The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

Chapter 19 A DISTILLERY SUCCESS, OF SORTS

“CALPURNIA,” GRANDDADDY CALLED up the stairs, “will you come out to the laboratory with me? I require your assistance if you’re not otherwise engaged.”

Since I’d heard my domestic life sentence delivered, I had sunk into the deepest quagmire of ill temper and low spirits, keeping apart from the others as much as possible, so much so that there had been the occasional talk of cod-liver oil. It held no healing powers for the mangled paw caught in the cruel trap.

When Granddaddy called, I was sulking in my room and knitting yet another sock in the endless series of Christmas socks. But I did not consider myself otherwise engaged at all, and here he was, offering me temporary respite from the tyranny of the house. I dropped the needles, ran from my room, and slid down the banister.

Granddaddy smiled. “An efficacious method of transportation. Remind me to talk with you some other time about Newton’s laws of physics and how they apply to banister travel.”

“What are you—what are we—working on today?”

“Do you remember the whiskey sample we put in oak in July? I think it’s time to see how it’s coming along.”

We headed through the kitchen for the back door. Viola sat sifting soft hillocks of white flour with Idabelle for company. She gave us the walleye and said, “Dinner in an hour.”

The laboratory shelves were crammed with scores of bottles, the inspiring—or depressing—results of years of work, depending on your point of view. The Plant had gone to seed, and we had swept every tiny fleck into a labeled envelope, which had then been placed in a labeled jar, which had then been locked in the library cabinet. The room smelled of pecans, must, and mouse. I would have to appoint one of the Outside Cats to clear the mice out. Granddaddy opened his log book and riffled through it in the gloom, his thick yellow fingernail running down the columns.

“Here it is, the one with your notation. Number 437, on the twenty-first of July. I wonder where we put it?” You’d think it would be difficult to lose an oak barrel, even a small one, in the laboratory, but the space had become so crowded with failed samples and the detritus of various old and new experiments that it took a few minutes of pawing through it all before we located it buried deep under one of the counters.

“Ah,” said Granddaddy. “Careful, we don’t want to disturb any sediment. Let’s see how it looks first.”

I lit all the hanging lamps while Granddaddy cleared a spot on the counter and gently placed the barrel on it. He tapped the barrel and turned the wooden spigot, spilling a couple of inches of warm golden-brown liquid into a clean glass. He raised the glass and held it up before the brightest lamp, handling it as if it were nitroglycerin. He inspected it, both with his spectacles and then without. The glass glowed. But I knew that no matter how good the stuff might be, no matter how successful the run, it was death to practically-twelve-year-olds.

“No real sediment to speak of,” he said.

“Is that good?”

“I believe it to be a good sign. I don’t remember ever drinking a glass of good bourbon with any particulate matter floating in it, do you? What do you think of this color?”

“It’s nice. It’s the same color as Mother’s amber beads. Is it supposed to look like that?”

“It’s hard to say,” he said. “We are crossing the bar of distillery without a pilot.” He looked at me, and I could see the explorer’s excitement stirring beneath his calm expression.

“Let’s see how it smells,” he said, lifting the glass to his nose. He took a tentative sniff, as if it might be noxious smelling salts. Then he inhaled deeply. He looked gratified and held it out to me. I shied like a nervous pony. He’d nearly killed me before, and he’d forgotten about it. My feelings were hurt.

“Um,” I said, “you’re not going to make me drink any of it, are you? You do remember what happened last time, don’t you?”

He saw the look on my face and said, “Ah, no, you’re absolutely right. Dreadful. We mustn’t let that happen again. You don’t need to drink it. Just tell me if you like the way it smells.”

I took the glass from him and stuck my nose into it. A powerful pecan essence wafted into my face, not at all unpleasant, considering how sick I was of pecans. “It smells like Viola’s pie,” I said.

“Ah,” he said, “here comes the real test.” He saluted me with the glass and said, “To your good health, Calpurnia, my companion in sailing uncharted waters.” He took a good mouthful.

I still remember the look on his face as if it were yesterday. The spasm of surprise. Followed by a long, contemplative gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. Then, a slow smile.

“Well,” he said at last. “I have done an amazing thing.”

“What, Granddaddy, what?” I breathed.

“I doubt that any other man alive can make this claim.”

“Oh, what?” I wailed.

Calmly, Granddaddy said, “I have managed to take perfectly good pecans and ferment them into something approximating cat piss.”

My mouth flopped open.

“And what is the lesson we can take from this?” he went on.

I sat there and gawped at him.

He said, “The lesson for today is this: It is better to travel with hope in one’s heart than to arrive in safety. Do you understand?”

“No sir.”

“It means that we should celebrate today’s failure because it is a clear sign that our voyage of discovery is not yet over. The day the experiment succeeds is the day the experiment ends. And I inevitably find that the sadness of ending outweighs the celebration of success.”

“Should I write it in the log?” I said. “Cat piss, I mean.”

He chortled. “A good idea. We must be honest in our observations. Take up the pen and kindly do the honors, my girl.”

It was a red-letter day, after all, so I put aside the black ink and held up the bottle of red. He nodded his approval. I dipped the pen in the blood-red liquid and made a slow, careful notation. I showed it to Granddaddy.

“Excellent,” he said, “but I believe there are two s’s in the word piss.”