Travis panted, “Thanks, Callie. I guess I owe you one.”

“Wrong. You owe me about a million. Now open the sack.”

I watched his face change with the realization that the moment of farewell was at hand.

He had barely loosened the rope when Bandit's sharp, impatient nose protruded and she shoved her way out, more than ready for her freedom. She scampered off a few yards and then sniffed the ground, sniffed the air, turned, and sniffed at us. Then she ambled back to Travis and gave him one of those expectant, where's-my-dinner kind of looks.

I said, “Go on, Bandit, go away,” and stamped my foot. She ignored me. “Travis, we have to go. Turn away, don't look at her. Come on and follow me. Right now.” I headed back down the trail.

“Bye, Bandit,” he said, and I heard the agony in his voice. “Be a good girl. Have a nice life and be a good girl.” He dashed the tears from his eyes and followed me.

And Bandit followed him.

“Stop,” I cried, and waved my arms at her. She barely glanced my way.

“Travis,” I said in mounting desperation, “you have to make her go.”

She stood up on her hind legs and put her paws on his knees. Tears streamed down his face and fell into her fur. He reached down to pick her up, and I screamed, “Don't, you're killing her! If she comes back, they'll shoot her. You know they will.”

Stricken, he said, “Go 'way, Bandit.” Then more sternly, “Scoot!” He pushed her off his knee, and she looked at him with, I swear, puzzlement.

“Yell at her,” I said. “Chase her off.”

He raised his voice and flapped his arms. “Scoot, Bandit!”

“Louder,” I said. “More.”

He screamed at her, and she looked uncertain. He charged at her, and she backed away.