The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

So I told, hoping that both brothers would understand that I was under orders and had no choice. Mother listened in silence to my whole story, starting with Lula. To my surprise, she looked more sad than angry. She doled out a light punishment of extra chores, and that, we hoped, was the end of that.

But boys being boys, and Lula being a beauty, it was not.

The next several days were a cauldron of anxiety for me, and for Travis too, no doubt. Lula came to pick a kitten at a time she and I had arranged together, making sure that none of my brothers was around. To my relief, she chose Belle Starr.

I was constantly on guard against Lamar and Sam Houston on the trips to and from school, and it started to wear on me. I got to the point where I couldn’t stand it anymore, and after dinner one night, I called them together out on the porch and said, “Look, you can’t keep herding me and Lula about like sheep. I’m tired out. You’ve got to leave us alone. You’ve got to leave each other alone. If you don’t agree not to fight, I’ll make sure that she never speaks to any of you ever again. As long as you all live.”

I wasn’t sure how I could manage that, but I was the resident Lula expert, their beloved’s best friend, and I spoke with such conviction that they believed me.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I said. “Each of you can walk with us one day a week. Travis, you get Monday, Lamar gets Wednesday, and Sam Houston gets Friday. That’s that.”

“What about Tuesday and Thursday? Who gets those?” said Sam Houston.

“Nobody does. You leave us alone. I’m not kidding. Any questions?”

To my great satisfaction there were none.

CHAPTER 11

KNITTING LESSONS

Natural selection will modify the structure of the young in relation to the parent, and of the parent in relation to the young.

THE LULA SYSTEM I’d devised ended up working well enough, at least for the next few weeks. I invited her over to play piano after school, and we learned a couple of popular duets at our mothers’ request. We knew we wouldn’t have to play them at the next recital. Or any recital, for that matter. Then I made the mistake of inviting her over to work on one of our Domestic Arts assignments together and Mother got a good look at her stitches. Lord have mercy, how could I have been so stupid?

“Calpurnia,” said Mother a few days later, in a tone I dreaded, “I think it’s time you graduated from knitting scarves to socks. There’s nothing like good, thick woollen socks made by a pair of loving hands. If we start now, you’ll have time to make a pair for all your brothers before Christmas, maybe even for Father and Grandfather, as well. Wouldn’t that be nice? Bring your knitting bag, and we’ll sit in the parlor.”

The pressure was on.

I sighed and put down my magnifying glass. I was in the middle of preserving a particularly nice specimen of Viceroy butterfly in a framed glass to hang next to Granddaddy’s specimens in the library, but it was raining outside and the delicate work was tough without direct sunlight.

Mother seemed pleased by the skeins of new wool that she pulled from her own bag, which bristled with needles of every size. The wool was a fine dark chocolate brown and bound in thick hanks. She sat with her hands out like paddles while I unwound the skeins and rewound them into a ball. Although I was not excited at the prospect of knitting socks, the rhythmic shuttling of the wool back and forth was hypnotic, and I grudgingly had to admit that there might be worse ways to spend a rainy day. Might be. Mother also seemed calmed and relaxed by this timeless domestic ritual; knitting always seemed to soothe her headaches, and she didn’t need such frequent doses of Lydia Pinkham’s.

The weather had cooled somewhat. Although it wasn’t warranted, a small fire of pecan logs popped in the fireplace to foster the illusion that summer was well past us. Travis wandered in with Jesse James and Billy the Kid. He dangled some wool before them and soon had them springing back and forth and tumbling on the carpet. Lamar came in and at Mother’s request put some Schubert songs on the gramophone.

“Let’s start with socks for Jim Bowie, shall we?” said Mother. “Some small plain ones. We’ll learn about patterns later. Cast on a row of, oh, let’s say forty stitches, and we’ll start at the calf.” She handed me four tiny knitting needles.

“Four?” I frowned. “What do I do with four?”

“You knit in a perpetual circle instead of turning back at the end of a row.”

Help! I was clumsy enough with two needles. This was going to be much worse than I thought. Mother made encouraging noises while I cast on the first row of my first sock. There were so many sharp needle points sticking out at unexpected angles that it was like juggling a porcupine.