The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

Chapter 23 THE FENTRESS FAIR

I HAD NO CHOICE. Miss Harbottle had proposed the motion on the floor that all the girls in school enter handiwork in the fair, and Mother had seconded it. So Mother and Viola came to my room and inspected the various projects that I had laid out on my bed. There were three pairs of brown woollen socks for my brothers, a crocheted baby’s jacket to give to the poor, and an asymmetrical tatted lace collar, rather awkward on the side where I’d begun it and somewhat tidier where I’d finished up. I also had a piece of pathetic quilting so primitive that it looked like it had been done by Toddy Gates, Lula’s addle-brained brother. Mother shuddered and turned away, and she and Viola conferred and clucked over the remaining pieces. With much sighing, they chose the tatted collar.

Mother mused absently as she wrapped it in tissue paper, “I wonder if the family name has to go on it.” She looked up and saw our shocked expressions and said hastily, “Of course it does.”

On reflection, anonymity sounded like a fine idea to me, and I said, “Do you think I could enter anonymously? That would be all right with me.”

Mother flushed and said, “Don’t be silly. You should have thought of that while you were making it, young lady. Of course your name—our name—will be on it.” Still, she looked thoughtful. But whether she did or did not ask Miss Harbottle if this was possible, it didn’t matter. My name was going to be stuck on my work. I knew it served me right.

None of the boys had been forced to enter anything, but Travis voluntarily entered his Angora rabbit, Bunny. Bunny was an enormous, docile, fluffy white creature that Travis combed regularly for his silky hair, which he then gave to a local spinner, who in turn re-presented it to Mother in the form of the world’s softest wool. Travis had briefly considered entering a calf in the yearling division, but fortunately Harry had had the presence of mind to point out to him what inevitably happened to the winning specimens in the cattle divisions. Following this, Travis had driven us, and the fair organizers, mad with his obsessive checking and rechecking that Bunny was entered in the rabbit/fur competition and not the rabbit/meat competition.

Sam Houston had carved a recognizable profile of President McKinley out of pecan wood, a difficult wood to work, and entered it in the juvenile whittling division.

Except for my pathetic entry, it was bound to be a stupendous day, especially since we all had some money in our pockets saved up from working at the gin; I still had fifteen cents left over from babysitting during the harvest, despite subcontracting to Sul Ross. I considered spending some of it on a brand-new drink we’d all heard about, Coca-Cola.

The day dawned clear, and although we had to travel only a mile to the other end of town, the whole family, including Granddaddy, piled into the long-bed wagon. Travis held Bunny on his lap in a chicken-wire cage that was too small for him. The rabbit’s fur pressed through the wire, and white wisps of it floated away in the sunlight like tiny clouds. We parked among a motley collection of farm wagons and gigs and dogcarts pulled up higgledy-piggledy on the grassy field adjoining the many tents.

Mother gave us our final instructions before we scattered. Travis took Bunny off to the Small Livestock tent, and I headed for Domestic Arts with my entry safely shrouded in brown paper so that no one could see it.

I went by the cakewalk in a marquee festooned with many curls of flypaper. Along with the cakes, various young ladies of the county had prepared picnic lunches, and whoever bid highest on the lunch got to sit with the young lady to enjoy her company and share the delectables from her hamper. All the money raised went to the Volunteer Fire Department. I guess this was the rusticated equivalent of coming out.

I hurriedly dropped off my entry and went wandering around. The Odd Fellows’ band wheezed away, pumping out a steady supply of festive waltzes and marches that could be heard all over the grounds. I saw my brothers here and there in the crowd, and some of my friends from school. I watched Sam Houston win a tin whistle at the ring toss, and later I saw one exactly like it in Lula’s hand, although she seemed to be holding it limply and not paying it much attention.

I passed a pavilion with a sign out front—HOFACKET’S FINE PHOTOGRAPHS FOR FINE OCCASIONS—and there was the photographer himself, having set up a temporary shop to catch business from fair-goers dressed in their good clothes with money jingling in their pockets. He was too busy posing a young couple to notice me, which was lucky. I’d received another letter from him inquiring after word about the Plant, and then yet another before I’d had a chance to answer the previous one, and it was all getting annoying. How quickly the bloom had gone off the whole idea of scientific correspondence.

