I stopped in my tracks. Travis piped up proudly. “We did it. It came off, so we put it back on.”
“You did this?”
We both nodded.
“Well, little man, I am quite impressed. You’ve done a very tidy job. Perhaps you could be a veterinarian yourself one day.”
What? I couldn’t believe my ears. The “little man” stood there and grinned. I poked him with my elbow.
“Ow.” He turned to me and remonstrated, “I did help, you know.” He saw the look on my face and added, “A bit.” Then he fessed up: “Callie’s really the one that did it. She’s good at that kind of stuff.”
Dr. Pritzker looked at us doubtfully, as if we might be telling tales.
“So,” Travis went on, “maybe we could both be animal doctors, right?”
“Hmm,” Dr. Pritzker said.
I expected not doubt but praise, and prompted him with, “Couldn’t I be a veterinarian too?”
It had never seriously occurred to me to consider such a goal, but now that I’d said it aloud, I rather liked the sound of it.
“Well,” he said, “I’ve never heard of such a thing. It’s dirty, heavy work, and too much for a lady. I spend half my days wrestling a steer in the mud and the other half getting kicked by a mule. Can’t exactly see a lady doing that, can you, Samuel?”
“No, sir, not hardly.” They both enjoyed a lonnnnggg rich laugh at this fine joke. I could have smacked them both.
Dr. Pritzker went on, “But take Travis here. He could go to veterinary college if he wanted to. Have you thought about that, young man? It’s a fine career for someone who loves animals. But you’d have to work hard for two years, and the tuition costs quite a bit of money.”
What about me? Why was he ignoring me and talking to the boy who couldn’t face worm guts? I wheeled and stormed into the house and was heading upstairs when Mother called from the parlor, “Time for your piano.”
Drat. I should have headed for Granddaddy’s laboratory, but too late. The daily half hour of practice was inviolate. I stomped my foot in frustration, and Mother called, “You’d better not be stomping your foot. Come in here at once.”
I went into the parlor, made note of the time on the mantel clock, and sat down for thirty minutes—not one minute more—my mood blacker than horse pus. I attacked Mr. Gioacchino Rossini’s “William Tell Overture” with unprecedented ferocity, which, coincidentally, is exactly what the piece called for.
Mother said, “My goodness, you’re playing with such verve today. Why don’t you play like that more often? It’s a definite improvement. Miss Brown will be so pleased.”
Ah, yes, Miss Brown, our aged piano teacher. She of the menacing ruler and a tongue sharp enough to lance a boil. (No need for a vet, just call Miss Brown!) It was important to keep the old bat happy, for even though I’d talked my way out of having to perform at the annual recital, I was still stuck with weekly lessons until I turned eighteen. A lifetime away.
Then it was time to change into a clean pinafore for dinner. At meals, everyone except Granddaddy was expected to make polite chitchat and keep up their end of what Mother called “the art of conversation.” Even J.B., only six years of age, was expected to contribute. That evening his contribution was, “Today I learned how to spell cat. T-A-C. That spells cat. Did you know that, Mama?”
“Uh, well, dear, perhaps we’ll work on that some more tomorrow. Travis, what about you?”
He popped up with, “Yesterday, me and Callie got to see Dr. Pritzker open King Arthur’s abscess, and a whole bunch of pus came out. It was like a regular fountain. You should have seen it.”
“Excuse me?” said Mother.
I kicked him under the table.
“Yeah,” he went on, “and Dr. Pritzker said that I could be an animal doctor. Do you think I could, Father? He says it’s two whole years of study, and it’s a lot of hard work, and it costs a lot of money.”
Father studied Travis thoughtfully before saying, “Well, the population of Texas is growing, and the demand for beef is growing. It seems to me that the need for veterinarians must surely grow as well. You’d have a good steady income to support yourself and your future family.” He smiled and said, “My boy, I think it’s a fine occupation to pursue. And don’t you worry about the cost. I’m sure we’ll find a way to manage.”
Travis glowed with pleasure, then looked at me and said, “Callie changed King Arthur’s bandage, and the doctor said she did a good job. She’d make a really good vet too.”
