Ajax had another reason to be happy with his lot. Of all the dogs, he was the only Inside Dog. The others, Homer, Hero, and Zeus, were strictly Outside Dogs. They all knew this, but it didn’t stop them from good-naturedly crowding the front door every time it opened, every single time, despite the fact that they were never—ever—let into the house. I loved this particularly fine thing about the dogs: Despite a lifetime of denied entrance, hope never died in their hearts.
No doubt the Outside Dogs thought Ajax lived the life of a pampered lapdog once he made it through the magic door. They didn’t understand that on those infrequent occasions when he was deemed clean enough, dry enough, and flea-free enough to come into the house, he was confined to a corner of the front hall and was forbidden to enter the parlor or go upstairs. Still, there was a clear pecking order based on this accommodation, and he lorded it over the others. The dogs were all a peaceful and tolerant bunch (Father wouldn’t have kept them about the place if they were not), and my younger brothers could crawl all over them as long as they didn’t pull their ears too hard. When that did happen, they—the dogs—sheepishly excused themselves from the scene and slunk out of reach under the porch. Sometimes they nosed around the laboratory, and although Granddaddy seemed fond of them, he never let them in. Come to think of it, he didn’t let any humans in either, except for me.
CHAPTER 5
DISTILLATIONS
We have seen that man by selection can certainly produce great results, and can adapt organic beings to his own uses. . . . But Natural Selection . . . is a power incessantly ready for action, and is as immeasurably superior to man’s feeble efforts, as the works of Nature are to those of Art.
ONE NIGHT WHEN I JOINED Granddaddy in the laboratory, I found that he had had a breakthrough of sorts with his liquor. He held a small vial up to the light and looked at it speculatively.
“Calpurnia,” he said, “I think we may have something that’s approaching drinkable here. I’m not saying it’s good, mind you, but I am saying that it’s no longer nauseating. That other stuff”—he waved at the rows of small stoppered bottles—“is only good, as far as I can tell, for scouring fouled barge bottoms. Now this isn’t exactly good, not yet, but—”
“Why is it better?” I asked.
“I filtered the fourth distillation through a mixture of charcoal, eggshells, pecan husks, and coffee grounds. I think I’ll put it up in oak for a while and see what happens.”
Since none of the other runs had been deemed suitable for preservation this way, this was a big step. He poured it into a baby oak barrel about the size of a loaf of bread.
“Pardon me,” he said, turning to me, “I forgot to offer you some. Do you care to try it and tell me what you think?”
He handed me a tiny measure, a thimbleful. I sniffed it cautiously. It smelled strongly of pecans, which reassured me, and faintly of something else rather like kerosene, which did not. I think he had forgotten that I was just a practically-twelve-year-old.
Granddaddy said, “It’s easier if you hold your nose and down it in one go.”
I pinched my nose and threw the stuff down my throat.
Now, let me tell you, there is a reason why they call it firewater. I exploded into the world’s worst coughing fit as the stuff burned a hole in my gullet. I felt like I’d spontaneously combusted. I think I may have fallen to the ground, but I don’t really remember because I was coughing so hard. I do remember Granddaddy setting me on the arm of his chair and thumping me on the back for several minutes until I could breathe again. He looked at me with consternation as my coughing subsided to spluttering and then, finally, to painful wrenching hiccups.
He studied me. “Are you all right? I suppose you haven’t learned to hold your liquor yet. Here,” he said, pulling a peppermint from his waistcoat pocket, “this will make you feel better.”
I nodded and hiccupped and sucked hard on the peppermint while the tears streamed down my face and my nose ran uncontrollably.
“Oh, dear,” he said. He pulled a huge white handkerchief out of his pocket and applied it to my nose. “Blow.” I honked away and felt somewhat better. He poured me a glass of water from the carafe he kept handy to rinse away the taste of his experiments.
“There, there.” He patted me on the back.
“Well,” he said, “I have to note my observations in the log. And you, as my collaborator, may also make a note on this red-letter day.”
