The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

“It’s hard to say,” he said. “We are crossing the bar of distillery without a pilot.” He looked at me, and I could see the explorer’s excitement stirring beneath his calm expression.

“Let’s see how it smells,” he said, lifting the glass to his nose. He took a tentative sniff, as if it might be noxious smelling salts. Then he inhaled deeply. He looked gratified and held it out to me. I shied like a nervous pony. He’d nearly killed me before, and he’d forgotten about it. My feelings were hurt.

“Um,” I said, “you’re not going to make me drink any of it, are you? You do remember what happened last time, don’t you?”

He saw the look on my face and said, “Ah, no, you’re absolutely right. Dreadful. We mustn’t let that happen again. You don’t need to drink it. Just tell me if you like the way it smells.”

I took the glass from him and stuck my nose into it. A powerful pecan essence wafted into my face, not at all unpleasant, considering how sick I was of pecans. “It smells like Viola’s pie,” I said.

“Ah,” he said, “here comes the real test.” He saluted me with the glass and said, “To your good health, Calpurnia, my companion in sailing uncharted waters.” He took a good mouthful.

I still remember the look on his face as if it were yesterday. The spasm of surprise. Followed by a long, contemplative gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. Then, a slow smile.

“Well,” he said at last. “I have done an amazing thing.”

“What, Granddaddy, what?” I breathed.

“I doubt that any other man alive can make this claim.”

“Oh, what?” I wailed.

Calmly, Granddaddy said, “I have managed to take perfectly good pecans and ferment them into something approximating cat piss.”

My mouth flopped open.

“And what is the lesson we can take from this?” he went on.

I sat there and gawped at him.

He said, “The lesson for today is this: It is better to travel with hope in one’s heart than to arrive in safety. Do you understand?”

“No sir.”

“It means that we should celebrate today’s failure because it is a clear sign that our voyage of discovery is not yet over. The day the experiment succeeds is the day the experiment ends. And I inevitably find that the sadness of ending outweighs the celebration of success.”

“Should I write it in the log?” I said. “Cat piss, I mean.”

He chortled. “A good idea. We must be honest in our observations. Take up the pen and kindly do the honors, my girl.”

It was a red-letter day, after all, so I put aside the black ink and held up the bottle of red. He nodded his approval. I dipped the pen in the blood-red liquid and made a slow, careful notation. I showed it to Granddaddy.

“Excellent,” he said, “but I believe there are two s’s in the word piss.”

CHAPTER 20

THE BIG BIRTHDAY

We have many slight differences which may be called individual differences, such as are known frequently to appear in the offspring from the same parents. . . . No one supposes that all the individuals of the same species are cast in the very same mould. . . .

THE YEAR GROUND ON, and there was still no word about the Plant. My days consisted of a cycle of schoolwork, piano practice, and cooking lessons with Viola. I learned, against my will, how to make Beef Wellington and Lamb Parsifal. I learned how to fry chicken, catfish, and okra. I made white bread, brown bread, corn bread, and spoon bread.

None of this seemed to wear well on Viola. It didn’t wear all that well on me, either. In the shrinking scraps of free time I had left, I traipsed after Granddaddy as often as I could.

We made it to October. Ah, October. That time of ecstasy for me and three of my brothers, each of us with a birthday that month, plus Halloween to look forward to. It was almost too much excitement to bear. And that year it did in fact prove to be too much, at least for Mother, who called me, Lamar, Sul Ross, and Sam Houston in for a talk.

“Children,” she said, “this year we are going to have a birthday party for all of you to share. One big group birthday, instead of four ordinary ones. Won’t that be nice? We’ll invite all your friends and have a real celebration.”

“What?”

“Hey, that’s not fair!”

“Wait a minute.”

“Motherrrrr.”

Did she expect general joy about this arrangement? There was none. The chorus of grizzling was so loud and long that I was surprised she didn’t relent and go back on her plan. But she stuck it out.

“Enough!” she commanded. “It’s all too much. For me and for Viola, both. If she has to make four birthday feasts in one month again, she’ll quit us, I swear she will. And I’ll not have you complaining to her about it, either. It wasn’t she who suggested it.”

“Callie Vee could help her cook,” Lamar said loftily. “She’s learning how. Let her help. I want my own birthday party.”