The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

We rounded the corner, and there was the Methodist church, lit with a thousand lamps. We filed into our pew, all except for Harry, who went up to assist Miss Brown at the organ. She played vigorously, pulling out the stops with a flourish and treading away like mad on the bellows pedal while Harry turned the pages. We sang “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” and the music made my feelings about Miss Brown thaw. A little.

When it was over, Mr. Barker walked home with us. Sam Houston pinched me, daring me to cry out as we walked behind the grown-ups. In retaliation, I shouldered him into a puddle. Wet shoes would teach him.

We smelled the fragrant smoke from our own chimney as we rounded the bend. Viola was back from her service, and she and Granddaddy stood at the front door. As we entered the parlor, she lit the dozens of tiny candles on the Christmas tree, and they nickered like fairy lights. The fire roared high. On the sideboard, a cut-glass punch bowl glinted, filled with mulled red wine redolent of cloves. There was a silver pitcher of hot cider for the children (sweet cider, of course, not hard). I noticed the quiet passing of another milestone: For the first time, Harry got a cup of Christmas wine.

My parents were about to exchange their brief Christmas kiss, the only time they bussed in front of us, when Mother remembered the presence of the minister and ducked her head in embarrassment. Father took her hand and kissed it instead, murmuring, “Margaret.”

The minister inquired whether Granddaddy had yet received any word about the Plant. I could tell that his interest, like that of the irrepressible Mr. Hofacket, was genuine.

“No, Cornelius, no word as yet.” Granddaddy lit a cigar and politely blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “You can’t rush science. These things take time.”

After a ham supper, during which we children grew increasingly restless, my parents took pity on us and distributed the presents. Despite his philosophy of presents, Mr. Barker stayed on and exclaimed over the fineness of our spoils.

For the family at large there was a new stereoscope, which all the children were to share equally (fat chance of that happening). There were viewing cards of the Great Sphinx of Egypt, the Fabulous White City of Chicago, the Fascinating Lives of the Esquimaux. Everybody got a big bright orange, a rare and expensive present during the winter. I saved mine for later.

There was a handsome new rocking horse for J.B., who had worn the rockers of his old one down to nubbins. It was covered in cowhide and had a real horsehair tail. For Sul Ross there were several wooden pull toys and a spinning top. Travis received a book on raising rabbits for fun and profit and a new curry comb. I knew he’d been hoping for a donkey, but he seemed happy enough. Lamar got a leather case containing a steel protractor, a ruler, and a compass. Sam Houston got The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Harry got a new suit of the finest dark navy wool, perfect for the young man about to make his mark in the world. And of course they all got brown woollen socks knitted by yours truly, displaying various degrees of competence. J.B.’s socks, the first ones, were lumpy and deformed, but by the time I got up to the older boys, they looked passable; I had even managed to knit a modest cable pattern into Father’s and Granddaddy’s. Much was made over this later handiwork, which, while not too embarrassing, did not warrant the fervent praise it received. (I suspected a put-up job.)

I gave Mother a selection of pressed flowers. She received a pair of garnet and jet earrings from Father and in turn gave him a dashing green-checked vest to wear on his business trips to Austin.

Viola was working in the kitchen but had received her gifts of snuff and a thick red flannel petticoat from Mother earlier in the day.

Granddaddy got a handsome box of cigars all the way from a place called Cuba. On the label was a colorful picture of a woman dancing in a long flounced skirt; the box was attractive and the perfect size in which to keep one’s treasures. I could tell that Lamar coveted it but was too afraid to ask Granddaddy for it.

“Go on,” I whispered. “Ask him if you can have it. He won’t bite.”

“He won’t bite you, you mean. He might bite me.”

“Don’t be a sissy Lamar”—I used the magic word on him. Worked every time.

He wheeled and marched up to Granddaddy. “Sir, can I have that box? When you’re through with it?”

Surprised, Granddaddy looked at him. “Of course you can . . . um, Travis.”

Lamar blinked. “Thank you, sir,” and scuttled back to his place.

“See?” I whispered. “He’s actually nice once you get to know him.”

“He called me Travis,” he hissed.

I giggled, and he glared at me. I said, “At least you got first dibs on the box.”

“How come you don’t want it?”

“I already have two—no, wait, three—of them.”

“Well, bully for you.”

Lamar could be such a pill sometimes.