The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

Chapter 7 HARRY GETS A GIRLFRIEND

SHORTLY AFTER THE PIANO RECITAL, danger entered our lives and stalked my family.

I must have dimly realized that Harry would marry one day and have a family of his own, but I reckoned it wouldn’t happen for decades, at least. After all, Harry already had a family, and we were it. I, especially, was it. His own pet.

For some days after the debacle in Lockhart, he’d been acting odd. He stared off into space with a dumb mooncalf look on his face that made you want to slap him. He didn’t answer when spoken to; in fact, he seemed barely present. I had no idea what was going on, but this was not my dear, clever Harry. No, this was some dilute, watery version of him.

I cornered him on the porch and said, “Harry.”

“Hmm?”

“Harry! What’s wrong with you? Are you sick? What’s the matter with you?”

“Hmm,” he said, and smiled.

“Do you feel all right? Should you see the doctor?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. In fact, I feel grand,” he said.

“Then what is it?”

He smiled mysteriously and pulled a much-handled carte de visite from his pocket. It was one of the new kind with a photographic portrait on it. (“The height of vulgarity,” according to Mother.)

And there She was. A young woman (certainly no longer a girl) with big, protuberant eyes; a fashionably small, squinchy mouth; a long, slender stalk of a neck; and such a great quantity of hair massed above it that she looked like a dandelion puff before the wind decapitated it.

“Isn’t she a corker?” he said, in a congested voice I’d never heard before and hated instantly. I hated her instantly too, for I saw her plain for what She was: a hag, a stooping harpy, a feaster on the flesh of beloved brothers. The Destroyer of My Family’s Happiness. Of my happiness. I stared at this apparition.

“A corker?” I said, reeling. My brother was evaporating before my eyes, and I had to find a way of stopping this dreadful abduction. My thoughts scattered in all directions like undisciplined troops facing their first fire, and it took me a moment to marshal them. But before my first skirmish, I needed some intelligence.

“Where did you meet her, Harry?” I said, innocent as any spy.

For a second, the glaze passed from his eyes and he faltered. I’d struck some tender tissue, but I didn’t understand its import.

“Why, uh, I stopped off at the supper on the grounds in Prairie Lea the other night. They saw me on the road and invited me to visit for a piece.”

Ah. Now, there were two churches in Prairie Lea: the Baptist church, which was acceptable, and the Independent Church of Prairie Lea, which was not. The local Leapers were considered a low and trashy lot by many people. These included my parents, who were both robust Methodists. (Granddaddy had declared he’d had enough sermons to last a lifetime and now chose to spend his Sunday mornings tramping across the fields. Reverend Barker, who enjoyed Granddaddy’s company, seemed to take it in stride. It was only Mother who was embarrassed.) And although Mother had once or twice entertained Leapers in the house, she tended to lump them all together, fairly or not, with snake handlers, fallers, foamers, and other fringe examples of the henhouse sects.

A part of my mind I had no idea I possessed until that moment took over and, like a great general, called all to order. I primed my weapons, surveyed the terrain, picked my target. I could see the battle ahead in time and space. I was the Great Stonewall. I was General Lee himself!

“The Baptist church, Harry?” I asked, sweet as pie.

“No.” He hesitated. “She belongs to the Independent Church of Prairie Lea.”

Blessed relief flooded through me. The enemy was mine. “Oh, Harry,” I said, all sisterly concern. “She’s a Leaper?”

“That’s right. So what?” he said mulishly. “And don’t call them that. They’re Independents.”

“Have you told Mother and Father?” I said.

“Um. No.” He looked edgy. My opening salvo had hit its mark. Then he looked down at the picture, and I watched him go all sappy again.

“How old is she?” I asked, forging ahead. “She looks kind of old.”

“She’s not old,” he said with indignation. “She only came out five years ago.”

I added five to eighteen, the typical age for coming out, and came up with the usual result. “She’s twenty-three,” I said, aghast—and secretly jubilant. “She’s practically an old maid. Besides, you’re only seventeen.”

“That makes no difference,” he said. He plucked the card from my hand and huffed off.