Then I made my way to the Domestic Arts tent, which smelled of enticing baked goods. Mayor Axelrod got up with a megaphone on the platform at the front and started calling out the winners, starting with the novice classes. We ran through breads, breads/fancy, pies/fruit, and pies/otherwise, and then he began on the handiworks.

He consulted his list and called out, “In third place, Novice Tatting, Miss Calpurnia Virginia Tate!”

What? What?

“Calpurnia Tate, where are you? Come on up here!” he shouted.

In shock, I threaded my way through the onlookers and climbed up on the platform. There was some light applause from the crowd and a conspicuous lusty cheer from the back of the tent that could only have come from a clump of my brothers. Mr. Axelrod pinned the white ribbon to my dress. Mother was nowhere to be seen.

“In second place, Miss Dovie Medlin!”

Dovie simpered her way up and stood next to me while the mayor pinned on her red ribbon. She sniggered and admired it. I was mightily relieved that she hadn’t won; she was bordering on unbearable as it was. I almost expected her to turn and stick her tongue out at me. She was just that type.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the first place ribbon in the novice tatting category goes to . . . Miss Lula Gates! Let’s have a big cheer for Miss Lula Gates!”

Lula came up. I wanted her to stand next to me, but she had to stand next to Dovie while they pinned her blue ribbon on her. I was still in shock and looked down at the upturned faces in the tent, trying to find my family. How had I won a ribbon? My tatting was nothing to write home about. After a final round of applause, I stumbled back down off the stage to pats on the back and words of congratulations.

“Well done, Lula,” I said, always the good sport, especially in a contest where there was absolutely no chance of my winning. “You deserve to win. Your tatting’s the best.”

“How would you know?” said Dovie, flouncing by. I would have punched her except that there were too many witnesses.

Lula graciously said, “Thank you, Callie. I’m sure you deserve a ribbon too.”

“The trouble is that I don’t,” I said. And I didn’t, although Mother would probably faint with happiness when she heard. Mrs. Gates came up to us, flushed with pleasure.

“Well, girls,” she said, “this is certainly a fine occasion.”

“Hello, Mrs. Gates,” I said. “Lula did a good job. She deserved to win.”

“Thank you, Calpurnia. I’m sure you deserve a prize as well,” said Mrs. Gates.

“Hmm,” I said, doubtfully. “Have you seen my entry, ma’am? Do you want to go look at the other work?”

“We’d like to, but we can’t. Lula is also entered in knitting and embroidery.”

I wished them luck and headed off to the exhibition tables and pushed through the crush to the tatting table. Each entry had been pinned to a square of black velvet, the better to display its intricacy. The adults’ entries were delicate works of art, collars and antimacassars as detailed and fine as a spider’s web. Next to them were the few—very few—novice pieces. I pushed forward and saw my own lopsided collar on display, the black background nicely pointing up every dropped stitch of white thread. And my name, my full name, prettily lettered on a card to tell the whole world who had created this mess.

I surveyed the entries suspiciously. Yep, there were three. Even though I knew full well that I wasn’t any good at tatting, having this fact confirmed by strangers was not pleasant. So much for my future in lace making, I thought sourly. Of course, I had absolutely no interest in going down that particular path, but now that others had said I couldn’t, I felt oddly unhappy. And if there was to be no Science for me, and no Domestic Arts either, what was left? Where was my place in the world? This was too big and too frightening to ponder. I consoled myself with Granddaddy’s words on the fossil record and the Book of Genesis: It was more important to understand something than to like it. Liking wasn’t necessary for understanding. Liking didn’t enter into it.

I headed out of the tent wearing my fancy rosette. Should I take it off? If I wasn’t going to care about the work, then I shouldn’t care about the prize, either. My hand moved to the ribbon but then froze. My brain clearly said “take it off,” and my hand distinctly replied “no.” I walked that way, my hand on the ribbon, mired in my ambivalence, to the refreshment tent. I would treat myself to a glass of Coca-Cola while thinking what to do with my prize. I was ready for “the Delicious and Refreshing Drink.” Ethical questions were always so tiring.

