The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

“So what happened?”

“The War ruined us. It ruined many families. People were starving. Making one’s debut would have been . . . unseemly.”

“But you met Father anyway.”

She smiled. “I did. I was one of the lucky ones. Your aunt Aggie wasn’t so lucky.”

My mother’s sister Agatha lived unmarried and alone in Harwood in a house that smelled of cats and mildew.

“So you didn’t need to be a debutante,” I said, pulling a stray weed.

“No, I guess I didn’t. But lots of girls still do.” She looked at me.

I couldn’t avoid the question any longer, so I squared up to it. “Do I have to come out?”

“You’re the only daughter, Calpurnia.”

I didn’t want to be rude and point out that she hadn’t answered the question. “Well, what does it mean? Exactly?”

Mother’s eyes lit up. “It means that a girl from a good family has become a young lady and is ready to be introduced into Society. That she is ready to take her appointed place. That she can be introduced to young men from good families. It means cotillions and entertainments and a new gown for each one.”

“How long does it last?” I said.

“A year.”

“A whole year?” I didn’t much care for the sound of that. “And then what happens?”

She looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“You said it lasts for a year, and then what?”

“Well, usually the young lady has found a husband by that time.”

“So it’s a lot of fancy parties to marry off girls.”

Mother clucked. “Goodness, I wouldn’t put it that way.”

Why not? I thought. There was no disguising it.

“Mother?”

“Yes, dear?”

“So . . . do I have to come out?” Her face fell. I quickly added, “Do you want me to come out?”

She studied me. “Callie, I think there’s lots of time to think about it. But yes, I would be glad if you had the opportunity I missed. Many young girls would be glad of the chance.”

“What does Father think? It sounds expensive, a new gown and all every time.”

She looked disapproving. “One doesn’t speak of money like that. It isn’t done. Your father is an excellent provider. I am sure he would be proud to present you.”

“Hmm.” So there lay the matter. For now.

Later it occurred to me that I could ask Granddaddy his thoughts about it. But then I realized I didn’t need to. I could just imagine his opinion on the matter.

CHAPTER 15

A SEA OF COTTON

Linnaeus has calculated that if an annual plant produced only two seeds . . . and their seedlings next year produced two, and so on, then in twenty years there would be a million plants.

A COUPLE OF WEEKS LATER, my father met with the other major landholders at the Moose Lodge and declared the cotton harvest date, by far the most important event in our entire county.

An army of colored workers from three counties around descended on our acreage and picked from first light until complete dark, men and women and children, stopping only at midday for a meal and a short Bible reading by a preacher, one of their number.

Viola recruited three of the women to help her cook in the old stone kitchen in back of the house. Such a prodigious quantity of grits and fatback and beans and biscuits and syrup flowed out of there, all loaded into the buckboard in giant hampers and driven out to the fields, along with a barrel of fresh water and a huge pail of coffee. Mother temporarily moved into the kitchen to feed us. She also kept busy nursing the pickers’ cuts and blisters and other injuries deemed too small to be sent to Dr. Walker.

Harry drove the wagon back and forth to the store for cornmeal, sugar, flour, and other supplies. Sam Houston and Lamar scurried with messages from the scale house to the tally board and were sometimes rewarded with a penny, which translated into ten pieces of candy or a new pencil at the general store. Being a tally messenger was a highly coveted position.

Father labored late at the gin and came home long after we’d all gone to bed. The only one exempt from duty of any kind was Granddaddy. He had built up the ginning enterprise himself and overseen it through this seasonal spasm of mad activity for thirty years; he no longer had the slightest interest or obligation. He retired to his laboratory or else he headed off in the morning with his satchel over his shoulder.

The gin ran night and day. The blacksmith and the carpenter labored without sleep to keep the machines going and the cotton flowing, high-mounded wagons of it coming in and huge shedding bales of it going out, bound for Austin, Galveston, New Orleans. The bales were so heavy and piled so high that they were a real menace. Packing and balancing them was an art and, every year, scores of men across the South were crushed and killed by unstable loads.