The Curious World of Calpurnia Tate (31 page)

Then came the day when he caught a rat at the gin and fortuitously delivered it to the loading dock, where Father happened to be smoking a cigar. Scruffy laid the dead rat at his feet and looked up expectantly at Father, who looked at it in surprise. He puffed his cigar and appeared thoughtful, probably thinking about how the rats plagued his business. Then he bent down and patted the reddish-brownish head, saying, “Good dog.”

And just like that, Scruffy transformed himself from an outcast coydog to an extremely valuable working dog. Father himself brought him home that night, where he settled in on the front porch so quickly you'd have thought he always lived there. And from the porch, he and Travis initiated their stealthy joint campaign to turn him from an Outside Dog into an Inside Dog and eventually even an On The Bed Dog, previously unheard of in our house.

So Scruffy became part of the Tate family pack. Travis had finally found the right pet.

That was the happy ending to the story of Scruffy, one of the most exciting things to happen in our house that year. We couldn't know that yet more excitement lay ahead.

 

CHAPTER 25

A PUFFER FISH OF ONE'S OWN

[I]f your view is limited to a small space, many objects possess beauty.

O
NE EVENING OVER DINNER
, Mother smiled and said, “Tomorrow is Aggie's eighteenth birthday. Tomorrow, she becomes a real adult.”

Did Aggie blush a little? I think she did.

“I suppose,” Mother went on, “we shall have to get used to calling you Agatha, since you'll be a proper young lady.”

“Oh no, Aunt Margaret, I've been called Aggie my whole life, and I'm used to it.”

“It's a shame your parents can't be here, but we'll all do what we can to make up for their absence.”

Later, when I kissed Mother good night, she whispered, “I want you to buy a nice birthday present for Aggie.”

“Uh,” I said, contemplating my bank balance and wondering how much I'd be expected to spend. I hated the thought of spending my hard-earned cash on fripperies; I'd even stopped buying myself any candy at all. Talk about sacrifice!

“Here's a dollar. Buy her something nice, mind.”

“Sure!” That cheered me up no end. The next day, I went to the general store and bought some lilac sachets and a tin of scented talc, appropriate gifts for a brand-new grown-up lady.

For her birthday dinner, Viola made Aggie's favorite, beef Wellington, and a dessert of angel food cake. Father opened a bottle of champagne with a resounding pop and poured her a half glass.

“Oh, it tickles!” She giggled after taking her first sip. I don't think I'd ever heard her giggle before. She looked flushed and—dare I say it?—almost beautiful in the chandelier's flickering candlelight. She opened her gifts and exclaimed over them kindly. She read aloud a letter from her loving parents, which included a substantial check, and the news that they hoped to send for her in another month or so. We gathered around the piano and sang to her, then I floundered my way through a new tune called “The Blue Danube” by Mr. Johann Strauss. Was it my imagination, or did Mother's teeth click every time I hit a sour note?

When I was through, Mother said, “That was lovely, Callie, and I'm sure it will be even nicer once you actually learn the piece. Aggie, dear, perhaps you'd care to play us something?”

Aggie took my place at the keyboard and launched into a perfect rendition of the same tune. Not only was her playing note-perfect, she was what they call lyrical, and we all swayed along to the music. Fortunately, my own sense of self-worth was not invested in musical performance, so I did not begrudge her praise. We applauded her enthusiastically.

Really, it was the nicest time in the house since news of the Flood.

I wondered how it was that one magically changed from child to adult at the stroke of midnight. I wondered if Aggie suddenly felt different at the striking of the clock. I wondered if she felt like Cinderella, only in reverse.

*   *   *

I
PROBABLY WOULDN'T
have woken up at all if a mosquito hadn't insisted on biting me on the eyelid. Half awake, I heard a faint rustling. Probably the snake again. I rolled over on my pallet and was about to drift off when I realized that Aggie was moving stealthily across the room. I could see her in the faint moonlight, feeling her way to the wardrobe.

“Aggie,” I whispered, “are you okay?”

She froze.

“I can see you, you know,” I whispered.

“You have to be quiet,” she whispered back, and I was surprised to hear an undertone of pleading in her voice.

