The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

“Why, uh, I stopped off at the supper on the grounds in Prairie Lea the other night. They saw me on the road and invited me to visit for a piece.”

Ah. Now, there were two churches in Prairie Lea: the Baptist church, which was acceptable, and the Independent Church of Prairie Lea, which was not. The local Leapers were considered a low and trashy lot by many people. These included my parents, who were both robust Methodists. (Granddaddy had declared he’d had enough sermons to last a lifetime and now chose to spend his Sunday mornings tramping across the fields. Reverend Barker, who enjoyed Granddaddy’s company, seemed to take it in stride. It was only Mother who was embarrassed.) And although Mother had once or twice entertained Leapers in the house, she tended to lump them all together, fairly or not, with snake handlers, fallers, foamers, and other fringe examples of the henhouse sects.

A part of my mind I had no idea I possessed until that moment took over and, like a great general, called all to order. I primed my weapons, surveyed the terrain, picked my target. I could see the battle ahead in time and space. I was the Great Stonewall. I was General Lee himself!

“The Baptist church, Harry?” I asked, sweet as pie.

“No.” He hesitated. “She belongs to the Independent Church of Prairie Lea.”

Blessed relief flooded through me. The enemy was mine. “Oh, Harry,” I said, all sisterly concern. “She’s a Leaper?”

“That’s right. So what?” he said mulishly. “And don’t call them that. They’re Independents.”

“Have you told Mother and Father?” I said.

“Um. No.” He looked edgy. My opening salvo had hit its mark. Then he looked down at the picture, and I watched him go all sappy again.

“How old is she?” I asked, forging ahead. “She looks kind of old.”

“She’s not old,” he said with indignation. “She only came out five years ago.”

I added five to eighteen, the typical age for coming out, and came up with the usual result. “She’s twenty-three,” I said, aghast—and secretly jubilant. “She’s practically an old maid. Besides, you’re only seventeen.”

“That makes no difference,” he said. He plucked the card from my hand and huffed off.

At dinner that night, Harry mentioned that he might hitch Ulysses to the gig and take him out for exercise.

“Why don’t you ride him?” said Father. “You don’t need the gig.”

“He hasn’t been in harness for a while. It would do him good,” said Harry.

Time to fire off my next round. In a loud voice, I said, “Are you going to see her?”

The table thought this an interesting inquiry and grew still. Everyone except Granddaddy stopped eating and stared at Harry with interest, even the boys who were too young to understand what was going on. Mother swiveled her head, looking first at me and then at Harry. Granddaddy went on placidly addressing his beefsteak.

Harry flushed and cut me a look to let me know he’d settle with me later. He’d never glared at me like that before. There was something close to hatred in that look. Fear shot through me. I broke out all over in hot prickles.

“And who is her?” said Mother.

Granddaddy’s knife skreeked against his plate. He patted his mustache with the big white linen napkin that flowed down his chest. He said mildly to his only daughter-in-law, “Good God, Margaret. That’s ‘who is she,’ not ‘who is her.’ The verb to be never takes an object. Surely you know that by now?”

He peered at her and said, “Why, how old are you, Margaret? I reckon you must be close to thirty. Old enough to know better, I should think,” he said, and turned his attention back to his dinner. My mother, aged forty-one, ignored this.

“Harry?” she said. She gave him the gimlet eye. The prickles racing across my skin coalesced into itching pink welts. Our family’s future hung by a thread.

“There’s a girl—a young lady—at the Prairie Lea picnic tonight that I’d like to take for a short drive, ma’am,” Harry stammered. “Only a short one.”

“And,” said Mother, in a frosty voice, “exactly who is this young lady? Have we met her? Have we met her people?”

“Her name is Miss Minerva Goodacre. Her people are in Austin. She’s spending the month with her aunt and uncle in Prairie Lea.”

“And they are . . . ?” said Mother.

The thread pulled taut.

“Reverend and Mrs. Goodacre,” said Harry.

“And are you referring to Reverend Goodacre of the Independent Church of Prairie Lea?” said Mother.

The thread creaked and frayed.

“Yes,” said Harry, flushing deeper. He pushed himself away from the table and bolted from the room, calling over his shoulder with false cheer, “So it’s all right, then. I won’t be late.”

Father looked at Mother and said, “What was all that about?”

Mother noticed the rest of us sitting openmouthed and snapped, “You are so obtuse sometimes, Alfred. We’ll discuss it later.”

Sitting next to me, Sul Ross, who was swift for his age, broke into a chant: “Harry’s got a gur-ull, Harry’s got a gur—”

At this point Mother looked volcanic. I hissed, “Shut up, Sully,” and elbowed him viciously in the short ribs.