The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

And I, what did I receive? Well, the little boys gave me a crumpled bag of sweets, and the older boys gave me new hair ribbons. My parents gave me a beautiful silver locket engraved with my initials. And then there was one more present for me. I could tell it was a book, even wrapped up as it was in brown paper. Ah, a book. How satisfying to have another one to add to the small library accumulating on the shelf above my bed. The book was so thick and hefty that I knew it was a reference book of some kind, a text, maybe even an encyclopedia. I peeled back the stiff paper to reveal the word Science printed in curlicues.

“Oh,” I exclaimed. Such magnificence! But even better than the solid reality of the book in my hand was the gladsome fact that my mother and father at last understood the kind of nourishment I needed to survive. I beamed at my parents with excitement. They smiled and nodded. I ripped the paper off to reveal the whole title: The Science of Housewifery.

“Oh!” I stared in befuddlement. It made no sense to me. What could it mean? Was the writing even English? The Science of Housewifery, by Mrs. Josiah Jarvis. This couldn’t be right. My hands turned to wood. I fumbled the book open to the Table of Contents and read: “Cooking for the Invalid.” “Favorite Pickles and Relishes.” “Removing Difficult Stains.” I stared at these grim subjects.

Conversation trailed off, and the room became silent except for the monotonous thwacking of J.B. riding his rocking horse in the corner. All eyes were on me. I looked at Granddaddy, whose brow puckered in concern. I looked at Mother, who paled and then flushed. I was committing the sin of embarrassing her in front of a guest. Her face turned grim.

She said, “What do you say, Calpurnia?”

What does Calpurnia say? What could I say? That I wanted to throw the book—no better than kindling—into the fireplace? That I wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all? That at that moment I could have done violence, that I could have punched them all in the face? Even Granddaddy. Yes, even him. Encouraging me the way he had, knowing that there was no new century for me, no new life for this girl. My life sentence had been delivered by my parents. There was no pardon or parole. No aid from any corner. Not from Granddaddy, not from anybody. The stinging whip of hives lashed my neck.

“Calpurnia?”

Great fatigue washed over me like a tidal wave, drowning my anger. I was too tired to fight anymore. I did the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life. I reached down into the depths of my being, and I dredged up the beginnings of a watery smile.

I whispered, “Thank you.” Just two words. Just two artificial words, coming from my own hypocritical mouth. Tears came to my eyes. I felt like I was disintegrating.

At that moment J.B. fell off his rocking horse and set up a tremendous squalling. In the general confusion, I gathered up my presents and slipped upstairs to my room. I stared out my window into the blackness. A few minutes later, I saw the receding glow of the minister’s lantern like a distant firefly in the black night. Sul Ross and J.B. thumped and laughed on the stairs. I changed into my nightgown and climbed into bed. I looked at the ribbons, the locket, and the book, all laid out on my dresser next to the hummingbird’s nest in its glass box. I closed my eyes, too exhausted to cry myself to sleep.

CHAPTER 26

WORD COMES

Although the beaks and feet of birds are generally quite clean, I can show that earth sometimes adheres to them: in one instance I removed twenty-two grains of dry argillaceous earth from one foot of a partridge, and in this earth there was a pebble quite as large as the seed of a vetch.

FOR MONOTONOUS MONTHS I had circled the mail on the hall table like a buzzard, poking through endless boring letters and bills before turning away each day in blank disappointment. Word did come, two days after Christmas, but not in the letter we had been expecting.

It came in the form of a personal telegram, a frightening event. Businesses used telegrams to buy and sell, but an individual got a telegram only for a death in the family. It came with Mr. Fleming, the telegraphist, who bicycled over to our house with it in his pouch. He had been a private in the War, and although he hadn’t served under Granddaddy, he admired him and was determined to be of service to him when he could. I met Mr. Fleming at the end of the driveway, where I was dolefully flailing about in the drainage ditch looking for water striders. There were none, and there was no point to it, but it was either this or sit in my room and read my Christmas present.