The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

“Ah,” he said, looking up. “Thank you again for your trouble, Mr. Fleming.” He bowed to my mother and Mrs. Purtle. “Ladies.” He pressed the telegram between his hands and turned and walked out. Our collective mouths flopped open, we were that shocked. The unfairness of it, depriving us of this once-in-a-lifetime moment. Who could bear it? How could he do this to us? How could he do this to me?

“Calpurnia,” he called from the hallway, “are you not coming?” For a second, I was paralyzed and then I found my powers of locomotion and ran from the room—parlor manners be damned—to join him. I skidded into him at the library door. He opened the door in silence and we went in. The room was chilly with no fire in the grate. The green velvet curtain was drawn back to let the thin winter sunshine wash in.

He sat down at his desk. “Bring a lamp, won’t you?” His face was alight with a curious balance of eagerness and gravity.

Trembling, I lit the lamp. What if the answer was no? What would that make us? Nothing more than a deluded old man and a silly little girl. But what if it was yes? Would we not be acclaimed, exalted, famous? Would we not join the immortals? Was it better to know, or not? Either way, he had to still love me. Didn’t he?

I sat down on the camel saddle, wishing I could stop time.

Granddaddy looked at the envelope’s plain white aspect. Then he took his ivory paper knife and carefully slit it open. The telegram was a single sheet of paper folded once upon itself. He held it out to me.

“Read it to me, dear child.”

My hands shook as I reached for the paper. I unfolded it, bent toward the lamp, and read, stumbling over the longer words:

Dear Mr. Tate and Miss Tate:

    We, the members of the Plant Taxonomy Committee of the Smithsonian Institution, are pleased to inform you that, after much research and study, we have concluded that you have identified a new species of hairy vetch heretofore unknown. The class is Dicotyledon; the order is Fabales; the family is Fabaceae; the genus is Vicia. It is customary for the first identifier to have the species named after him, or any name he chooses, so long as it is not already in use. May we suggest to you that the plant be known as Vicia tateii? Such would be in keeping with the regular customs of taxonomy. You may, however, elect to name the plant otherwise. The choice is yours. The Institution congratulates you on your perspicacious find. We remain, yours in Science, et cetera,

Henry C. Larivee, President   

Taxonomy Committee, Plants

I carefully refolded the paper in my lap and then looked at him. Motionless, he stared off into space for a long time. I felt an urgent need to say something, but I didn’t know what. I couldn’t sort anything out. The room was completely still. Far off in the distance, a dog howled. It was Matilda, sounding her unique yodeling call. Odd that she would register with me at that moment. Closer at hand, a pan clattered in the kitchen. The wooden screen door banged shut, and a couple of my brothers scuffled past in the hall. We heard the piano start up in the parlor, a limpid, haunting melody; Harry had been pressed into playing for our visitors. The music drew my grandfather back from wherever it was he’d gone. His face was wistful, contemplative, sad.

“Yes,” he said at last.

“Yes?” I didn’t know what else to say.

A minute later, he said, “It’s Chopin. I have always liked that piece. Do you know, Calpurnia . . .” He trailed off.

“Yes, Granddaddy?”

“Do you know . . .”

“Yes, Granddaddy?”

“That I have always liked it best. Of all his work.”

“No. I didn’t know.”

“It’s commonly called ‘The Raindrop.’”

“I didn’t know that.”

I could hear Viola ringing the dinner bell on the back porch. Soon she would sound the gong at the foot of the stairs.

He ignored the bell. “The only question, really, is how are we to spend the brief time that is allotted us?”

I wondered if we were going to talk about the telegram. I didn’t want the gong to sound. Dinner was only dinner; dinner could wait. By rights we should be free to sit there forever. I looked around the room. I looked at the books, the armadillo, the bottled beast.

“Granddaddy?”

“Yes?”