The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

by Jacqueline Kelly

  By noon, Viola had her choice of bird to put in the oven. SanJuanna and I sat in the pantry and polished the good silver. Then we pulled the pink floral china that Mother had inherited from her mother out of its straw-filled crate and wiped it all down. Viola clanged about in the kitchen nonstop for hours with a plug of snuff in her lip, bringing forth our massive dinner out of clouds of steam. Travis stayed in his room the whole day, and no one had the courage to drag him out.

  Finally, by six o’clock, the house redolent of enticing smells, Viola rang her bell at the back door and pounded the gong. Travis came out of his room and trooped silently in to dinner with the rest of us. Nobody looked at him.

  Father said a grace of thanks that felt like it went on forever and then he carved the enormous bird. I studied the pattern of pink roses on my plate. Travis kept his head down. He didn’t speak a word; he didn’t cry. We passed the platter of turkey self-consciously and did our best to pretend he wasn’t casting a wet tarpaulin over our entire feast. Mother excused him from holding up his conversational end. He never noticed that I bore some substantial scratches on my arms and that Granddaddy’s nails were rimmed with crescents of dark paint.

  We slowly plowed our way through the turkey, the giblet-and-smoked-oyster stuffing, the braised sweetbreads, peppery venison sausage, sweet glazed yams, crusty roasted potatoes in their jackets, buttered limas and wax beans, velvety corn pudding, tart stewed tomatoes with okra, cabbage with chunks of sugar-cured pork, puckery pickled beets, creamed spinach-and-onion compote. For dessert we had a pecan pie, a lemon pie, a mincemeat pie, and a tart apple pie (my only contribution, made by me two days prior to keep me out of Viola’s way on the big day itself), all grandly displayed on the sideboard. Despite the pall hanging over us, small pockets of spontaneous merriment broke out here and there.

  Harry got the wishbone, and while we waited for SanJuanna to cut the pies, he got up and walked around the table to share it with Travis. I didn’t think Travis would pull it but he did, and he got the long end. When we urged him to tell us his wish, he stared into space and said quietly, “I wish I had a donkey. Just a little one. And maybe a little cart for him to pull. I would name him Dinkey the Donkey. That’s what I would call him.”

  “Why do you want a donkey?” said Harry.

  “Because I don’t think people eat donkeys. Do they?”

  Mother looked drawn. “No, dear, not as far as I know.”

  “Then Dinkey would be safe, and that would be all right. And that’s my wish.”

  The table was silent except for Jim Bowie, who looked alarmed and said, “Are we eating a donkey? I don’t want to eat a donkey. They have pretty eyes.”

  “No, J.B., we aren’t eating a donkey,” said Mother. “It’s turkey. Please finish your plate or there’ll be no dessert.”

  “Are we eating Travis’s turkey?” said J.B.

  “No, it’s someone else’s turkey,” I said quickly. “We traded, remember?”

  “Oh. Okay. Can I look after the turkeys next time?” J.B. said in his innocence. None of us knew what to say to him.

  “No, you can’t,” said Mother. “It’s Sul Ross’s turn.”

  “No,” I said. “It’s my turn, remember?” Wondering, even as I opened my mouth, how much I was going to regret this. I meant only to sound determined, but apparently there was a measure of grimness in my voice because the conversation momentarily stopped, and everyone, including Travis, looked at me. But it was part of the hard bargain I’d made with Granddaddy, who only regarded me from his end of the table and nodded in approval.

  CHAPTER 23

  THE FENTRESS FAIR

  How fleeting are the wishes and efforts of man! how short his time! and consequently how poor will his products be, compared with those accumulated by nature. . . .

  I HAD NO CHOICE. Miss Harbottle had proposed the motion on the floor that all the girls in school enter handiwork in the fair, and Mother had seconded it. So Mother and Viola came to my room and inspected the various projects that I had laid out on my bed. There were three pairs of brown woollen socks for my brothers, a crocheted baby’s jacket to give to the poor, and an asymmetrical tatted lace collar, rather awkward on the side where I’d begun it and somewhat tidier where I’d finished up. I also had a piece of pathetic quilting so primitive that it looked like it had been done by Toddy Gates, Lula’s addle-brained brother. Mother shuddered and turned away, and she and Viola conferred and clucked over the remaining pieces. With much sighing, they chose the tatted collar.

