Question for the Notebook: Why would he do that? Answer: He’d do that if he was tired of Calpurnia and wanted to be alone. If he was tired of her and her childish company. Right, Calpurnia? Right? Was that it?
“No one’s hurt, sir,” I managed to get out when I could finally speak, but all I could think was, Had there been the fleeting ghost of irritation on Granddaddy’s face when I had interrupted his reading in the library a few days before? Had Mother and Father spoken to him? Told him he was an unhealthy influence on me and advised him to cultivate one of my brothers instead? And then there was the pall of the lost vetch. Oh, I’d found it again, but had he truly forgiven me for being so stupid about losing it in the first place? He had encouraged me to learn how to cook and to knit months earlier when Mother had thrust those chores upon me. He had not comforted me when I held The Science of Housewifery in my hands. He must have known all along that the scientific life was not for me, that the jaws of the domestic trap were well and truly sprung. I burst into tears.
“My goodness, girl, what’s the matter?” Mr. O’Flanagan patted me awkwardly. “There there. Let me take you home to your ma.”
“No, thank you, Mr. O’Flanagan. I’m all right,” I sobbed.
“You sure? You don’t look all right.” His expression darkened, and he said, “Has someone . . . been . . . after you?”
“No, no, I just need my grandfather,” I blubbed, but he didn’t look convinced. I pulled my hankie out of my pinafore and soaked it in seconds. I couldn’t stop wailing.
“Here you go,” he said, handing me his handkerchief. “You look like you need this more than I do. You keep it. Let’s go home to your ma.”
I could see that Mr. O’Flanagan wasn’t going to leave me alone until I calmed down. I blew my nose and with a great effort got a tenuous grip on myself.
“I’m okay,” I sniffled. “I’ll go home. I’m all right. Thank you. Good-bye.” Reluctantly he let me go. I trudged into the street and turned toward home.
My grandfather had given me Mr. Darwin’s book to read. He had given me the possibility of a different kind of life. But none of it mattered. Instead, there was The Science of Housewifery for me. I was blind; I was pathetic. The century was about to change, but my own little life would not change with it. My own, little, life. One I had better get used to. I erupted in tears again like a fountain, a running tide of tears and snot soaking Mr. O’Flanagan’s hankie. There was only one last Question left for the Notebook before closing it and putting it away forever, and that was the telegram: Yes? Or No? My grandfather would have to tell me that. I would make him tell me. He owed me that much.
I scrubbed my face with the last dry piece of Mr. O’Flanagan’s hankie and glanced back. There he was, fifty yards behind me, seeing me safely home, trying to look like he wasn’t following me. At least somebody cared about me.
He saw me to the end of the drive before turning around. I collected myself as best I could in an attempt to avoid further interrogation.
My mother was still in the parlor with Mrs. Purtle, pouring tea. Viola came in wearing a clean white apron and bearing a lemon pound cake on a silver tray. Mr. Fleming sat on a spindly chair with one of the good teacups perched on his knee, his delivery pouch at his feet. He looked like he was dug in for the duration and wasn’t going to leave until he knew what was in the only telegram he’d ever delivered from Washington.
My mother looked up. “Calpurnia, whatever’s the matter? Did you find your grandfather?”
“Nothing’s the matter,” I said, my voice flat. “And no, I didn’t find him.”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” said Viola, “I believe Captain Tate is working in the shed out back.” Viola refused to call it either the laboratory or the former slave quarters.
In the shed out back? The laboratory?
Mother frowned. “I could have sworn he went to the river. Calpurnia, go and fetch him, please. We can’t keep Mr. Fleming waiting all day.”
“Oh, that’s all right, ma’am,” he said and nudged his cup an inch or two in the general direction of the teapot, “quite all right.”
Not at the river?
“Will you have more tea, Mr. Fleming?”
“Why, thank you kindly, ma’am. I believe I will.”
He was not at the river collecting without me. He was in the laboratory working without me.
