The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

“Callie Vee,” he said, dismounting his bike, “I got a telegram here for Mr. Tate.” I assumed he meant my father, and I scoured my brain to think of who might have died. It had to be his aunt in Wichita, an old lady I’d never met.

“Is it from Wichita, sir?” I asked.

“Naw. I ain’t supposed to say. Oh, all right, you forced it outta me—it’s from Washington.”

“What?”

“It’s from someplace in Washington.”

“My father knows someone in Washington?” It had to be something to do with the cotton trade, although it was odd that it wasn’t addressed to the gin.

“It’s not for your father. It’s for Captain Tate.”

“Pardon me?”

“It’s not for your father. It’s for your grandfather.”

“My . . .”

“I figured he’d want it right away,” he said.

I found my voice. “Give me that!”

He shied away and looked at me as if I were crazy. “What are you talking about? I can’t give it to you.”

“Give me that telegram!”

“Little girl, you are being extremely rude. What’s got into you? I can’t give it to you. I got to deliver it to an adult over the age of eighteen. Company regulations dictate that I got to give it to an adult—”

“Sorry sorry—”

“—and I take the responsibilities of my office real serious.”

My heart was thumping so hard I thought it would vault through my ribs. “Come on, Mr. Fleming.” I took his arm and tried to drag him up the drive, but he was a man in a huff with a bicycle, and he wasn’t very draggable. Those fifty anguished yards to the house took a lifetime. I felt like I was trapped in one of those nightmares where you’re churning in quicksand. “Hurry!”

We made it to the porch, where Mr. Fleming paused to shake me off and square his cap. I burst through the door shouting, “Granddaddy! Granddaddy, where are you?”

Mother called in a cool voice from the front parlor, “Calpurnia, dear, there’s no need to shout. Mrs. Purtle is visiting. Come in and say hello, darling.”

Normally I’d have quick-marched into the parlor in response to her tone, but there was the library door, tantalizingly close. What to do? I spun in the hallway like a bobber in the river. Mother caught sight of Mr. Fleming behind me in the hall and frowned. She knew what telegrams were about.

He tipped his cap. “Good afternoon there, Mrs. Tate. Sorry to interrupt you, ma’am, but I got a telegram for Captain Tate. It’s from Washington.”

“Washington?”

“My goodness,” twittered Mrs. Purtle, “how exciting.”

“Come in, Mr. Fleming. The captain is out collecting his specimens at the river,” Mother said, “but I have no idea how to find him.”

“I do, I do!” I shouted and ran out the front. The screen door slammed on my mother’s words, “You must forgive my daughter. . . .”

I flew to the end of the drive and veered off into the dense brush on the deer path that led to the river across the crescent parcel. I bounded like a deer and swerved like a fox; never had I felt so strong or run so fast.

“It’s come!” I cried. “It’s here! Word has come! Granddaddy!”

He wasn’t at the inlet where I expected to find him. I turned south and ran along the river, calling out his name. I got to the small cliff above the island, the next likely place, but he wasn’t there, either. I headed for the dam at the gin, a good five minutes away. I wanted to yell in frustration. I had always known where to find him. And now this.

A startled red-tailed hawk screamed at me from an oak tree. Winded, I kept running but no longer had breath to call out. My brain took up the chant to the pounding rhythm of my feet: Granddaddy Granddaddy Granddaddy. On I ran, right through a family of feral black pigs foraging for pecans, scattering them indignantly in my wake.

At the gin, I came upon Mr. O’Flanagan, who had moved Polly’s stand outside so that they could both take some air. He stood on the steep bank above the water turbines, contentedly puffing on a cigar, looking over his portly belly at the river below. Polly flared his crest and stared at me with a baleful jaundiced eye as I puffed up.

“Have you seen my grandfather, sir?” I cried. I could tell by Mr. O’Flanagan’s face that he had not.

“Is something wrong?” he called out in alarm. “What’s the matter?”

I dashed across the street to the newspaper, threw open the door, and rushed into the telephone office, where a startled Maggie Medlin was eating a sandwich at the switchboard.

“Have you seen my grandfather?” I croaked.

It took her a moment to swallow her mouthful and say, “No, not today. Is everything all right?”

I turned to go and ran smack into the belly of Mr. O’Flanagan, who’d followed me from the gin. Maggie called out from her room, “Do I need to call the doctor?”

“Calpurnia, is someone hurt?” Mr. O’Flanagan said. He was in my way. I ducked right and dodged left, but he ducked and dodged with me. He moved admirably fast for such a fat man. He grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me and made me look at him.

“Calpurnia, tell me. Are you hurt? Is someone hurt?”