The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

Chapter 28 1900

I AWOKE IN A gasping panic. There was something terribly wrong with the world, and I knew in my marrow that something dreadful had happened during the night. It took me several seconds to figure out exactly what was wrong: There was such a deep, unnatural silence in the house and outside my window that it felt like the whole world had packed up and stolen away in the night. Had it happened? Had the world come to an end? Should I fall to my knees and pray?

And the light was all wrong. The light edging around my curtains seemed not so much like light as its absence. Every object in my room had taken on a flat, grayish aspect.

And then Ajax barked, just once. The sound was reassuring, even though it was muffled and as flat as the light. My panic was somewhat subdued by the realization that my bladder was about to burst. I felt desperate to use the chamber pot, but first I had to face the hideousness that awaited outside. I considered this. Well, if you did have to face the hideousness, it was a lot better to do so with an empty bladder. On the other hand, the china chamber pot would be awfully cold. I weighed these things, groped under the bed for the pot, and did a fair job of balancing above the icy rim.

That was better. Now to the business of facing hideousness.

I stood resolutely before the window and put my shoulders back in good military posture, took a deep breath, and yanked the curtain aside.

And there it was: a perfect blanket of white covering the lawn, the trees, the road, as far as I could see, all absolutely unbroken, untouched, and still. Snow. It had to be snow.

The world hadn’t ended. It had just begun.

I looked around my room at my familiar things in the strange light: the hummingbird’s nest in its glass box, my red Notebook, my framed butterflies.

I put on my rabbit slippers and pulled my wool dressing gown over my nightie. I edged around the noisy floorboard in the middle of the room and opened my door as quietly as I could, but it creaked loudly in the cold. I waited to see if anyone stirred, but to my relief there was no sound. I wanted to be alone. I wanted this just for me.

I tiptoed down the stairs out the front door and stood on the porch, clutching my gown around me. The temperature amazed me. How could the world be this cold? I inhaled deeply, and the air felt like a dagger in my chest. My exhaled breath formed clouds in the air that disappeared before I could catch them in my hands. There was no noise except for the whoosh of my breathing and the rushing of my own heartbeat. There were no birds in the silvery sky, no squirrels in the trees, no possums. Where had all the abounding life gone? The lack of living things made the landscape both beautiful and menacing.

As I looked out, a young coyote came slowly out of the trees, delicately lifting and shaking each paw before gingerly putting it down again in the snow. Step, flick, pause . . . step, flick, pause. . . . There was an expression on its face of such great disgust that I laughed. Startled, it looked up and saw me on the porch, and then I swear it sneered at me. It turned slowly on the spot and went back into the trees the way it had come, trying to step in its own tracks, still step-flick-pausing as it went.

Well, if the coyote could walk in that stuff, I could too. I walked down the steps into the snow. It was not solid like ice, but puffy. It was not silent either, but compressed under my foot with a squeaky crunch. My feet were chilled immediately, and I slipped and almost fell, but no matter. I picked my way down the front steps and looked over my shoulder at my own tracks, which rapidly turned into shallow foot-shaped puddles of water. Ahead of me lay perfection. Could I stand it? Could I bear to mar it with my presence?

I could. I had to have this gift of the moment—this great gift of the new century—to myself for one more minute, a few more precious seconds, before the bustle and shouts and tracks of the others shattered it forever. Gathering up my gown, I ran down the curved drive as fast as I could, lurching and slipping and filled with joy. I knew I looked crazed but I didn’t care. I ran to the street, which was unmarked by any wagon wheel, then veered off and ran through the pristine brush toward the river. Here I came across a pecan tree downed by the snow, its raw, flesh-tinted core the only color in the otherwise black-and-white landscape.

I saw a few skittery tracks left by birds and other small creatures, no doubt as confused by this silent white world as I was. Of course they were confused; the last snow had been decades ago. If a finch lived for only two years, how could it pass along the idea of something it had never seen to the next generation? Did the word disappear from the finch language, from finch society? How could any species survive the snow if the word for it died out? The finch race, all the other races, would be unprepared. I would have to put out quantities of seed and suet, hay and ham, and in this way provide for all the links along the food chain.

My feet were turning into blocks of ice, and I realized I was exhausted. I turned and walked back toward the house. It was the first morning of the first day of the new century. Snow blanketed the ground. Anything was possible.

The house was beginning to show its usual signs of morning life. I saw my grandfather watching me from his upstairs window. He raised one hand to me in salute. I replied in kind. We stood that way for a moment. Then I ran for the warmth of our home.