The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

I stood there trying to catch my breath. And suddenly I felt exhausted and overwhelmed. I felt . . . abandoned. What had happened to our time together? How had I let it get away? Why hadn’t I fought for it? And where was he, on this, the day of all days? I had always been able to find him when I needed him. And now he’d gone off collecting somewhere other than our regular haunts, somewhere I didn’t know about and where I couldn’t find him. Somewhere secret. Somewhere private. Collecting without me.

Question for the Notebook: Why would he do that? Answer: He’d do that if he was tired of Calpurnia and wanted to be alone. If he was tired of her and her childish company. Right, Calpurnia? Right? Was that it?

“No one’s hurt, sir,” I managed to get out when I could finally speak, but all I could think was, Had there been the fleeting ghost of irritation on Granddaddy’s face when I had interrupted his reading in the library a few days before? Had Mother and Father spoken to him? Told him he was an unhealthy influence on me and advised him to cultivate one of my brothers instead? And then there was the pall of the lost vetch. Oh, I’d found it again, but had he truly forgiven me for being so stupid about losing it in the first place? He had encouraged me to learn how to cook and to knit months earlier when Mother had thrust those chores upon me. He had not comforted me when I held The Science of Housewifery in my hands. He must have known all along that the scientific life was not for me, that the jaws of the domestic trap were well and truly sprung. I burst into tears.

“My goodness, girl, what’s the matter?” Mr. O’Flanagan patted me awkwardly. “There there. Let me take you home to your ma.”

“No, thank you, Mr. O’Flanagan. I’m all right,” I sobbed.

“You sure? You don’t look all right.” His expression darkened, and he said, “Has someone . . . been . . . after you?”

“No, no, I just need my grandfather,” I blubbed, but he didn’t look convinced. I pulled my hankie out of my pinafore and soaked it in seconds. I couldn’t stop wailing.

“Here you go,” he said, handing me his handkerchief. “You look like you need this more than I do. You keep it. Let’s go home to your ma.”

I could see that Mr. O’Flanagan wasn’t going to leave me alone until I calmed down. I blew my nose and with a great effort got a tenuous grip on myself.

“I’m okay,” I sniffled. “I’ll go home. I’m all right. Thank you. Good-bye.” Reluctantly he let me go. I trudged into the street and turned toward home.

My grandfather had given me Mr. Darwin’s book to read. He had given me the possibility of a different kind of life. But none of it mattered. Instead, there was The Science of Housewifery for me. I was blind; I was pathetic. The century was about to change, but my own little life would not change with it. My own, little, life. One I had better get used to. I erupted in tears again like a fountain, a running tide of tears and snot soaking Mr. O’Flanagan’s hankie. There was only one last Question left for the Notebook before closing it and putting it away forever, and that was the telegram: Yes? Or No? My grandfather would have to tell me that. I would make him tell me. He owed me that much.

I scrubbed my face with the last dry piece of Mr. O’Flanagan’s hankie and glanced back. There he was, fifty yards behind me, seeing me safely home, trying to look like he wasn’t following me. At least somebody cared about me.

He saw me to the end of the drive before turning around. I collected myself as best I could in an attempt to avoid further interrogation.

My mother was still in the parlor with Mrs. Purtle, pouring tea. Viola came in wearing a clean white apron and bearing a lemon pound cake on a silver tray. Mr. Fleming sat on a spindly chair with one of the good teacups perched on his knee, his delivery pouch at his feet. He looked like he was dug in for the duration and wasn’t going to leave until he knew what was in the only telegram he’d ever delivered from Washington.

My mother looked up. “Calpurnia, whatever’s the matter? Did you find your grandfather?”

“Nothing’s the matter,” I said, my voice flat. “And no, I didn’t find him.”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” said Viola, “I believe Captain Tate is working in the shed out back.” Viola refused to call it either the laboratory or the former slave quarters.

In the shed out back? The laboratory?

Mother frowned. “I could have sworn he went to the river. Calpurnia, go and fetch him, please. We can’t keep Mr. Fleming waiting all day.”

“Oh, that’s all right, ma’am,” he said and nudged his cup an inch or two in the general direction of the teapot, “quite all right.”

Not at the river?

“Will you have more tea, Mr. Fleming?”

“Why, thank you kindly, ma’am. I believe I will.”

He was not at the river collecting without me. He was in the laboratory working without me.

“Calpurnia? Did you hear me? Go and fetch him. Mrs. Purtle, do try some of this excellent cake. It’s Viola’s special recipe.”