Jacqueline Kelly - The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

“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.