The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

We tried to explain to J.B. what a resolution was, but he was too young to understand. Mother made a resolution for him, namely, that he would learn his ABCs in the coming year. Sul Ross made a resolution to finish his school assignments on time. Travis resolved to spend more time playing with Jesse James. This was impossible, as he toted the gangly cat with him everywhere, tucked into the bib of his overalls.

Then it was my turn. I stood up, pulled my Notebook from my pocket, and opened it to the last page.

“It’s not so much a resolution. It’s more like a list.” I cleared my throat and read, “I want to see the following things before I die: the northern lights. Harry Houdini. The Pacific Ocean or the Atlantic Ocean. Any old ocean at all—it doesn’t matter. Niagara Falls. Coney Island. A kangaroo. A platypus. The Eiffel Tower. The Grand Canyon. Snow.”

I sat down to silence. Then Harry said, “Very good, pet,” and started clapping. My other brothers joined in. Mother’s and Father’s applause was tepid. I felt vaguely melancholy.

Lamar said, “I resolve to do better in geometry.” He spent hours each day running around the house measuring the angle of things with his new steel protractor.

Sam Houston said, “Lula Gates won’t let me carry her books home from school, so I resolve to carry Effie Preston’s, even if she doesn’t want me to. I swear I’m going to do it.” This got a good laugh.

Then it was Harry’s turn, but he only smiled and said, “It’s a secret.” There was a general outcry of that’s not fair.

I said, “You have to tell us, Harry. Otherwise it isn’t a real resolution.” Finally he relented to get us off his back. He glanced at Mother and said, somewhat weakly, I thought, “I resolve to study hard so I can get into the university next year.”

Mother twinkled with pleasure at this, which of course was his intended result, but I could tell his heart wasn’t in it, he was just throwing her a sop. The fact that he wouldn’t tell us his real resolution made me suspect that it had something to do with Fern Spitty.

Mother’s resolution was to make sure that every single one of her children made it to church at least twice a week. There was stirring in the ranks at this but no one had the courage to moan about it to her face.

Father’s resolution was to give up dipping snuff. Since he was only allowed to dip at the gin, he’d decided that the agony of having to give it up at the front door every day when he came home outweighed the pleasure of partaking at work. Mother looked delighted and sipped her fizzy wine.

It took some badgering of Granddaddy, who took it jovially enough before he said, “It would be a sad commentary on my life if I were to have any resolutions left at my age. However . . . there is one thing. . . .”

Mystified, I searched my brain. Something to do with the mutant? Or that he wanted to perfect his pecan spirits? I had no clue.

“I wish to go driving in an auto-mobile,” he said. “I hear they have one in Austin.”

“But they’re dreadful machines!” said Mother. “And so unsafe! They say they’re likely to explode without warning, and people are always breaking their arms at the crank.”

“True.” He smiled. There was a contented, faraway expression on his face. He looked to the world as if he were staring off into the distance; but I knew that he was gazing into the future.

Then there was nothing left to do but sit and wait for the next hour to pass. My parents talked quietly, Granddaddy smoked cigars and read his National Geographic, and my brothers and I took turns at fighting off sleep and failing miserably. Finally, finally, the clock struck midnight, and as the chimes died out, we heard a cacophony of pots and pans being beaten in the streets all over town. We clasped hands in a circle and sang “Auld Lang Syne.” The words were incomprehensible, but the music was lovely. I looked around the circle of dear faces and considered all the gifts that had come to me over the past year. There were Mother and Father, holding hands and looking tired but happy. She had a few threads of gray at her temples, which I hadn’t noticed before. There was Harry: proud, tall, handsome, his collar and tie immaculate, a young gentleman in the making. There were Sam Houston and Lamar; there was Travis with Jesse James in his arms; there was yawning Sul Ross. There was J.B., dead on his feet but gamely determined to see in the new year.

And there was my grandfather, adding his low baritone in sad, sweet harmony to the music, his long beard glinting in the firelight. We had been so close to missing each other, he and I. He had turned out to be the greatest gift of all.

Then the pots and pans died out, and the song ended. Everyone except for Mother and Father shuffled up to bed, leaving the two of them to sit up together awhile longer.