At dinner that night, Harry mentioned that he might hitch Ulysses to the gig and take him out for exercise.

“Why don’t you ride him?” said Father. “You don’t need the gig.”

“He hasn’t been in harness for a while. It would do him good,” said Harry.

Time to fire off my next round. In a loud voice, I said, “Are you going to see her?”

The table thought this an interesting inquiry and grew still. Everyone except Granddaddy stopped eating and stared at Harry with interest, even the boys who were too young to understand what was going on. Mother swiveled her head, looking first at me and then at Harry. Granddaddy went on placidly addressing his beefsteak.

Harry flushed and cut me a look to let me know he’d settle with me later. He’d never glared at me like that before. There was something close to hatred in that look. Fear shot through me. I broke out all over in hot prickles.

“And who is her?” said Mother.

Granddaddy’s knife skreeked against his plate. He patted his mustache with the big white linen napkin that flowed down his chest. He said mildly to his only daughter-in-law, “Good God, Margaret. That’s ‘who is she,’ not ‘who is her.’ The verb to be never takes an object. Surely you know that by now?”

He peered at her and said, “Why, how old are you, Margaret? I reckon you must be close to thirty. Old enough to know better, I should think,” he said, and turned his attention back to his dinner. My mother, aged forty-one, ignored this.

“Harry?” she said. She gave him the gimlet eye. The prickles racing across my skin coalesced into itching pink welts. Our family’s future hung by a thread.

“There’s a girl—a young lady—at the Prairie Lea picnic tonight that I’d like to take for a short drive, ma’am,” Harry stammered. “Only a short one.”

“And,” said Mother, in a frosty voice, “exactly who is this young lady? Have we met her? Have we met her people?”

“Her name is Miss Minerva Goodacre. Her people are in Austin. She’s spending the month with her aunt and uncle in Prairie Lea.”

“And they are . . . ?” said Mother.

The thread pulled taut.

“Reverend and Mrs. Goodacre,” said Harry.

“And are you referring to Reverend Goodacre of the Independent Church of Prairie Lea?” said Mother.

The thread creaked and frayed.

“Yes,” said Harry, flushing deeper. He pushed himself away from the table and bolted from the room, calling over his shoulder with false cheer, “So it’s all right, then. I won’t be late.”

Father looked at Mother and said, “What was all that about?”

Mother noticed the rest of us sitting openmouthed and snapped, “You are so obtuse sometimes, Alfred. We’ll discuss it later.”

Sitting next to me, Sul Ross, who was swift for his age, broke into a chant: “Harry’s got a gur-ull, Harry’s got a gur—”

At this point Mother looked volcanic. I hissed, “Shut up, Sully,” and elbowed him viciously in the short ribs.

Out of the blue, Granddaddy said, “About damned time, too. That boy was starting to worry me. What’s for dessert?” One of the interesting things about Granddaddy was that you couldn’t always tell if he was present or not.

Dinner dragged on forever. Whatever we had for dessert, it was ashes in my mouth. When SanJuanna came in to clear the table, Mother said, “You are all excused. Except for Calpurnia.”

The others trooped out while I hunkered down at my place. Father lit a cigar and poured himself a larger-than-usual glass of port. Mother looked like she badly wanted one and rubbed her temples.

“Now, Calpurnia,” she said, “what is it you know about this . . . this . . . young lady?”

I thought of the way that Harry had glared at me. “Nothing, ma’am,” I said, sounding the retreat and recalling my battalions as fast as I could.

“Come, come. Surely he must have told you something about her.”

“I don’t know anything,” I said.

“Stop this, Calpurnia. How did you find out about her? And what is happening to your face? You look all blotchy.”

“Harry showed me her visiting card, that’s all,” I said.

“Her card?” My mother’s voice rose. “She has a card? How old is she?”

“I don’t know anything,” I said.

Mother looked at Father and said, “Alfred, she has a card.” My father looked interested but not alarmed. Clearly the significance of this fact escaped him.

My mother got up and started pacing. “She is of an age to have a card, and my son has been calling on her without telling us. He has been courting her, and we’ve never even met her. She’s a Leap—she’s an Independent, Alfred.”