“Calpurnia? Did you hear me? Go and fetch him. Mrs. Purtle, do try some of this excellent cake. It’s Viola’s special recipe.”
Numbly, I nodded. “I guess I’ll go and get him.”
I went through the kitchen, where Viola was starting on dinner. She looked up. “What you up to? You look funny.”
“I’m not up to anything.” I pumped cold water over Mr. O’Flanagan’s hankie and pressed it to my face. “And I am funny,” I muttered through the cloth. “That’s the reason I look funny, okay?”
“What?” she said over the noise of the whistling kettle.
I dried myself with a scrap of towel and looked in the cracked mirror at the back door. I was still flushed and swollen, but at least I no longer looked completely crazed. I scrutinized myself. Was this the face of a child who bored an old man or an idiot who jumped to conclusions?
“Viola. Do you think I’m boring? Do you think I’m an idiot?”
“Huh. You may be many things, girl, but idiot? Bore? Not those.”
“Are you sure?”
“Where do you come up with this stuff?”
“Viola, it’s important.”
“Not those,” she said, and turned back to her cooking. I looked at her narrow shoulders and wiry arms working over our dinner, and I realized that I had always counted on her for other things besides food. Viola had never lied to me. She would not lie to me now. I went over to her and put my arms around her waist and hugged her. I was freshly amazed at the lightness of her person, her tiny bird bones. It was interesting that such a slight frame could contain so large a person.
“Go ’way,” she said. “I’m busy.”
“Yes, ma’am.” And grumpy, as usual, which was reassuring.
“I told you not to give me no ma’am stuff. I ain’t no ma’am in this house, girly,” she called after me as I closed the door behind me. I threaded my way through the Outside Cats milling on the back porch and headed for the laboratory. My feet were leaden ingots. The short walk took a lifetime.
I pushed back the gunny sack hanging in the doorway and there he sat in the sprung armchair, staring at a flask of something on the counter. He looked up at me, his expression inscrutable.
“It’s come, Granddaddy,” I said.
“It’s come?”
“The word about the Plant has come.”
He was silent.
“A telegram from Washington,” I said.
“Ah.” He tilted his gaze to the ceiling and said quietly, “What does it say?”
I was stupefied. “I don’t know,” I stammered. “I didn’t open it. I’d never open it. It’s for you.”
“Heavens, Calpurnia, I thought you might have opened it because we’re partners in this endeavor, are we not? Are you all right?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“Well, then. We must look our best when we get a telegram from Washington.”
He stood up and straightened his disintegrating coat and then reached for me, smoothing my hair with his big hands and adjusting my bow. “Are you ready?”
I nodded again. He held out his hand. “Shall we?”
I took his hand, and we walked together to the house, not saying a word. We were about to go up the back steps when I said, “Wait.” We stopped and he looked at me. “Yes, Calpurnia?”
“I think,” I quavered, “that we should go through the front door today. Don’t you?”
“Absolutely right,” he said, and we promenaded slowly around the house on the walk, passing the parlor window where three curious heads swiveled after us. All my senses sharpened as we headed for the porch.
The lilies had died back to the ground; the bark of the crepe myrtles had all peeled away; there was a mackerel sky. I could feel the press of something important in the atmosphere, the pressure of chill air against me. Hand in hand, we walked up the wide front steps, and my grandfather opened the door for me, bowing me through. My heart raced like a rabbit’s.
“Captain Tate.” Mr. Fleming snapped to attention in the parlor. “I am glad to find you, sir. I have a telegram here for you all the way from Washington. That’s District of Columbia, sir. Not state of.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fleming. I am most grateful.”
“I figured it was important, so I rushed it right on over.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fleming. Most grateful.”
“I couldn’t trust it to one of the boys.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fleming. Grateful.”
“Oh—don’t get me wrong. They’re good boys, or I wouldn’t have ’em working for me. But sometimes they get sidetracked, and I figured—”
Mother broke in with, “Mr. Fleming, perhaps you’d care to give the captain his telegram? Now?”
