The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

Gaah, she was spouting French. Harry steered her over to Granddaddy, who bowed low over her hand, brushed it with his whiskers, and said, “Enchanté, mademoiselle.” I think he might have even clicked his heels. She responded with what I guess was supposed to be a musical laugh, “My goodness, sir, aren’t you just too, too delightful.”

And that, as they say, was that. She ignored me for the rest of the evening. Carrying trays of this and glasses of that, I trailed after her and Harry as they circulated about the room.

She was given to much fan play. She talked about fashions from Paris and fashions from New York, and wasn’t it a shame about the perfectly frightful dress Governor Culberson’s wife had worn to her husband’s inauguration in Austin, and surely, with all their money, she could have afforded better, or at least sought advice from a modiste with taste. Taste was exceedingly important, n’est-ce pas? And speaking of taste, had anyone else remarked upon that dreadful, dowdy number that so-and-so had worn to the such-and-such ball . . . ?

Mother tried to engage her in conversation about music, but she would have none of it. Father tried to extract her opinion about the telephone line that would soon come to town, but she had none. She simpered and swished and ordered Harry about. She made me positively sick.

The evening wore on. Somehow we got through an interminable dinner, and then for entertainment Miss Brown sat down at the piano and whipped through her stock party piece, “The Minute Waltz,” in fifty-two seconds by Father’s pocket watch. Then she accompanied Miss Goodacre, who sang “Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes” in what I considered to be a completely indifferent voice, all the while emoting heavily in Harry’s direction.

Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge, with mine;

Or leave a kiss within the cup,

And I’ll not ask for wine.

I noticed during this nauseating performance that Granddaddy stared at her as if mesmerized, which depressed me right into the ground. Conquering Harry was not enough—she had to captivate all the men who were important to me.

Then Harry sang “Beautiful Dreamer” while Miss Goodacre made googly eyes at him. The hateful Miss Brown pushed me forward to play my recital piece. I had a splitting headache and a false smile plastered on my face and managed to give a mediocre performance. Then I went to the kitchen to beg a headache pastille from Viola.

“What she like?” said Viola. “She don’t look all that pretty from here. And Mister Harry such a nice-looking boy and all.”

“She’s dreadful, Viola. She can’t talk about anything except clothes.”

“Well, clothes is interesting,” said Viola.

“Not if that’s all you can talk about,” I said.

“That’s true. She ain’t much of a singer, neither. How’s your mama holding up?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Good,” she said. “Here’s a pastille. And take these chocolates out there. Keep a count.”

I went back to the party and handed around the chocolates, keeping them away from my brothers as best I could. Sanjuanna rounded up the younger ones for bed. Reverend Goodacre discussed the vagaries of the cotton market with my father. Granddaddy trapped Harry and Miss Goodacre in a corner and gave them a detailed explanation of the difference between the male and female Deinacrida, or giant locust. Miss Goodacre’s smile grew fixed.

“Come to the library,” Granddaddy said to her. “I have an excellent pair of specimens to demonstrate the difference.” He took her by the elbow and steered her out of the room.

“Bring her back to us soon,” Harry called out. “Don’t deprive us of her company for too long. Ha ha.”

Harry radiated bonhomie. I stood there and handed him a chocolate truffle. I wanted my brother to love me again at any price. In a weak voice I—the World’s Biggest, Fattest Liar—said, “She seems very nice, Harry.” Welts erupted on my neck. This time they were the hives of hypocrisy.

“Yes,” he said, “she’s a grand girl, isn’t she? I knew you’d like her once you had a chance to meet her. Good bonbon. Let’s have another.”

Blind, I thought. You’re blind.

At that moment, Miss Goodacre burst into the room looking flushed and tense. She bustled up to Mrs. Goodacre, and they conversed in an agitated whisper. Mrs. Goodacre turned to the gathering and said, “Minerva has a sick headache, and I’m afraid we must get her home. Such a shame, such a lovely party, but her mother has entrusted her to me for safekeeping. I’m sure you all understand.”

They collected their wraps and made their abrupt good nights while Mr. Goodacre and Harry prepared the buggy. There were many calls of thanks to my mother but no promises of doing it again soon. They disappeared into the night.

Harry looked pensive. “Grandfather, did Miss Goodacre seem all right in the library?”