He pulled a lamp close and wrote in the ruled accounts book, his steel nib skritching on the page. The book was filled with the minutiae of his many failed runs. Then he handed me the pen. “Here, note the date and time, your observations in this column, and then place your signature below.”
In my penmanship class at school, we had recently graduated from pencil to ink. I worried about making a blot, but I wrote, not too badly, considering my recent trauma:
Run #437:21 July 1899. It was very good.
Calpurnia Virginia Tate.
Granddaddy looked at my comment. I hiccupped.
“Calpurnia,” he said, looking at me, “as a scientist, you must be truthful about your observations.”
He handed me the pen again. I wrote on the next line:
Might cause some coffing.
Not an inspired or inspiring comment, I admit. In truth it had nearly killed me, but I could hardly write that down. Granddaddy swiveled the ledger to look at this and smiled.
“Indeed,” he said, “and I am to blame. I think it’s best we agree not to tell Margaret or Alfred about this. Unfortunately, they do not understand the principles of scientific inquiry or the sacrifices one must be prepared to make.”
I gawped at him, thinking, Tell my parents? Are you crazy? I’d sooner drink a hogshead of the stuff.
Then we heard Viola ring her bell at the back door. It was time to wash up for dinner. I felt a bit swirly in the head. I hicced again, and we looked at each other.
“Here,” he said. “Better have another peppermint.”
We went into the house, and I managed to wash my hands and change into a clean pinafore without notice. We filed into the dining room. Father held Mother’s chair, and we all sat down. SanJuanna came in and waited by the sideboard to serve. My father began the blessing, and we all bowed our heads.
“Heavenly Father, we thank thee for—”
Hic.
This was a quiet one, and it might have escaped notice except for my rotten brothers. Travis and Lamar rustled and stirred, and Jim Bowie peeked at me over the steeple of his hands. Mother flashed them a look, and they subsided.
“—for the bounty of thy worldly harvest and for this food, which—”
Hic.
My brothers tittered.
“Calpurnia. Boys. Stop it,” hissed Mother.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” I said in a small voice. I knew another one was aborning deep within me, and there wasn’t much I could do about it, but nevertheless, I held my breath and struggled mightily.
“—which nourishes us through the grace of Our Lord—”
Up it came, a giant one this time.
HIC.
Oh, how my brothers fell about the place. Granddaddy stared at the ceiling with interest.
“—Jesus Christ!” said Father, in confusion.
Mother threw her napkin on the table. “That’s it!” she cried. “What on earth has gotten into you? Were you raised in a barn? Go to your room at once. And the rest of you will control yourselves, or you will follow her upstairs. I’ve never heard of such dreadful behavior during grace. And in my own family yet!”
I wanted to explain that I couldn’t help it, I hadn’t done it on purpose, but that would mean revealing Granddaddy’s and my secret, and I would die broken and twisted on the rack before telling. As I got up from the table, Granddaddy studied the chandelier and smoothed his mustache with his forefinger.
I passed behind Mother’s chair, and she said, “What is that smell?”
“Peppermint,” I mumb
led and kept moving. I felt funny and in sudden need of a nap. I trudged up the stairs and could hear Father starting the blessing again from scratch. I shut myself in my room and climbed into my tall brass bed.
I must have fallen asleep because I woke myself up some time later with a loud snore. The sun had set, and I could hear my younger brothers preparing for bed, so I reckoned it to be eight o’clock or so. The fire in my gut had eased somewhat. I sat up and realized I was starving. I had one more hour until my bedtime. Could I make it to the larder without being seen by Mother? It would be tricky.
A soft tap at the door interrupted my planning. Was it Mother come to berate me, or Harry come to rescue me? Neither. It was Travis, the ten-year-old, clutching one of his new litter of kittens, all of which he’d named after gunslingers, outlaws, and others of low repute. “Look,” he whispered as he shoved the furry creature into my hands, “I brought you Jesse James. He’s my best one. He’ll be good company for you.” Then he skedaddled down the hall, not wanting to be caught talking to the condemned prisoner.
