Jacqueline Kelly: The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

In the shed out back? The laboratory?

Mother frowned. “I could have sworn he went to the river. Calpurnia, go and fetch him, please. We can’t keep Mr. Fleming waiting all day.”

“Oh, that’s all right, ma’am,” he said and nudged his cup an inch or two in the general direction of the teapot, “quite all right.”

Not at the river?

“Will you have more tea, Mr. Fleming?”

“Why, thank you kindly, ma’am. I believe I will.”

He was not at the river collecting without me. He was in the laboratory working without me.

“Calpurnia? Did you hear me? Go and fetch him. Mrs. Purtle, do try some of this excellent cake. It’s Viola’s special recipe.”

Numbly, I nodded. “I guess I’ll go and get him.”

I went through the kitchen, where Viola was starting on dinner. She looked up. “What you up to? You look funny.”

“I’m not up to anything.” I pumped cold water over Mr. O’Flanagan’s hankie and pressed it to my face. “And I am funny,” I muttered through the cloth. “That’s the reason I look funny, okay?”

“What?” she said over the noise of the whistling kettle.

I dried myself with a scrap of towel and looked in the cracked mirror at the back door. I was still flushed and swollen, but at least I no longer looked completely crazed. I scrutinized myself. Was this the face of a child who bored an old man or an idiot who jumped to conclusions?

“Viola. Do you think I’m boring? Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“Huh. You may be many things, girl, but idiot? Bore? Not those.”

“Are you sure?”

“Where do you come up with this stuff?”

“Viola, it’s important.”

“Not those,” she said, and turned back to her cooking. I looked at her narrow shoulders and wiry arms working over our dinner, and I realized that I had always counted on her for other things besides food. Viola had never lied to me. She would not lie to me now. I went over to her and put my arms around her waist and hugged her. I was freshly amazed at the lightness of her person, her tiny bird bones. It was interesting that such a slight frame could contain so large a person.

“Go ’way,” she said. “I’m busy.”

“Yes, ma’am.” And grumpy, as usual, which was reassuring.

“I told you not to give me no ma’am stuff. I ain’t no ma’am in this house, girly,” she called after me as I closed the door behind me. I threaded my way through the Outside Cats milling on the back porch and headed for the laboratory. My feet were leaden ingots. The short walk took a lifetime.

I pushed back the gunny sack hanging in the doorway and there he sat in the sprung armchair, staring at a flask of something on the counter. He looked up at me, his expression inscrutable.

“It’s come, Granddaddy,” I said.

“It’s come?”

“The word about the Plant has come.”

He was silent.

“A telegram from Washington,” I said.

“Ah.” He tilted his gaze to the ceiling and said quietly, “What does it say?”

I was stupefied. “I don’t know,” I stammered. “I didn’t open it. I’d never open it. It’s for you.”

“Heavens, Calpurnia, I thought you might have opened it because we’re partners in this endeavor, are we not? Are you all right?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

“Well, then. We must look our best when we get a telegram from Washington.”

He stood up and straightened his disintegrating coat and then reached for me, smoothing my hair with his big hands and adjusting my bow. “Are you ready?”

I nodded again. He held out his hand. “Shall we?”

I took his hand, and we walked together to the house, not saying a word. We were about to go up the back steps when I said, “Wait.” We stopped and he looked at me. “Yes, Calpurnia?”

“I think,” I quavered, “that we should go through the front door today. Don’t you?”

“Absolutely right,” he said, and we promenaded slowly around the house on the walk, passing the parlor window where three curious heads swiveled after us. All my senses sharpened as we headed for the porch. The lilies had died back to the ground; the bark of the crepe myrtles had all peeled away; there was a mackerel sky. I could feel the press of something important in the atmosphere, the pressure of chill air against me. Hand in hand, we walked up the wide front steps, and my grandfather opened the door for me, bowing me through. My heart raced like a rabbit’s.

“Captain Tate.” Mr. Fleming snapped to attention in the parlor. “I am glad to find you, sir. I have a telegram here for you all the way from Washington. That’s District of Columbia, sir. Not state of.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fleming. I am most grateful.”

“I figured it was important, so I rushed it right on over.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fleming. Most grateful.”

“I couldn’t trust it to one of the boys.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fleming. Grateful.”

“Oh—don’t get me wrong. They’re good boys, or I wouldn’t have ’em working for me. But sometimes they get sidetracked, and I figured—”

Mother broke in with, “Mr. Fleming, perhaps you’d care to give the captain his telegram? Now?”

“Oh, yes, yes, ma’am.” He dove into his pouch and pulled it out. “Here it is. All the way from Washington. Yessir. All the way.”

Mrs. Purtle squeaked and patted her bosom. We all stared at the envelope as if mesmerized.

Granddaddy stepped forward, and Mr. Fleming laid it in his palm. My grandfather’s hand slowly closed around it. “I thank you for your trouble, Mr. Fleming,” he said, reaching into his vest pocket for a coin.

The telegraphist was having none of it. “No, no, Captain Tate. I’ll take no gratuity from you, sir. My pleasure, sir.” He saluted smartly and clicked his heels together.

“You are too kind.” Then, seeing that Mr. Fleming would not relax, Granddaddy said, “Please be at ease.”

Mr. Fleming’s posture relaxed a fraction. We all stood there, staring at my grandfather, who in turn contemplated the telegram.

“Ah,” he said, looking up. “Thank you again for your trouble, Mr. Fleming.” He bowed to my mother and Mrs. Purtle. “Ladies.” He pressed the telegram between his hands and turned and walked out. Our collective mouths flopped open, we were that shocked. The unfairness of it, depriving us of this once-in-a-lifetime moment. Who could bear it? How could he do this to us? How could he do this to me?

“Calpurnia,” he called from the hallway, “are you not coming?” For a second, I was paralyzed and then I found my powers of locomotion and ran from the room—parlor manners be damned—to join him. I skidded into him at the library door. He opened the door in silence and we went in. The room was chilly with no fire in the grate. The green velvet curtain was drawn back to let the thin winter sunshine wash in.

He sat down at his desk. “Bring a lamp, won’t you?” His face was alight with a curious balance of eagerness and gravity.

Trembling, I lit the lamp. What if the answer was no? What would that make us? Nothing more than a deluded old man and a silly little girl. But what if it was yes? Would we not be acclaimed, exalted, famous? Would we not join the immortals? Was it better to know, or not? Either way, he had to still love me. Didn’t he?

I sat down on the camel saddle, wishing I could stop time.

Granddaddy looked at the envelope’s plain white aspect. Then he took his ivory paper knife and carefully slit it open. The telegram was a single sheet of paper folded once upon itself. He held it out to me.

“Read it to me, dear child.”

My hands shook as I reached for the paper. I unfolded it, bent toward the lamp, and read, stumbling over the longer words: