The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

Chapter 21 THE REPRODUCTIVE IMPERATIVE

SURE ENOUGH, HARRY was soon asked to have dinner with Fern Spitty, although the invitation was not so blatant. He was invited to the Gateses’ house, but Cousin Fern just happened to be visiting for a fortnight. It was a few short months after the Minerva Goodacre debacle, but Harry looked as if his broken heart had mended. Fern had just come out in Lockhart, and it was time to buckle down to the business of meeting bachelors. Lockhart was nowhere near the size of Austin, of course, but that year for the first time there were five prosperous-enough merchants who felt compelled (by their wives, no doubt) to certify their daughters as marriageable. In other words, up for bid on the block. Mother read about this in the Lockhart Post, and a gleam came into her eye, a gleam I didn’t like, a gleam that I knew had something to do with her only daughter.

Harry resumed anointing and pomading himself. He polished his riding boots so that you could see yourself reflected in them, brushed his suit, and went off to dinner. I figured he was irresistible, he looked that dashing.

The next day Lula reported to me that, after dinner, Harry and Fern sat outside in the darkness on the porch swing for a good half hour with no chaperones except the mosquitoes.

“Did they spoon?” I asked. I wasn’t one hundred percent sure what that involved, but I hoped Lula would know.

“What?” she said. “What?”

“Did he whisper sweet nothings in her ear?”

“Huh?” Lula said. “What’s a sweet nothing? How can you whisper nothing?”

“Never mind. Did he hold her hand?” I said.

“I couldn’t see.”

I went way out on a limb. “Did he kiss her?”

“What?” Lula cried, “Oh, Callie, they barely know each other!”

“Well, I understand that, Lula, but people do kiss, you know. I wondered if you saw it, that’s all.”

She blushed, and the pinpoint dots of sweat across the bridge of her nose beaded up. (Question for the Notebook: Why does Lula’s nose sweat like that? Nobody else’s does.) She yanked her hankie out of her pocket and dabbed at herself over and over and said, “How can you ask me about things like that?”

“Because he’s my brother, and I’m trying to figure out if he’s going to run off and marry Fern. She’s your cousin, so that would make us related, wouldn’t it? I think it would, but I’m not sure how.”

I knew better than to interfere with Harry’s courting. I had learned my lesson hard. But, maybe, if someone else gathered intelligence and it happened to fall in my lap . . .

“Lula,” I said, “do you ever think about getting married?”

“I guess I do. Doesn’t everybody?”

“You have to let your husband kiss you once you’re married. And you have to kiss him back.”

“No,” she said.

“Yes.” I nodded, as if I knew everything there was to know about husbands and wives kissing. “That’s what they do together.”

“Do you have to?”

“Oh, absolutely. It’s the law.”

“I never heard of that law,” she said dubiously.

“It’s true, it’s Texas law,” I said. “And while we’re on the subject, you do know that a whole bunch of my brothers are sweet on you, don’t you?”

Even as this interesting information fell from my mouth, I remembered the promise I had made to all three. “Drat! I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”

Lula looked shocked by my profanity. “Callie! You shouldn’t swear.”

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s supposed to be a secret. Forget I said anything.”

She hesitated and then said, “So who is it?”

“Who is what?”

“You know . . . sweet on me.”

“Take a guess,” I said. “I shouldn’t tell you.” But I was sick of the burden of carrying their secrets. And why shouldn’t Lula know? “Oh, all right, it’s Lamar and Sam Houston and Travis.”

“My goodness,” she said, turning bright pink.

“You can have your pick. Which one do you like best?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Well, d’you want any of ’em? I’m not sure I would, if I were you. Which one is the handsomest, do you think? Harry is, of course, but he’s not in the running.”

She flushed and said, “They’re all nice-looking boys.”

“Yeah, Lula, but do you like any of them?”

“They’re all nice boys.”

“Yeah, yeah, but do you like any of them?” But she wouldn’t answer me, just dabbed at her beads of sweat and looked flustered.

I went on, “If I were you, I’d pick Travis. He’s the nicest one. Maybe kissing him wouldn’t be so bad. There must be something to it—otherwise, they wouldn’t want to do it, don’t you think?”

Lula looked thoughtful. “I don’t know if my mother and father enjoy it. I mean, I can’t remember seeing them kiss.”

