The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

Friday came and I still had no plan. Instead I washed and dried my hair. Then I sat at my vanity and glumly counted one hundred strokes of the hairbrush. I put on my best lawn dress and kid boots, the ones I’d worn to the music recital, and tied a sky-blue ribbon in my hair, the color Harry liked best on me. I went downstairs to join the others.

Harry looked handsome and reeked of the competing scents of lavender pomade and bay rum toilet water. A live undercurrent of excitement fizzed in him, and he softened to the point of giving me a grin. We lined up in the hall by age, Sam Houston gagging as he inhaled the fumes coming off Harry. Mother came down to inspect us. She wore her emerald silk with the short train, one of her best, and the train made a faint whish-whish sound as she walked. She looked at our boots, our teeth, our fingernails.

“Calpurnia, for heaven’s sake,” she said. “Stand up straight. What’s the matter with you? Jim Bowie, those nails won’t do. You look like you’ve been grubbing in the garden. Calpurnia, take him and fix him.”

I led J.B. off to the bathroom, grateful for something to do. As I scrubbed him, he said, “Is Harry getting married?” This startled me so much I dropped the nail brush.

“Wherever did you get that idea?”

“I heard Mother talking about it. Is Harry going away?”

“I hope not, J.B.”

“Me too.”

I worked on him until the first guests arrived and we had to line up again at the front door. When Miss Brown arrived, I shook her hand and dropped her a deep, ostentatious curtsy. But I must have overdone it because the old bat gave me a hard smile and said, “Why, hello, Calpurnia. Aren’t you just charming as always?” She squeezed my hand so tightly with her own tendinous claw that I yelped like a trod-upon dog.

Yes, the evening was off to a marvelous start, and Miss Minerva Goodacre hadn’t even arrived yet.

I took a silver tray of smoked oysters and offered them around the room, keeping a close count as instructed by Viola on how many my brothers took. This wasn’t too difficult, as the younger boys took one look at the shiny, wrinkled gray sacs and turned away in horror; you couldn’t have paid them to put one in their mouths. Harry lurked between the parlor and the hall so that he could watch the front door for the great arrival. Granddaddy appeared with his beard trimmed and his hair plastered down. He sported a pinky-red rose in his buttonhole. Except for his moth-eaten coat, he looked almost distinguished.

The Longorias arrived, and Travis took their children out to the stable to show off his kittens.

I looked around at my family and felt a great wave of tenderness for them. They were all innocents playing out their unsuspecting parts. I wanted to preserve the moment and tuck it away, folded and sealed forever in my memory. Any second it was about to end.

Then Harry rushed to check his hair and tie in the hall mirror once again. I looked out the window and saw Mr. Goodacre tethering his horses. Harry dashed out the front door to hand down two women from the buggy, one stout and one slender. He offered his arm to the slender one—the harpy—and they moved up the walk, their heads together, sharing some word, some laugh, some something that none of the rest of us would ever share. My parents met them at the door, and I could overhear the bright chatter of introductions before Mother led everyone into the parlor. I have to give my mother credit, she appeared more relaxed and cheerful than I would have expected under the circumstances. Maybe she’d taken some tonic.

And there She was: taller than I expected, and slender, and dressed in a fussy peach dress with too many jet buttons. There was the petulant mouth, the long neck, the buggy eyes, the massy hair. She carried a spangled peach-colored fan that she opened with a theatrical fwop as she met the other guests.

I was about to flee to the kitchen when Harry saw me and beckoned me over.

“Miss Goodacre, may I present to you my sister, Calpurnia Virginia Tate. Callie, this is Miss Minerva Goodacre.”

The peach fan beat the air like a giant moth. She looked at me with her big, buggy eyes and said with a trilling laugh, “Why, Calpurnia, what a sweet little girl you are. And so talented, too. I heard you play at the music recital.” And with this, she furled her fan and tapped me playfully on the cheek with it, a mite too hard. Was I in for such punishment all night long?

“How do you do, Miss Goodacre?” I managed to croak. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Oh,” she said, “I am sure we shall be more than acquaintances; I’m sure we will become fast friends. Now, Harry, where is that très amusant grand-père I’ve heard so much about?”