The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

Well, maybe. Or maybe I could give one of the younger boys a penny to touch it for me. But then I considered the price I’d have to pay later with Mother. Definitely not worth it.

“Let’s take him home, and I’ll raise him,” I said. “I think I’ll call him Petey.”

“Calpurnia, you will find it a bad idea to give names to your experimental subjects.”

“Why?” I said, dropping Petey and his twig into the biggest Mason jar we had, quart-size, with holes punched in the lid.

“It tends to spoil the truly objective observation.”

“I’m not sure what that means, Granddaddy.”

But he was lost in thought over some animal tracks. “Fox, I think,” he murmured. “With a couple of kits, by the look of it. That’s encouraging. I thought the coyotes had got them all.”

By the time we got back to the house, we found that Sam Houston and Lamar had brought home a startling catfish that weighed forty-five pounds on the gin scale. Its huge, frowning mouth was framed with lashing barbels as thick around as pencils. It was a fright to look upon. The biggest of these fish didn’t fight the hook much, so my brothers did not count them good sport. The main challenge was hauling them out of the river and lugging them home without touching the poisonous spines on their fins.

That night we had big chunks of it for dinner, rolled in cornmeal and deep-fried, its white flesh still tanged with the undertaste of mud that didn’t seem to bother anybody else. I didn’t want to eat it. I didn’t even want to see it. It was as big as J.B. I mean, the size of that thing. It was big enough to take my whole leg in its mouth, and me swimming in the river every day. I pictured it grabbing me and dragging me down to the bottom, holding me there too long, or maybe long enough, depending on whether you looked at it from my perspective or the fish’s. My family would find me later, my hair swirling about like tragic Ophelia’s. Or maybe they wouldn’t find enough good-sized pieces to justify the cost of a funeral; maybe they would only find my chemise. Would you have a casket and a ceremony for just a chemise? Probably not. But how about a limb? Hadn’t General Jackson’s arm been given a full funeral ceremony? Or how about a head? I guessed a head would do it.

With that, I decided that I had analyzed the matter enough and did my best to think no more about it. Still, for months after that, when I stepped into the river, I thought of that Leviathan at one end of the scale waiting to mutilate me and the swarming microscopic creatures at the other end waiting to insinuate themselves. It was too bad, but sometimes a little knowledge could ruin your whole day, or at least take off some of the shine.

CHAPTER 9

PETEY

Peculiarities in the silkworm are known to appear at the corresponding caterpillar or cocoon stage.

AS THE SUMMER WORE ON, I spent more and more time studying Science and less and less time practicing the piano. This turned out to be unwise in the long run, since each time I missed practice I had to make up the time and pay for it with an extra half hour. On Saturday, after playing for a whole two hours (!), I made my escape with my Notebook and tapped on the library door.

“Enter if you must,” Granddaddy called out. He was examining some plates in The Atlas of Microscopic Pond Life.

“So you have finished with your cultural obligations for the day?” he said, without looking up, and I realized that with the transoms open he could, of course, hear me thumping away in the parlor across the hall. “I do like the ‘Water Music,’” he said, “and I hope you won’t grow so tired of learning it that you put it aside for the rest of your life. That’s the great danger of too much piano practice. I hope Margaret understands that.”

“Mother says I can go back to a half hour tomorrow. Oh,” I said, looking at the plates over his shoulder, “that’s what I drew, isn’t it?” I opened my Notebook to the illustrations I’d made of the microscopic river creatures. My ancient mace looked like the one in the text. “Volvox,” I read, “it’s Volvox. Is that how you say it?”

“That’s correct. Such a satisfying form. I admit I have a special weakness for it amongst all the Chlorophyta.”

“Look,” I said, “here’s another one.” My drawings were up to snuff. I was very pleased with myself.

“Go ahead and label each of them in your book,” Granddaddy said, “and note the page in the atlas so you can find them again.”

I decided to use ink instead of pencil, which made the whole process nerve-racking, but I ended up with only one tiny blot.

Then I said, “Granddaddy, what should I feed Petey?”

“Who?” he said.

“Petey. The caterpillar.”

“Calpurnia, must I give you the answer in a spoon like a baby? Surely you can figure it out on your own. Think about the problem. Do you remember where you found him? What sort of tree was he living on?”