I had seen my parents kiss each other on Christmas Eve, and once I had seen my father put his arm around my mother’s waist and pull her to him at the dark end of the hall as they went into their bedroom. And when you lived on a farm with chickens and pigs and cows and cats, there were always litters being born; so, naturally at a certain age, it occurred to you to wonder how all this teeming life came about. I had seen the dogs mating, and one night I had stumbled on two cats in the dark, something you never saw. The cats and I were equally shocked.

Lula said something to me that I didn’t catch.

“What?” I said.

She looked away. “So . . . Travis is . . . sweet on me?”

“Yep. Snag him, Lula. He’s the pick of the litter.”

“But he’s so young. After all, I’m twelve and he’s only eleven. Isn’t he?”

“Um. Right.” He was actually ten, but I was not going to stomp all over his tender campaign of first love. “Remember, Lula, that I wasn’t supposed to tell you. You won’t let on, will you?”

She swore the deepest double-Injun-blood-brothers oath for me. I was willing to seal it with spit, but that was too much for her.

That evening I cornered Harry as he wrote a letter.

“Hello, my own pet,” he said absently.

“Harry,” I said, “have you ever kissed a girl?”

He looked startled. “Why do you ask?”

“I wondered what it’s like, that’s all.”

“I did kiss a girl once,” he said, smiling, “and it’s very nice.”

“Why is it so nice?”

“It just is. You’ll have to wait and see.”

“Who did you kiss?” I asked.

“Callie, I cannot tell you. A gentleman would never tell.”

“Why not? You can tell me. I can keep a secret.” Well, I thought, maybe not. “Did you kiss that Minerva Goodacre?”

“No. It was not she. But she did let me hold her hand once.”

“Was that nice too?”

“Very nice. Terrifically nice. Go away.”

“Why was it nice?”

“You’re being my own pest. Leave me alone,” he said, but he smiled at some pleasant memory.

“Do you pine for her, Harry? Do you sigh?” As long as the wretched Goodacre was well out of our lives, some degree of pining and sighing might be indulged in strictly as a romantic exercise.

“I guess I did for a while.”

“But you don’t anymore?”

“No, not anymore. Would you please go away?” I turned to go when he called out, “Wait. What’s all this interest about?” He looked sly. “Do you have a boy you’re not telling us about? Your first beau?”

“No, no, no.” I gargled out a strangled laugh. “No.”

“Why not? One day I’ll lose you to some charming prince offering you a glass slipper, Cal.”

“Don’t say that,” I said, rushing at him and throwing my arms about him. I felt like crying for no good reason. “Why do you have to get married? Why do I have to get married? Why can’t we all stay here in our house?”

“It’s okay, pet. One day you’ll want a family of your own.”

I mumbled into his vest, “People are always saying ‘one day’ to me, and I’m sick of it.”

He said, “They said that to me, too.”

“They said it to you?”

“It’s infuriating, isn’t it? They say it to everybody, and here I am saying it to you. Here, let’s fix your hair. You’re all mussed up.”

“Harry,” I said, choosing my words carefully while he fiddled with my ribbon, “do you think . . . do you think I could be a schoolteacher?”

“A schoolteacher? Is that what you want to do?” he said, relying my bow.

It wasn’t, but I couldn’t yet tell him what I really wanted.

“Do you think I could do that, Harry?”

“Yes. I think you could do that. Have you talked with Mother and Father about this?”

I ignored this and said, “Do you think I could be . . . oh, I don’t know, maybe a Telephone Operator?”

“I’m sure you’d be good at that, too, if your arms grow long enough. Hold on, let me fix your ribbon. There we go.”

“Harry. Do you think I could be”—I stopped, then spoke again, my voice studiedly casual—“a scientist?”

“A scientist?” He stepped back. “That’s kind of far-fetched, don’t you think?”

I fixed him with my gaze. My question, and his answer, were too important to look away.

“Ohhh,” he said, “I see. It’s coming from Grandfather, isn’t it? He’s egging you on, isn’t he? Maybe you shouldn’t spend so much time with him. Really, Callie, it’s so farfetched.”

“Why?” I said, flatly. “Why is it so far-fetched?”

“Because I don’t know of any lady scientists, do you? How would you live? Where would you work? Look, one day you’ll get married, you’ll have lots of children, and you’ll forget all about this. Don’t you want to have a house of your own?”

“I already have a house of my own.”

“You know what I mean,” he said.

I took a step back from him and said, “Harry. If I did want to be a scientist, would you help me?”

He looked skeptical. “Help you how?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, since I had no plan. “Just help me. If I need it.”

“I don’t know what to say, pet.” Seeing the look on my face, he said, “I’m not saying no. I just don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“If it was important to me . . .”

