The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

Ah! An assignment to enter into a scientific correspondence—of sorts—with an adult. I wrote my draft in pencil, and when I was satisfied with my efforts, I sought out Granddaddy to show it to him. I knocked on the library door, and he called out, “Enter if you must.” I found him poking through one of his lizard drawers, muttering something about a missing specimen.

“Calpurnia, have you seen my five-lined skink? It should be filed here between the four-lined and the many-lined, naturally, but I seem to have misplaced it.”

“Uh, no, sir, I haven’t, but I have written a letter back to Mr. Hofacket, and I need you to look at it.”

“Mister who?” he said, rummaging.

“The photographer. You remember, in Lockhart.”

“Ah, yes.” He waved me away and said, “I trust you’ve done a fine job. Yes, yes, go ahead and send it. Here are the newts,” he murmured. “Here are the salamanders. Where are the rest of the skinks?”

I was thrilled to the marrow. I was about to run from the room when I remembered another problem.

“I have no stamp, Granddaddy,” I said.

“Hmm? Oh, here we go,” he said, digging in his pocket for a coin. He gave me a dime, and I took it and ran upstairs to my room. I pulled out a new nib and my box of good glossy foolscap paper reserved for special occasions. I arranged these items on my vanity and sat down. It wasn’t a long letter, but it took me an hour to make the final copy.

August 20, 1899

Dear Sir:

Your letter of Wednesday instant at hand. My grandfather Captain Walter Tate requests that I inform you that we have, as yet, received No Word from The Smithsonian Institution. My grandfather, Captain Walter Tate, wishes you to know that he will send correspondints the moment he receives Word. My grandfather conveys his complimints and appreciates your interest in the Subject.

I remain, vy truly yrs,

Calpurnia Virginia Tate

(granddaughter of Captain Walter Tate)

I put it in a nice thick envelope and clattered down the stairs, determined to get it in the post that day.

Travis and Lamar were playing Cowboys and Indians on the front porch, firing popguns at each other. I ignored their cries of “Hey, Callie! Where you going?” and ran as fast as I could. I didn’t feel like sharing, and I didn’t feel like explaining. They had their own lives. And now I have mine, I thought, exulting as I ran.

I made it to the post office in record time, puffing and covered in fine road dust. Mr. Grassel, our postman, stood behind the counter. There was something wrong with Mr. Grassel, but I wasn’t sure what. He always made a great show of waiting on the Tates; he kowtowed to my parents when they came in. He pretended to like children, most of all the Tate children, but I could tell he really didn’t. He chatted with Lula Gates’s mother and handed her a parcel. I waited like a polite child.

“Good afternoon, Callie,” Mrs. Gates said, noticing me a minute later. “Is your family keeping well? Your mother is not too bothered by her headaches, I hope?”

“Hello, Mrs. Gates,” I said. “We are all keeping well, thank you. And you?”

“We are all well, thank goodness.”

After a few more pleasantries and her urging me to convey her respects to my mother, she left. I edged up to the counter and placed my envelope on it so that I wouldn’t have to put it in Mr. Grassel’s hand. His puffy palms were always sweaty. He made my skin crawl.

“So, Missy Tate,” he said, picking it up and inspecting it, “you are writing to Lockhart, I see.”

“I want a stamp,” I said, teetering on the knife edge of rudeness.

He narrowed his eyes. Was I being impertinent or not?

“Please, sir,” I added, a finely timed second later.

Mr. Grassel looked at the address on my envelope. “Going to get your pitchur made at Hofacket’s?” He often asked who you were writing to and why. Mother said it was the height of rudeness for a public servant with privileged knowledge to pry, and for once I had to agree with her.

“Yes.” A pause. “Sir.” Then because I was filled with daring on this special day, I added in my sweetest little girl voice, “I’m going to get my pic-ture made.”

His mouth tightened. Ha! I pushed my dime across the counter at him. He took a stamp, dampened it on a small sponge, stuck it on my envelope with a dramatic flourish and said, “Any kind of special occasion?”

“No. Sir.”

He ostentatiously counted my eight cents change and held it out so that I was forced to hold up my hand to receive it.

“Whole family?” he said, pressing my fingers with his moist palm.

“What?” I said.