A long line of folks waited to sample the new invention. My spirits sank when Mr. Grassel lined up right behind me.

“Hello, Callie,” he said jovially. “I see you got a ribbon there. Let me see.” He made as if to finger my ribbon, and I shrank away from him.

“It’s for tatting,” I said flatly. “Sir.”

“Your family keeping well?” he said.

“All well.”

Travis wandered up, sporting a big blue ribbon, happier than I’d seen him in a long time. He came over to show it to me, and I grabbed his arm and pulled him into line with me.

“Say, let me see your ribbon, boy,” Mr. Grassel said. “What’s it for? ‘Best Angora Rabbit.’ There’s considerable money in Angora, son. Off to an early start there, aren’t you?”

“Thank you, sir,” said Travis, looking surprised, “but Bunny’s my pet. I can’t sell him. He’s the biggest, furriest rabbit I’ve ever had.”

“No need to sell him,” said Mr. Grassel. “You can put him at stud and charge breeding fees.”

Travis looked intrigued by this. He dealt mainly in cats, and no one had ever suggested money could be made by breeding Jesse James or Bat Masterson.

“So you don’t have to sell your rabbit?” he said.

“No, Travis,” Mr. Grassel said. “It’s when someone rents Bunny for an hour to put with their lady rabbit to get babies.”

“And then I get him back?”

“Sure, then you get him back,” Mr. Grassel said.

“And you get money for this?”

“Cash money. On the nose,” he said.

“Gosh, I never thought of that. And you think Bunny wouldn’t mind?”

“Oh,” said Mr. Grassel, winking with a sly smile, “I’d wager Bunny would like it a lot. He’d hop to work with a spring in his step.” He tittered.

Travis looked thoughtful, and I could tell that whole new worlds were opening up to him as we slowly inched toward the counter.

I turned my back on Mr. Grassel and pretended to study the red-and-white advertising bunting overhead. Mr. Grassel finally struck up a conversation with the folks behind him and left us alone. Then it was our turn, and we each paid our nickel for a Coca-Cola. We carefully carried our fizzing drinks outside. Travis lifted his to drink and exclaimed, “Oh! It tickles!” I held mine up and felt the bubbles dancing against my lips, then sipped it, feeling it burn in my throat, raw and sweet and unlike anything I’d had before. How could you ever drink milk or water again after this? We both downed the stuff greedily and straightaway ran back into the tent to stand in line again. This time we bought two cups apiece, spending the last of our money. We drank them more slowly, looking at the rising bubbles and making them last. We both felt extraordinarily peppy and, I would say, extremely refreshed. Travis let loose a rip-roaring belch that had us both giggling uncontrollably.

“Don’t let Mother hear you doing that!” I said.

“No, no!” Uuurp. “Not me!” Uuuuuurp.

Lula and Mrs. Gates went by, Lula covered with so many rosettes that she looked like a walking Christmas tree. She and Travis waved at each other, and he ran off after her. I no longer cared that I was third out of three novice lace makers. Who cared? I wondered where Granddaddy was while I staked out my dubious claim to lace-making fame. Lamar came by, looking for Lula. “Lamar,” I said, “have you seen Granddaddy?”

“Last time I saw him he was over in the machinery tent. I think he’s been there all day. It’s over past the livestock. Say, Callie, can you lend me a nickel?”

“I don’t have a cent.”

Lamar looked at me suspiciously. “What about your prize money?”

I laughed. “Price money! That’s a good one! They gave me this ribbon, that’s all.”

“What good is a ribbon? Why are you laughing like that? Why don’t they give you some money instead? I need some money for the shooting gallery. I never have any money.”

“You made lots of money at the gin. What happened to it?”

“Nothing,” he said sullenly.

“You spent it at the store, didn’t you? All that penny candy.” He had no answer to that. I left him grousing about the state of his finances and headed off to the machinery tent. Of course that’s where Granddaddy would be. I should have thought of it earlier. Cattle and cotton no longer held any allure for him. As I got closer, the smell of tobacco in the air grew denser. Actual clouds of smoke were rolling out of the tent flap and seeping through the seams. There were so many men smoking inside the tent that it appeared to be on fire.