Mother wheeled on me. “She is an Independent, isn’t she? Tell me, Calpurnia.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“Ack, you useless child! Go to your room and don’t say a word of this to anyone. Are you breaking out in hives? Did you fall in the nettles again? Get some baking soda and make a compress.”

I slipped from my chair and hurried to the kitchen. Viola sat at her table, taking a short rest while SanJuanna pumped water in preparation to start on the mountain of dishes on the counter.

“Mother sent me for baking soda,” I mumbled.

“Good Lord,” said Viola when she saw my complexion. “How’d you get like that?”

“Nettles,” I lied. “I just need a compress.”

Viola squinted at me and opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again. She got up and sprinkled soda on a damp rag and handed it to me without saying a word. SanJuanna eyed me as if I might be contagious.

As I went up the stairs, I could hear my parents’ voices in the dining room, my mother’s raised in outrage, my father’s rumbling in placation.

Sul Ross and Lamar were lying in wait for me on the landing and followed me to my room.

“What’s going on? What happened to Harry? What’s wrong with your face? Tell us.”

I ran past them to my room and slapped the cooling rag on my tingling cheek. What had I set in motion? Something I could no longer control. I was a novice commander, shocked by the destruction my troops had wrought.

I lay awake in bed that night waiting for Harry to come home. The half-moon was up before I heard the creaking of the harness and the crunching of the gig on the gravel drive. I held my breath and listened. The house was suspiciously silent. I imagined Mother and Father lying in their big mahogany bed with its heavy carvings of cherubs and fruit. They would be wide awake, or at least Mother would be.

I got out of bed, put on my slippers, and slid around the perimeter of the room, careful to avoid the floorboard in the middle that cracked like a pistol shot. The stairs were also notoriously loud, so I pleated up my white cotton nightgown and slid down the banister as I’d done my whole life. It was fast and quiet transportation, but I misjudged in the dark and braked late and hit the square newel post hard enough to earn myself a nice blue bruise on my behind, a two-weeker, at least.

The moon lit my way to the stable. I crept to the door and looked inside. Harry curried Ulysses in the lantern light and hummed a song that I recognized with a lurch as “I Love You Truly.” He looked so happy, happy in a way I’d never seen him look before.

“Harry,” I whispered.

He turned and his face grew hard. “What are you doing here?” he said. “Go away. Go to bed.” He went on brushing the horse.

Oh, that look.

There had been times in the past when I’d been in some kind of mild trouble with him and, uncomfortable as those times had been, they had always passed. I had basked safe in the knowledge that I was forever his favorite; I took his love on faith and wrapped it around me like a blanket. But this was different. I had fundamentally injured him while trying to protect us, to protect him. No. If I were being honest, to protect myself. And I felt the first icy grip of grief around my heart.

Stunned, I backed out of the circle of light and stood alone under the moon. A hiccup—or sob—escaped me. I turned and stumbled back to the house on rubbery legs. I made it through the front door but then foundered on the bottom stairs. That’s where Harry found me half an hour later, a huddled heap of misery in a white nightgown, sniffling in the dark, too upset to move, with only Idabelle, who had padded out from the kitchen, for company. I could just see him, standing with his hands on his hips.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” I whispered.

“There are some matters in this world that are not for children. They are for grown-ups,” he said.

I had never thought of Harry as a grown-up before. My brothers and I had always been children together. But the way he said the word, I knew that at that moment he had crossed some invisible border into a different land, and he would not be returning to our childish band again.

“I didn’t mean to get you in trouble,” I moaned.

“Yes, you did. I don’t understand why you would do this to me.”

I wanted to cry out, For the family! For you! But I knew deep down that it was for me, and I was ashamed.

The grandfather clock chimed three times in the dark.

“You should go to bed,” he said, in a flat voice.

I clung to the fact that these words were, despite their coldness, less harsh than the words he had spoken to me in the barn. Surely it would be all right. He would put his arm around me and take me upstairs and tuck me in.

But he did not. Instead, he whispered, “I wish you hadn’t done that,” and walked past me up the stairs, leaving me to contemplate the carnage of my brief command. My campaign had been successful, and it had cost me my brother. It wasn’t until the clock bonged four that I could make myself creep up to bed.

