The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

“Don’t move around until you can see good again,” warned Mr. Hofacket as he emerged from his tent. “Once I had a lady trip and nearly break her darn foot.” He pulled the plate out of his camera, turned and saw me, and said, “Oops, missy, I’m sorry about the language. Pretend you didn’t hear that and please don’t tell your mama. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He took the plate and disappeared into a tiny closet. We could hear him clinking and sloshing around in there, and he emerged a few minutes later holding a floppy photograph with a pair of wooden tongs.

“I don’t normally bring it out while it’s still wet, but I thought you’d like to see it,” he said. “Don’t touch it.”

We looked and there it was: the Plant and, clearly visible at the base of the stem, the Very Important Tiny Leaf.

Granddaddy grinned. “That’s fine work, sir, most fine.”

Mr. Hofacket flushed and ducked his head, and I swear he would have kicked a clod if there’d been one on his studio floor. He mumbled, “You like it?”

“It’s perfect. I am most gratified.”

“The shape of that there leaf is real clear.”

“It’s admirable, sir. Admirable. Let’s do the other one.” I think Mr. Hofacket would have stood there all day and drunk in the praise he’d earned during this strangest of undertakings. He set the Plant in front of the black paper this time and repeated the process all over. I closed my eyes before the magnesium flared, but I still saw dazzling fireworks, even through my eyelids. Mr. Hofacket hurried out with the next picture to more praise. Now that he was part of the project, he peppered Granddaddy with questions about new species, the Smithsonian, Washington, et cetera.

I was putting the Plant back in its cardboard box to head home when Granddaddy said, “Wait, Calpurnia. Mr. Hofacket, one more picture, I think.” He put the Plant on a fancy wicker fern stand.

“Calpurnia, you stand on this side, and I will stand here.” I smoothed my pinafore, and Granddaddy patted his beard. I stood tall and proud in my very best posture.

“Hold your breath,” called Mr. Hofacket. “Don’t breathe, now. Three, two, one.”

This time, the flare in our faces could have stopped a rhinoceros in its tracks. The whole world went white. I wondered if this was what snow looked like. Mr. Hofacket yakked away as my vision gradually returned. He carried all three portraits to the front counter and was about to stamp his embossed gold HOFACKET’S FINE PORTRAITURE seal on the lower left corner of each one when Granddaddy stopped him.

“Sir,” he said, “kindly put your seal on the back of the portraits as they are scientific exhibits, and the images themselves must remain plain.” Mr. Hofacket’s face fell until Granddaddy said, “With your seal on the back, the world will still know that you took these photographs. You may put your seal on the front of the one of me and my granddaughter to memorialize this day.” He handed him three silver dollars.

The photographer wrapped the pictures in brown paper and tied them with twine. It was time for us to leave, but he was loath to let us go. He walked us out to the gig, still talking. He insisted on holding the Plant in its box while I climbed into the gig. Fascinated, he stared at it as if expecting it to address him. I opened the parasol and took the Plant on my lap, and Granddaddy clucked to the horse. Mr. Hofacket stood in the road and yelled, “Good-bye, come back soon. Good-bye, and be sure to tell me what happens. Be sure to let me know if they like my photographs!”

“When we get home,” said Granddaddy, “I’m going to write a letter and send the photographs off right away. Then we have nothing to do but wait, which is sometimes the hardest part. Give our specimen some more water, won’t you?”

On the long drive back to Fentress, my grandfather and I had energy to spare. We burned up some of it singing sea chanteys and pirate songs with naughty words, being careful to switch to hymns when other riders came into view. We made it home at dinnertime, dusty and worn out but still elated by our day. We put the Plant to bed in the laboratory and joined the others inside.

Dinner lasted an eternity.

“What news from Lockhart?” said Father.

“Cotton futures are up, I believe,” said Granddaddy, “and Calpurnia and I had our photograph made.”

“You did?” said Sul Ross. He looked at me accusingly. “How come you got a photograph?”

“To mark a red-letter day,” said Granddaddy. He looked around the table. “Calpurnia and I may have discovered a new species of plant.”

“That’s nice,” said Mother, looking distracted.

“What kind of plant?” said Harry.

“Please pass the potatoes,” said Lamar.

“It may possibly be a new species of vetch,” said Granddaddy.

“Oh,” said Sam Houston. “Vetch.”