The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

I guess Lula was beautiful, although I wasn’t aware of it at the time. She had a long blond braid of honey and silver threaded together that hung all the way down her back and swayed with a life of its own when she played a vigorous piece on the piano. Her eyes were an odd, pale color somewhere between blue and green, their hue depending on the color of her hair ribbon. There was one strange thing about her that I found fascinating: She always had a delicate mist of perspiration across the bridge of her nose, winter or summer. It was barely enough to moisten a fingertip, but when you wiped it away, it immediately reappeared. This sounds unattractive, but it was entertaining rather than off-putting. As a small child, I would stand there and dab it away and watch it return for as long as she would let me. There seemed to be no explanation for it.

You would think that having Lula as a friend would be a great relief to me after all my brothers, and generally this was so, but sometimes she could be a bit sappy. She wouldn’t collect specimens with me at the dam (snakes). She wouldn’t walk with me to the old Confederate Training Ground (blisters and snakes). She wouldn’t go swimming in the river (undressing and snakes). But we shared a desk at school, and we always had. This is how our friendship had started and why in part, I guess, it persevered. Plus, I believe that her mother might have promoted the friendship. She might have thought it a social plum for Lula to have a friend in the Tate family. And did her mother also harbor hopes that Lula might one day snag one of the Tate boys as a husband? It’s possible. I’m guessing we had more money than other families in the county. Lula’s own family seemed comfortable enough. Her father owned the stables, and they could afford piano lessons, and they had a maid but no cook. She had only the one brother, feeble-minded Toddy. Toddy didn’t go to school but instead spent his days in a corner of his room, clutching the ragged remnant of an old quilt and rocking himself without ceasing. He was peaceful unless you took his scrap of quilt away, and then he became distressed and produced horrible, loud mooing noises until he got it back. His family found it more trouble than it was worth to take it away from him for washing, so as a consequence it smelled disgusting. Apart from this, the Gateses’ house seemed quiet compared with mine.

Lula won prizes for her needlework, whereas mine was straggly and pitiful. I couldn’t understand her powers of concentration when she rolled a French knot or toiled over a tatted collar in Sewing class at school.

“It’s the same as learning a piano piece, Callie,” she would say, “and you can do that fine. All you have to do is practice it over and over until you get it right.”

I pondered this and decided she was right. So why did I find the music so different from the needlework? When you played the piano, the notes vanished a second later in the air and you were left with nothing. Still, the music brought joy even as the notes evaporated, and playing a rag exhilarated everyone to the point of jumping around the parlor. What did the embroidery bring? Something decorative and permanent and occasionally useful, yes, but I found it dull and quiet work, suitable for a rainy day with only the monotonous ticking of the parlor clock for company. Mouse work.

I did convince Lula to play some Sousa arrangements for four hands with me, and we made a good go of it, pounding out twice as much music in a veritable torrent of strict-tempo chords, which was highly gratifying.

ONE AFTERNOON, my thirteen-year-old brother Lamar sidled up to me on the porch as I sat tallying Lepidoptera.

“Callie. . . .”

“What?”

“Do you think Lula likes me?”

“Sure, Lamar.”

“No, what I mean is, do you think she . . . likes me?”

This was a surprise. Lamar had never shown any interest in girls before. “Why are you asking me?” I said. “Why don’t you ask her?”

He looked aghast. “I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Well . . . I don’t know,” he said lamely.

“Then I don’t know what to tell you.” I had a flash of inspiration. “Why don’t you talk to Harry about it?”

He looked relieved. “Yes,” he said, “that’s a good idea. But you won’t tell Lula, will you?”

“No.”

“And you won’t tell any of the others, will you?”

“No.”

“Okay. Thanks, Callie.”

I didn’t think too much about the conversation until a few days later, when Sam Houston, the fourteen-year-old, crept up to me in the hallway and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Callie, say, I need to talk to you. Do you think Lula Gates likes me?”

“What?” I said.

He flinched. “Don’t jump like that. I only wondered if maybe she likes me, that’s all.”

“Golly, Sam.”

“What?” he said.

I was in a minor panic. “I think maybe you should ask her yourself.”

He looked appalled. “I can’t do that.”

I said, “You better talk to Harry. He knows all about those things.” Who said inspiration doesn’t strike twice?