The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

by Jacqueline Kelly

  “You want me to take a picture of a plant?” he kept saying. He may have been able to work a camera, but he was slow to catch on to our request. Granddaddy explained again what he wanted. The reluctant Mr. Hofacket said, “Well, I’ll have to charge you my usual rate. That’s one dollar for each portrait.”

  “Done,” said Granddaddy without hesitating. Mr. Hofacket looked chagrined, like maybe he was kicking himself for not charging a special plant premium.

  “All right,” he said. “Come on back into my studio. Little girl, you wait out here.”

  “No, sir,” said Granddaddy. “She’s part of this expedition.” Mr. Hofacket looked at him and then led us through the curtains without saying another word.

  In the back were various chairs and chaises and wicker stands. Everything looked familiar, which was disconcerting until I realized I had seen all this stuff before in different family portraits scattered throughout the whole county, the same props used over and over again. Mr. Hofacket fumbled in a drawer and produced a sheet of plain white paper. Then he opened another drawer and found an empty photo album, undid the binding, and pulled out a sheet of rough black paper.

  “Like this?” he said to Granddaddy. “You want a black one and a white one both?”

  “That will be fine.”

  “Okay,” said Mr. Hofacket, still having trouble with the concept. “It’s your money.”

  “Yes, sir, and soon it will be yours,” said Granddaddy expansively, in as good a mood as I’d ever seen him, especially considering he’d taken no whiskey that I knew of. He winked at me, and I tried to wink back, but I could only do it with both eyes at once, which made me look stupid. Another important skill I needed to work on.

  Mr. Hofacket tacked the white piece of paper to the wall and then placed the Plant on a wooden box in front of it. Then he rolled his big bellows camera into place and started fiddling with it.

  “Closer,” said Granddaddy. “As close as you can get while still preserving the detail. We need to be able to make out that hooked leaf, that one hanging right there.”

  “That there?” said Mr. Hofacket, amazed. “That’s what you want a picture of?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Hofacket frowned. “If I move in too close, it’ll be a blur. Let me think about this for a minute.” He examined the Plant from this angle and that. Then he said, “I think we need some extra light coming from this direction. That will throw this part here into relief, and the flash will show it better.” He wheeled a cunning rolling rack of stacked lanterns up next to the Plant and lit them, nine lanterns in all. He turned the rack this way and that until he was satisfied with the angle of the bright light it cast.

  Then he looked through his lens, and said, “Okay, this is the best I can do. But I got to warn you, you got to pay me even if you don’t like the results.”

  “Yes, sir, I understand.” That didn’t seem fair to me, but Granddaddy was not troubled.

  “Even if you can’t see that . . . that thing hanging there.”

  “Sir, I accept your terms. Here,” he said, reaching into his pocket, “let me pay you now.”

  “Naw, naw,” said Mr. Hofacket. “I just wanted to make sure you understood.” He filled his tray with flash powder and then ducked under his black cloth, and a second later we heard a soft foop as the room erupted with brilliant white light, stunning my vision for several long seconds.

  “Don’t move around until you can see good again,” warned Mr. Hofacket as he emerged from his tent. “Once I had a lady trip and nearly break her darn foot.” He pulled the plate out of his camera, turned and saw me, and said, “Oops, missy, I’m sorry about the language. Pretend you didn’t hear that and please don’t tell your mama. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He took the plate and disappeared into a tiny closet. We could hear him clinking and sloshing around in there, and he emerged a few minutes later holding a floppy photograph with a pair of wooden tongs.

  “I don’t normally bring it out while it’s still wet, but I thought you’d like to see it,” he said. “Don’t touch it.”

  We looked and there it was: the Plant and, clearly visible at the base of the stem, the Very Important Tiny Leaf.

  Granddaddy grinned. “That’s fine work, sir, most fine.”

  Mr. Hofacket flushed and ducked his head, and I swear he would have kicked a clod if there’d been one on his studio floor. He mumbled, “You like it?”

  “It’s perfect. I am most gratified.”

  “The shape of that there leaf is real clear.”