The table fell silent. I suddenly realized that the moment and the stage were mine. I took a deep breath and said, “Maybe Travis and I could go together.”
Mother and Father looked startled. Even Granddaddy snapped out of his usual mealtime reverie and regarded me with interest. Father glanced at Mother, cleared his throat, and said, “Well, Calpurnia, we might be able to, uh, send you to college for a year. That should be long enough for you to earn your teaching certificate, I should think.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. One year. Not two.
“And who knows?” he went on, looking at Mother for help. “You might, heh-heh, meet a young man and get married in the meantime.”
One year. Not two. One. Which meant I would be allowed exactly half the education of Travis. The injustice of it overwhelmed me. Then what popped into my head was the question that—the moment it came to me—I realized I’d been waiting to ask my whole life.
I said, “How is that fair?”
Father and Mother stared at me as if I had sprouted another head.
“Indeed,” murmured Granddaddy, “an excellent question.”
“Do you think I’m not smart enough? Is that it?”
Mother looked uncomfortable and said, “It’s not that, Calpurnia. It’s just—”
“Just what?” I snapped.
She shot me a warning glance to let me know that I was perilously close to crossing the line into unacceptable behavior. “This is not the time or place for this discussion. Let us say that we’ve always had other plans for you and leave it at that. Sully, please pass the gravy to your father.”
A red mist descended over my vision. Hives of fury erupted on my neck. Here we were in a brand-new century. And here I’d been thinking of myself as an example of the modern American girl. What a joke! My throat constricted but I forced out the words: “What about my plans, my plans for me? What about that?”
Lamar snickered and said, “Why should you go to college? You’re only a girl. You don’t hardly count.”
Father frowned and said, “Lamar, you will not speak to your sister in that tone.”
And even in my rage, I registered the difference between what my father was saying and what he was not saying. He was not saying that Lamar was wrong. Only that he was rude.
I tried to muster a suitable retort for Lamar and a convincing argument for my parents, but to my mortification, I burst into tears. Everyone gawked at me. Their gaze felt so hot on my skin that I could not bear it a moment longer. I shoved myself away from the table and ran upstairs and threw myself on my miserable pallet. No one came to offer comfort; there was only me to comfort me. I wiped away my tedious tears and realized that, for the first time in history, a Tate child had left the table without being excused. I had thus achieved the world’s tiniest victory. Not enough. Not enough.
An hour later, Aggie came up to get ready for bed. I stewed in a volcanic mood, alternating between fits of rage and sorrow.
“Boy,” she said, “you sure put your foot in it.”
“Oh, shut up,” I snapped. “Who asked you?” And with that, I rolled over to face the wall.
This apparently shocked her into silence. In truth, it shocked me too. I’d never said those words to someone older, not even Lamar.
It seemed to me that everything boiled down to one question that kept repeating in my head: Am I not as smart as my brothers? The answer was no. No, I was not.
I was smarter.
And if I had to make my own way in the world, so be it. I would find that way.
CHAPTER 14
MONEY TROUBLES
Captain Fitz Roy seized on a party of natives as hostages for the loss of a boat, which had been stolen … and some of these natives, as well as a child whom he bought for a pearl-button he took with him to England.…
IT WAS SATURDAY, a cold, rainy, miserable Saturday, and I had been ordered to perch on a hassock in the parlor and knit yet another mitten. I was improving, but did I care? I did not.
Mother and Aggie worked on their stitchery. J.B. stacked wooden blocks in the corner, chortling and murmuring some nonsense tale to himself that only he could follow. A cheery fire of pecan logs popped and sputtered in the grate against the dreary weather and my equally dreary mood.
The doorbell rang, signaling a reprieve from my labors. I sprang to my feet, crying, “I’ll get it.” It was my teacher, Miss Harbottle, come to discuss matters with Aggie and Mother. I took her soaked pelisse and dripping umbrella and parked them in the hall tree. With her plain black clothes and bedraggled hat, she displayed all the charm of a wet crow.
