The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

I wished them luck and headed off to the exhibition tables and pushed through the crush to the tatting table. Each entry had been pinned to a square of black velvet, the better to display its intricacy. The adults’ entries were delicate works of art, collars and antimacassars as detailed and fine as a spider’s web. Next to them were the few—very few—novice pieces. I pushed forward and saw my own lopsided collar on display, the black background nicely pointing up every dropped stitch of white thread. And my name, my full name, prettily lettered on a card to tell the whole world who had created this mess.

I surveyed the entries suspiciously. Yep, there were three. Even though I knew full well that I wasn’t any good at tatting, having this fact confirmed by strangers was not pleasant. So much for my future in lace making, I thought sourly. Of course, I had absolutely no interest in going down that particular path, but now that others had said I couldn’t, I felt oddly unhappy. And if there was to be no Science for me, and no Domestic Arts either, what was left? Where was my place in the world? This was too big and too frightening to ponder. I consoled myself with Granddaddy’s words on the fossil record and the Book of Genesis: It was more important to understand something than to like it. Liking wasn’t necessary for understanding. Liking didn’t enter into it.

I headed out of the tent wearing my fancy rosette. Should I take it off? If I wasn’t going to care about the work, then I shouldn’t care about the prize, either. My hand moved to the ribbon but then froze. My brain clearly said “take it off,” and my hand distinctly replied “no.” I walked that way, my hand on the ribbon, mired in my ambivalence, to the refreshment tent. I would treat myself to a glass of Coca-Cola while thinking what to do with my prize. I was ready for “the Delicious and Refreshing Drink.” Ethical questions were always so tiring.

A long line of folks waited to sample the new invention. My spirits sank when Mr. Grassel lined up right behind me.

“Hello, Callie,” he said jovially. “I see you got a ribbon there. Let me see.” He made as if to finger my ribbon, and I shrank away from him.

“It’s for tatting,” I said flatly. “Sir.”

“Your family keeping well?” he said.

“All well.”

Travis wandered up, sporting a big blue ribbon, happier than I’d seen him in a long time. He came over to show it to me, and I grabbed his arm and pulled him into line with me.

“Say, let me see your ribbon, boy,” Mr. Grassel said. “What’s it for? ‘Best Angora Rabbit.’ There’s considerable money in Angora, son. Off to an early start there, aren’t you?”

“Thank you, sir,” said Travis, looking surprised, “but Bunny’s my pet. I can’t sell him. He’s the biggest, furriest rabbit I’ve ever had.”

“No need to sell him,” said Mr. Grassel. “You can put him at stud and charge breeding fees.”

Travis looked intrigued by this. He dealt mainly in cats, and no one had ever suggested money could be made by breeding Jesse James or Bat Masterson.

“So you don’t have to sell your rabbit?” he said.

“No, Travis,” Mr. Grassel said. “It’s when someone rents Bunny for an hour to put with their lady rabbit to get babies.”

“And then I get him back?”

“Sure, then you get him back,” Mr. Grassel said.

“And you get money for this?”

“Cash money. On the nose,” he said.

“Gosh, I never thought of that. And you think Bunny wouldn’t mind?”

“Oh,” said Mr. Grassel, winking with a sly smile, “I’d wager Bunny would like it a lot. He’d hop to work with a spring in his step.” He tittered.

Travis looked thoughtful, and I could tell that whole new worlds were opening up to him as we slowly inched toward the counter.

I turned my back on Mr. Grassel and pretended to study the red-and-white advertising bunting overhead. Mr. Grassel finally struck up a conversation with the folks behind him and left us alone. Then it was our turn, and we each paid our nickel for a Coca-Cola. We carefully carried our fizzing drinks outside. Travis lifted his to drink and exclaimed, “Oh! It tickles!” I held mine up and felt the bubbles dancing against my lips, then sipped it, feeling it burn in my throat, raw and sweet and unlike anything I’d had before. How could you ever drink milk or water again after this? We both downed the stuff greedily and straightaway ran back into the tent to stand in line again. This time we bought two cups apiece, spending the last of our money. We drank them more slowly, looking at the rising bubbles and making them last. We both felt extraordinarily peppy and, I would say, extremely refreshed. Travis let loose a rip-roaring belch that had us both giggling uncontrollably.

“Don’t let Mother hear you doing that!” I said.

“No, no!” Uuurp. “Not me!” Uuuuuurp.