The next morning, I was so exhausted that I stayed in bed, feigning illness and dozing fitfully. It wasn’t difficult to convince Mother that I was ill, what with my listlessness and lingering hives. She and Viola sent a steady stream of beef tea and baking soda poultices to my room. Late in the afternoon there was talk of tonics and purgatives and cod-liver oil, but at that point I managed to rally and take some plain boiled chicken, averting such drastic management. Any child who stayed in bed for more than one day in our house was dosed with cod-liver oil. The mere prospect of it often wrought a near-miraculous recovery.

Travis came in to lend me his kitten Doc Holliday to cheer me up (Jesse James was indisposed). J.B. climbed up on the bed and cuddled with me awhile to make me feel better. Sul Ross brought me a bouquet of straggly wildflowers for my nightstand and proudly showed me the mark on his trunk where I’d elbowed him. I didn’t show him my own much more impressive bruise on account of its indiscreet location.

Harry didn’t visit.

The following morning, I staggered down to breakfast. I was relieved to see that Harry at least glanced at me. Before we left the table and scattered for the day, Mother said, “We will be having guests Friday evening, so you will all be ready for inspection at quarter past six.”

“Drat,” said Granddaddy. “Who is it this time?”

“Grandfather,” said Mother, “we wouldn’t dream of imposing on you if you have a prior engagement.”

Mother knew Granddaddy didn’t have a prior engagement, but there was always the siren song of his laboratory or the library. My mother could only hope. I noticed that she never exactly encouraged Granddaddy’s presence at her evening entertainments, or “soirees” as she called them. He was always the model of old-fashioned manners, of course, but he could go off on strange and interesting tangents of conversation that I think Mother didn’t always find suitable in polite company. Fossils, for example, and whether their existence disproved the Book of Genesis; Brother Mendel’s experiments on the sexual reproduction of the sweet pea; the fallacy of laudable pus. Once I had seen my mother shudder on overhearing him expound to a group of ladies on the mating posture of order Opiliones, or daddy longlegs. Then there were his predictions for the future, how man would one day build flying machines and travel to the moon, prognostications that were met with the sly indulgence afforded old codgers, although I secretly agreed with him and could imagine it happening a thousand years hence.

“Who’s coming, ma’am?” said Sam Houston.

“The Locketts, the Longorias, Miss Brown. Reverend and Mrs. Goodacre. And a Miss Minerva Goodacre,” said Mother, examining her butter knife.

Uh-oh. I looked at Harry, who was also interested in his cutlery, studying it as if he’d never seen it before. I swallowed hard. What to do? I consoled myself that I had three more days to think about it, brooding in my tent like Napoleon.

Every time I passed Harry on the stairs for the next few days, I smiled stiffly. He remained impassive. I chose to interpret his not actually scowling at me as a good sign.

Friday came and I still had no plan. Instead I washed and dried my hair. Then I sat at my vanity and glumly counted one hundred strokes of the hairbrush. I put on my best lawn dress and kid boots, the ones I’d worn to the music recital, and tied a sky-blue ribbon in my hair, the color Harry liked best on me. I went downstairs to join the others.

Harry looked handsome and reeked of the competing scents of lavender pomade and bay rum toilet water. A live undercurrent of excitement fizzed in him, and he softened to the point of giving me a grin. We lined up in the hall by age, Sam Houston gagging as he inhaled the fumes coming off Harry. Mother came down to inspect us. She wore her emerald silk with the short train, one of her best, and the train made a faint whish-whish sound as she walked. She looked at our boots, our teeth, our fingernails.

“Calpurnia, for heaven’s sake,” she said. “Stand up straight. What’s the matter with you? Jim Bowie, those nails won’t do. You look like you’ve been grubbing in the garden. Calpurnia, take him and fix him.”

I led J.B. off to the bathroom, grateful for something to do. As I scrubbed him, he said, “Is Harry getting married?” This startled me so much I dropped the nail brush.

“Wherever did you get that idea?”

“I heard Mother talking about it. Is Harry going away?”

“I hope not, J.B.”

“Me too.”

