“Good.”
“But, Callie, how long until Christmas?”
Question for the Notebook: When does the young human organism get a grasp of time? The five-o’clock possum living in the wall understands time, so why doesn’t J.B.? He’s driving me batty.
I looked at this last sentence. Granddaddy had taught me that a scientific log was a citadel of the facts and that opinion didn’t enter into it. I erased my comment, relieved that I’d only written it in pencil.
Father and Alberto came through the door with a stunted pine they had found in the oak scrub (evergreens did not do well in our part of the world). J.B. went into a positive frenzy. “Look, look, Callie, it’s our Christmas treeeeeee! It must be Christmas!”
We spent the afternoon making decorations from colored paper and clamping tiny candles in tiny holders to the branches. Harry made a star out of shiny silver cardboard and placed it on top of the tree with no need of a ladder, it was that puny. As a finishing touch, we arranged cotton bolls on the boughs to look like snow, something we had all heard about but never seen.
The world of Methodist Fentress was divided into those families who opened their presents on Christmas Eve and those who opened them on Christmas Day. Fortunately we were Christmas Eve-ers. According to our minister, Mr. Cornelius Barker, presents were a pointless, expensive, pagan diversion. Yes, well, good luck explaining that to seven children. My mother had no success with it, and neither did the Reverend Barker, although to give him credit, he didn’t try all that hard. He came to dinner once a month, and as far as I could tell, he was the one guest Granddaddy looked forward to. They addressed each other as Walter and Cornelius, which scandalized Mother, and they baited each other in genial discussions of Genesis versus the Fossil Record. Mother scored the coup of having the Reverend come to our house for supper following the Christmas Eve services.
We spent a large part of Christmas Eve day making sure that everyone was well scrubbed—no small undertaking, as it meant heating a huge amount of water. Then we assembled in the front hall for inspection. For once, no one was sent back to the washroom for more work on his neck or her nails.
The night was clear and cold, and we bundled up in our thickest coats and scarves. Harry penned up the dogs so that they wouldn’t troop along after us, and then we set off, all except for Granddaddy, who stayed behind to tend the fire in the parlor and enjoy some peace and quiet. Alberto and San-Juanna took the wagon to Our Virgin of Guadalupe in Martindale. Viola went off to her own service at All God’s Children. I would have liked to have gone with her, but that would never have been allowed. I had walked past her church before and heard music spilling from the falling-down clapboard building; the spirited singing and proclamations of joy emerging from it beat the other churches all hollow, to my mind.
We set off with lanterns and sang carols on the way. I held J.B.’s hand and pointed out various constellations to him.
“Look, J.B., there’s Canis Major and Canis Minor. That means the big dog and the little dog.”
J.B. looked concerned. “There’s no dogs in the sky, Callie.”
“They aren’t dogs, they’re stars. Some people a long time ago thought they looked like dogs.”
“They don’t look like Ajax. They don’t look like Matilda. I think you’re fibbing. Mama says you’re not supposed to fib.”
I myself had trouble making a dog or a bull or a lion out of the distant pinpoints of light. How had the ancients come up with such cockeyed fancies?
We rounded the corner, and there was the Methodist church, lit with a thousand lamps. We filed into our pew, all except for Harry, who went up to assist Miss Brown at the organ. She played vigorously, pulling out the stops with a flourish and treading away like mad on the bellows pedal while Harry turned the pages. We sang “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” and the music made my feelings about Miss Brown thaw. A little.
When it was over, Mr. Barker walked home with us. Sam Houston pinched me, daring me to cry out as we walked behind the grown-ups. In retaliation, I shouldered him into a puddle. Wet shoes would teach him.
We smelled the fragrant smoke from our own chimney as we rounded the bend. Viola was back from her service, and she and Granddaddy stood at the front door. As we entered the parlor, she lit the dozens of tiny candles on the Christmas tree, and they nickered like fairy lights. The fire roared high. On the sideboard, a cut-glass punch bowl glinted, filled with mulled red wine redolent of cloves. There was a silver pitcher of hot cider for the children (sweet cider, of course, not hard). I noticed the quiet passing of another milestone: For the first time, Harry got a cup of Christmas wine.
