Jacqueline Kelly - The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER, all the children, even down to Jim Bowie, were allowed to stay up to count the chimes of the clock at midnight on New Year’s Eve, a wildly exciting event, at least in theory. It was also nerve-racking, as there had been talk by some religious societies that the world was going to end on the first day of the millennium. The newspapers reported that there were wild, bearded men parading the streets in Austin, dressed in long robes and carrying big signs that read REPENT, THE END IS NIGH. Father had pooh-poohed the men as a bunch of cranks, but Travis had taken it seriously and asked me after some thought, “Callie, is the world really going to end tonight?”

“No, silly. Granddaddy explained it to me. The century is merely the marking of the passage of time. Time is man-made and comes from England.”

“But what if it does come to an end? Who will look after Jesse James? Who will feed Bunny?”

I could see only one way out of this discussion. “Don’t worry, Travis. I will.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks, Callie.”

We went downstairs to an enormous dinner at six o’clock. The weather was dismal, but there were roaring fires in every room. Mother looked flushed and relaxed, and I noticed she was sipping bubbly wine that seemed to agree with her. Afterward, Father made several toasts and reassured us that the world was not coming to an end; that he was a fortunate man to be surrounded by his loving family, his own father, his own wife, his own children. There was a catch in his voice.

Then we all retired to our rooms to rest for the long evening ahead, to say our prayers and to consider our resolutions. Traditionally, we each had to stand up in turn and recite our resolutions, which Mother wrote down on a paper that she kept pressed in the family Bible until the next year, when the old ones were replaced with new ones.

I lay on my bed and stared out the window at the lowering sky. Part of me wanted our lives to go on as they always had, with all of us living together in our teeming old house. The other part of me yearned for desperate and dramatic change, to leave Fentress far behind. What good was it to have a hairy vetch “mootant” named after me, if my whole life was to be spent in Caldwell County, bounded by Lockhart and San Marcos, pecan trees and cotton fields? Granddaddy had told me I could make whatever I wished of my life. Some days I believed him, and other days I did not. This gloomy overcast afternoon, this last day of the dying century, was definitely turning into a “not” day. There were so many things I wanted to see and do in my lifetime, but how many of them were within my reach? I wrote a list of them on the last page of my Notebook. The red leather cover was creased and the deckled pages were getting grubby. My Notebook, my faithful friend for the past six months. I put it aside and fell asleep and dreamed that I was floating on a river. But it was not my own river. The water was pale green instead of blue, and, strangely, the riverbanks were covered in sand.

Viola sounded the gong at nine o’clock and woke me. We trooped downstairs to bowls of dangerously hot Apple Brown Betty that seared the mouth. We each were given a party cracker to pull, inside of which was a paper crown, a noisemaker, and a miniature tin toy. A brisk market in these favors emerged, with much trading and dealing. Then it was just a matter of sitting and waiting. The younger boys, who had never been up this late, responded to the generalized slackening of discipline by either tearing up and down the stairs or falling fast asleep on the parlor rug.

I ate half of my Christmas orange with ostentatious enjoyment, much to the annoyance of those who had already finished theirs. I saved the other half to eat in a different century. Would an 1899 orange taste different in 1900?

By ten o’clock, we were all exhausted and craving our beds but determined to make it to the magic hour. At eleven, it was time for the annual resolutions. Mother pulled our old resolutions out of the Bible and read them aloud to much laughter and then burned them in the fireplace. My last resolution had been to master darning and spinning. I had made it a lifetime ago, before the hot summer month when my grandfather and I had first recognized each other.

We tried to explain to J.B. what a resolution was, but he was too young to understand. Mother made a resolution for him, namely, that he would learn his ABCs in the coming year. Sul Ross made a resolution to finish his school assignments on time. Travis resolved to spend more time playing with Jesse James. This was impossible, as he toted the gangly cat with him everywhere, tucked into the bib of his overalls.

Then it was my turn. I stood up, pulled my Notebook from my pocket, and opened it to the last page.

“It’s not so much a resolution. It’s more like a list.” I cleared my throat and read, “I want to see the following things before I die: the northern lights. Harry Houdini. The Pacific Ocean or the Atlantic Ocean. Any old ocean at all—it doesn’t matter. Niagara Falls. Coney Island. A kangaroo. A platypus. The Eiffel Tower. The Grand Canyon. Snow.”

I sat down to silence. Then Harry said, “Very good, pet,” and started clapping. My other brothers joined in. Mother’s and Father’s applause was tepid. I felt vaguely melancholy.

Lamar said, “I resolve to do better in geometry.” He spent hours each day running around the house measuring the angle of things with his new steel protractor.

Sam Houston said, “Lula Gates won’t let me carry her books home from school, so I resolve to carry Effie Preston’s, even if she doesn’t want me to. I swear I’m going to do it.” This got a good laugh.

Then it was Harry’s turn, but he only smiled and said, “It’s a secret.” There was a general outcry of that’s not fair.

I said, “You have to tell us, Harry. Otherwise it isn’t a real resolution.” Finally he relented to get us off his back. He glanced at Mother and said, somewhat weakly, I thought, “I resolve to study hard so I can get into the university next year.”

Mother twinkled with pleasure at this, which of course was his intended result, but I could tell his heart wasn’t in it, he was just throwing her a sop. The fact that he wouldn’t tell us his real resolution made me suspect that it had something to do with Fern Spitty.

Mother’s resolution was to make sure that every single one of her children made it to church at least twice a week. There was stirring in the ranks at this but no one had the courage to moan about it to her face.

Father’s resolution was to give up dipping snuff. Since he was only allowed to dip at the gin, he’d decided that the agony of having to give it up at the front door every day when he came home outweighed the pleasure of partaking at work. Mother looked delighted and sipped her fizzy wine.

It took some badgering of Granddaddy, who took it jovially enough before he said, “It would be a sad commentary on my life if I were to have any resolutions left at my age. However . . . there is one thing. . . .”

Mystified, I searched my brain. Something to do with the mutant? Or that he wanted to perfect his pecan spirits? I had no clue.

“I wish to go driving in an auto-mobile,” he said. “I hear they have one in Austin.”

“But they’re dreadful machines!” said Mother. “And so unsafe! They say they’re likely to explode without warning, and people are always breaking their arms at the crank.”

“True.” He smiled. There was a contented, faraway expression on his face. He looked to the world as if he were staring off into the distance; but I knew that he was gazing into the future.

Then there was nothing left to do but sit and wait for the next hour to pass. My parents talked quietly, Granddaddy smoked cigars and read his National Geographic, and my brothers and I took turns at fighting off sleep and failing miserably. Finally, finally, the clock struck midnight, and as the chimes died out, we heard a cacophony of pots and pans being beaten in the streets all over town. We clasped hands in a circle and sang “Auld Lang Syne.” The words were incomprehensible, but the music was lovely. I looked around the circle of dear faces and considered all the gifts that had come to me over the past year. There were Mother and Father, holding hands and looking tired but happy. She had a few threads of gray at her temples, which I hadn’t noticed before. There was Harry: proud, tall, handsome, his collar and tie immaculate, a young gentleman in the making. There were Sam Houston and Lamar; there was Travis with Jesse James in his arms; there was yawning Sul Ross. There was J.B., dead on his feet but gamely determined to see in the new year.