  “It’s admirable, sir. Admirable. Let’s do the other one.” I think Mr. Hofacket would have stood there all day and drunk in the praise he’d earned during this strangest of undertakings. He set the Plant in front of the black paper this time and repeated the process all over. I closed my eyes before the magnesium flared, but I still saw dazzling fireworks, even through my eyelids. Mr. Hofacket hurried out with the next picture to more praise. Now that he was part of the project, he peppered Granddaddy with questions about new species, the Smithsonian, Washington, et cetera.

  I was putting the Plant back in its cardboard box to head home when Granddaddy said, “Wait, Calpurnia. Mr. Hofacket, one more picture, I think.” He put the Plant on a fancy wicker fern stand.

  “Calpurnia, you stand on this side, and I will stand here.” I smoothed my pinafore, and Granddaddy patted his beard. I stood tall and proud in my very best posture.

  “Hold your breath,” called Mr. Hofacket. “Don’t breathe, now. Three, two, one.”

  This time, the flare in our faces could have stopped a rhinoceros in its tracks. The whole world went white. I wondered if this was what snow looked like. Mr. Hofacket yakked away as my vision gradually returned. He carried all three portraits to the front counter and was about to stamp his embossed gold HOFACKET’S FINE PORTRAITURE seal on the lower left corner of each one when Granddaddy stopped him.

  “Sir,” he said, “kindly put your seal on the back of the portraits as they are scientific exhibits, and the images themselves must remain plain.” Mr. Hofacket’s face fell until Granddaddy said, “With your seal on the back, the world will still know that you took these photographs. You may put your seal on the front of the one of me and my granddaughter to memorialize this day.” He handed him three silver dollars.

  The photographer wrapped the pictures in brown paper and tied them with twine. It was time for us to leave, but he was loath to let us go. He walked us out to the gig, still talking. He insisted on holding the Plant in its box while I climbed into the gig. Fascinated, he stared at it as if expecting it to address him. I opened the parasol and took the Plant on my lap, and Granddaddy clucked to the horse. Mr. Hofacket stood in the road and yelled, “Good-bye, come back soon. Good-bye, and be sure to tell me what happens. Be sure to let me know if they like my photographs!”

  “When we get home,” said Granddaddy, “I’m going to write a letter and send the photographs off right away. Then we have nothing to do but wait, which is sometimes the hardest part. Give our specimen some more water, won’t you?”

  On the long drive back to Fentress, my grandfather and I had energy to spare. We burned up some of it singing sea chanteys and pirate songs with naughty words, being careful to switch to hymns when other riders came into view. We made it home at dinnertime, dusty and worn out but still elated by our day. We put the Plant to bed in the laboratory and joined the others inside.

  Dinner lasted an eternity.

  “What news from Lockhart?” said Father.

  “Cotton futures are up, I believe,” said Granddaddy, “and Calpurnia and I had our photograph made.”

  “You did?” said Sul Ross. He looked at me accusingly. “How come you got a photograph?”

  “To mark a red-letter day,” said Granddaddy. He looked around the table. “Calpurnia and I may have discovered a new species of plant.”

  “That’s nice,” said Mother, looking distracted.

  “What kind of plant?” said
Harry.

  “Please pass the potatoes,” said Lamar.

  “It may possibly be a new species of vetch,” said Granddaddy.

  “Oh,” said Sam Houston. “Vetch.”

  Oh. Vetch. Bloody red murder raged in my bosom. I wanted to fly across the table at him, but instead I frothed in silence through the rest of that interminable meal. Never before had the obligatory dinner conversation sounded so inane. Never before had I seen my family as such half-wits, such hayseeds, such dolts. The only saving grace was that Father, as a cattle owner, appreciated the importance of a possible new strain of “oh, vetch” and asked if it could be used for feed, but I was in too much of a snit to pay attention.

  Finally, finally, it was over, and Granddaddy and I retired to the library and closed the door. He took one of the tiny keys off his waistcoat chain, opened the locked drawer to his desk, and pulled out some sheets of thick, cream-colored writing paper.

  He said, “Light the lamp, Calpurnia. Let us cast some light in the shadowy corners of Terra Incognita. Let us hold high the lamp of knowledge and expunge another dragon from the map. We shall write to the Smithsonian Institution.”

