The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

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.”