The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

Chapter 13 A SCIENTIFIC CORRESPONDENCE

THE PLANT TOOK UP RESIDENCE in the southern windowsill of the laboratory and, after some anxiety on my part, grabbed a firm hold on life. We inspected it several times a day, vigilant for signs of under- or overwatering, too much or too little sun, spider mites, drafts, chlorosis, general malaise. Every time I found a ladybug, I rushed it to the Plant to stand guard for pests, but my tiny crimson sentries always wandered off. We made detailed daily notes in the log, a crisp new marbled-cover book reserved for the Plant. Terrified that somebody might toss the Plant out in some misplaced fit of tidying up, I tacked a small warning sign beneath the flowerpot:

Twelve days later, we received our first correspondence about the Plant. From Mr. Hofacket. He wrote asking if we’d received word from the Smithsonian. He’d put copies of the photographs in his window between the stiff bride and the naked baby lolling on a white bearskin rug, and several new customers had come into the shop to inquire after the curious pictures of a nondescript weed.

“Calpurnia, you are part of this endeavor,” Granddaddy said. “Would you please write to Mr. Hofacket and remind him again that it is far too soon to receive word about this? I told him repeatedly that it would be months. Nevertheless, we must cultivate enthusiasm in the layman whenever and wherever we find it.”

Ah! An assignment to enter into a scientific correspondence—of sorts—with an adult. I wrote my draft in pencil, and when I was satisfied with my efforts, I sought out Granddaddy to show it to him. I knocked on the library door, and he called out, “Enter if you must.” I found him poking through one of his lizard drawers, muttering something about a missing specimen.

“Calpurnia, have you seen my five-lined skink? It should be filed here between the four-lined and the many-lined, naturally, but I seem to have misplaced it.”

“Uh, no, sir, I haven’t, but I have written a letter back to Mr. Hofacket, and I need you to look at it.”

“Mister who?” he said, rummaging.

“The photographer. You remember, in Lockhart.”

“Ah, yes.” He waved me away and said, “I trust you’ve done a fine job. Yes, yes, go ahead and send it. Here are the newts,” he murmured. “Here are the salamanders. Where are the rest of the skinks?”

I was thrilled to the marrow. I was about to run from the room when I remembered another problem.

“I have no stamp, Granddaddy,” I said.

“Hmm? Oh, here we go,” he said, digging in his pocket for a coin. He gave me a dime, and I took it and ran upstairs to my room. I pulled out a new nib and my box of good glossy foolscap paper reserved for special occasions. I arranged these items on my vanity and sat down. It wasn’t a long letter, but it took me an hour to make the final copy.

I put it in a nice thick envelope and clattered down the stairs, determined to get it in the post that day.

Travis and Lamar were playing Cowboys and Indians on the front porch, firing popguns at each other. I ignored their cries of “Hey, Callie! Where you going?” and ran as fast as I could. I didn’t feel like sharing, and I didn’t feel like explaining. They had their own lives. And now I have mine, I thought, exulting as I ran.

I made it to the post office in record time, puffing and covered in fine road dust. Mr. Grassel, our postman, stood behind the counter. There was something wrong with Mr. Grassel, but I wasn’t sure what. He always made a great show of waiting on the Tates; he kowtowed to my parents when they came in. He pretended to like children, most of all the Tate children, but I could tell he really didn’t. He chatted with Lula Gates’s mother and handed her a parcel. I waited like a polite child.

“Good afternoon, Callie,” Mrs. Gates said, noticing me a minute later. “Is your family keeping well? Your mother is not too bothered by her headaches, I hope?”

“Hello, Mrs. Gates,” I said. “We are all keeping well, thank you. And you?”

“We are all well, thank goodness.”

After a few more pleasantries and her urging me to convey her respects to my mother, she left. I edged up to the counter and placed my envelope on it so that I wouldn’t have to put it in Mr. Grassel’s hand. His puffy palms were always sweaty. He made my skin crawl.

“So, Missy Tate,” he said, picking it up and inspecting it, “you are writing to Lockhart, I see.”

“I want a stamp,” I said, teetering on the knife edge of rudeness.

He narrowed his eyes. Was I being impertinent or not?

“Please, sir,” I added, a finely timed second later.

Mr. Grassel looked at the address on my envelope. “Going to get your pitchur made at Hofacket’s?” He often asked who you were writing to and why. Mother said it was the height of rudeness for a public servant with privileged knowledge to pry, and for once I had to agree with her.

“Yes.” A pause. “Sir.” Then because I was filled with daring on this special day, I added in my sweetest little girl voice, “I’m going to get my pic-ture made.”

His mouth tightened. Ha! I pushed my dime across the counter at him. He took a stamp, dampened it on a small sponge, stuck it on my envelope with a dramatic flourish and said, “Any kind of special occasion?”

“No. Sir.”

He ostentatiously counted my eight cents change and held it out so that I was forced to hold up my hand to receive it.

“Whole family?” he said, pressing my fingers with his moist palm.

“What?” I said.

“Whole family going? Or just you, little lady? Why, you’re a real pitchur unto yourself—oh, excuse me, make that pic-ture.”

“Yessir!” I cried as I wheeled and ran out of there, hugging the private precious nugget of the Plant to myself. I would never share that knowledge with him. You might as well tell your news to the whole town.

And what if it turned out that Granddaddy was—God forbid—wrong? I could bear it if he was wrong, but I couldn’t bear other people making fun of him. I had noticed in passing that he remained well-esteemed in the community due to his building of the gin and other business enterprises in decades long past, but there was sometimes a tinge of mockery of his present pursuits. I’d heard him called “the Perfessor” by various semiliterate wags about town in tones that might have been termed faintly derisive. My grandfather didn’t care what others thought of him, but I did. I cared. My disloyal thoughts were followed by a stout, And what if he’s right? Of course he was right; he had to be. In our time together, I’d never known him to be wrong about anything. He might misplace a five-lined skink from time to time (and who did not?), but he was never wrong about the facts.

I knew full well that the next few weeks were going to be an agony of waiting and that leaving myself unoccupied would make things much, much worse. I resolved to dive into a frenzy of specimen collecting, science, schoolwork—work of any kind—to make the time go faster.

What I did not foresee was that the work would be housework.