“Oh, yes, yes, ma’am.” He dove into his pouch and pulled it out. “Here it is. All the way from Washington. Yessir. All the way.”
Mrs. Purtle squeaked and patted her bosom. We all stared at the envelope as if mesmerized.
Granddaddy stepped forward, and Mr. Fleming laid it in his palm. My grandfather’s hand slowly closed around it. “I thank you for your trouble, Mr. Fleming,” he said, reaching into his vest pocket for a coin.
The telegraphist was having none of it. “No, no, Captain Tate. I’ll take no gratuity from you, sir. My pleasure, sir.” He saluted smartly and clicked his heels together.
“You are too kind.” Then, seeing that Mr. Fleming would not relax, Granddaddy said, “Please be at ease.”
Mr. Fleming’s posture relaxed a fraction. We all stood there, staring at my grandfather, who in turn contemplated the telegram.
“Ah,” he said, looking up. “Thank you again for your trouble, Mr. Fleming.” He bowed to my mother and Mrs. Purtle. “Ladies.” He pressed the telegram between his hands and turned and walked out. Our collective mouths flopped open, we were that shocked. The unfairness of it, depriving us of this once-in-a-lifetime moment. Who could bear it? How could he do this to us? How could he do this to me?
“Calpurnia,” he called from the hallway, “are you not coming?” For a second, I was paralyzed and then I found my powers of locomotion and ran from the room—parlor manners be damned—to join him. I skidded into him at the library door. He opened the door in silence and we went in. The room was chilly with no fire in the grate. The green velvet curtain was drawn back to let the thin winter sunshine wash in.
He sat down at his desk. “Bring a lamp, won’t you?” His face was alight with a curious balance of eagerness and gravity.
Trembling, I lit the lamp. What if the answer was no? What would that make us? Nothing more than a deluded old man and a silly little girl. But what if it was yes? Would we not be acclaimed, exalted, famous? Would we not join the immortals? Was it better to know, or not? Either way, he had to still love me. Didn’t he?
I sat down on the camel saddle, wishing I could stop time.
Granddaddy looked at the envelope’s plain white aspect. Then he took his ivory paper knife and carefully slit it open. The telegram was a single sheet of paper folded once upon itself. He held it out to me.
“Read it to me, dear child.”
My hands shook as I reached for the paper. I unfolded it, bent toward the lamp, and read, stumbling over the longer words:
Dear Mr. Tate and Miss Tate:
We, the members of the Plant Taxonomy Committee of the Smithsonian Institution, are pleased to inform you that, after much research and study, we have concluded that you have identified a new species of hairy vetch heretofore unknown. The class is Dicotyledon; the order is Fabales; the family is Fabaceae; the genus is Vicia. It is customary for the first identifier to have the species named after him, or any name he chooses, so long as it is not already in use. May we suggest to you that the plant be known as Vicia tateii? Such would be in keeping with the regular customs of taxonomy. You may, however, elect to name the plant otherwise. The choice is yours. The Institution congratulates you on your perspicacious find. We remain, yours in Science, et cetera,
Henry C. Larivee, President
Taxonomy Committee, Plants
I carefully refolded the paper in my lap and then looked at him. Motionless, he stared off into space for a long time. I felt an urgent need to say something, but I didn’t know what. I couldn’t sort anything out. The room was completely still. Far off in the distance, a dog howled. It was Matilda, sounding her unique yodeling call. Odd that she would register with me at that moment. Closer at hand, a pan clattered in the kitchen. The wooden screen door banged shut, and a couple of my brothers scuffled past in the hall. We heard the piano start up in the parlor, a limpid, haunting melody; Harry had been pressed into playing for our visitors. The music drew my grandfather back from wherever it was he’d gone. His face was wistful, contemplative, sad.
“Yes,” he said at last.
“Yes?” I didn’t know what else to say.