“What are you doing? You can light a candle if you like.”

“No candles!” she muttered hoarsely. “Be quiet and go back to sleep.”

“Not until you tell me what's going on.”

She opened the wardrobe and, to my surprise, took out her carpetbag. She placed it on the bed and then fumbled her way back to the wardrobe and began pulling out her clothes.

“Okay,” I said, “now you really have to tell me. Or I'll wake Mother and Father.”

“No, you mustn't,” she begged.

“Then you better tell me.”

Although I couldn't see her expression, her long pause told me she was wrestling with what to say next. Finally she said, “I'm going to meet Lafayette Lumpkin. We're running away to Beaumont. We're going to get married.”

“Oh, Aggie!” The boldness of her scheme took my breath away. Nice girls from nice homes did not do such things. “You'll get in so much trouble.”

“Hush! Keep your voice down. We'll be all right if we can get married before anyone catches us. I'm eighteen. I can marry.”

“But what about your parents? You'll break their hearts. What about
my
parents? They'll be furious.” What she was doing was audacious beyond belief and would heap shame upon our family.

“There's a letter on the dresser that explains everything.”

“What about your money?”

She patted her bag and said, “I took it all out of the bank today. With my savings, we can set him up in business. He says there's lots of oil in Beaumont, and a man who gets his foot in the door early can make a lot of money. We're going to be rich.”

I thought this pretty unlikely but said nothing. I watched her stuff her clothes into her bag and tiptoe to the door. She turned with her hand on the knob and said, “He's waiting for me on the road to Lockhart. Please don't say anything until breakfast. I'll send you a present if you don't.
Please,
Callie.”

I realized I held her future in the palm of my hand. One outcry from me, one word of alarm, and all her plans would fall apart.

I considered: On the one hand, no sisterly love had bloomed between us. On the other, we had grown to tolerate each other's ways. And she had taught me some valuable lessons.

I protested, “I'll get in such trouble.”

“No, you won't. Just pretend you didn't hear me. You can tell them you slept through the whole thing.”

I weighed the chances of such an argument holding water and said, “They'll kill me.”

“Please, Callie. You swore on the Bible.”

“That was about the photograph. Not such a thing as this.”

“
Please,
Callie. You can have my Underwood.”

I sighed, knowing that I would probably regret my decision forever. “All right. I won't tell until breakfast.”

“You promise?”

“I promise, Aggie.”

“You know, you're not such a bad kid after all.”

“You don't have to leave your Underwood. I won't tell anyway.”

“It's too heavy to carry. I'll have to get another one. You keep it. It's yours. Good-bye.”

“Bye, Aggie, and good luck.”

But these words struck me as insufficient to the moment. Now that she was leaving, I wanted her to stay, or at least offer some reassurance that we were not parting ways forever.

“Will you write to me?” I whispered.

But she gave no reply. She merely stepped through the door, closing it behind her with the faintest click, and just like that, she was gone. How easily she slipped loose of us, of our house, our family, of me.

If you think I lay awake staring at the ceiling all night, scratching my eyelid and trembling in awe of her actions and fear of the consequences, you would be right. You think there wasn't H_ll to pay in the morning? Oh yes indeedy.

I entered the dining room feeling queasy, straining to look nonchalant. Mother, sipping coffee out of her favorite Wedgwood cup, looked up and said, “Is Aggie coming down to breakfast? Is she not well?”

“I don't know,” I said, fighting to control the quiver in my voice. “She's not there.”

Mother frowned. “What do you mean, ‘not there'?”

“I found this on my dresser,” I said, handing over the letter. Then I took my place at the table and pretended to my usual appetite, a difficult piece of acting if ever there was one. I forked up my eggs with a shaking hand.

Coffee slopped over the side of Mother's cup and stained the white damask tablecloth. “Alfred!” she cried. “She's gone!”

A hue and cry went up. Father and Harry and Alberto each took a horse and galloped off to San Marcos, to Lockhart, to Luling. Telegrams were sent to the sheriffs of adjoining counties. And I was threatened with various gruesome punishments to spill the story but stuck hard and fast to my claim of waking to find her gone.