“I’ll always try to do what I can for you, Callie, you know that. Although it’s more than you deserve after telling Mother about Miss Goodacre. Now, go away. I’ve got to finish this letter.”

I jumped on this change of subject with relief.

“Is it a love letter?”

“None of your business.”

“Is it to Fern Spitty?”

“Go away.”

I had extracted no promise of help from him, but he hadn’t refused me, either. I counted the conversation a wash. Now I knew that, finally, the time had come to go to Granddaddy. Lula and Harry had been mere dress rehearsals. I had been putting it off, but it was time.

I kissed Harry’s bent head and went out to the porch, where the others were assembling to watch for the first firefly. The weather was cooling. The insects were diminishing in number, and soon their season would be over, which was just as well, as the Fentress Firefly Prize ribbon was grubby and limp.

Granddaddy sat in a wicker rocker at the far end of the porch. I was glad to see that he was off some distance by himself. I took my Notebook and pencil and sat in the chair next to his. The end of his cigar glowed brighter when he inhaled, like some fat red firefly. I half expected to see the few remaining insects circling him and semaphoring their romantic intentions. (Question for the Notebook: Has a firefly ever mistaken a cigar for another of its species? A painful—possibly lethal—mistake.) We sat in silence until he said, “Calpurnia, do you intend to inflict a mortal wound on that chair?”

I looked down and realized that I had been jabbing a hole in the wicker arm with my pencil.

“I haven’t seen much of you lately,” he said.

“It’s because I’m in training to be a cook. Or a wife, I guess.”

“Ah. And we have all enjoyed the fruits of your labor.”

“You don’t have to say that,” I said unhappily.

We sat in silence, and I felt an unseen mosquito feasting on my ankles, adding to my general misery. I couldn’t see it until it had bitten me several times, and in its own gluttony, had transformed itself into a visible flying droplet of my own blood. It settled on the porch near my feet, and I stamped at it. It tried to fly, too engorged to escape. I caught it with the edge of my shoe and a tiny fountain of my blood spurted against the gray paint of the porch. I thought about this. Apparently too much of a good thing could kill you, like the old song said. Look at the smeared evidence. The mosquito was a clear success in terms of getting plenty of food, but a failure in terms of living to a good old age and expiring peacefully in her sleep, surrounded by her many keening grandchildren. So was she fit or unfit? Although it might not matter, depending on what Granddaddy had to say next. Would he commute my life sentence of domestic drudgery?

Travis spotted the first firefly and claimed the ribbon at the other end of the porch. I cleared my throat. “Grandfather. . . .” And then I faltered.

“Yes, Calpurnia?”

“Girls . . . girls can be scientists, too.” We both pretended not to hear the quiver in my voice. “Can’t they?”

He took a long puff on his cigar and then tapped the ash clean.

He said, “Have you asked your mother this? Or your father?”

“What?” I said. “No, of course not. Why would I do that?”

“Because they may have something to say about the matter. Has that occurred to you?”

“Oh,” I said bitterly, “I know what they have to say about the matter. Why do you think I never get out of the kitchen anymore? That’s why I’m asking you.”

“I see,” he said. “Do you remember when we sat by the river some months ago and talked about Copernicus and Newton?”

“I remember.” How could I ever forget?

“Did we not talk about Mrs. Curie’s element? Mrs. Maxwell’s screech owl? Miss Anning’s pterodactyl? Her ichthyosaur?”

“No.”

“Miss Kovalevsky’s equations? Miss Bird’s travels to the Sandwich Islands?”

“No.”

“Such ignorance,” he muttered, and quick tears pricked my eyes. Was I such an ignorant girl? He went on. “Please forgive my ignorance, Calpurnia. You have made me well enough acquainted with the primitive state of your public education, and I should have known you would be left in the dark about certain matters of Science. Let me tell you about these women.”

I soaked up what he told me like a living sponge. It was galvanizing information. But was there something in his voice, some hesitation, some reservation I hadn’t heard before? We were interrupted by Mother herding the children inside for bed. Lately, it seemed that all my talks with Granddaddy were interrupted. Lately, it seemed that there wasn’t any time.

By unanimous vote, my brothers and I retired the Fentress Firefly Prize at bedtime, declaring the season of 1899 officially over.

Travis’s firefly was, in fact, the only one spotted that night. Although I knew the fireflies would return in a year, it felt like the extinction of a species. How sad to be the last of your kind, flashing your signal in the dark, alone, to nothingness. But I was not alone, was I? I had learned that there were others of my kind out there.