My parents were about to exchange their brief Christmas kiss, the only time they bussed in front of us, when Mother remembered the presence of the minister and ducked her head in embarrassment. Father took her hand and kissed it instead, murmuring, “Margaret.”
The minister inquired whether Granddaddy had yet received any word about the Plant. I could tell that his interest, like that of the irrepressible Mr. Hofacket, was genuine.
“No, Cornelius, no word as yet.” Granddaddy lit a cigar and politely blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “You can’t rush science. These things take time.”
After a ham supper, during which we children grew increasingly restless, my parents took pity on us and distributed the presents. Despite his philosophy of presents, Mr. Barker stayed on and exclaimed over the fineness of our spoils.
For the family at large there was a new stereoscope, which all the children were to share equally (fat chance of that happening). There were viewing cards of the Great Sphinx of Egypt, the Fabulous White City of Chicago, the Fascinating Lives of the Esquimaux. Everybody got a big bright orange, a rare and expensive present during the winter. I saved mine for later.
There was a handsome new rocking horse for J.B., who had worn the rockers of his old one down to nubbins. It was covered in cowhide and had a real horsehair tail. For Sul Ross there were several wooden pull toys and a spinning top. Travis received a book on raising rabbits for fun and profit and a new curry comb. I knew he’d been hoping for a donkey, but he seemed happy enough. Lamar got a leather case containing a steel protractor, a ruler, and a compass. Sam Houston got The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Harry got a new suit of the finest dark navy wool, perfect for the young man about to make his mark in the world. And of course they all got brown woollen socks knitted by yours truly, displaying various degrees of competence. J.B.’s socks, the first ones, were lumpy and deformed, but by the time I got up to the older boys, they looked passable; I had even managed to knit a modest cable pattern into Father’s and Granddaddy’s. Much was made over this later handiwork, which, while not too embarrassing, did not warrant the fervent praise it received. (I suspected a put-up job.)
I gave Mother a selection of pressed flowers. She received a pair of garnet and jet earrings from Father and in turn gave him a dashing green-checked vest to wear on his business trips to Austin.
Viola was working in the kitchen but had received her gifts of snuff and a thick red flannel petticoat from Mother earlier in the day.
Granddaddy got a handsome box of cigars all the way from a place called Cuba. On the label was a colorful picture of a woman dancing in a long flounced skirt; the box was attractive and the perfect size in which to keep one’s treasures. I could tell that Lamar coveted it but was too afraid to ask Granddaddy for it.
“Go on,” I whispered. “Ask him if you can have it. He won’t bite.”
“He won’t bite you, you mean. He might bite me.”
“Don’t be a sissy Lamar”—I used the magic word on him. Worked every time.
He wheeled and marched up to Granddaddy. “Sir, can I have that box? When you’re through with it?”
Surprised, Granddaddy looked at him. “Of course you can . . . um, Travis.”
Lamar blinked. “Thank you, sir,” and scuttled back to his place.
“See?” I whispered. “He’s actually nice on
ce you get to know him.”
“He called me Travis,” he hissed.
I giggled, and he glared at me. I said, “At least you got first dibs on the box.”
“How come you don’t want it?”
“I already have two—no, wait, three—of them.”
“Well, bully for you.”
Lamar could be such a pill sometimes.
And I, what did I receive? Well, the little boys gave me a crumpled bag of sweets, and the older boys gave me new hair ribbons. My parents gave me a beautiful silver locket engraved with my initials. And then there was one more present for me. I could tell it was a book, even wrapped up as it was in brown paper. Ah, a book. How satisfying to have another one to add to the small library accumulating on the shelf above my bed. The book was so thick and hefty that I knew it was a reference book of some kind, a text, maybe even an encyclopedia. I peeled back the stiff paper to reveal the word Science printed in curlicues.
“Oh,” I exclaimed. Such magnificence! But even better than the solid reality of the book in my hand was the gladsome fact that my mother and father at last understood the kind of nourishment I needed to survive. I beamed at my parents with excitement. They smiled and nodded. I ripped the paper off to reveal the whole title: The Science of Housewifery.
