The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

The laws governing inheritance are quite unknown; no one can say why . . . the child often reverts in certain characters to its grandfather. . . .

THREE DAYS LATER, I crept downstairs and went out onto the front porch very early before the daily avalanche of my brothers could crack open the peace of the morning. I scattered a handful of sunflower seeds thirty paces down the drive to draw the birds and then I sat down on the steps on a ratty old cushion I’d scavenged from the trunk room. I made a list in my red leather Notebook of everything that moved. Isn’t that what naturalists do?

One of the sunflower seeds hopped across the slate tiles of the front walk. Odd, that. On inspection it turned out to be a tiny toad, a quarter of an inch long, hopping mightily after an escaping millipede, itself no bigger than a thread, both going for all they were worth until they disappeared in the grass. Then a wolf spider, startling in size and hairiness, streaked over the gravel, either chasing something smaller or being chased by something bigger, I couldn’t tell which. I reckoned there must be a million minor dramas playing out around the place without ceasing. Oh, but they were hardly minor to the chaser and the chasee who were dealing in the coin of life and death. I was a mere bystander, an idler. They were playing for keeps.

Then a hummingbird careened around the corner of the house and plunged into the trumpet of the nearest lily drooping in the heat. Not finding it to his liking, he abruptly backed out and explored the next one. I sat a few feet away, entranced, close enough to hear the angry low-pitched buzzing of his wings, so at odds with his jewel-like appearance and jaunty attitude. The bird paused at the lip of a flower and then turned and caught sight of me. He hovered in midair for a second and then rushed at me. I froze. The bird stopped four inches shy of my face and hung there, I swear. I felt the tiny rush of wind from his wings against my forehead and, reflexively, my eyes squeezed shut of their own accord. How I wish I’d been able to keep them open, but it was a natural reaction and I couldn’t stop myself. The second I opened them, the bird flew off. He was the size of a winged pecan. Fueled by rage or curiosity—who could tell—he cared not at all that I could have crushed him with the lightest swat.

I had once seen Ajax, Father’s best dog, get into a fight with a hummingbird and lose. The hummingbird had dived at him and spooked him until he’d trotted back to the front porch, looking very embarrassed. (It is possible for a dog to look embarrassed, you know. He’d whipped around and started licking his nether parts, a sure sign a dog is trying to hide his true feelings.)

The front door opened, and Granddaddy came out onto the porch, an ancient leather satchel strapped over his shoulder, a butterfly net in one hand, and a malacca walking stick in the other.

“Good morning, Calpurnia,” he said. So he knew my name after all.

“Good morning, Granddaddy.”

“What have you got there, if I may ask?”

I jumped to my feet. “It’s my Scientific Notebook,” I said grandly. “Harry gave it to me. I write down everything I observe in it. Look, here’s my list for this morning.”

Observe was not a word I normally used in conversation, but I wanted to prove my seriousness to him. He put down his satchel, and it made interesting clinking noises. He took out his spectacles and looked at my list. It read:

cardinals, male and female

a hummingbird, some other birds (?)

rabbits, a few

cats, some

lizard, green

insects, various

C. V. Tate’s grasshoppers, big/yellow and small/green (these are the same species)

He took off his spectacles and tapped the page. “A fair start,” he said.

“A start?” I said, hurt. “I thought it was finished.”

“How old are you, Calpurnia?”

“Twelve,” I said.

He looked at me.

“Eleven and three quarters,” I blurted. “I’m practically twelve. Really. You can hardly tell the difference.”

“And how are you coming along with Mr. Darwin and his conclusions?”

“Oh, it’s marvelous. Yes. Marvelous. Of course, I haven’t read the whole thing yet. I’m taking my time.” Truthfully, I had read the first chapter several times and found it to be heavy weather. I had then jumped ahead to the section on “Natural Selection” but still struggled with the language.

Granddaddy looked at me gravely. “Mr. Darwin did not write for an audience of eleven-and-three-quarters-practically-twelve-year-olds. Perhaps we can discuss his ideas sometime. Would you care to do that?”

“Yes,” I said. “Yessir, yes.”