Jesse James was some comfort, at least. I took him back to bed, and he purred under my chin and kneaded my shoulder. Just as I dozed off, there was another knock. This time it was Granddaddy, looking solemn. He stood in the doorway, holding a couple of thick books.
“A little something for you to read,” he said, “in your exile.”
“Thank you,” I said, and shut the door as he headed off to his own room. Why was he bringing me books at a time like this? I was too hungry and vexed to read, although the first one, Great Expectations, looked promising. The second one, Principles of Southern Agrarian Economy, did not. But it felt strangely unbooklike in my hands. It turned out to be not a book at all but a wooden box trickily carved and painted to look like a calfbound volume. Strange. I fiddled with it and found the catch and the box opened. Inside was a waxed paper parcel containing a thick roast beef sandwich. I took the sandwich and Great Expectations and sank into my bed with the utmost feeling of luxuriousness. Ahhh. Bed, book, kitten, sandwich. All one needed in life, really.
Half an hour later, Father tapped on the door, calling quietly, “Callie?” I wanted to be left alone with Pip, so I shoved the book under the covers with Jesse James, who mewed in protest. I turned to the wall and pretended to be asleep. Father came in. After a moment, he left, but not before blowing out my lamp, which irritated me no end, as I was not allowed to keep matches in our bedrooms. There was nothing else to do but go to sleep. Besides, the next day brought my piano lesson, and it was always a good idea to be rested and in top form so as not to provoke Miss Brown.
I lay there contemplating my day as I drifted off. My throat still burned, but I was filled with gratification that with all those brothers, I was the first to imbibe. I think. Later I found out that Mother’s health tonic, her Lydia Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound for Women, was nearly 20 percent alcohol.
CHAPTER 6
MUSIC LESSONS
It is most difficult always to remember that the increase of every living being is constantly being checked by unperceived injurious agencies. . . .
THE SUMMER WORE ON, and I found respite in the coolness of the river and the dimness of Granddaddy’s laboratory. My Notebook progressed nicely, each page filled with many Questions, an occasional Answer, and clumsy illustrations of various plants and animals. But despite my pressing new activities, I was not excused from my music lessons.
Our piano teacher, Miss Brown, looked like a thin, dry stick, but she could swing her ruler with plenty of juice when she thought no one was looking. Sometimes she would smack my knuckles so hard that my hands crashed into the keys, causing an ugly dissonant chord to detonate in the middle of the piece. I wonder if my mother, sitting on the other side of the closed pocket doors with her sewing basket, ever puzzled over these frightful noises. For some reason, I didn’t tell her about Miss Brown’s assaults. Why didn’t I? I guess I had the sense that something shameful on my part—I don’t know what—invited these pedagogic outrages. And it’s true that Miss Brown did not attack me at random. Her violence boiled over when I got lost picking my way through the thicket of notes I’d been traversing without mistake all week long. (Of course, the hovering ruler didn’t help.) I was the worst kind of coward; I seethed in silence and never said anything to anybody. And why did only Harry and I have to suffer through this wretched weekly imposition of culture? My other brothers were free and clear.
I learned to play Mr. Stephen Foster for Father and Vivaldi for Granddaddy, who was also partial to Mozart. He would sit in the parlor, sometimes reading, sometimes sitting with his eyes closed, for as long as I would play. Mother was partial to Chopin. Miss Brown was partial to scales.
Later there were Mr. Scott Joplin’s rags, which I learned for myself. They set Mother’s teeth on edge, but I didn’t care. It was the best music my brothers and I had ever heard, with gorgeous cascading chords and an electrifying ragged timing, which compelled the audience to get up and dance. All of my brothers came running when I struck up the opening bars to “The Maple Leaf Rag.” They lurched so wildly around the parlor that Mother feared for the very pictures on the wall. Later we got a gramophone and then I could dance, too. My younger brothers adored running the machine and begged to take a turn, but you had to watch them—they were murder on the crank.
