The Curious World of Calpurnia Tate (19 page)

But I couldn't stop. And I couldn't tell her I'd put our fight behind me. I couldn't tell her that I wept over the hard fact of being a half citizen in my own home.

 

CHAPTER 15

THANKSGIVING

It has always been a mystery to me on what the albatross, which lives far from the shore, can subsist; I presume that, like the condor, it is able to fast long; and that one good feast on the carcass of a putrid whale lasts for a long time.

T
HE DREARY WEEKS
wore on, and Thanksgiving approached, although I myself could see little to be thankful about. It was my turn to be in charge of raising the turkeys that year. We always raised three: one for the family, one for the help, and one for the poor at the other end of town. Travis had raised them the year before and had, naturally enough, befriended his charges, going so far as to name them Reggie, Tom Turkey, and Lavinia. Disastrous, really, if you considered their ultimate fate, so I discouraged Travis from accompanying me to the turkey pen. For once this was not difficult. He'd learned the hard way that one couldn't afford to become fond of creatures bound for the dinner table.

I had named my turkeys but I'd called them Small, Medium, and Big, a classification system with nothing personal about it (although perhaps it would have been more appropriate to call them Dumb, Dumber, and Dumbest). I fed and watered them twice a day but kept my heart cold and aloof.

Question for the Notebook: What is the point of the male turkey's wattle? Is it strictly for looks (gah), or temperature control, or what? I'd seen the green anole lizards,
Anolis carolinensis
, who lived in the lilies along our front walk inflate and deflate their pink neck pouches to entice females and repel males. But the turkey's appendage struck me as so singularly ugly that I wasn't convinced that even a lady turkey could find it attractive.

Two days before the holiday, I was pressed into making apple tarts under close supervision; Aggie volunteered to make what she grandly called her “specialty,” a pie of peach preserves in brandy with blackberry compote drizzled on top. The day before the big meal, we were all shooed out to allow Viola and SanJuanna to get down to it. Their preparations were massive, and even Mother joined in, her sleeves rolled up, her hair bound in a kerchief. She fortified herself with periodic headache powders and Lydia Pinkham's, and looked tired but happy.

Father, concerned about her delicate constitution, cautioned her, “Be careful not to overtax yourself, my dear.”

The Day of Thanks dawned. We all ate a meager breakfast in anticipation of the huge meal that lay ahead. In consequence, by lunchtime I was practically starving, but the kitchen, filled with alluring smells, clouds of steam, and the cacophony of clanging pots, was off-limits.

Nevertheless (and knowing better), I girded my loins and stuck my head around the door. Viola juggled pots and platters madly like a master conjuror, every move a marvel of practiced efficiency, and even though I did not aspire to her talents, I nonetheless had to admire them. Her lower lip, distended by the plug of snuff that she inevitably took under such exhausting conditions, gave her an intimidatingly pugnacious look.

“Viola,” I said in my meekest voice, “do you think I could—”

“Out!”

“But I'm hun—”

“Out!”

What a grouch, but I really couldn't blame her. I consoled myself with a stale macaroon I'd stashed away in my room for just such emergencies, sparse comfort in light of the enticing smells wafting through the house.

At two o'clock, we lined up for our baths, and at three o'clock, Mother went upstairs to change into her sapphire evening gown and sparkling jet choker. At four o'clock, our honored guest, Dr. Pritzker, arrived as Aggie and I were setting the table with the best china and crystal (always a dodgy idea with the little boys around).

While waiting for dinner, Dr. Pritzker and Granddaddy and Father entered into an animated discussion of the spread of tick fever across the Rio Grande, along with blackleg and foot-and-mouth disease, bovine maladies that were wreaking havoc on the Texas economy. I lurked on the edge of their conversation and was proud of Granddaddy's fund of microbiology knowledge and the deference paid him by Dr. Pritzker. They debated the merits of dipping cattle in solutions of arsenic and tobacco and sulfur. Dr. Pritzker said, “There's been talk of using electricity to treat the ticks. One of the students at A&M College rigged up an electrical current to the dipping vats and sent a charge into the water as the cattle went through.”