“Oh!” I stared in befuddlement. It made no sense to me. What could it mean? Was the writing even English? The Science of Housewifery, by Mrs. Josiah Jarvis. This couldn’t be right. My hands turned to wood. I fumbled the book open to the Table of Contents and read: “Cooking for the Invalid.” “Favorite Pickles and Relishes.” “Removing Difficult Stains.” I stared at these grim subjects.
Conversation trailed off, and the room became silent except for the monotonous thwacking of J.B. riding his rocking horse in the corner. All eyes were on me. I looked at Granddaddy, whose brow puckered in concern. I looked at Mother, who paled and then flushed. I was committing the sin of embarrassing her in front of a guest. Her face turned grim.
She said, “What do you say, Calpurnia?”
What does Calpurnia say? What could I say? That I wanted to throw the book—no better than kindling—into the fireplace? That I wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all? That at that moment I could have done violence, that I could have punched them all in the face? Even Granddaddy. Yes, even him. Encouraging me the way he had, knowing that there was no new century for me, no new life for this girl. My life sentence had been delivered by my parents. There was no pardon or parole. No aid from any corner. Not from Granddaddy, not from anybody. The stinging whip of hives lashed my neck.
“Calpurnia?”
Great fatigue washed over me like a tidal wave, drowning my anger. I was too tired to fight anymore. I did the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life. I reached down into the depths of my being, and I dredged up the beginnings of a watery smile.
I whispered, “Thank you.” Just two words. Just two artificial words, coming from my own hypocritical mouth. Tears came to my eyes. I felt like I was disintegrating.
At that moment J.B. fell off his rocking horse and set up a tremendous squalling. In the general confusion, I gathered up my presents and slipped upstairs to my room. I stared out my window into the blackness. A few minutes later, I saw the receding glow of the minister’s lantern like a distant firefly in the black night. Sul Ross and J.B. thumped and laughed on the stairs. I changed into my nightgown and climbed into bed. I looked at the ribbons, the locket, and the book, all laid out on my dresser next to the hummingbird’s nest in its glass box. I closed my eyes, too exhausted to cry myself to sleep.
CHAPTER 26
WORD COMES
Although the beaks and feet of birds are generally quite clean, I can show that earth sometimes adheres to them: in one instance I removed twenty-two grains of dry argillaceous earth from one foot of a partridge, and in this earth there was a pebble quite as large as the seed of a vetch.
FOR MONOTONOUS MONTHS I had circled the mail on the hall table like a buzzard, poking through endless boring letters and bills before turning away each day in blank disappointment. Word did come, two days after Christmas, but not in the letter we had been expecting.
It came in the form of a personal telegram, a frightening event. Businesses used telegrams to buy and sell, but an individual got a telegram only for a death in the family. It came with Mr. Fleming, the telegraphist, who bicycled over to our house with it in his pouch. He had been a private in the War, and although he hadn’t served under Granddaddy, he admired him and was determined to be of service to him when he could. I met Mr. Fleming at the end of the driveway, where I was dolefully flailing about in the drainage ditch looking for water striders. There were none, and there was no point to it, but it was either this or sit in my room and read my Christmas present.
“Callie Vee,” he said, dismounting his bike, “I got a telegram here for Mr. Tate.” I assumed he meant my father, and I scoured my brain to think of who might have died. It had to be his aunt in Wichita, an old lady I’d never met.
“Is it from Wichita, sir?” I asked.
“Naw. I ain’t supposed to say. Oh, all right, you forced it outta me—it’s from Washington.”
“What?”
“It’s from someplace in Washington.”
“My father knows someone in Washington?” It had to be something to do with the cotton trade, although it was odd that it wasn’t addressed to the gin.
“It’s not for your father. It’s for Captain Tate.”
“Pardon me?”
“It’s not for your father. It’s for your grandfather.”
“My . . .”
“I figured he’d want it right away,” he said.
I found my voice. “Give me that!”
He shied away and looked at me as if I were crazy. “What are you talking about? I can’t give it to you.”
“Give me that telegram!”
