The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

I threw him such a venomous look that he took a step back.

Mother prevailed, and so began an entire week of preparations, during which she and Viola and SanJuanna went full-steam ahead (since it was my birthday too, I was excused from cooking, despite my rotten brother’s comment). We four children stayed out of their way and continued to vent our group spleen amongst ourselves, muttering about the unfairness of it all. Then the first Saturday of October came, and we were herded together for our communal birthday, in a peculiar mood both celebratory and sullen.

Viola’s job was to cook the mountains of food; SanJuanna’s was to keep it coming. Alberto’s job was to erect the pavilion tent in case of rain and lead Sunshine, a bitter, elderly Shetland pony, around on a tight rein, making sure she didn’t perform her favorite trick of whipping around like a snake and taking a chunk out of her rider’s leg.

Our initial collective pique melted away as the party began, and why not? It was the biggest party Fentress had ever seen. All of the children in town were invited, and many of their parents came too. There were pony rides, sparklers, bottle rockets, croquet, horseshoes, taffy pulls, and apple bobbing. There were favors and crepe-paper hats and streamers.

There were mounds of dainty sandwiches and sausage rolls; there were cool aspics and hot ham served with apricot preserves; cold roast beef sliced thin and served with fiery horseradish, which the children assiduously avoided; all the jelly roll and ice cream you could possibly eat; pecan pies and lemon meringue pies; there was a towering four-layer dark chocolate cake with the name of each birthday child written in fancy white icing on the sides, with candles on the top for all of us, a total of forty-nine, covering the top layer. (Twelve for me, fourteen for Lamar, fifteen for Sam Houston, and eight for Sul Ross. It was a veritable sheet of flame, and I could see that if we kept up the communal birthday, we’d soon have to convert to some other candle system, or else get a much larger cake.)

Things started out decorously enough but deteriorated into unprecedented pandemonium. Ajax swiped a sausage roll and managed to gulp down his prize while running at top speed, a mob of gleeful children pounding in pursuit.

My one responsibility for the day was to chaperone Sul Ross and make sure he didn’t stuff himself on birthday cake to the point of getting sick. A futile undertaking. Sul Ross always got sick on cake, whether watched by me or not.

Father and Mother played the gracious host and hostess. Granddaddy stood with the adults and had a convivial glass of beer. He announced that there was a birthday present for all of us coming from Austin but that it had been unexpectedly delayed and would arrive later in the week. This caused all sorts of speculation, but he wouldn’t tell us any details. Then he retreated to the library to take a refreshing nap.

Travis and Lamar and Sam Houston circulated in Lula Gates’s vicinity like planets around the sun, pestering her with constant questions: “More ice cream, Lula?” “Can I get you more cake, Lula?” “Are you having a good time, Lula?”

Nobody asked me if I wanted anything. But then, I was perfectly capable of getting my own cake. I surely was. A good, sturdy girl like me.

Lula stood talking with her mother, the tiniest beads of sweat on her nose, her loose hair a silver-and-gold cataract in the sun.

Mrs. Gates smiled at Travis and then Lamar. So, I thought, she is hoping to land a Tate boy for Lula, and it doesn’t look like she cares which one, either.

“Callie,” said Mrs. Gates, “we were talking about the fair. How is your handiwork coming along? If I may be permitted to toot my own daughter’s horn, I must say that Lula is surprising me with her skill these days.”

“Ah,” I said.

“We’re hoping she takes a ribbon in cutwork, although her lace making is progressing as well.”

“Well,” I said, and then realized I could think of not one single word about the subject. The gap in the conversation yawned wider until Travis chimed in.

“Callie Vee is making me some socks for Christmas, Mrs. Gates. Aren’t you, Callie?”

“Yes. That’s right. Socks.”

Travis said, “It will be nice to have wool socks when it’s cold, don’t you think? I hope they’ll be done in time.”

“Oh, Travis,” said Mrs. Gates, smiling, “I’m sure they’ll be done in time for Christmas, won’t they, Callie? Why, socks don’t take any time at all.”

I felt like saying, Don’t bet on it.

“Lula can make a pair of socks in an afternoon,” Mrs. Gates went on.

“Really?” said Travis, digesting this information and then looking at me with puzzlement.

I didn’t like the way this conversation was going. “Lula,” I interrupted, “do you want a ride on Sunshine? It’s okay, Alberto’s got her, she won’t bite. But if you’re worried, I’ll go first if you want.”

“Okay, Callie, that would be nice,” Lula said, and we excused ourselves.