out the brick and wrapped it up, again nearly burning myself. This skunk doctoring business was dangerous in ways I hadnât expected.
I hurried out to the barn with my warm bundle.
Travis stood in the gloom next to the cage, looking anxious and biting his nails.
âStop that,â I said. âMother will get all over you about it, and youâre already in trouble for missing breakfast. Look here, Iâve got a way to warm the kit up.â
âYou didnât tell her we have skunks, did you?â
I marveled at the boy. Was he insane? âI told her we had a sick kitten. I told Viola that too. So thatâs what weâve got, right?â
âRight.â
We opened the cage and put the brick between the two. The bigger kit immediately nestled up beside it. The smaller one didnât quite get it, so I picked it up and put it on top of the brick. It rooted around feebly, looking like it was trying to nurse in the fuzzy towel.
âAll right,â I said. âNext, the warm milk. Go and find Flossieâwe wonât need much.â
âSheâs out in the pasture.â
âDoesnât matter. We only need a couple of squirts. Iâve got to find a bottle thatâs small enough. Or a sponge. Ugh, I guess I have to go back into the house again.â
Travis grabbed an empty jar and went out looking for our milk cow. I went back to the house, trying to think what I could use. Weâd hand raised orphaned lambs and piglets with bottles in the past but they were far too big for the kit.
Viola was gone from the kitchen. I rustled around in the pantry but there was nothing we could use.
âThink, Calpurnia, think,â I muttered. Somewhere in my distant past, Iâd seen a tiny little bottle in the house, but where? Then it came to me.
Mother was still sewing in the parlor, so I crept quietly up the stairs so as not to attract her attention. I went into the trunk room, stacked high with wicker traveling trunks, and then up the rickety stairs into the attic. The reek of mothballs grew stronger as I climbed higher. The hatchway into the attic creaked ominously as I pushed it open. Just like in a ghost story.
Oh stop, I told myself. Youâre just being silly.
The attic was dark and piled high with winter quilts. My grandfatherâs war uniform hung from one of the rafters like a dead Confederate soldier, complete with sword. I shuddered and wished Iâd brought a candle with me. In the corner stood our old rocking horse, paint chipped off, scraggly real horsehair mane and tail mostly missing from hard use by many children, including me. All seven of us had outgrown it, but for some reason Mother had not been able to pitch it out.
Over there were my old dolls sitting in a row, dolls I hadnât played with in years. They grinned at me in the gloom and spoke in a whispery chorus: âCalleeeee. Where have you been, Calleeeee? We used to be your dearest friends, but now you have abandoned us in the dark. What do you have to say for yourself, Calleeeee?â
I cleared my throat. âBe quiet. Youâre not really talking. Itâs just my imagination. My overactive imagination.â
âAre you sure, Calleeeee?â
I told myself, Calpurnia, get a grip. I said to the dolls, âOh, shut up.â
And they did.
I opened a tin box full of doll clothes. Buried at the bottom was a tiny glass bottle with a rubber tip. Ha! I congratulated myself on being a clever girl and skedaddled out of there before the dolls could accuse me again. Iâd outgrown them and felt a bit sad about it, but not too sad because now I had other, better things in my life. Now I had my Scientific Notebook and Granddaddy to do experiments with; now I had Dr. Pritzker to teach me about animals. Now I had tadpoles that turned into frogs, caterpillars that grew into butterflies.
I crept back through the house and ran into Viola peeling spuds in the kitchen.
âWhat you