  Mother mused absently as she wrapped it in tissue paper, “I wonder if the family name has to go on it.” She looked up and saw our shocked expressions and said hastily, “Of course it does.”

  On reflection, anonymity sounded like a fine idea to me, and I said, “Do you think I could enter anonymously? That would be all right with me.”

  Mother flushed and said, “Don’t be silly. You should have thought of that while you were making it, young lady. Of course your name—our name—will be on it.” Still, she looked thoughtful. But whether she did or did not ask Miss Harbottle if this was possible, it didn’t matter. My name was going to be stuck on my work. I knew it served me right.

  None of the boys had been forced to enter anything, but Travis voluntarily entered his Angora rabbit, Bunny. Bunny was an enormous, docile, fluffy white creature that Travis combed regularly for his silky hair, which he then gave to a local spinner, who in turn re-presented it to Mother in the form of the world’s softest wool. Travis had briefly considered entering a calf in the yearling division, but fortunately Harry had had the presence of mind to point out to him what inevitably happened to the winning specimens in the cattle divisions. Following this, Travis had driven us, and the fair organizers, mad with his obsessive checking and rechecking that Bunny was entered in the rabbit/fur competition and not the rabbit/meat competition.

  Sam Houston had carved a recognizable profile of President McKinley out of pecan wood, a difficult wood to work, and entered it in the juvenile whittling division.

  Except for my pathetic entry, it was bound to be a stupendous day, especially since we all had some money in our pockets saved up from working at the gin; I still had fifteen cents left over from babysitting during the harvest, despite subcontracting to Sul Ross. I considered spending some of it on a brand-new drink we’d all heard about, Coca-Cola.

  The day dawned clear, and although we had to travel only a mile to the other end of town, the whole family, including Granddaddy, piled into the long-bed wagon. Travis held Bunny on his lap in a chicken-wire cage that was too small for him. The rabbit’s fur pressed through the wire, and white wisps of it floated away in the sunlight like tiny clouds. We parked among a motley collection of farm wagons and gigs and dogcarts pulled up higgledy-piggledy on the grassy field adjoining the many tents.

  Mother gave us our final instructions before we scattered. Travis took Bunny off to the Small Livestock tent, and I headed for Domestic Arts with my entry safely shrouded in brown paper so that no one could see it.

  I went by the cakewalk in a marquee festooned with many curls of flypaper. Along with the cakes, various young ladies of the county had prepared picnic lunches, and whoever bid highest on the lunch got to sit with the young lady to enjoy her company and share the delectables from her hamper. All the money raised went to the Volunteer Fire Department. I guess this was the rusticated equivalent of coming out.

  I hurriedly dropped off my entry and went wandering around. The Odd Fellows’ band wheezed away, pumping out a steady supply of festive waltzes and marches that could be heard all over the grounds. I saw my brothers here and there in the crowd, and some of my friends from school. I watched Sam Houston win a tin whistle at the ring toss, and later I saw one exactly like it in Lula’s hand, although she seemed to be holding it limply and not paying it much attention.

  I passed a pavilion with a sign out front—HOFACKET’S FINE PHOTOGRAPHS FOR FINE OCCASIONS—and there was the photographer himself
, having set up a temporary shop to catch business from fair-goers dressed in their good clothes with money jingling in their pockets. He was too busy posing a young couple to notice me, which was lucky. I’d received another letter from him inquiring after word about the Plant, and then yet another before I’d had a chance to answer the previous one, and it was all getting annoying. How quickly the bloom had gone off the whole idea of scientific correspondence.

  Then I made my way to the Domestic Arts tent, which smelled of enticing baked goods. Mayor Axelrod got up with a megaphone on the platform at the front and started calling out the winners, starting with the novice classes. We ran through breads, breads/fancy, pies/fruit, and pies/otherwise, and then he began on the handiworks.

  He consulted his list and called out, “In third place, Novice Tatting, Miss Calpurnia Virginia Tate!”