A thundercloud of fear mixed with fury hung over the house for days. The only good thing (besides the Underwood, of course) was that I got my bed back. For a few days, it felt much too soft, and I actually missed my lumpy cotton pallet on the floor. But that soon passed.

Uncle Gus and Aunt Sophronia were apoplectic and blamed my parents for everything, despite Aggie writing them and begging their forgiveness and absolving my parents of any blame. We later found out that Aggie and Lafayette had made it to Austin, married there, and then boarded the train to Beaumont, where they rented a cottage and set Lafayette up in business as a landman with Aggie's carefully hoarded money. Then came the news that they were expecting their first child and were happy as clams at high tide.

And speaking of clams, Aggie never did write to me, but a few months later, a wooden crate arrived with my name on it. It contained no note but was packed with a fine collection of strange and wonderful seashells nestled carefully in the excelsior. I spent many happy hours cataloguing them with Granddaddy, learning about the angel wing, the sailor's ear, the cat's paw, the lightning whelk. There was even a dried
Diodon
, a puffer fish of my very own. I tied a long slender blue ribbon around its midriff and thumbtacked it to the ceiling, where it swam in currents of air, swaying gently in the breeze from the open window. I loved my puffer fish. I also loved my magnificent horse conch. Not only was it almost a foot long, but when you held it to your ear, you could hear the distant
shoosh-shoosh
of the waves.

So I did not go to the beach. But the beach came to me.

In the end, I let my newt go, except that he wasn't really “mine”—he was just on loan from Mother Nature, and I had learned all I could from him. He deserved to go back to his drainage ditch and live out the rest of his newt life in peace.

And as for that old snake? Well, he comes and goes. He's around here somewhere, but we don't mind each other. Granddaddy reminds me that he will one day grow too big to make it through the gap in the corner, and then we'll have to make other arrangements. But that's all right with me.

 

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

First of all, a warning to young readers: Do
not
pick up or touch any wild animal, especially one that looks hurt or is out during the day when it is usually out only at night. This
especially
applies to bats. Such an animal is likely to be diseased.

My endless thanks to my husband, Rob Duncan, and to my writing group, the Fabs of Austin: Billy Cotter, Pansy Flick, Nancy Gore, Gaylon Greer, Kim Kronzer, Delaine Mueller, and Diane Owens Prettyman. Thanks also to Trevor Nance, Lee Ann Urban, Nancy Mason, Ana Deboo, and Julia Sooy.

I consulted various experts for help with this book, but any errors, omissions, distortions, or general screwups contained herein are strictly my fault and no one else's. Thanks to Special Agent Byron San Marco of the Austin Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives; Byron Stone, MD; and veterinarians Doug Thal, DVM, and Andy Cameron, DVM, both of Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Thanks to Diana Weihs, MD, and James Tai, MD; Lynne Roberts and Laurie Sandman; Robin Allen (Master Knitter); and George Pazdral, MD, JD.

A big
woof
of gratitude goes to the real-life Scruffy for providing inspiration for much of this book. She is our very own coydog, supposedly half Chow and half coyote. We found her running wild and living off handouts near the river in Fentress, starving, scrawny, and—let's face it—not the world's most attractive creature. But we adopted her into our pack, and now she is a beloved member and very cute in our eyes. Thanks, Scruffy!

The Galveston hurricane of 1900 remains, to this day, the largest natural disaster in US history. As many as ten thousand lives were lost. For those readers interested in further information about the storm and its tragic aftermath, go to
Isaac's Storm
by Erik Larson. (Another warning: This book is not for young readers.)

The following also aided me in the writing of this tale:
The Voyage of the
Beagle by Charles Darwin, 1839;
A Special Kind of Doctor: A History of Veterinary Medicine in Texas
by Henry C. Dethloff and Donald H. Dyal; William B. E. Miller and Lloyd V. Tellor's
The Diseases of Livestock and Their Most Efficient Remedies
, published in 1884, which I stumbled across in a used-book store; and
The Handbook of Texas Online
, at
tshaonline.org/handbook/online
.