  I set a match to the kindling in the fireplace and ran and got extra lamps and set them around the perimeter of his blotter like an intimate constellation. He dipped his pen, paused and stared into space, dipped his pen again, and then wrote in his old-fashioned hand,

  August 8, 1899

  Dear Sirs,

  It has come to our attention during our daily rambles in this small corner of Caldwell County, located in the center of Texas, forty-five miles (approx.) due south of the State Capital of Austin, that there may be a new species of vetch, which we have the honor to present to you gentlemen. The plant is, on first inspection, a common member of the lowly pasture Vicia villosa, also known as hairy vetch. However, you will see, as described below and from the photographs . . .

  It took him two full pages to describe the Plant and the Very Important Tiny Leaf. And at the end he signed it, as I looked over his shoulder,

  Faithfully yours,

  Walter Tate and Calpurnia Virginia Tate

  He sat back in his chair. “There we are,” he said. “We shall see. We shall have to wait and see.”

  I put my hand on his shoulder. He took a slow deep breath and said, “I thought the day would never come, my girl. I thought I might die before it happened.”

  And there we were. A new species. A photograph. And me, his girl.

  CHAPTER 13

  A SCIENTIFIC

  CORRESPONDENCE

  When a race of plants is once pretty well established, the seed-raisers do not pick out the best plants, but merely go over their seed-beds, and pull up the “rogues,” as they call the plants that deviate from the proper standard.

  THE PLANT TOOK UP RESIDENCE in the southern windowsill of the laboratory and, after some anxiety on my part, grabbed a firm hold on life. We inspected it several times a day, vigilant for signs of under- or overwatering, too much or too little sun, spider mites, drafts, chlorosis, general malaise. Every time I found a ladybug, I rushed it to the Plant to stand guard for pests, but my tiny crimson sentries always wandered off. We made detailed daily notes in the log, a crisp new marbled-cover book reserved for the Plant. Terrified that somebody might toss the Plant out in some misplaced fit of tidying up, I tacked a small warning sign beneath the flowerpot:

  EXPERIMENT IN PROGRESS. DO NOT

  MESS WITH THIS PLANT. I MEAN IT.

  Calpurnia Virginia Tate (Callie, Vee).

  Twelve days later, we received our first correspondence about the Plant. From Mr. Hofacket. He wrote asking if we’d received word from the Smithsonian. He’d put copies of the photographs in his window between the stiff bride and the naked baby lolling on a white bearskin rug, and several new customers had come into the shop to inquire after the curious pictures of a nondescript weed.

  “Calpurnia, you are part of this endeavor,” Granddaddy said. “Would you please write to Mr. Hofacket and remind him again that it is far too soon to receive word about this? I told him repeatedly that it would be months. Nevertheless, we must cultivate enthusiasm in the layman whenever and wherever we find it.”

  Ah! An assignment to enter into a scientific correspondence—of sorts—with an adult. I wrote my draft in pencil, and when I was satisfied with my efforts, I sought out Granddaddy to show it to him. I knocked on the library door, and he called out, “Enter if you must.” I found him poking through one of his lizard drawers, muttering something about a missing specimen.

  “Calpurnia, have you seen my five-lined skink? It should be filed here between the four-lined and the many-lined, naturally, but I seem to have misplaced it.”

  “Uh, no, sir, I haven’t, but I have written a letter back to Mr. Hofacket, and I need you to look at it.”

  “Mister who?” he said, rummaging.

  “The photographer. You remember, in Lockhart.”

  “Ah, yes.” He waved me away and said, “I trust you’ve done a fine job. Yes, yes, go ahead and send it. Here are the newts,” he murmured. “Here are the salamanders. Where are the rest of the skinks?”

  I was thrilled to the marrow. I was about to run from the room when I remembered another problem.

  “I have no stamp, Granddaddy,” I said.

  “Hmm? Oh, here we go,” he said, digging in his pocket for a coin. He gave me a dime, and I took it and ran upstairs to my room. I pulled out a new nib and my box of good glossy foolscap paper reserved for special occasions. I arranged these items on my vanity and sat down. It wasn’t a long letter, but it took me an hour to make the final copy.