  What? What?

  “Calpurnia Tate, where are you? Come on up here!” he shouted.

  In shock, I threaded my way through the onlookers and climbed up on the platform. There was some light applause from the crowd and a conspicuous lusty cheer from the back of the tent that could only have come from a clump of my brothers. Mr. Axelrod pinned the white ribbon to my dress. Mother was nowhere to be seen.

  “In second place, Miss Dovie Medlin!”

  Dovie simpered her way up and stood next to me while the mayor pinned on her red ribbon. She sniggered and admired it. I was mightily relieved that she hadn’t won; she was bordering on unbearable as it was. I almost expected her to turn and stick her tongue out at me. She was just that type.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the first place ribbon in the novice tatting category goes to . . . Miss Lula Gates! Let’s have a big cheer for Miss Lula Gates!”

  Lula came up. I wanted her to stand next to me, but she had to stand next to Dovie while they pinned her blue ribbon on her. I was still in shock and looked down at the upturned faces in the tent, trying to find my family. How had I won a ribbon? My tatting was nothing to write home about. After a final round of applause, I stumbled back down off the stage to pats on the back and words of congratulations.

  “Well done, Lula,” I said, always the good sport, especially in a contest where there was absolutely no chance of my winning. “You deserve to win. Your tatting’s the best.”

  “How would you know?” said Dovie, flouncing by. I would have punched her except that there were too many witnesses.

  Lula graciously said, “Thank you, Callie. I’m sure you deserve a ribbon too.”

  “The trouble is that I don’t,” I said. And I didn’t, although Mother would probably faint with happiness when she heard. Mrs. Gates came up to us, flushed with pleasure.

  “Well, girls,” she said, “this is certainly a fine occasion.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Gates,” I said. “Lula did a good job. She deserved to win.”

  “Thank you, Calpurnia. I’m sure you deserve a prize as well,” said Mrs. Gates.

  “Hmm,” I said, doubtfully. “Have you seen my entry, ma’am? Do you want to go look at the other work?”

  “We’d like to, but we can’t. Lula is also entered in knitting and embroidery.”

  I wished them luck and headed off to the exhibition tables and pushed through the crush to the tatting table. Each entry had been pinned to a square of black velvet, the better to display its intricacy. The adults’ entries were delicate works of art, collars and antimacassars as detailed and fine as a spider’s web. Next to them were the few—very few—novice pieces. I pushed forward and saw my own lopsided collar on display, the black background nicely pointing up every dropped stitch of white thread. And my name, my full name, prettily lettered on a card to tell the whole world who had created this mess.

  I surveyed the entries suspiciously. Yep, there were three. Even though I knew full well that I wasn’t any good at tatting, having this fact confirmed by strangers was not pleasant. So much for my future in lace making, I thought sourly. Of course, I had absolutely no interest in going down that particular path, but now that others had said I couldn’t, I felt oddly unhappy. And if there was to be no Science for me, and no Domestic Arts either, what was left? Where was my place in the world? This was too big and too frightening to ponder. I consoled myself with Granddaddy’s words on the fossil record and the Book of Genesis: It was more important to understand something than to like it. Liking wasn’t necessary for understanding. Liking didn’t enter into it.

  I headed out of the tent wearing my fancy rosette. Should I take it off? If I wasn’t going to care about the work, then I shouldn’t care about the prize, either. My hand moved to the ribbon but then froze. My brain clearly said “take it off,” and my hand distinctly replied “no.” I walked that way, my hand on the ribbon, mired in my ambivalence, to the refreshment tent. I would treat myself to a glass of Coca-Cola while thinking what to do with my prize. I was ready for “the Delicious and Refreshing Drink.” Ethical questions were always so tiring.

  A long line of folks waited to sample the new invention. My spirits sank when Mr. Grassel lined up right behind me.

  “Hello, Callie,” he said jovially. “I see you got a ribbon there. Let me see.” He made as if to finger my ribbon, and I shrank away from him.

  “It’s for tatting,” I said flatly. “Sir.”

  “Your family keeping well?” he said.

  “All well.”

