The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

“Um, well, I didn’t exactly trade, sir. I hired him. I told him if he looked after the babies that I would give him two pennies. Plus, I told him he was allowed to throw rocks at the hens to keep them away.” I hastened to add, “But only small rocks—no bigger than my thumbnail, I made that very clear. He seemed pleased enough with the arrangement. This way, I make three cents. And I get to spend the day with you.”

“Ah,” said Granddaddy. “You may turn out to be a real young woman of commerce.” And although he spoke genially enough, I sensed something—disappointment?—in his expression.

“No,” I said after a moment’s thought, “I don’t think so.” I put my hand in his. “Do you think we’ll see something new today?” I said.

His expression changed to one of gladness. “I am certain of it,” he said, and we set off for the riverbank.

CHAPTER 16

THE TELEPHONE COMES

Although some species may be now increasing, more or less rapidly, in numbers, all cannot do so, for the world would not hold them.

CHANGE WAS COMING, both on the small stage of my life and the larger one of our town. The Bell Telephone Company had run a line all the way from Austin to the county seat in Lockhart, and one could now perform the astonishing feat of talking over a thin strand of wire to a man thirty miles away. (Or, to be precise, shouting at him. The interaction was reputed to be noisy.) Twenty years earlier, the journey to Austin had taken three days by wagon; ten years earlier it was half a day by train; now a message could be delivered in the time it took a man to draw breath.

There was much debate about where the switching board and the Telephone (there was only one) should go. Some thought the gin since it was the center of commerce; others said the post office; but our mayor, Mr. Axelrod, ruled that it should go to the newspaper, the beating informational heart of our community. The newspaper office was right across the street from the gin, and so the apparatus could be used when needed to receive cotton orders and check market prices.

Granddaddy grew excited about the ’phone and had an extra spring in his step when we went out collecting specimens.

“By God,” he said, “progress is a wonderful thing. That boy Alex has done it, by God.”

“Alex?” I said. “You mean Mr. Bell?”

“I do mean him,” he said. “The very one.”

“Um,” I said, “you know him?”

“A good boy. Known him for years through the Geographic. I’m surprised I haven’t told you. I loaned him some money when he was starting out, and he gave me some stock in his company. Remind me to check the ticker next time I’m in Austin. Those shares might be worth something by now.” And then he said, “By God, I can telephone the Exchange and get the quotes. No need to go to Austin. Ha!”

Our town talked of nothing else for a week. The Bell Company placed an advertisement in the Fentress Indicator announcing that it would hire a Telephone Operator and that this person had to be a dependable, sober, industrious young lady between the ages of seventeen and twenty-four. Apparently the Company had had plenty of bad experiences with its earliest operators, who had all been recruited from the ranks of telegraph men (a rough lot and prone to drunkenness, rudeness, and disconnecting patrons). The advertisement also stipulated that the young lady had to be tall, setting off all kinds of speculation, both polite and otherwise. It also offered room and board and the stunning sum of ten dollars a week on top of this. For a girl. Not a wagoneer, not a blacksmith, but a girl. And indoor work at that. This was unheard of. The money, the prestige, the independence! I burned for the position.

I asked my handiest brother, J.B., “Do you think I look seventeen?” He looked at me and spoke gravely through a thick mouthful of wet toffee, “You look real old, Callie.” This pleased me, but then he was only five years old so it wasn’t exactly reliable information. I went and found Harry in the barn, where he was mending a harness.

“Harry,” I said, “do you think I could pass for seventeen?”

“Have you lost your mind?” he said, without looking up.

“No. Look, what if I do this?” I held my hair up in what I imagined were attractive bunches above my ears. “Don’t I look seventeen?”

He glanced at me. “You look like a spaniel. The answer is no.” Then he stopped his mending and squinted at me. “Why? What are you up to?”

“Oh, nothing. . . .” I had for a fleeting moment seen myself as Miss Tate, Girl Operator, dressed in a smart shirtwaist dress, perched on a rolling stool, connecting each call with great efficiency and presence of mind, and saying in a well-modulated voice, “Hello, Central. Number please. . . .”