I worked on him until the first guests arrived and we had to line up again at the front door. When Miss Brown arrived, I shook her hand and dropped her a deep, ostentatious curtsy. But I must have overdone it because the old bat gave me a hard smile and said, “Why, hello, Calpurnia. Aren’t you just charming as always?” She squeezed my hand so tightly with her own tendinous claw that I yelped like a trod-upon dog.

Yes, the evening was off to a marvelous start, and Miss Minerva Goodacre hadn’t even arrived yet.

I took a silver tray of smoked oysters and offered them around the room, keeping a close count as instructed by Viola on how many my brothers took. This wasn’t too difficult, as the younger boys took one look at the shiny, wrinkled gray sacs and turned away in horror; you couldn’t have paid them to put one in their mouths. Harry lurked between the parlor and the hall so that he could watch the front door for the great arrival. Granddaddy appeared with his beard trimmed and his hair plastered down. He sported a pinky-red rose in his buttonhole. Except for his moth-eaten coat, he looked almost distinguished.

The Longorias arrived, and Travis took their children out to the stable to show off his kittens.

I looked around at my family and felt a great wave of tenderness for them. They were all innocents playing out their unsuspecting parts. I wanted to preserve the moment and tuck it away, folded and sealed forever in my memory. Any second it was about to end.

Then Harry rushed to check his hair and tie in the hall mirror once again. I looked out the window and saw Mr. Goodacre tethering his horses. Harry dashed out the front door to hand down two women from the buggy, one stout and one slender. He offered his arm to the slender one—the harpy—and they moved up the walk, their heads together, sharing some word, some laugh, some something that none of the rest of us would ever share. My parents met them at the door, and I could overhear the bright chatter of introductions before Mother led everyone into the parlor. I have to give my mother credit, she appeared more relaxed and cheerful than I would have expected under the circumstances. Maybe she’d taken some tonic.

And there She was: taller than I expected, and slender, and dressed in a fussy peach dress with too many jet buttons. There was the petulant mouth, the long neck, the buggy eyes, the massy hair. She carried a spangled peach-colored fan that she opened with a theatrical fwop as she met the other guests.

I was about to flee to the kitchen when Harry saw me and beckoned me over.

“Miss Goodacre, may I present to you my sister, Calpurnia Virginia Tate. Callie, this is Miss Minerva Goodacre.”

The peach fan beat the air like a giant moth. She looked at me with her big, buggy eyes and said with a trilling laugh, “Why, Calpurnia, what a sweet little girl you are. And so talented, too. I heard you play at the music recital.” And with this, she furled her fan and tapped me playfully on the cheek with it, a mite too hard. Was I in for such punishment all night long?

“How do you do, Miss Goodacre?” I managed to croak. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Oh,” she said, “I am sure we shall be more than acquaintances; I’m sure we will become fast friends. Now, Harry, where is that très amusant grand-père I’ve heard so much about?”

Gaah, she was spouting French. Harry steered her over to Granddaddy, who bowed low over her hand, brushed it with his whiskers, and said, “Enchanté, mademoiselle.” I think he might have even clicked his heels. She responded with what I guess was supposed to be a musical laugh, “My goodness, sir, aren’t you just too, too delightful.”

And that, as they say, was that. She ignored me for the rest of the evening. Carrying trays of this and glasses of that, I trailed after her and Harry as they circulated about the room.

She was given to much fan play. She talked about fashions from Paris and fashions from New York, and wasn’t it a shame about the perfectly frightful dress Governor Culberson’s wife had worn to her husband’s inauguration in Austin, and surely, with all their money, she could have afforded better, or at least sought advice from a modiste with taste. Taste was exceedingly important, n’est-ce pas? And speaking of taste, had anyone else remarked upon that dreadful, dowdy number that so-and-so had worn to the such-and-such ball . . . ?

Mother tried to engage her in conversation about music, but she would have none of it. Father tried to extract her opinion about the telephone line that would soon come to town, but she had none. She simpered and swished and ordered Harry about. She made me positively sick.