  August 20, 1899

  Dear Sir:

  Your letter of Wednesday instant at hand. My grandfather Captain Walter Tate requests that I inform you that we have, as yet, received No Word from The Smithsonian Institution. My grandfather, Captain Walter Tate, wishes you to know that he will send correspondints the moment he receives Word. My grandfather conveys his complimints and appreciates your interest in the Subject.

  I remain, vy truly yrs,

  Calpurnia Virginia Tate

  (granddaughter of Captain Walter Tate)

  I put it in a nice thick envelope and clattered down the stairs, determined to get it in the post that day.

  Travis and Lamar were playing Cowboys and Indians on the front porch, firing popguns at each other. I ignored their cries of “Hey, Callie! Where you going?” and ran as fast as I could. I didn’t feel like sharing, and I didn’t feel like explaining. They had their own lives. And now I have mine, I thought, exulting as I ran.

  I made it to the post office in record time, puffing and covered in fine road dust. Mr. Grassel, our postman, stood behind the counter. There was something wrong with Mr. Grassel, but I wasn’t sure what. He always made a great show of waiting on the Tates; he kowtowed to my parents when they came in. He pretended to like children, most of all the Tate children, but I could tell he really didn’t. He chatted with Lula Gates’s mother and handed her a parcel. I waited like a polite child.

  “Good afternoon, Callie,” Mrs. Gates said, noticing me a minute later. “Is your family keeping well? Your mother is not too bothered by her headaches, I hope?”

  “Hello, Mrs. Gates,” I said. “We are all keeping well, thank you. And you?”

  “We are all well, thank goodness.”

  After a few more pleasantries and her urging me to convey her respects to my mother, she left. I edged up to the counter and placed my envelope on it so that I wouldn’t have to put it in Mr. Grassel’s hand. His puffy palms were always sweaty. He made my skin crawl.

  “So, Missy Tate,” he said, picking it up and inspecting it, “you are writing to Lockhart, I see.”

  “I want a stamp,” I said, teetering on the knife edge of rudeness.

  He narrowed his eyes. Was I being impertinent or not?

  “Please, sir,” I added, a finely timed second later.

  Mr. Grassel looked at the
address on my envelope. “Going to get your pitchur made at Hofacket’s?” He often asked who you were writing to and why. Mother said it was the height of rudeness for a public servant with privileged knowledge to pry, and for once I had to agree with her.

  “Yes.” A pause. “Sir.” Then because I was filled with daring on this special day, I added in my sweetest little girl voice, “I’m going to get my pic-ture made.”

  His mouth tightened. Ha! I pushed my dime across the counter at him. He took a stamp, dampened it on a small sponge, stuck it on my envelope with a dramatic flourish and said, “Any kind of special occasion?”

  “No. Sir.”

  He ostentatiously counted my eight cents change and held it out so that I was forced to hold up my hand to receive it.

  “Whole family?” he said, pressing my fingers with his moist palm.

  “What?” I said.

  “Whole family going? Or just you, little lady? Why, you’re a real pitchur unto yourself—oh, excuse me, make that pic-ture.”

  “Yessir!” I cried as I wheeled and ran out of there, hugging the private precious nugget of the Plant to myself. I would never share that knowledge with him. You might as well tell your news to the whole town.

  And what if it turned out that Granddaddy was—God forbid—wrong? I could bear it if he was wrong, but I couldn’t bear other people making fun of him. I had noticed in passing that he remained well-esteemed in the community due to his building of the gin and other business enterprises in decades long past, but there was sometimes a tinge of mockery of his present pursuits. I’d heard him called “the Perfessor” by various semiliterate wags about town in tones that might have been termed faintly derisive. My grandfather didn’t care what others thought of him, but I did. I cared. My disloyal thoughts were followed by a stout, And what if he’s right? Of course he was right; he had to be. In our time together, I’d never known him to be wrong about anything. He might misplace a five-lined skink from time to time (and who did not?), but he was never wrong about the facts.