The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

Granddaddy poured himself a full measure and downed it in one gulp. He repeated the process, then poured a third time and handed the glass to me. I shuddered at the memory of my first glass of whiskey (might cause some coffing—indeed). But he was so lost in thought that he didn’t see me trying to wave it away. I took it from him and set it aside. I waited, breathless.

After a long time he whispered, “Well, well. I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time.” He looked up. “And here we are.”

“Are you sure?” I whispered back. “How do we really know for sure?”

“We must find a fresh specimen and root it right away. We must make a detailed drawing. We must mark the precise spot we found it on the map. We must photograph it to send to the Smithsonian, perhaps a cutting later on. And then we’ll see.” He took a deep breath. “Do you care for another drink?”

“No, thank you, Granddaddy, but you go right ahead,” I said, handing him back his glass.

“I believe I will,” he said. “Yes, I believe I will.”

He had his drink, and we regarded each other. “Now to work,” he said. “Let us gather a fresh one so we can complete our documentation. And we need several others like it so that we have a good sampling. Where did we find it?”

I picked up the jar and looked at the label. And there, under “mootant,” where I always marked the location the way he’d taught me, was . . . nothing. The earth tilted under my feet. I stopped breathing. My vision grew dim. I looked away for a second to give my deceitful eyes a chance to stop their trickery, to see what had to be there. I blinked hard and looked again at the label. There was nothing.

With great effort of will, I gasped for breath and air rushed into my lungs.

“Calpurnia, are you all right?”

I puffed like a landed catfish, “Uh-noh, uh-noh, uh-noh.”

He stood up. “I agree, it’s an overwhelming moment. Perhaps you should sit down for a minute. Sit here,” he said, and gave me his chair.

I couldn’t bring myself to speak. I couldn’t tell him.

“Shall I get your mother?” he said, with consternation.

I shook my head and got control of my breathing. “No, sir.”

“Do you need some whiskey?” he said.

“No, sir!” I shouted, throttled with fear.

“Be calm,” he said, “and tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s the vetch,” I cried. “I didn’t write it down. It’s not there.”

He picked up the jar and looked at it. “Oh, Calpurnia,” he said, softly. “Oh, Calpurnia.” Each mild word was like a blow across my face.

I put my head in my hands. “I’m so sorry,” I sobbed. “I’ll find it, I’ll find it!”

“How did this happen?” he said.

“I know what you taught me,” I wept, “I know. We were coming back from the river. I was thinking about Ajax’s turtle. I was thinking about the survival of the fittest.” I wrenched my handkerchief from my pocket. “Oh, I’ll find it, I promise. Please don’t be mad at me, I will find it.”

“Yes. Of course you will,” he said quietly.

“I’ll go right now.”

“Calpurnia, it’s getting dark.”

“If I hurry,” I said, jumping up and grabbing the jar. “Where’s a pencil, I need a pencil, I’m sure there’s a pencil around here somewhere,” I gabbled.

“Stop. It’s too late tonight. We’ll have to go tomorrow. Sit down and calm yourself. Think back. You said we were coming back from the river,” he prompted.

I sat down again.

“Close your eyes,” he said, “and see it in your mind.”

I closed my eyes, but I was too overwhelmed to concentrate. I listened to his words and tried to slow my breathing. “We were using the microscope. At the inlet.”

“I remember,” said Granddaddy. “Breathe deeply. Be still and think. We were coming back from the inlet.”

“We were coming back from the inlet,” I echoed. “That’s right, Ajax had caught a turtle, the only time he’s ever done that. I remember taking it from him. You led him away so I could let it go. There’s . . . there’s something else about Ajax . . . but I don’t remember what it is.”

“I’m sure you will remember,” he said. His voice calmed me.

Ajax and the mootant. The mootant and Ajax. I knew I was on the right track. One had something to do with the other, but what? I cast about through the trails of my memory like a hunting dog trying to pick up a lost scent. This way, that way, all blind leads. What had Ajax been doing? It seemed like something annoying, but then he was always doing something annoying in his bumbling, good-natured way, so that was no help at all. Hadn’t he been out wooing Matilda? But then what?

“Oh,” I moaned, “I can’t think of it. It’s in here somewhere”—I smacked myself on the forehead—“but I just can’t find it.”

“I think, Calpurnia, that it’s something you’re going to have to sleep on. We will find it. We have to find it. Even if we must examine every green growing thing on this section.”