My parents were about to exchange their brief Christmas kiss, the only time they bussed in front of us, when Mother remembered the presence of the minister and ducked her head in embarrassment. Father took her hand and kissed it instead, murmuring, “Margaret.”
The minister inquired whether Granddaddy had yet received any word about the Plant. I could tell that his interest, like that of the irrepressible Mr. Hofacket, was genuine.
“No, Cornelius, no word as yet.” Granddaddy lit a cigar and politely blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “You can’t rush science. These things take time.”
After a ham supper, during which we children grew increasingly restless, my parents took pity on us and distributed the presents. Despite his philosophy of presents, Mr. Barker stayed on and exclaimed over the fineness of our spoils.
For the family at large there was a new stereoscope, which all the children were to share equally (fat chance of that happening). There were viewing cards of the Great Sphinx of Egypt, the Fabulous White City of Chicago, the Fascinating Lives of the Esquimaux. Everybody got a big bright orange, a rare and expensive present during the winter. I saved mine for later.
There was a handsome new rocking horse for J.B., who had worn the rockers of his old one down to nubbins. It was covered in cowhide and had a real horsehair tail. For Sul Ross there were several wooden pull toys and a spinning top. Travis received a book on raising rabbits for fun and profit and a new curry comb. I knew he’d been hoping for a donkey, but he seemed happy enough. Lamar got a leather case containing a steel protractor, a ruler, and a compass. Sam Houston got The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Harry got a new suit of the finest dark navy wool, perfect for the young man about to make his mark in the world. And of course they all got brown woollen socks knitted by yours truly, displaying various degrees of competence. J.B.’s socks, the first ones, were lumpy and deformed, but by the time I got up to the older boys, they looked passable; I had even managed to knit a modest cable pattern into Father’s and Granddaddy’s. Much was made over this later handiwork, which, while not too embarrassing, did not warrant the fervent praise it received. (I suspected a put-up job.)
I gave Mother a selection of pressed flowers. She received a pair of garnet and jet earrings from Father and in turn gave him a dashing green-checked vest to wear on his business trips to Austin.
Viola was working in the kitchen but had received her gifts of snuff and a thick red flannel petticoat from Mother earlier in the day.
Granddaddy got a handsome box of cigars all the way from a place called Cuba. On the label was a colorful picture of a woman dancing in a long flounced skirt; the box was attractive and the perfect size in which to keep one’s treasures. I could tell that Lamar coveted it but was too afraid to ask Granddaddy for it.
“Go on,” I whispered. “Ask him if you can have it. He won’t bite.”
“He won’t bite you, you mean. He might bite me.”
“Don’t be a sissy Lamar”—I used the magic word on him. Worked every time.
He wheeled and marched up to Granddaddy. “Sir, can I have that box? When you’re through with it?”
Surprised, Granddaddy looked at him. “Of course you can . . . um, Travis.”
Lamar blinked. “Thank you, sir,” and scuttled back to his place.
“See?” I whispered. “He’s actually nice once you get to know him.”
“He called me Travis,” he hissed.
I giggled, and he glared at me. I said, “At least you got first dibs on the box.”
“How come you don’t want it?”
“I already have two—no, wait, three—of them.”
“Well, bully for you.”
Lamar could be such a pill sometimes.
And I, what did I receive? Well, the little boys gave me a crumpled bag of sweets, and the older boys gave me new hair ribbons. My parents gave me a beautiful silver locket engraved with my initials. And then there was one more present for me. I could tell it was a book, even wrapped up as it was in brown paper. Ah, a book. How satisfying to have another one to add to the small library accumulating on the shelf above my bed. The book was so thick and hefty that I knew it was a reference book of some kind, a text, maybe even an encyclopedia. I peeled back the stiff paper to reveal the word Science printed in curlicues.
“Oh,” I exclaimed. Such magnificence! But even better than the solid reality of the book in my hand was the gladsome fact that my mother and father at last understood the kind of nourishment I needed to survive. I beamed at my parents with excitement. They smiled and nodded. I ripped the paper off to reveal the whole title: The Science of Housewifery.
“Oh!” I stared in befuddlement. It made no sense to me. What could it mean? Was the writing even English? The Science of Housewifery, by Mrs. Josiah Jarvis. This couldn’t be right. My hands turned to wood. I fumbled the book open to the Table of Contents and read: “Cooking for the Invalid.” “Favorite Pickles and Relishes.” “Removing Difficult Stains.” I stared at these grim subjects.
Conversation trailed off, and the room became silent except for the monotonous thwacking of J.B. riding his rocking horse in the corner. All eyes were on me. I looked at Granddaddy, whose brow puckered in concern. I looked at Mother, who paled and then flushed. I was committing the sin of embarrassing her in front of a guest. Her face turned grim.
She said, “What do you say, Calpurnia?”
What does Calpurnia say? What could I say? That I wanted to throw the book—no better than kindling—into the fireplace? That I wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all? That at that moment I could have done violence, that I could have punched them all in the face? Even Granddaddy. Yes, even him. Encouraging me the way he had, knowing that there was no new century for me, no new life for this girl. My life sentence had been delivered by my parents. There was no pardon or parole. No aid from any corner. Not from Granddaddy, not from anybody. The stinging whip of hives lashed my neck.
“Calpurnia?”
Great fatigue washed over me like a tidal wave, drowning my anger. I was too tired to fight anymore. I did the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life. I reached down into the depths of my being, and I dredged up the beginnings of a watery smile.
I whispered, “Thank you.” Just two words. Just two artificial words, coming from my own hypocritical mouth. Tears came to my eyes. I felt like I was disintegrating.
At that moment J.B. fell off his rocking horse and set up a tremendous squalling. In the general confusion, I gathered up my presents and slipped upstairs to my room. I stared out my window into the blackness. A few minutes later, I saw the receding glow of the minister’s lantern like a distant firefly in the black night. Sul Ross and J.B. thumped and laughed on the stairs. I changed into my nightgown and climbed into bed. I looked at the ribbons, the locket, and the book, all laid out on my dresser next to the hummingbird’s nest in its glass box. I closed my eyes, too exhausted to cry myself to sleep.
Chapter 26
WORD COMES
Although the beaks and feet of birds are generally quite clean, I can show that earth sometimes adheres to them: in one instance I removed twenty-two grains of dry argillaceous earth from one foot of a partridge, and in this earth there was a pebble quite as large as the seed of a vetch.
FOR MONOTONOUS MONTHS I had circled the mail on the hall table like a buzzard, poking through endless boring letters and bills before turning away each day in blank disappointment. Word did come, two days after Christmas, but not in the letter we had been expecting.