“Little girl, you are being extremely rude. What’s got into you? I can’t give it to you. I got to deliver it to an adult over the age of eighteen. Company regulations dictate that I got to give it to an adult—”
“Sorry sorry—”
“—and I take the responsibilities of my office real serious.”
My heart was thumping so hard I thought it would vault through my ribs. “Come on, Mr. Fleming.” I took his arm and tried to drag him up the drive, but he was a man in a huff with a bicycle, and he wasn’t very draggable. Those fifty anguished yards to the house took a lifetime. I felt like I was trapped in one of those nightmares where you’re churning in quicksand. “Hurry!”
We made it to the porch, where Mr. Fleming paused to shake me off and square his cap. I burst through the door shouting, “Granddaddy! Granddaddy, where are you?”
Mother called in a cool voice from the front parlor, “Calpurnia, dear, there’s no need to shout. Mrs. Purtle is visiting. Come in and say hello, darling.”
Normally I’d have quick-marched into the parlor in response to her tone, but there was the library door, tantalizingly close. What to do? I spun in the hallway like a bobber in the river. Mother caught sight of Mr. Fleming behind me in the hall and frowned. She knew what telegrams were about.
He tipped his cap. “Good afternoon there, Mrs. Tate. Sorry to interrupt you, ma’am, but I got a telegram for Captain Tate. It’s from Washington.”
“Washington?”
“My goodness,” twittered Mrs. Purtle, “how exciting.”
“Come in, Mr. Fleming. The captain is out collecting his specimens at the river,” Mother said, “but I have no idea how to find him.”
“I do, I do!” I shouted and ran out the front. The screen door slammed on my mother’s words, “You must forgive my daughter. . . .”
I flew to the end of the drive and veered off into the dense brush on the deer path that led to the river across the crescent parcel. I bounded like a deer and swerved like a fox; never had I felt so strong or run so fast.
“It’s come!” I cried. “It’s here
! Word has come! Granddaddy!”
He wasn’t at the inlet where I expected to find him. I turned south and ran along the river, calling out his name. I got to the small cliff above the island, the next likely place, but he wasn’t there, either. I headed for the dam at the gin, a good five minutes away. I wanted to yell in frustration. I had always known where to find him. And now this.
A startled red-tailed hawk screamed at me from an oak tree. Winded, I kept running but no longer had breath to call out. My brain took up the chant to the pounding rhythm of my feet: Granddaddy Granddaddy Granddaddy. On I ran, right through a family of feral black pigs foraging for pecans, scattering them indignantly in my wake.
At the gin, I came upon Mr. O’Flanagan, who had moved Polly’s stand outside so that they could both take some air. He stood on the steep bank above the water turbines, contentedly puffing on a cigar, looking over his portly belly at the river below. Polly flared his crest and stared at me with a baleful jaundiced eye as I puffed up.
“Have you seen my grandfather, sir?” I cried. I could tell by Mr. O’Flanagan’s face that he had not.
“Is something wrong?” he called out in alarm. “What’s the matter?”
I dashed across the street to the newspaper, threw open the door, and rushed into the telephone office, where a startled Maggie Medlin was eating a sandwich at the switchboard.
“Have you seen my grandfather?” I croaked.
It took her a moment to swallow her mouthful and say, “No, not today. Is everything all right?”
I turned to go and ran smack into the belly of Mr. O’Flanagan, who’d followed me from the gin. Maggie called out from her room, “Do I need to call the doctor?”
“Calpurnia, is someone hurt?” Mr. O’Flanagan said. He was in my way. I ducked right and dodged left, but he ducked and dodged with me. He moved admirably fast for such a fat man. He grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me and made me look at him.
“Calpurnia, tell me. Are you hurt? Is someone hurt?”
I stood there trying to catch my breath. And suddenly I felt exhausted and overwhelmed. I felt . . . abandoned. What had happened to our time together? How had I let it get away? Why hadn’t I fought for it? And where was he, on this, the day of all days? I had always been able to find him when I needed him. And now he’d gone off collecting somewhere other than our regular haunts, somewhere I didn’t know about and where I couldn’t find him. Somewhere secret. Somewhere private. Collecting without me.
The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate Page 23
