The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

“I am going to collect specimens at the river. Order Odonata today, I think. Dragonflies and damselflies. Would you like to accompany me?”

“Yes, please.”

“We shall have to take your Notebook.” He opened the satchel, and in it I saw some glass jars and A Field Guide to the Insects, his lunch packet, and a miniature silver flask. He tucked my red Notebook and pencil in beside it. I picked up his butterfly net and slung it over my shoulder.

“Shall we?” he said, and offered me his arm in the manner of a gentleman taking a lady in to dinner. I linked my arm through his. He was so much taller than I that we jostled each other down the steps, so I let go of his arm and slipped my hand into his. The palm was calloused and weathered, the nails thick and curved, a miraculous construction of leather and horn. My grandfather looked startled, then pleased, I think, although I couldn’t tell for sure. Nevertheless, his hand closed on mine.

We picked our way across the wild field to the river. Granddaddy stopped every now and then to peer at a leaf, a rock, a mound of dirt, things I didn’t find terribly interesting. What was interesting was how he stooped over and scrutinized each object before extending a slow, deliberate hand. He was careful with everything he touched, putting each bug back where he found it, nudging each pile of dirt back into place. I stood holding the butterfly net at the ready, itching to pounce on something.

“Do you know, Calpurnia, that the class Insecta comprises the largest number of living organisms known to man?”

“Granddaddy, nobody calls me Calpurnia except Mother, and then only when I’m in lots of trouble.”

“Why on earth not? It’s a lovely name. Pliny the Younger’s fourth wife, the one he married for love, was named Calpurnia, and we have been left by him some of the great love letters of all time. There’s also the natal acacia tree, genus Calpurnia, a useful laburnum mainly confined to the African continent. Then there’s Julius Caesar’s wife, mentioned in Shakespeare. I could go on.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.” Why hadn’t anyone ever told me these things? All my brothers except for Harry bore the names of proud Texas heroes, many of whom had laid down their lives at the Alamo. (Harry had been named after a bachelor great-uncle with lots of money and no heirs.) I had been named after my mother’s older sister. I guess it could have been worse: Her younger sisters were Agatha, Sophronia, and Vonzetta. Actually, it could have been much worse—like Governor Hogg’s daughter, Ima. Gad, Ima Hogg! Can you imagine? I wondered if her great beauty and massive fortune were enough to protect her from a lifetime of torture? Perhaps if you had enough money, no one laughed at you for anything. And me, Calpurnia, with a name I’d hated all my life, why . . . why, it was a fine name, it was music, it was poetry. It was . . . it was incredibly annoying that no one in my family had bothered to tell me any of this.

So, then. Calpurnia would do.

We pushed on through the woods and the scrub. For all his age and his spectacles, Granddaddy’s eyes were a lot keener than mine. Where I saw nothing but leaf mold and dried twigs, he saw camouflaged beetles, motionless lizards, invisible spiders.

“Look there,” he said. “It’s Scarabaeidae, probably Cotinus texana. The fig beetle. Quite unusual to find one in a drought. Take it in the net, gently now.”

I swished the net, and the bug was mine. He extracted it and held it in his hand and we examined it together. It was an inch long, middling green, and otherwise unexceptional in appearance. Granddaddy flipped it over, and I saw that its underside shone a startling greeny-blue, iridescent and shot through with purple. The colors changed as it squirmed in dismay. It reminded me of my mother’s abalone brooch, lovely and rare.

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

“It’s related to the scarab beetle, which the ancient Egyptians worshipped as a symbol of the morning sun and the afterlife. Sometimes they wore it as jewelry.”

“They did?” I wondered how you’d get a beetle to stay on your dress. I had visions of sticking it on with a hatpin or perhaps wallpaper paste, neither of which seemed like a particularly good idea.

“Here,” he said, and held it out to me.

He tipped it into my palm, and I’m proud to say I didn’t flinch. The beetle tickled as it wandered over my hand.

“Should we keep him, sir?” I asked.

“I have one in my collection in the library. We can let this one go.”

I put my hand to the ground, and the bug or, rather, Cotinus texana stumbled off and wandered away unconcerned.

“What can you tell me about the Scientific Method, Calpurnia?” The way he said these words, I knew they had capital letters.

“Um, not much.”

“What are you studying in school? You do go to school, don’t you?”