Coughing, I made my way inside, pushing through the throngs of men and boys, all clustered excitedly around the latest in threshers and plows. But the biggest clutch of admiring onlookers milled around something at the far end of the tent. I shoved my way down there, mouthing a token pardon me in the noisy crush, and ran into Harry escorting Fern Spitty and trying to clear a path for her through the near riot.

“Harry!” I shouted. “Have you seen Granddaddy?”

“He’s over there right next to it. He hasn’t moved all day.”

“What is it?” I screamed.

“An auto-mobile!”

“Oh!” Fern and I mouthed and mimed hellos and goodbyes to each other, and he led her away. I noticed that she had her arm tucked through his.

The place was absolutely packed. It took me another five minutes to get through there, and I thought I’d suffocate with all the cigars and pipes, but at least I was near the ground where the air was slightly fresher. You couldn’t see the top of the tent at all—it was completely obscured by rolling clouds of smoke. Finally, just when I thought I would pass out, I shoved my way through the last ring of spectators and there it was, in all its dazzling glory, something never seen before: a carriage without a horse.

How to describe it? It looked like speed incarnate, its every line carved by the wind. There were the shining brass appointments, the gracefully curved mudflap, the tufted black leather seat. And there was my own grandfather sitting on that seat, peering intently at the steering wheel as if mesmerized. A tall man sat in the machine next to him, shouting in his ear and gesturing at the controls. He turned out to be the owner, and Granddaddy was offering him cash on the spot for the machine—twice what he’d paid, then three times, then five times—but the tall man would not sell at any price. I wormed my way up to the auto-mobile and tugged on Granddaddy’s coat as the owner shouted “Sorry! She’s not for sale!” and climbed out of the machine.

Granddaddy saw me and then spoke again with the owner and pointed at me. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Granddaddy was claiming me as his own, and so a second later the tall man lifted me up and placed me on the seat next to my grandfather. The crowd evidently liked this from the buzzing cheer it sent up, increasing the din to an unbelievable level. The noise momentarily stunned me, and all I could think about was that the backs of my legs were sticking to the leather and I needed to pull my dress down over my knees. But a second later someone whisked me out of the car and set me back on the ground. Granddaddy climbed out the other side, and the tall man nodded at two more bystanders, who scrambled to take our places. There was no question of driving the thing; it was an overwhelming experience to merely sit in it, to see it and touch it, to be in its presence, even at rest.

Granddaddy took me by the hand, and we began our struggle back to the entrance. The noise and the smoke and the press of people made me lightheaded and limpsy. I thought, Right, I’m going to see what it feels like to faint after all, but if I faint in here I’ll have to do it standing up because there’s nowhere to fall. That might be a first. At the moment when I thought I couldn’t stand it anymore, we pushed outside and stood panting in the fresh air.

I puffed, “You tried to buy the machine, didn’t you?”

“He would not sell at any price, and I don’t blame him,” he said. “We have to hurry home. I must write—no, telephone—the Duryea factory in Massachusetts and place an order at once. The internal combustion engine. Think of it! The power of four horses!”

“I don’t feel so well,” I said. “I think I’ll rest awhile. You go on ahead.”

Granddaddy peered at me, saying, “You look flushed. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“It’s the smoke. I’m fine,” I said feebly as the world went black and I pitched over backward.

Now, FAINTING. There’s a subject I’d always wondered about. The heroines in books seemed to faint a lot, swaying genteelly onto a handy padded couch or into the convenient arms of some concerned suitor. These heroines were always willowy and managed to land in graceful postures of repose, and were revived with the merest passing of a decorated flagon of smelling salts under their noses.

I, on the other hand, apparently went over like a felled ox and was lucky to land on the grass and avoid cracking my head open. What brought me to was not the whiff of smelling salts but a half bucket of cold water thrown in my face. I opened my eyes and looked up at the sky. A ring of faces peered down at me. How blue the sky is, I thought. And look, there goes a cirrus cloud, it looks like Bunny’s fur, and why are all my family staring at me like that, and which one of my stupid brothers is throwing water on me?