The evening wore on. Somehow we got through an interminable dinner, and then for entertainment Miss Brown sat down at the piano and whipped through her stock party piece, “The Minute Waltz,” in fifty-two seconds by Father’s pocket watch. Then she accompanied Miss Goodacre, who sang “Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes” in what I considered to be a completely indifferent voice, all the while emoting heavily in Harry’s direction.

I noticed during this nauseating performance that Granddaddy stared at her as if mesmerized, which depressed me right into the ground. Conquering Harry was not enough—she had to captivate all the men who were important to me.

Then Harry sang “Beautiful Dreamer” while Miss Goodacre made googly eyes at him. The hateful Miss Brown pushed me forward to play my recital piece. I had a splitting headache and a false smile plastered on my face and managed to give a mediocre performance. Then I went to the kitchen to beg a headache pastille from Viola.

“What she like?” said Viola. “She don’t look all that pretty from here. And Mister Harry such a nice-looking boy and all.”

“She’s dreadful, Viola. She can’t talk about anything except clothes.”

“Well, clothes is interesting,” said Viola.

“Not if that’s all you can talk about,” I said.

“That’s true. She ain’t much of a singer, neither. How’s your mama holding up?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Good,” she said. “Here’s a pastille. And take these chocolates out there. Keep a count.”

I went back to the party and handed around the chocolates, keeping them away from my brothers as best I could. Sanjuanna rounded up the younger ones for bed. Reverend Goodacre discussed the vagaries of the cotton market with my father. Granddaddy trapped Harry and Miss Goodacre in a corner and gave them a detailed explanation of the difference between the male and female Deinacrida, or giant locust. Miss Goodacre’s smile grew fixed.

“Come to the library,” Granddaddy said to her. “I have an excellent pair of specimens to demonstrate the difference.” He took her by the elbow and steered her out of the room.

“Bring her back to us soon,” Harry called out. “Don’t deprive us of her company for too long. Ha ha.”

Harry radiated bonhomie. I stood there and handed him a chocolate truffle. I wanted my brother to love me again at any price. In a weak voice I—the World’s Biggest, Fattest Liar—said, “She seems very nice, Harry.” Welts erupted on my neck. This time they were the hives of hypocrisy.

“Yes,” he said, “she’s a grand girl, isn’t she? I knew you’d like her once you had a chance to meet her. Good bonbon. Let’s have another.”

Blind, I thought. You’re blind.

At that moment, Miss Goodacre burst into the room looking flushed and tense. She bustled up to Mrs. Goodacre, and they conversed in an agitated whisper. Mrs. Goodacre turned to the gathering and said, “Minerva has a sick headache, and I’m afraid we must get her home. Such a shame, such a lovely party, but her mother has entrusted her to me for safekeeping. I’m sure you all understand.”

They collected their wraps and made their abrupt good nights while Mr. Goodacre and Harry prepared the buggy. There were many calls of thanks to my mother but no promises of doing it again soon. They disappeared into the night.

Harry looked pensive. “Grandfather, did Miss Goodacre seem all right in the library?”

“She seemed well enough. She did display some interest in the gossamer-winged butterflies. I wish she had shown more interest in the carrion beetle collection, though. They are, after all, exceptionally fine specimens.” He lit up a cigar. “All in all, we had a good talk, I’d say.”

The next day my mother received hand-delivered thankyou letters from our guests and left them out on the dining table to serve as a lesson in good manners to us. The notes were flowery and effusive, except for Miss Goodacre’s, which, although correct, was terse to the point of rudeness.

Two days later, Harry tried to call on her. Her aunt informed him that she was not at home. Three days after that, Miss Goodacre returned to Austin without any notice. Harry found out when he stopped in again and the Goodacres’ maid told him. He came home and took to his room.

There was speculation among my older brothers about whether he would be dosed with cod-liver oil. If not, exactly how old did one have to be to escape it? Was sixteen the cutoff? Fourteen? It was a question of intense interest.

Harry did not get dosed with the stinking oil. Instead, he was drenched with confusion and sadness when his letters to Miss Goodacre were returned unopened. He stumbled about the house for days like one of the walking wounded. It was pitiful. I tended my own stupendous bruise through its lurid healing colors and vowed to resign my commission as a meddler.