“No, Travis, I told you. She’s not like that.”
“She is awful nice, isn’t she?”
“Travis,” I sighed. “Listen, Travis, you know that Lamar and Sam Houston are sweet on her, too?”
“They are?”
“Yes. I wanted to tell you.”
“I’ll bet lots of fellas are sweet on her.”
This stopped me. I sat down in the straw and stroked Mouser, who looked like she could stand a little attention. “Travis,” I said, “aren’t you sweet on her?”
“I guess so.”
“Then how come you’re not upset?”
“About what?” he said, tickling Jesse James under the chin.
“About Sam Houston and Lamar.”
“Why should I be upset?” He looked at the kittens. “Which one is the next best, do you think, after Jesse James? I think it might be Bat Masterson, don’t you?”
“Which one is that?” I said.
“The orange one. His eyes are the same color as Lula’s. Kind of green and kind of blue. See?” He handed me a protesting Bat Masterson, and I could see that his—or maybe her—eyes were in fact the same color as Lula’s. “Maybe she’ll pick him.”
“Travis,” I said, “you don’t like Lula because she has eyes like your cat, right?”
“No, Callie, course not, don’t be silly.”
“Okay,” I said. “So what about Sam Houston? What about Lamar?”
He looked at me, puzzled, and I realized that he had no clue what I was talking about. But he would grow and change and understand soon enough. “Never mind,” I said. “Your cats sure are cute.”
The next morning I walked to school with Travis, letting my other brothers set off ahead of us. Lula met us at the bridge. She wore a white pinafore and a dark green hair ribbon that made her eyes look exactly the same color as Bat Masterson’s. She seemed pleased to see Travis. They talked all the rest of the way about cats, dogs, horses, school, Halloween, Christmas, and so on. You wouldn’t think a twelve-year-old girl would have much to say to a ten-year-old boy, but you’d be wrong. To my relief, the others left Travis alone all day.
But the walk home was another story. Travis again latched on to Lula, and so did Lamar. I wanted to run on ahead, but danger hung in the air.
“Hi, Lula,” said Lamar, spying an opportunity. “Can I carry your books home for you?”
Both Lula and Travis flushed. “Thank you, Lamar,” she said, and handed him her book strap. There was an awkward silence as we walked on. Then Lamar said, “So, Lula, how come you walk home with a baby like Travis? Why don’t you walk home with a real man like me?” He made a muscle with his arm. “Look, Lula, tough as whang.”
Oh, Lamar. You shouldn’t have. The look on Travis’s face, and Lula’s.
Travis cried, “I’m not a baby,” in a high unsteady voice, which of course made him sound exactly like one.
“I’m not a baby,” Lamar mimicked him.
“Quit it, Lamar,” I said. “You don’t have to be so mean.”
“What a baby, has to have his sister stand up for him. Titty-baby.”
This was too much to bear in front of Lula. Travis, the most placid of my brothers, dropped his books, rushed at Lamar, and shoved him with all his might. Lamar staggered and dropped Lula’s books and his lunch pail but managed to keep to his feet. I could see that Lamar was startled by this display but not in the least hurt. He yelled, “Baby!”
Travis teetered on the verge of tears. He wheeled and raced for home as fast as he could, sending up puffs of dust in the road. “Baby! Coward!” called Lamar. But I knew it wasn’t cowardice that sent Travis flying down the road. He didn’t want to shame himself and cry in front of Lula. Like a baby.
The three of us stood in the road in an awkward silence. I picked up Travis’s books. Lula cleared her throat and said, “I’ve got to go home. Bye.” She scrambled for her own books and had them gathered up before Lamar could reach them, and then she took off, her long braid flopping as she ran.
“Hey, Lula!” Lamar called after her. “Hey, Lula!” But she gave no sign she’d heard him and kept on running.
“Lamar,” I said, “sometimes you are such an amazing pill.”
“What are you talking about? He attacked me. He punched me. He hurt me.”
“He did not. I’m gonna tell Mother on you.”
“You snitch,” he said.
“You pill,” I said.
“Tattletale,” he said.
“Meanie.”
“I don’t want to walk with you.”
“Fine. I don’t want to walk with you.”
“I’m going ahead.”
“No, I’m going ahead.”
“Well, go right ahead then!”
And, in a lather of irritation, we were both home before we knew it.
Our family took a dim view of snitching and tattling. Why, I don’t know. I walked through the front door, weighing the cost of telling versus not telling, when I was saved from making a decision by Mother calling me into the parlor.
“Calpurnia. Come in here and tell me what’s wrong with Travis.”
“Um, maybe you better ask Lamar,” I said, as he tried to slink past me in the hallway.
“Lamar, come in here and explain,” she said. Travis was sitting on the carpet at her feet, hugging his knees, his face flushed and swollen. He threw a furious look at Lamar.
“What happened at school today?” she said. She nodded at Travis. “He won’t tell me anything.”
Lamar looked surprised. He hadn’t expected that.
“Lamar?” said Mother. He looked away and wouldn’t answer.
“Calpurnia? What happened?” I looked at Travis for guidance, but his face was blank. “Calpurnia, I’m not asking you to tell me, I’m ordering you to tell me. Right this minute.”
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