  Travis wandered up, sporting a big blue ribbon, happier than I’d seen him in a long time. He came over to show it to me, and I grabbed his arm and pulled him into line with me.

  “Say, let me see your ribbon, boy,” Mr. Grassel said. “What’s it for? ‘Best Angora Rabbit.’ There’s considerable money in Angora, son. Off to an early start there, aren’t you?”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Travis, looking surprised, “but Bunny’s my pet. I can’t sell him. He’s the biggest, furriest rabbit I’ve ever had.”

  “No need to sell him,” said Mr. Grassel. “You can put him at stud and charge breeding fees.”

  Travis looked intrigued by this. He dealt mainly in cats, and no one had ever suggested money could be made by breeding Jesse James or Bat Masterson.

  “So you don’t have to sell your rabbit?” he said.

  “No, Travis,” Mr. Grassel said. “It’s when someone rents Bunny for an hour to put with their lady rabbit to get babies.”

  “And then I get him back?”

  “Sure, then you get him back,” Mr. Grassel said.

  “And you get money for this?”

  “Cash money. On the nose,” he said.

  “Gosh, I never thought of that. And you think Bunny wouldn’t mind?”

  “Oh,” said Mr. Grassel, winking with a sly smile, “I’d wager Bunny would like it a lot. He’d hop to work with a spring in his step.” He tittered.

  Travis looked thoughtful, and I could tell that whole new worlds were opening up to him as we slowly inched toward the counter.

  I turned my back on Mr. Grassel and pretended to study the red-and-white advertising bunting overhead. Mr. Grassel finally struck up a conversation with the folks behind him and left us alone. Then it was our turn, and we each paid our nickel for a Coca-Cola. We carefully carried our fizzing drinks outside. Travis lifted his to drink and exclaimed, “Oh! It tickles!” I held mine up and felt the bubbles dancing against my lips, then sipped it, feeling it burn in my throat, raw and sweet and unlike anything I’d had before. How could you ever drink milk or water again after this? We both downed the stuff greedily and straightaway ran back into the tent to stand in line again. This time we bought two cups apiece, spending the last of our money. We drank them more slowly, looking at the rising bubbles and making them last. We both felt extraordinarily peppy and, I would say, extremely refreshed. Travis let loose a rip-roaring belch that had us both giggling uncontrollably.

  “Don’t let Mother hear you doing that!” I said.

  “No, no!” Uuurp. “Not me!” Uuuuuurp.

  Lula and Mrs. Gates went by, Lu
la covered with so many rosettes that she looked like a walking Christmas tree. She and Travis waved at each other, and he ran off after her. I no longer cared that I was third out of three novice lace makers. Who cared? I wondered where Granddaddy was while I staked out my dubious claim to lace-making fame. Lamar came by, looking for Lula. “Lamar,” I said, “have you seen Granddaddy?”

  “Last time I saw him he was over in the machinery tent. I think he’s been there all day. It’s over past the livestock. Say, Callie, can you lend me a nickel?”

  “I don’t have a cent.”

  Lamar looked at me suspiciously. “What about your prize money?”

  I laughed. “Price money! That’s a good one! They gave me this ribbon, that’s all.”

  “What good is a ribbon? Why are you laughing like that? Why don’t they give you some money instead? I need some money for the shooting gallery. I never have any money.”

  “You made lots of money at the gin. What happened to it?”

  “Nothing,” he said sullenly.

  “You spent it at the store, didn’t you? All that penny candy.” He had no answer to that. I left him grousing about the state of his finances and headed off to the machinery tent. Of course that’s where Granddaddy would be. I should have thought of it earlier. Cattle and cotton no longer held any allure for him. As I got closer, the smell of tobacco in the air grew denser. Actual clouds of smoke were rolling out of the tent flap and seeping through the seams. There were so many men smoking inside the tent that it appeared to be on fire.

  Coughing, I made my way inside, pushing through the throngs of men and boys, all clustered excitedly around the latest in threshers and plows. But the biggest clutch of admiring onlookers milled around something at the far end of the tent. I shoved my way down there, mouthing a token pardon me in the noisy crush, and ran into Harry escorting Fern Spitty and trying to clear a path for her through the near riot.