Jim Bowie’s favorite tune was “Kitten on the Keys.” He’d manhandle one of the beleaguered cats up onto the keyboard and coax it with a scrap of ham to walk back and forth. J.B. thought it was a terrific joke. When you’re five years old, I guess it is. It predictably drove Mother up the wall (and me too, though I’d never admit it), which of course added to J.B.’s pleasure. Mother frequently had to resort to a couple of tablespoons of her Lydia Pinkham’s. Sul Ross once asked Mother if I would also get to drink Lydia Pinkham’s when I grew up to be a lady, and she replied mysteriously, “I hope Callie won’t need it.”
Viola would sing alto with me in the kitchen to “Hard Times Come Again No More,” but she refused to listen to Mr. Scott Joplin.
“Music for savages,” she sniffed, which perplexed me.
IT CAME TIME for Miss Brown to present her piano students at a recital held every year at the Confederate Heroes Hall in Lockhart. For the first time, Miss Brown deemed me accomplished enough to be included on the program. To be truthful, it’s just that I couldn’t talk my way out of it for another year. Harry had performed for six years in a row and told me it was a snap. All you had to do was avoid staring into the gas footlights, since the light might blind you and you could pitch off the stage. Also, I had to memorize a piece of music. Miss Brown gave me Beethoven’s Ecossaise in G, which, strangely, had chords not unlike the Joplin rags. Oh, how the ruler twitched with aggravation. “Wrists down! Fingers up! Tempo, tempo, tempo!” Crack. I learned that piece in record time, and soon I was playing it in my sleep. It goes without saying I grew to hate it. My best friend, Lula Gates, had to memorize a piece that was twice as long as mine, but she was ten times a better player than I.
For the great occasion, Mother made me a new white broderie-anglaise dress with many layers of stiff, scratchy petticoats. This was no corset but it definitely ranked as a form of torture. I complained at length and clawed savagely at my legs. I also had a brand-new pair of pale cream kid boots. They took forever to close with the hook, but, once on, they were fine-looking, and I secretly admired them.
Miss Brown taught me how to curtsy, holding my dress out sideways and dipping at the knees.
“No, no,” she said, “don’t grab your skirt like some clodhopper. Think of making wings, like an angel. Like this. Now sink. Slowly! Don’t plummet, child—you’re not a rock.” She made me practice many times before she was satisfied.
Then we had to deal with The Matter of My Hair. Mother had finally noticed that I seemed to have less hair than expected, but I explained that it had snarled so badly over the summer, what with the terrible sticker burrs, that I had been forced to chop out the r
ats’ nests and then cut a smidgen more to even everything up. Mother’s expression grew beady at this but she didn’t say anything to me. She called for Viola to help. Together they spent a good hour brushing and twisting and parleying as if I weren’t even in the room. I didn’t know you could spend so much time on hairstyles. Of course, I couldn’t protest too much because we all understood that this was my punishment for hacking away at it, and only fitting, too.
Then they slathered me with Peabody’s Finest Hair Food, Guaranteed to Produce Lustrous Locks, and set me out in the sun to bake for yet another hour with this revolting sulfur grease on my head. This, I thought, this is what ladies go through?
The one thing that made it bearable was that Granddaddy took pity on my wretched state and brought me one of his books, Fascinating Flora and Fauna of the Antipodes. The picture of the kangaroo showed a baby peeking out of its pouch. (Question for the Notebook: Why don’t people have pouches? Such a convenient way to keep a baby at hand. I tried to picture Mother with J.B. in a pouch. Answer: He’d never fit under her corset.) I yearned to see a kangaroo. And a platypus, a mammal that looked like a bizarre cross between, oh, say, an otter and a duck. Since I’d been lucky enough to see a hippopotamus in a touring circus in Austin, maybe my wishes weren’t so outlandish. I contemplated my chances and fanned a dim ember of hope in my heart as I sat in the sun, reeking like a giant match.
Finally, they put me in the hip bath and took turns pouring buckets of water over me. Then they scoured my head clean and tied up my hair in ringlets with cotton rags that stuck out all over like a frightful job of bandaging. I smelled like brimstone and looked like a casualty from the War. I was an apparition from H–ll.
The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate Page 5