The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

I AWOKE in the morning to a tiny skritch-skratch sound like the noise a mouse makes in the wall, only it was coming from Petey’s jar. It was too dark to see, so I pulled back the curtain and set his jar in the windowsill. His cocoon pitched this way and that. As the room grew lighter, he thrashed and chewed away and either didn’t notice my face pressed up against his jar or didn’t care. Finally, he had a good-sized hole in one end of his cocoon, and what had once been Petey slowly strained its way out with a mighty effort.

And there, instead of the lovely bright creature I’d imagined, crouched an odd-looking thick-bodied butterfly with damp, tightly furled wings. It shook, struggling to uncrimp itself. I could see that it wasn’t my Petey anymore. I would have to find a new name for it. Something to reflect its long-awaited splendor. Something like . . . Fleur . . . since it lived on nectar, or maybe Sapphire, or maybe Ruby, depending on the final color of its wings. I left it to its work and went down to breakfast.

At the table I announced, “Petey hatched. He’s busy drying off his wings.”

“Oh, wonderful,” said Mother. “What color is he?”

“I can’t tell yet, ma’am. He’s still puckered up. But he definitely needs a new name now that he’s not Petey the Caterpillar anymore.”

“Children?” said Mother, “do you have any suggestions?”

Sul Ross, the seven-year-old, proclaimed, “We should name him . . . we should name him . . . ,” he struggled, “. . . Butterfly.”

“That’s nice, dear,” said Mother.

“How about Belle,” said Harry, “for beauty.”

“That’s nice, Harry. Any other suggestions?”

Granddaddy said, “You might want to wait and see what it looks like first.”

I thought this an odd statement. But if anybody knew his butterflies, it was Granddaddy, so I figured he had some reason for making it.

“Yes,” I said, “let’s see what he looks like before we name him, although Belle is a good idea.” Sul Ross looked crestfallen, and I added, “And Butterfly is good, too, Sully. Maybe I’ll call him Belle the Butterfly.”

“Is it a him or a her, Callie?” said Travis.

“No idea,” I said, tucking into the flapjacks.

“Kindly don’t talk with your mouth full,” said Mother.

After breakfast I ran up to my room with the three younger boys on my heels debating what to christen our new charge. And there in all his glory was Petey, or Belle, stretched wide on his twig, enormous wings filling his jar. He was huge, he was pale, he was fuzzy all over. He was the world’s biggest moth.

“That sure is a funny-looking butterfly,” said Sul Ross. “What’s wrong with him?”

“It’s not a butterfly, Sully,” said Travis. “It’s a moth. Callie, did you know it was going to be a moth?”

“Um,” I said, taken aback by his size, “not really.”

“Gosh, I’ve never seen one that big,” said Travis.

“Me neither. He’s kind of creepy,” said Sul Ross, “don’t you think?”

“Uh. . . .” It’s true, he was kind of creepy, but I would never admit it. I had no idea moths could get to be that size. And this one was only a newborn.

“What are you going to do with it?” asked Travis.

“I’m going to study it, of course,” I said, wondering what on earth I would do with this monster.

“Oh, okay. So what are you going to study?”

“Um, its . . . um, eating habits, that sort of thing. Its mating habits. Right. Yep, there’s territory, wingspan, things like that.”

“Are you going to have to touch it?” said Sul Ross. “I sure wouldn’t want to touch it.”

“Maybe not yet,” I said. “It’s barely born. It needs time to get used to things.”

“You better find a bigger jar fast, Callie. It’s going to bust out of that one.”

“I don’t think they come any bigger.”

“Maybe you could let him fly around your room,” said Travis.

Not likely.

“Eeeuuuw,” said Sul Ross, backing up. “I gotta go.”

“Me too,” said Travis. “Time for school.”

“Hey!” I called after them, “It’s all right, come back here. I’m not gonna let him out!”

Now what? Petey—or Belle, or whatever it was—fluttered in its jar. The sound was dry, ominous, morbid. I got ready for school, trying not to look at it, flinching every time it flapped. I’d have to let it out of that jar, I could see that, but I didn’t want to think about it. I spent most of the hours at school trying not to.

When I got home, I lingered downstairs and put in some extra piano practice, after which Mother ordered me upstairs to change my pinafore. I dragged myself up to my room and had a sudden spasm of anxiety as I put my hand on the doorknob: What if it had gotten out? Had I tightened the lid on the jar after opening it the last time? What if it was flying loose around the room? Then I caught myself. Calpurnia Virginia Tate. You’re being ridiculous. Are you a Scientist or aren’t you? Come on, now. It’s. Only. A. Moth.

All right. That did it. I peered around my door. There it hunkered in the jar, the same as I’d left it, too big to even turn around. It stirred, wings beating against the glass.