The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

But then it happened. My father fell silent. And it was his silence, his long pause while he digested this information, that filled the hallway and my heart and soul with such a great whooshing pressure that I couldn’t breathe. I had never classified myself with other girls. I was not of their species; I was different. I had never thought my future would be like theirs. But now I knew this was untrue, and that I was exactly like other girls. I was expected to hand over my life to a house, a husband, children. It was intended that I give up my nature studies, my Notebook, my beloved river. There was a wicked point to all the sewing and cooking that they were trying to impress upon me, the tedious lessons I had been spurning and ducking. I went hot and cold all over. My life did not lie with the Plant after all. My life was forfeit. Why hadn’t I seen it? I was trapped. A coyote with her paw in the trap.

After an eternity, Father sighed, “I see. Well, Margaret, what shall we do about it?”

“She needs to spend less time with your father and more time with me and Viola. I’ve already told her I’m going to supervise her cookery and her stitchery. We’ll have to have lessons. A new dish every week, I think.”

“Will we have to eat it?” said Father. “Heh, heh.”

“Now, Alfred.”

Tears sprang to my eyes. That my own father could joke about his only daughter being pressed into domestic slavery.

“I trust these things to you, Margaret,” he said. “I always feel such matters are safest in your hands, despite the burden it places on you. How are your headaches these days, my dear?”

“Not so bad, Alfred, not so bad.”

My father crossed the room, and I saw him stoop and drop a kiss on my mother’s forehead. “I am glad to hear it. Can I bring you your tonic?”

“No, thank you, I’m fine.”

My father returned to his seat, rustled his newspaper, and that was that. My life sentence delivered.

I leaned against the wall and stood there, empty, for a long time. Empty of everything. I was only a practical vessel of helpful service, waiting to be filled up with recipes and knitting patterns.

Jim Bowie came padding down the stairs. Without speaking, he wrapped himself around me and gave me one of his long, sweet hugs.

“Thanks, J.B.,” I whispered, and we walked upstairs together hand-in-hand.

“Are you sick, Callie Vee?” he said.

“I reckon I am, J.B.”

“I can tell,” he said.

“It’s true. You can always tell.”

“Don’t feel bad. You’re my best sister, Callie.” We climbed onto my bed, and he curled up next to me.

He said, “You said you were going to play with me more.”

I said, “I’m sorry, J.B. I’ve been spending time with Granddaddy” But it’s all coming to an end soon enough, I thought.

“Does he know about Big Foot Wallace?”

“He does.”

“Do you think he’d tell me about Big Foot Wallace?”

“You should ask him. He might, but he’s kind of busy.” Busy without me, I moped.

“Maybe I’ll ask him,” said J.B. “But he scares me. I got to go. Good night, Callie. Don’t be sick.”

He gently closed the door. My last thought, before I fell into a restless sleep, was of the coyote. If only I could figure out how to gnaw my own leg off.

CHAPTER 18

COOKING LESSONS

Battle within battle must ever be recurring with varying success. . . .

MY TIME WITH GRANDDADDY slipped away as the domestic mill wheel gathered momentum, grinding its principal raw material—namely, me—into smaller and smaller scraps.

“Calpurnia,” Mother called up the stairs in that particular tone of voice I’d come to dread, “we’re waiting for you in the kitchen.”

I was in my room reading Granddaddy’s copy of A Tale of Two Cities. I put it down and didn’t answer.

“I know you’re up there,” said Mother, “and I know you can hear me. Come down here.” I sighed, slipped an old hair ribbon into the book to mark my place, and trudged downstairs. I was the condemned young aristocrat holding my head high in the tumbrel. It was a far, far better thing—

“There’s no need to look like that,” said Mother as I walked into the kitchen, where she and Viola sat waiting for me at the scrubbed pine table. “It’s only a cooking lesson.”

On the table was the marble slab, the sugar tin, a rolling pin, a large bowl of green apples, and one bright yellow lemon. And a book. I perked up until I got a closer look at it.

“Look here,” said Mother. “It’s my Fannie Farmer cookbook. You can borrow it until you get your own copy. It has everything in it that you need.”

I doubted that. She presented it to me in the same way that my grandfather had handed me his book—the other book—a few short months before. Mother smiled; Viola looked determinedly blank.

“We’re going to start with apple pie,” Mother said. “The secret is to add a splash of lemon juice and a handful of lemon zest to give it that nice tart flavor.” She smiled and nodded and spoke in that coaxing voice mothers use on reluctant children.