Jacqueline Kelly: The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

Then a hummingbird careened around the corner of the house and plunged into the trumpet of the nearest lily drooping in the heat. Not finding it to his liking, he abruptly backed out and explored the next one. I sat a few feet away, entranced, close enough to hear the angry low-pitched buzzing of his wings, so at odds with his jewel-like appearance and jaunty attitude. The bird paused at the lip of a flower and then turned and caught sight of me. He hovered in midair for a second and then rushed at me. I froze. The bird stopped four inches shy of my face and hung there, I swear. I felt the tiny rush of wind from his wings against my forehead and, reflexively, my eyes squeezed shut of their own accord. How I wish I’d been able to keep them open, but it was a natural reaction and I couldn’t stop myself. The second I opened them, the bird flew off. He was the size of a winged pecan. Fueled by rage or curiosity—who could tell—he cared not at all that I could have crushed him with the lightest swat.

I had once seen Ajax, Father’s best dog, get into a fight with a hummingbird and lose. The hummingbird had dived at him and spooked him until he’d trotted back to the front porch, looking very embarrassed. (It is possible for a dog to look embarrassed, you know. He’d whipped around and started licking his nether parts, a sure sign a dog is trying to hide his true feelings.)

The front door opened, and Granddaddy came out onto the porch, an ancient leather satchel strapped over his shoulder, a butterfly net in one hand, and a malacca walking stick in the other.

“Good morning, Calpurnia,” he said. So he knew my name after all.

“Good morning, Granddaddy.”

“What have you got there, if I may ask?”

I jumped to my feet. “It’s my Scientific Notebook,” I said grandly. “Harry gave it to me. I write down everything I observe in it. Look, here’s my list for this morning.”

Observe was not a word I normally used in conversation, but I wanted to prove my seriousness to him. He put down his satchel, and it made interesting clinking noises. He took out his spectacles and looked at my list. It read:

cardinals, male and female

a hummingbird, some other birds (?)

rabbits, a few

cats, some

lizard, green

insects, various

C. V. Tate’s grasshoppers, big/yellow and small/green (these are the same species)

He took off his spectacles and tapped the page. “A fair start,” he said.

“A start?” I said, hurt. “I thought it was finished.”

“How old are you, Calpurnia?”

“Twelve,” I said.

He looked at me.

“Eleven and three quarters,” I blurted. “I’m practically twelve. Really. You can hardly tell the difference.”

“And how are you coming along with Mr. Darwin and his conclusions?”

“Oh, it’s marvelous. Yes. Marvelous. Of course, I haven’t read the whole thing yet. I’m taking my time.” Truthfully, I had read the first chapter several times and found it to be heavy weather. I had then jumped ahead to the section on “Natural Selection” but still struggled with the language.

Granddaddy looked at me gravely. “Mr. Darwin did not write for an audience of eleven-and-three-quarters-practically-twelve-year-olds. Perhaps we can discuss his ideas sometime. Would you care to do that?”

“Yes,” I said. “Yessir, yes.”

“I am going to collect specimens at the river. Order Odonata today, I think. Dragonflies and damselflies. Would you like to accompany me?”

“Yes, please.”

“We shall have to take your Notebook.” He opened the satchel, and in it I saw some glass jars and A Field Guide to the Insects, his lunch packet, and a miniature silver flask. He tucked my red Notebook and pencil in beside it. I picked up his butterfly net and slung it over my shoulder.

“Shall we?” he said, and offered me his arm in the manner of a gentleman taking a lady in to dinner. I linked my arm through his. He was so much taller than I that we jostled each other down the steps, so I let go of his arm and slipped my hand into his. The palm was calloused and weathered, the nails thick and curved, a miraculous construction of leather and horn. My grandfather looked startled, then pleased, I think, although I couldn’t tell for sure. Nevertheless, his hand closed on mine.

We picked our way across the wild field to the river. Granddaddy stopped every now and then to peer at a leaf, a rock, a mound of dirt, things I didn’t find terribly interesting. What was interesting was how he stooped over and scrutinized each object before extending a slow, deliberate hand. He was careful with everything he touched, putting each bug back where he found it, nudging each pile of dirt back into place. I stood holding the butterfly net at the ready, itching to pounce on something.

“Do you know, Calpurnia, that the class Insecta comprises the largest number of living organisms known to man?”

“Granddaddy, nobody calls me Calpurnia except Mother, and then only when I’m in lots of trouble.”

“Why on earth not? It’s a lovely name. Pliny the Younger’s fourth wife, the one he married for love, was named Calpurnia, and we have been left by him some of the great love letters of all time. There’s also the natal acacia tree, genus Calpurnia, a useful laburnum mainly confined to the African continent. Then there’s Julius Caesar’s wife, mentioned in Shakespeare. I could go on.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.” Why hadn’t anyone ever told me these things? All my brothers except for Harry bore the names of proud Texas heroes, many of whom had laid down their lives at the Alamo. (Harry had been named after a bachelor great-uncle with lots of money and no heirs.) I had been named after my mother’s older sister. I guess it could have been worse: Her younger sisters were Agatha, Sophronia, and Vonzetta. Actually, it could have been much worse—like Governor Hogg’s daughter, Ima. Gad, Ima Hogg! Can you imagine? I wondered if her great beauty and massive fortune were enough to protect her from a lifetime of torture? Perhaps if you had enough money, no one laughed at you for anything. And me, Calpurnia, with a name I’d hated all my life, why . . . why, it was a fine name, it was music, it was poetry. It was . . . it was incredibly annoying that no one in my family had bothered to tell me any of this.

So, then. Calpurnia would do.

We pushed on through the woods and the scrub. For all his age and his spectacles, Granddaddy’s eyes were a lot keener than mine. Where I saw nothing but leaf mold and dried twigs, he saw camouflaged beetles, motionless lizards, invisible spiders.

“Look there,” he said. “It’s Scarabaeidae, probably Cotinus texana. The fig beetle. Quite unusual to find one in a drought. Take it in the net, gently now.”

I swished the net, and the bug was mine. He extracted it and held it in his hand and we examined it together. It was an inch long, middling green, and otherwise unexceptional in appearance. Granddaddy flipped it over, and I saw that its underside shone a startling greeny-blue, iridescent and shot through with purple. The colors changed as it squirmed in dismay. It reminded me of my mother’s abalone brooch, lovely and rare.

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

“It’s related to the scarab beetle, which the ancient Egyptians worshipped as a symbol of the morning sun and the afterlife. Sometimes they wore it as jewelry.”

“They did?” I wondered how you’d get a beetle to stay on your dress. I had visions of sticking it on with a hatpin or perhaps wallpaper paste, neither of which seemed like a particularly good idea.