The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

Chapter 5 DISTILLATIONS

ONE NIGHT WHEN I JOINED Granddaddy in the laboratory, I found that he had had a breakthrough of sorts with his liquor. He held a small vial up to the light and looked at it speculatively.

“Calpurnia,” he said, “I think we may have something that’s approaching drinkable here. I’m not saying it’s good, mind you, but I am saying that it’s no longer nauseating. That other stuff”—he waved at the rows of small stoppered bottles—“is only good, as far as I can tell, for scouring fouled barge bottoms. Now this isn’t exactly good, not yet, but—”

“Why is it better?” I asked.

“I filtered the fourth distillation through a mixture of charcoal, eggshells, pecan husks, and coffee grounds. I think I’ll put it up in oak for a while and see what happens.”

Since none of the other runs had been deemed suitable for preservation this way, this was a big step. He poured it into a baby oak barrel about the size of a loaf of bread.

“Pardon me,” he said, turning to me, “I forgot to offer you some. Do you care to try it and tell me what you think?”

He handed me a tiny measure, a thimbleful. I sniffed it cautiously. It smelled strongly of pecans, which reassured me, and faintly of something else rather like kerosene, which did not. I think he had forgotten that I was just a practically-twelve-year-old.

Granddaddy said, “It’s easier if you hold your nose and down it in one go.”

I pinched my nose and threw the stuff down my throat.

Now, let me tell you, there is a reason why they call it firewater. I exploded into the world’s worst coughing fit as the stuff burned a hole in my gullet. I felt like I’d spontaneously combusted. I think I may have fallen to the ground, but I don’t really remember because I was coughing so hard. I do remember Granddaddy setting me on the arm of his chair and thumping me on the back for several minutes until I could breathe again. He looked at me with consternation as my coughing subsided to spluttering and then, finally, to painful wrenching hiccups.

He studied me. “Are you all right? I suppose you haven’t learned to hold your liquor yet. Here,” he said, pulling a peppermint from his waistcoat pocket, “this will make you feel better.”

I nodded and hiccupped and sucked hard on the peppermint while the tears streamed down my face and my nose ran uncontrollably.

“Oh, dear,” he said. He pulled a huge white handkerchief out of his pocket and applied it to my nose. “Blow.” I honked away and felt somewhat better. He poured me a glass of water from the carafe he kept handy to rinse away the taste of his experiments.

“There, there.” He patted me on the back.

“Well,” he said, “I have to note my observations in the log. And you, as my collaborator, may also make a note on this red-letter day.”

He pulled a lamp close and wrote in the ruled accounts book, his steel nib skritching on the page. The book was filled with the minutiae of his many failed runs. Then he handed me the pen. “Here, note the date and time, your observations in this column, and then place your signature below.”

In my penmanship class at school, we had recently graduated from pencil to ink. I worried about making a blot, but I wrote, not too badly, considering my recent trauma:

Granddaddy looked at my comment. I hiccupped.

“Calpurnia,” he said, looking at me, “as a scientist, you must be truthful about your observations.”

He handed me the pen again. I wrote on the next line:

Not an inspired or inspiring comment, I admit. In truth it had nearly killed me, but I could hardly write that down. Granddaddy swiveled the ledger to look at this and smiled.

“Indeed,” he said, “and I am to blame. I think it’s best we agree not to tell Margaret or Alfred about this. Unfortunately, they do not understand the principles of scientific inquiry or the sacrifices one must be prepared to make.”

I gawped at him, thinking, Tell my parents? Are you crazy? I’d sooner drink a hogshead of the stuff.

Then we heard Viola ring her bell at the back door. It was time to wash up for dinner. I felt a bit swirly in the head. I hicced again, and we looked at each other.

“Here,” he said. “Better have another peppermint.”

We went into the house, and I managed to wash my hands and change into a clean pinafore without notice. We filed into the dining room. Father held Mother’s chair, and we all sat down. SanJuanna came in and waited by the sideboard to serve. My father began the blessing, and we all bowed our heads.

“Heavenly Father, we thank thee for—”

Hic.

