The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

“The Last Rose of Summer, I think. Or Love’s Old Sweet Song.” I had noticed that Lula’s taste in literature had been tending away from the good old ripping yarns and toward the sticky romantic stuff. Travis looked impatient to get back in the discussion, but he’d run out of conversational coin.

He thought hard and then said, “What are those books about, Lula?”—a pretty good gambit on his part. So I feigned interest in flowery descriptions of thwarted romance and complicated sacrifice all the way back to the main road, where Lula turned off to her house while Travis strenuously waved goodbye. We walked on, and he nattered away for a while. One small cloud floated on his otherwise sunny horizon. Thoughtfully, he said, “You don’t think I’d have to give her Jesse James, do you, Callie? I like him best of all. Maybe I should have told her she could pick any of them except him. Maybe I should have said that.”

“Don’t worry, Travis. Lula wouldn’t take him.”

“Are you sure, Callie? How can you be sure?”

“She wouldn’t do that. She’s not like that.”

He nagged at me for reassurance for a good five minutes, with me turning every few yards to glower at Lamar and Sam Houston to make them keep their distance.

“How come they wouldn’t walk with us today?” said Travis as we headed up our drive. A pang shot through me. He didn’t understand that his own brothers—older, bigger, stronger, smarter—were rivals for Lula’s affection. He was as damp and wobbly and susceptible to damage as a newly hatched chick. How could I possibly protect him from heartbreak?

_____

LAMAR SAT stony-faced at dinner that night, and Sam Houston didn’t speak a word. I kept waiting for one of them to pounce on Travis in some way. Travis bubbled over with his news of walking Lula home, which amused Father and alarmed Mother, who no doubt thought he was too young for such matters. Granddaddy was distracted, as usual. Normally he was not much interested in the dinner conversation. I think he would have preferred dining alone in the library, and while I think Mother might have preferred it too, that just wasn’t done. We ate en famille, as she called it, and everyone (except Granddaddy) had to make some polite contribution to the general conversation, even if it was no more than a brief description of one’s day.

“Callie,” Mother said, “what did you learn in school today?”

“Not much,” I said.

Lamar perked up and said, “Callie got sent to the corner today.”

What a pill. Mother put down her fork and looked at me.

“Is this true?” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Miss Harbottle sent you to the corner?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“For what?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” I said.

“How can that be?” said Mother, with steel in her voice.

“She wasn’t paying attention in class,” said Lamar. He was fast turning into my least-favorite brother.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” I said. “I was . . . I was thinking about my book report, and I didn’t hear her, that’s all.”

“I don’t ever want to hear of you standing in the corner again, Calpurnia. The boys, I can understand at times. But you. Your behavior is a blot on the family name.”

“Well,” I huffed, “that’s no fair.”

There was stunned silence. Whoops. Everybody looked up, even Granddaddy. Then he threw back his head and let loose a laugh, which shocked the room even more. All heads snapped in his direction. It was a surprisingly vigorous bellow, not an old man’s wheeze at all. I almost expected the chandelier to start tinkling. I nearly giggled in response.

He said, “She has a point there, Margaret. Pass the gravy, please. Ha!” And with that, he punctured the tension in the room and deflected any punishment I might have called down upon myself. Harry winked at me. Lamar stuck out his tongue at me, but of course the disciplinarians at the table missed it.

After dinner, I asked Travis to show me his kittens again, and we walked to the far stall in the barn, where a weary Mouser kept watch over her furry family in the nest she’d burrowed in the straw. The kittens tumbled over her, batting at each other.

“See, Callie, don’t you think Jesse James is the best one? He purrs real loud. You can hear him from way far away.” He lifted the kitten from the straw and tucked it into the bib of his overalls, where it looked at home and produced a rumbling bass purr remarkable for something its size. “You’re sure Lula won’t take him?”

“No, Travis, I told you. She’s not like that.”

“She is awful nice, isn’t she?”

“Travis,” I sighed. “Listen, Travis, you know that Lamar and Sam Houston are sweet on her, too?”

“They are?”

“Yes. I wanted to tell you.”

“I’ll bet lots of fellas are sweet on her.”

This stopped me. I sat down in the straw and stroked Mouser, who looked like she could stand a little attention. “Travis,” I said, “aren’t you sweet on her?”

“I guess so.”

“Then how come you’re not upset?”

“About what?” he said, tickling Jesse James under the chin.

“About Sam Houston and Lamar.”