“Are you keeping well, Calpurnia?”
“Very well, thank you, Miss Harbottle,” I said, dropping a small curtsy, which seemed to please her. “And yourself?”
We exchanged the usual pleasantries. For someone such as myself, who was often accused of being pert at school (and who spent an inordinate amount of time in the Corner of Shame as a consequence), I felt oddly shy around my teacher outside of school. School was her natural environment, and I always experienced a mild shock of discomfort running across her in “the outside world.” It felt a bit like finding a snake in my chest of drawers or an armadillo in Travis’s bedroom.
I escorted her into the parlor, where Mother and Aggie rose to shake her hand and make polite inquiries about her health. Mother turned to me, saying, “Callie, please ask Viola to bring us tea and refreshments.”
I skipped to the kitchen with a light heart. Refreshments for such an important visitor would no doubt include Viola’s chocolate layer cake, a sublime confection surpassing all others, and normally available to us children only on special occasions. I figured I could cadge a slice by sticking around to pass the teacups (and cake), and generally imitating a model child.
I interrupted Viola, who was peeling—what else?—spuds.
“Mother says tea. Oh, and chocolate cake for four.” I didn’t include J.B. That would be pushing it, and besides, I could probably keep him quiet with a single forkful of mine.
Viola paused in her labors and squinted at me. “The good china?”
“Yep, it’s Miss Harbottle.”
Viola changed into a clean apron and got down the tea tray. I left her to it and returned to my hassock in the parlor.
The conversation meandered through various topics that did not much interest me—who was ill and who was well, who had married, who had died. The talk was … desultory. Yes, that was a good word, one of my new ones. I’d have to teach it to Travis.
Viola bustled in with the tea tray. I sprang up to help her and count the slices of cake. She retreated to the kitchen, Mother poured, and I passed around the plates and cups. We were about to tuck in when Miss Harbottle arrived at the point of the visit.
Looking first at Mother, she said, “I wonder if Agatha would like to be an assistant at the school? Since she has her diploma, she could be a great help in teaching the little ones their ABCs.”
I took my first mouthful of the miraculous cake. Oh, heaven. I chewed slowly, determined to extract every molecule of pleasure. So entranced was I, so busy concentrating on my treat, that at first I did not notice something amiss.
But what?
The murmuring ebb and flow of conversation had stopped. Silence reigned. Then lengthened. I glanced at Mother, who was regarding Aggie with an encouraging expression, the kind of look a mother gives a baby to get her to eat her peas. Aggie in turn ate her cake thoughtfully. What had I missed? The silence lengthened some more. Even J.B. looked up from his blocks.
Mother said, “Aggie, did you not hear what Miss Harbottle said?”
“Oh, I heard,” said Aggie. “I was just waiting to hear about the pay.”
“Pay?” said Mother, as if she were unfamiliar with the word. “Pay?”
I’d always been taught it was a dreadful faux pas for a lady to discuss money matters in public. Things were getting really interesting.
Miss Harbottle looked shocked and then miffed. “Well, I don’t know about that. We were hoping for a volunteer. But I suppose I could go to the school trustees and ask them to pay you a salary of, say, twenty cents an hour.”
I did the arithmetic rapidly in my head: six hours a day, times five days a week, times twenty cents an hour, came to … six whole dollars. A magnificent sum. I looked at Aggie with new admiration. I guess it hadn’t occurred to any of us that she would expect payment for her labor, but the more I thought about it, why not? After all, it was a new century, and surely a girl’s labor should now count as much as a boy’s. Why, during the last cotton harvest, I’d sulked until Father gave me a nickel to look after the colored children while their parents toiled in the fields. A whole nickel for a whole day. And I’d been thrilled to get it.
Then Aggie did something that flat-out amazed us all. She put down her fork, genteelly dabbed her lips with her napkin, and uttered three words I’d never heard before from girl child, young woman, or grown lady:
“It’s not enough.”
