The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

Harry got the wishbone, and while we waited for SanJuanna to cut the pies, he got up and walked around the table to share it with Travis. I didn’t think Travis would pull it but he did, and he got the long end. When we urged him to tell us his wish, he stared into space and said quietly, “I wish I had a donkey. Just a little one. And maybe a little cart for him to pull. I would name him Dinkey the Donkey. That’s what I would call him.”

“Why do you want a donkey?” said Harry.

“Because I don’t think people eat donkeys. Do they?”

Mother looked drawn. “No, dear, not as far as I know.”

“Then Dinkey would be safe, and that would be all right. And that’s my wish.”

The table was silent except for Jim Bowie, who looked alarmed and said, “Are we eating a donkey? I don’t want to eat a donkey. They have pretty eyes.”

“No, J.B., we aren’t eating a donkey,” said Mother. “It’s turkey. Please finish your plate or there’ll be no dessert.”

“Are we eating Travis’s turkey?” said J.B.

“No, it’s someone else’s turkey,” I said quickly. “We traded, remember?”

“Oh. Okay. Can I look after the turkeys next time?” J.B. said in his innocence. None of us knew what to say to him.

“No, you can’t,” said Mother. “It’s Sul Ross’s turn.”

“No,” I said. “It’s my turn, remember?” Wondering, even as I opened my mouth, how much I was going to regret this. I meant only to sound determined, but apparently there was a measure of grimness in my voice because the conversation momentarily stopped, and everyone, including Travis, looked at me. But it was part of the hard bargain I’d made with Granddaddy, who only regarded me from his end of the table and nodded in approval.

CHAPTER 23

THE FENTRESS FAIR

How fleeting are the wishes and efforts of man! how short his time! and consequently how poor will his products be, compared with those accumulated by nature. . . .

I HAD NO CHOICE. Miss Harbottle had proposed the motion on the floor that all the girls in school enter handiwork in the fair, and Mother had seconded it. So Mother and Viola came to my room and inspected the various projects that I had laid out on my bed. There were three pairs of brown woollen socks for my brothers, a crocheted baby’s jacket to give to the poor, and an asymmetrical tatted lace collar, rather awkward on the side where I’d begun it and somewhat tidier where I’d finished up. I also had a piece of pathetic quilting so primitive that it looked like it had been done by Toddy Gates, Lula’s addle-brained brother. Mother shuddered and turned away, and she and Viola conferred and clucked over the remaining pieces. With much sighing, they chose the tatted collar.

Mother mused absently as she wrapped it in tissue paper, “I wonder if the family name has to go on it.” She looked up and saw our shocked expressions and said hastily, “Of course it does.”

On reflection, anonymity sounded like a fine idea to me, and I said, “Do you think I could enter anonymously? That would be all right with me.”

Mother flushed and said, “Don’t be silly. You should have thought of that while you were making it, young lady. Of course your name—our name—will be on it.” Still, she looked thoughtful. But whether she did or did not ask Miss Harbottle if this was possible, it didn’t matter. My name was going to be stuck on my work. I knew it served me right.

None of the boys had been forced to enter anything, but Travis voluntarily entered his Angora rabbit, Bunny. Bunny was an enormous, docile, fluffy white creature that Travis combed regularly for his silky hair, which he then gave to a local spinner, who in turn re-presented it to Mother in the form of the world’s softest wool. Travis had briefly considered entering a calf in the yearling division, but fortunately Harry had had the presence of mind to point out to him what inevitably happened to the winning specimens in the cattle divisions. Following this, Travis had driven us, and the fair organizers, mad with his obsessive checking and rechecking that Bunny was entered in the rabbit/fur competition and not the rabbit/meat competition.

Sam Houston had carved a recognizable profile of President McKinley out of pecan wood, a difficult wood to work, and entered it in the juvenile whittling division.

Except for my pathetic entry, it was bound to be a stupendous day, especially since we all had some money in our pockets saved up from working at the gin; I still had fifteen cents left over from babysitting during the harvest, despite subcontracting to Sul Ross. I considered spending some of it on a brand-new drink we’d all heard about, Coca-Cola.