A minute later, he said, “It’s Chopin. I have always liked that piece. Do you know, Calpurnia . . .” He trailed off.
“Yes, Granddaddy?”
“Do you know . . .”
“Yes, Granddaddy?”
“That I have always liked it best. Of all his work.”
“No. I didn’t know.”
“It’s commonly called ‘The Raindrop.’”
“I didn’t know that.”
I could hear Viola ringing the dinner bell on the back porch. Soon she would sound the gong at the foot of the stairs.
He ignored the bell. “The only question, really, is how are we to spend the brief time that is allotted us?”
I wondered if we were going to talk about the telegram. I didn’t want the gong to sound. Dinner was only dinner; dinner could wait. By rights we should be free to sit there forever. I looked around the room. I looked at the books, the armadillo, the bottled beast.
“Granddaddy?”
“Yes?”
“What about the telegram?”
“What about it?”
“Well . . .” Viola pounded on the gong. The sound was intrusive, hateful.
“Do you have any questions about it?” he asked.
“No,” I said slowly, “I guess not.”
“Were you ever in any doubt?”
“I suppose not, but—”
“There are so many things to learn, you see, and so little time is given us. I am old. I thought I would die before it happened.”
I stood up and went to him. I tried to hand him the telegram, but he said, “You keep it. Press it in your Notebook.”
I pocketed it and put my arms around him. He slipped his arm around me and kissed me, and we leaned together awhile until the inevitable knock came at the door.
I HAD EXPECTED a celebration. I had expected streamers and cake and confetti. I had expected our family to hoist us on their shoulders and carry us aloft in triumph. But Granddaddy never said a word all through dinner, and I spent the meal feeling lifeless. What was wrong with me? Why did I feel so flat on what should have been the happiest day of my life, and my grandfather’s life?
Mother glanced at Granddaddy all through dinner and smiled and nodded encouragement at him whenever he looked up, giving him every opportunity to explain the once-in-a-lifetime communication, but instead he chose to apply himself to his plate. Generalized rustling and surreptitious glances from my brothers indicated that they knew something was afoot.
We ate our dinner. It wasn’t until SanJuanna was clearing the dessert course that Granddaddy went to the sideboard and poured himself a generous measure of port. He held his glass aloft until the table quieted and all eyes were on him. The port caught the light from the chandelier and splashed a
ruby wave across his beard.
He looked like he was about to address us, but then he turned and pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen and called out for Viola to come into the dining room. She hurried in, wiping her hands on her apron, her brow furrowed in concern.
“Ladies”—he bowed—“gentlemen, I propose a toast. Something rather wonderful has happened. Today I received a telegram from Washington. It came from the Smithsonian Institution, informing me, and Calpurnia, that we have discovered a new species of vetch. A previously unknown specimen. It is henceforth to be called Vicia tateii.”
Father said, “Well done!”
Mother studied Granddaddy with a puzzled expression, and then turned her gaze to me.
Harry said, “Grandfather, you’ve put our name down in history.”
“Did you win a prize, Callie?” said Jim Bowie. “What did you win?”
“We won a place in the science books,” I said.
“What books? What does that mean? Will we get to see them?”
“You will one day, J.B.”
Father started clapping and the others followed with applause and hoorays. Here is what I had been waiting for, and it did make me feel more cheerful, although not as much as you’d think.
Father joined Granddaddy at the sideboard, poured himself a good dose of port, and said, “Margaret, will you join us?”
Mother scrutinized me.
“Margaret?”
“Oh,” she said, and turned to Father. “Perhaps a small one, Alfred, seeing as it’s a special occasion.”
Granddaddy said, “Viola, won’t you have a glass?”
Viola glanced at Mother and then said, “No, no, Mr. Tate, I couldn’t—”
He ignored her and shoved a glass into her hands and then another into SanJuanna’s hands—she looked like she would faint. They all stood and raised their glasses. We imitated them with glasses of milk.
The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate Page 24