Goodness! Our mouths flopped open at her audacity. Not simply mentioning money but asking for more! What a fascinating development. The atmosphere was electric. Mother flushed a bright red; Miss Harbottle spluttered and coughed, apparently having inhaled a crumb down the wrong pipe in shock. I ran to the kitchen and pumped her a glass of water, which she gulped down in relief, alternately fanning herself with her hankie and patting her bosom.
Aggie sipped her tea, cooler than any cucumber. “I will need thirty cents an hour.”
“Well, I never,” huffed Miss Harbottle.
“I do have my diploma, you know. That should be worth another ten cents an hour.”
Mother said, “Agatha, you leave me speechless. Where does this mercenary attitude come from? Why this talk of payment? It would be an honor for our family to have you volunteer to teach. Do we not provide adequately for you?”
“You do, Aunt Margaret, and I’m terribly grateful. But I have to do my part to help rebuild our house in Galveston. I want to send money home to Momma and Poppa, you see.”
“Oh,” said Mother. “Of course. Of course you do.”
“Ah,” said Miss Harbottle. “I see. A laudable goal, my dear. In that case, I will see what I can do.”
And just like that, the weather in the room swung from stormy to fine.
A week later, Aggie found herself the newest employee of the Caldwell County School District at the princely sum of thirty cents per hour. Nine dollars per week. Her temperament—at least at home—improved even more.
School, however, was a different matter, and there she pretended we weren’t related and would not return my smile when our paths crossed. We even had to address her as Miss Finch until we got home. She turned out to be a humorless teacher and a firm disciplinarian (not much of a surprise there), and her pupils learned quickly not to misbehave. She taught the ABCs to the young ones, guiding them as they stumbled their way through the tedium of the McGuffey Reader with such exciting tales as this one: “The cat. The mat. Is the cat on the mat? The cat is on the mat.” Not much of a story, but I suppose we all had to start somewhere.
* * *
WATCHING AGGIE COLLECT her weekly pay, I began to think that saving money might be a good idea, although I didn’t have any particular goal in mind. Maybe one day I’d have enough to buy train tickets for me and Granddaddy to go to Austin. Maybe one day I could buy my own microscope. Beyond that, I had no real plan. Exercising supreme willpo
wer, I allowed myself to spend only one penny per week on candy, trading with my brothers to achieve a nice, balanced assortment. After receiving my allowance each Friday afternoon, I indulged in the small but satisfying ritual of counting my pennies and nickels and admiring my gold piece before rewrapping it in its bed of tissue paper and replacing the box under the bed. I was up to the remarkable sum of $5.42.
On this particular Friday, I thanked Father for my nickel and raced to my room. I opened the cigar box. The moment I touched the wad of tissue, I knew that something was wrong. I unwrapped it in disbelief.
Gone.
My world tilted and spun. Miss Liberty, my favorite coin, with her sunny complexion, reassuring heft, and promise of the future, was gone. Stunned, I scrabbled through the contents of the box—the lesser coins, the smaller treasures, the scraps of paper—knowing, even as I did so, that I would not find it.
Gone.
All right then, gone. Time to get a grip and accept it. Time to apply my superior brain power to getting it back. I inspected the box. One of the corners was frayed as if something had nibbled at it, but it looked too small to squeeze the coin through. Who or what had been under my bed? Mice, for sure. The snake, probably. Had it been attracted like a magpie to the coin’s shiny surface and taken it off behind the baseboards? No, that struck me as too far-fetched. Sir Isaac Newton had been under the bed; I had found him there before encrusted with dust. But I checked and he was floating in his dish, inert, the wire cover anchored with a rock.
I moved on to human suspects. One of my brothers? Father would kill them if he found out. None of them would dare, although Lamar might be a possibility. How about SanJuanna, our maid of long standing? Trustworthy as the day is long, I’d heard Mother once describe her. And Viola, who had been with us since before Harry was born? Unthinkable. So that left … Aggie.
Of course, the most obvious of all. Grasping, driven by money, she had the means, the motive, and the opportunity. And she was no sibling, no sister, no “first-degree” relation. Our attenuated blood ties might allow her conscience to steal from me. Thinking like Sherlock Holmes, I felt it all click into place. It had to be her.