Granddaddy, a forward-thinking man, responded with enthusiasm. “An intriguing idea. And what were the results?”

“Unfortunately, the cows dropped dead on the spot. The ticks, on the other hand, all lived to swim away in search of a new herd.”

“Fascinating,” said Granddaddy. “I imagine some adjustment in the dosage of electricity is called for.”

Mother, overhearing this engrossing news, shuddered and turned to Aggie with a bright false smile and inquired after the latest news from her parents. Mother did her best to emulate the grand salons in Austin; tick fever was probably not the kind of polite parlor talk they engaged in there.

I pondered the marvels of electricity and longed for its presence in our lives. The thought of doing away with candles and lamps, and flipping a switch for light, was almost beyond belief. I knew it would never happen in our little part of the globe, sad to say.

At the magic hour of five, Viola sounded the gong at the bottom of the stairs, and we took our seats. I had hoped to be seated next to Dr. Pritzker, but instead he was seated between Travis and Aggie. Was I the only one who noticed the slight frown on her face about this?

Father said the blessing and included a special thanks that our kin had survived the tragedy of the Flood. I peeked over my steepled hands to note that Dr. Pritzker, while appearing attentive and polite, did not bow his head. Strange. And Aggie looked sour for no reason that I could tell. Then we tucked into the massive meal, all shoveling forks and discreetly jostling elbows, eating like farmhands who hadn't seen food in weeks. Dr. Pritzker praised Mother lavishly on the feast, and she glowed under his compliments. There was enough to feed Coxey's Army.

We opened with turtle soup, followed by an appetizer of creamed mushrooms on toast points. Then the turkey I'd raised was brought in to applause, now roasted crispy brown and dressed with currant jelly. I suspect it was Big (also known as Dumbest) but I couldn't be sure. Father stood at the head of the table, sharpened his knife on the steel, and proceeded to carve. There was also a brace of ducks caught with Ajax's help. Although the duck was flavorful, I avoided it; I'd once almost broken a tooth on a hidden shot.

We had roast potatoes, sweet potatoes, green beans, lima beans, corn fritters, glazed squash, and creamed spinach. We all had seconds, and some of us had thirds, and just when we thought we couldn't eat another bite, it was time for dessert. Everyone oohed and aahed over Aggie's pie, as if it were something really special. Nobody made much of a fuss over my tarts, but did I care? I did not.

Travis quizzed Dr. Pritzker so avidly about the care and feeding of rabbits that Mother had to finally rescue him from this engrossing topic.

Aggie ended up with the coveted wishbone, but I suspect that Mother had craftily orchestrated this with Father's help. Aggie could have pulled it with Dr. Pritzker, but she turned away from him and pulled it with Travis. She got the long end and looked thoughtful, mulling over her wish for so long that the table grew restive.

“Oh,” she said, snapping out of it and looking around at our expectant faces. “Well, I wish that everything goes well for Momma and Poppa and our new house and all our dear friends in Galveston.” We all applauded politely, but there was something about this that struck me as, well, a little too pat. But how could you possibly object to such a selfless wish? She had come so far and suffered so much.

After dinner the adults retired to the parlor for a glass of fizzy wine, although how they could swallow even one mouthful was beyond me.

We children were strongly encouraged to go outside and play. A few of the boys attempted a halfhearted game of soccer but were too stuffed to do much more than stagger about in slow motion. A couple of the others went upstairs to lie down on their beds; I thought about my pallet with yearning but figured that, once down, it would take a block and tackle to raise me to my feet again.

The thankless task of cleaning up fell to SanJuanna, who'd brought in two of her grown daughters to help, such was the chaos left behind. Mother gave Viola, who had outdone herself, an extra silver dollar for her efforts.

Wisely, I snagged Travis to take a short constitutional walk with me in aid of digestion. It was one of my favorite times of day—the light going purple in the deep autumnal silence, broken only by the faint call of straggling late-migrating geese. We were both too full to make much conversation but we went ahead and made a small wager (three jujubes) on who could spot the first star.