“Pet, pet, can you hear me?” Harry’s voice came from a long way off.

I located his face, which for some odd reason was undulating, and croaked, “Sure I can, Harry.”

Next to Harry I saw Fern Spitty. She was vibrating strangely, her enormous hat blocking out a good part of the horizon. And even though I had seen her half a dozen times before, I said dreamily, “Hello. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” For this I got another half bucket of water in the face.

All right, enough of that. I pushed myself up and shook water from my face like a wet dog and glared at the circle around me. Granddaddy took my wrist and felt my pulse. “Calpurnia,” he said, “what is the order of the spider commonly known as daddy longlegs?”

“Opiliones,” I said tartly.

“Very good,” he said. “I believe she is coming around.”

“Stop that water,” I said to the circle at large.

Next to Granddaddy were Travis and Sam Houston. I couldn’t see a bucket anywhere. No doubt one of them was holding it behind his back. Then of course there followed a big foofaraw about getting me to my feet and slapping the grass off me and getting me a lemonade and putting me into a borrowed gig to get me home. It wasn’t far, but no one would let me walk. Mother and Father weren’t to be found, so Harry drove, and Fern came along for the ride.

The fresh air blowing across my face as we trotted smartly home made me feel worlds better. The attention was welcome at first but then quickly became oppressive as I perked up.

Viola met us at the door, took one look at me, and said, “Lord, what now, Mister Harry?”

I didn’t think there was any need for her to take that tone, especially in front of a visitor.

“It’s nothing, Viola,” I said with great dignity. “I fainted, that’s all. You need not concern yourself with me.”

“She’s fine, Viola,” said Harry. “It was smoky and hot in the tent. Let us sit down. Miss Spitty, do you care for a cup of tea? Perhaps a glass of cold lemonade?”

Well, Miss Spitty thought a cup of tea would be delightful, and Viola went off to make it. We sat in the parlor and looked at each other. I searched her face closely and found her expression entirely lacking in the grasping quality that Minerva Goodacre had displayed. Miss Spitty had strawberry blond hair, which was definitely unfashionable, but I found it a beautiful color. Her complexion was a faint pink, and her eyes were a light blue, and although she gave an overall impression of paleness and delicacy, her alert expression and mobile features saved her from looking insipid. Compared with the odious Miss Goodacre, she stood up well. Perhaps I would have to bestow my approval on her after all. Everyone would be greatly relieved. She smiled at me. I smiled at her. The clock ticked on the mantel.

Viola came back in with a tray of the best china and set it down. She looked at me. “Miz Calpurnia,” she said.

“What?”

“I think it’s time for you to go rest. After you fainting and all.”

“I feel all right.”

“I think,” said Viola, “it’s time for you to go rest.”

“I’d like some tea,” I said.

“I think,” she said, “it’s time. Right. Now.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll get you tea in your room,” she said.

“Okay.” Unwanted again. Still, the idea of curling up with Treasure Island and a cold cloth wasn’t such a bad one. I left the parlor to the accompaniment of the inviting clash of crockery and the light tinkle of teaspoons, and went upstairs. SanJuanna brought me a pitcher of cool water and a fresh towel. Viola came up later carrying a tray set with the second-best china as a peace offering for my banishment.

She said, “You be careful with this tray. If you break one thing—”

“You don’t have to tell me that.”

She put the tray down and inspected my ribbon, which I’d put on my dresser.

“You got you a prize,” she said. “How did that happen?”

“How do you think it happened?” I said grumpily.

“The judges was all blind peoples?”

“Ha ha.”

“I got it,” she said. “There was only three entries.”

“Yep.”

“Hmm. Still, you don’t need to be telling folks that part. Now, don’t chip nothing.”

She closed the door as she left. I admired the graceful gold-and-pink rose pattern on the translucent bone china and figured that some of the trappings of civilization weren’t so bad after all. I sipped my tea and turned back to my afternoon companions of pirates, parrots, and the sea.