This was a quiet one, and it might have escaped notice except for my rotten brothers. Travis and Lamar rustled and stirred, and Jim Bowie peeked at me over the steeple of his hands. Mother flashed them a look, and they subsided.

“—for the bounty of thy worldly harvest and for this food, which—”

Hic.

My brothers tittered.

“Calpurnia. Boys. Stop it,” hissed Mother.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” I said in a small voice. I knew another one was aborning deep within me, and there wasn’t much I could do about it, but nevertheless, I held my breath and struggled mightily.

“—which nourishes us through the grace of Our Lord—”

Up it came, a giant one this time.

HIC.

Oh, how my brothers fell about the place. Granddaddy stared at the ceiling with interest.

“—Jesus Christ!” said Father, in confusion.

Mother threw her napkin on the table. “That’s it!” she cried. “What on earth has gotten into you? Were you raised in a barn? Go to your room at once. And the rest of you will control yourselves, or you will follow her upstairs. I’ve never heard of such dreadful behavior during grace. And in my own family yet!”

I wanted to explain that I couldn’t help it, I hadn’t done it on purpose, but that would mean revealing Granddaddy’s and my secret, and I would die broken and twisted on the rack before telling. As I got up from the table, Granddaddy studied the chandelier and smoothed his mustache with his forefinger.

I passed behind Mother’s chair, and she said, “What is that smell?”

“Peppermint,” I mumbled and kept moving. I felt funny and in sudden need of a nap. I trudged up the stairs and could hear Father starting the blessing again from scratch. I shut myself in my room and climbed into my tall brass bed.

I must have fallen asleep because I woke myself up some time later with a loud snore. The sun had set, and I could hear my younger brothers preparing for bed, so I reckoned it to be eight o’clock or so. The fire in my gut had eased somewhat. I sat up and realized I was starving. I had one more hour until my bedtime. Could I make it to the larder without being seen by Mother? It would be tricky.

A soft tap at the door interrupted my planning. Was it Mother come to berate me, or Harry come to rescue me? Neither. It was Travis, the ten-year-old, clutching one of his new litter of kittens, all of which he’d named after gunslingers, outlaws, and others of low repute. “Look,” he whispered as he shoved the furry creature into my hands, “I brought you Jesse James. He’s my best one. He’ll be good company for you.” Then he skedaddled down the hall, not wanting to be caught talking to the condemned prisoner.

Jesse James was some comfort, at least. I took him back to bed, and he purred under my chin and kneaded my shoulder. Just as I dozed off, there was another knock. This time it was Granddaddy, looking solemn. He stood in the doorway, holding a couple of thick books.

“A little something for you to read,” he said, “in your exile.”

“Thank you,” I said, and shut the door as he headed off to his own room. Why was he bringing me books at a time like this? I was too hungry and vexed to read, although the first one, Great Expectations, looked promising. The second one, Principles of Southern Agrarian Economy, did not. But it felt strangely unbooklike in my hands. It turned out to be not a book at all but a wooden box trickily carved and painted to look like a calfbound volume. Strange. I fiddled with it and found the catch and the box opened. Inside was a waxed paper parcel containing a thick roast beef sandwich. I took the sandwich and Great Expectations and sank into my bed with the utmost feeling of luxuriousness. Ahhh. Bed, book, kitten, sandwich. All one needed in life, really.

Half an hour later, Father tapped on the door, calling quietly, “Callie?” I wanted to be left alone with Pip, so I shoved the book under the covers with Jesse James, who mewed in protest. I turned to the wall and pretended to be asleep. Father came in. After a moment, he left, but not before blowing out my lamp, which irritated me no end, as I was not allowed to keep matches in our bedrooms. There was nothing else to do but go to sleep. Besides, the next day brought my piano lesson, and it was always a good idea to be rested and in top form so as not to provoke Miss Brown.

I lay there contemplating my day as I drifted off. My throat still burned, but I was filled with gratification that with all those brothers, I was the first to imbibe. I think. Later I found out that Mother’s health tonic, her Lydia Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound for Women, was nearly 20 percent alcohol.