Travis spotted a faint light in the west and chanted, “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight—”

“That's not a star,” I said. “It's the planet Jupiter so it doesn't count.”

“
What?
” he said, outraged.

“See how the light is steady? It's not twinkling, so that means it's a planet. Granddaddy told me all about it. It's named after the Roman king of the gods.”

“You're just saying that to get out of paying up.”

“Travis,” I said, furiously scanning my memory, “have I ever lied to you?”

“Well … no. At least, not that I can ever tell.”

“All righty, then. Even though it
is
the first light in the sky, it's technically not a star. I'm willing to call it a draw, so no jujubes are owed either way.”

The most agreeable of my brothers agreed to this, as usual.

We walked to the gin. The workers had all been given the day off, and the absence of the familiar machinery clatter made the place seem eerily quiet. We sat on the dam above the turbines that powered the gin, and I spotted a water moccasin, thick as my arm, coiled in one of the dry spillways. It too was basking in the quiet.

Travis shuddered when I pointed the snake out to him, but Mr. O'Flanagan tolerated their presence as they helped keep the rats down, a perennial problem, gnawing their way as they did through the leather drive belts that ran the machinery. Mr. O'Flanagan had brought in a batch of half-grown kittens once, but the deafening noise had apparently been too much for their sensitive systems, and one by one, they'd decamped for parts unknown. Then he'd brought in Ajax, who'd spent an enthusiastic but unproductive hour sniffing excitedly in the corners, too big to track the rats into their lairs. I wondered if Polly, unchained from his perch, would do the job? I didn't know if he'd eat a rodent or not, but any rat that caught sight of those claws would scuttle for the county line lickety-split.

Travis and I sat in companionable silence, broken only by the loosing of a discreet belch every now and then (perfectly understandable under the circumstances). A handful of bats flitted along the river and charmed us with their acrobatics. They were evidently dalliers storing up bugs for their imminent migration south, or had decided to winter over, in which case folklore held that there would be no snow.

Apropos of nothing, Travis said dreamily, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Not one single person in the whole world had ever asked me that before. Such a huge question, posed so innocently by someone whom I loved and who loved me in turn. And who didn't know any better than to ask it. My heart knotted inside me. A world of choices lay at his feet, but not at mine.

He went on, “I think maybe I really would like to be an animal doctor.”

“Really?” I remembered how the sight of my earthworm's innards had so affected him. “You know that you'd have to see, uh, blood and guts and things like that. You do know that, right?”

He thought for a moment and said slowly, “I suppose. How come that stuff doesn't bother you?”

Truth to tell, things like that
did
bother me sometimes but I'd never admit it aloud, especially to a younger brother. I fibbed and said, “It's because I'm a Scientist.”

“But how do you stand it? Can you teach me?”

“Um, well, I'm not sure.…”

He looked crestfallen, then said the one surefire thing guaranteed to enlist my help: “But you're smart as a tree full of owls, Callie Vee. Can't you figure out a way?”

“Hmm. I'll think on the problem. And maybe I'll talk with Granddaddy about it. If I can't figure it out, maybe he can think of something.”

We digested some more in silence. Then to our surprise, a small four-legged figure stepped onto the embankment downstream from the dam.

“Look,” Travis gasped.

It was the mystery animal, still alive against all odds, and even looking a little better than before. Its weepy swollen eye had healed, but it was still terribly thin and covered in dark scabs. Despite the falling darkness, I could see that it did not have the delicate, graceful, light-boned build of a fox, but rather its chest was thicker and legs more stumpy, making its appearance more doglike than foxlike. The more I stared at it, the more it looked like a half-grown dog.

The pathetic creature gave its tail a half wag, confirming that it was not in fact vulpine, but canine.

“It's a dog,” I said. “I think.”

“It can't be. Are you sure? What kind is it?”

“It's what they call a mixed breed.” That was certainly an understatement. It looked like someone had taken dollops of several breeds, dropped them in a sack, given it a good shake, then poured out … this.