The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

“There you go,” said Viola.

“Well,” said Mother. “Very nice.”

“Whew,” I said.

That night, when SanJuanna had cleared the main course and brought dessert in, my mother called for quiet and said, “Boys, I have an announcement to make. Your sister made the apple pies tonight. I’m sure we will all enjoy them very much.”

“Can I learn how, ma’am?” said Jim Bowie.

“No, J.B. Boys don’t bake pies,” Mother said.

“Why not?” he said.

“They have wives who make pies for them.”

“But I don’t have a wife.”

“Darling, I’m sure you will have a very nice one someday when you’re older, and she’ll make you many pies. Calpurnia, would you care to serve?”

Was there any way I could have a wife, too? I wondered as I cut through the browned C and promptly shattered the entire crust. I tried to cut slices but mangled the job and ended up spooning out pie that looked more like cobbler. Father smiled at his dessert, smiled at Mother, smiled at me. My brothers made exclamations of appreciation and fell on their portions like hungry dogs. My cooking lesson had taken all afternoon; the results were downed in four minutes flat. None of them could flatter me enough to make up for the fact that I had lost hours with my Notebook, my river, my specimens, and my grandfather. Granddaddy chewed his pie, deep in thought.

CHAPTER 19

A DISTILLERY SUCCESS,

OF SORTS

We have seen that man by selection can certainly produce great results, and can adapt organic beings to his own uses. . . .

“CALPURNIA,” GRANDDADDY CALLED up the stairs, “will you come out to the laboratory with me? I require your assistance if you’re not otherwise engaged.”

Since I’d heard my domestic life sentence delivered, I had sunk into the deepest quagmire of ill temper and low spirits, keeping apart from the others as much as possible, so much so that there had been the occasional talk of cod-liver oil. It held no healing powers for the mangled paw caught in the cruel trap.

When Granddaddy called, I was sulking in my room and knitting yet another sock in the endless series of Christmas socks. But I did not consider myself otherwise engaged at all, and here he was, offering me temporary respite from the tyranny of the house. I dropped the needles, ran from my room, and slid down the banister.

Granddaddy smiled. “An efficacious method of transportation. Remind me to talk with you some other time about Newton’s laws of physics and how they apply to banister travel.”

“What are you—what are we—working on today?”

“Do you remember the whiskey sample we put in oak in July? I think it’s time to see how it’s coming along.”

We headed through the kitchen for the back door. Viola sat sifting soft hillocks of white flour with Idabelle for company. She gave us the walleye and said, “Dinner in an hour.”

The laboratory shelves were crammed with scores of bottles, the inspiring—or depressing—results of years of work, depending on your point of view. The Plant had gone to seed, and we had swept every tiny fleck into a labeled envelope, which had then been placed in a labeled jar, which had then been locked in the library cabinet. The room smelled of pecans, must, and mouse. I would have to appoint one of the Outside Cats to clear the mice out. Granddaddy opened his log book and riffled through it in the gloom, his thick yellow fingernail running down the columns.

“Here it is, the one with your notation. Number 437, on the twenty-first of July. I wonder where we put it?” You’d think it would be difficult to lose an oak barrel, even a small one, in the laboratory, but the space had become so crowded with failed samples and the detritus of various old and new experiments that it took a few minutes of pawing through it all before we located it buried deep under one of the counters.

“Ah,” said Granddaddy. “Careful, we don’t want to disturb any sediment. Let’s see how it looks first.”

I lit all the hanging lamps while Granddaddy cleared a spot on the counter and gently placed the barrel on it. He tapped the barrel and turned the wooden spigot, spilling a couple of inches of warm golden-brown liquid into a clean glass. He raised the glass and held it up before the brightest lamp, handling it as if it were nitroglycerin. He inspected it, both with his spectacles and then without. The glass glowed. But I knew that no matter how good the stuff might be, no matter how successful the run, it was death to practically-twelve-year-olds.

“No real sediment to speak of,” he said.

“Is that good?”

“I believe it to be a good sign. I don’t remember ever drinking a glass of good bourbon with any particulate matter floating in it, do you? What do you think of this color?”

“It’s nice. It’s the same color as Mother’s amber beads. Is it supposed to look like that?”