I noticed during this nauseating performance that Granddaddy stared at her as if mesmerized, which depressed me right into the ground. Conquering Harry was not enough—she had to captivate all the men who were important to me.
Then Harry sang “Beautiful Dreamer” while Miss Goodacre made googly eyes at him. The hateful Miss Brown pushed me forward to play my recital piece. I had a splitting headache and a false smile plastered on my face and managed to give a mediocre performance. Then I went to the kitchen to beg a headache pastille from Viola.
“What she like?” said Viola. “She don’t look all that pretty from here. And Mister Harry such a nice-looking boy and all.”
“She’s dreadful, Viola. She can’t talk about anything except clothes.”
“Well, clothes is interesting,” said Viola.
“Not if that’s all you can talk about,” I said.
“That’s true. She ain’t much of a singer, neither. How’s your mama holding up?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Good,” she said. “Here’s a pastille. And take these chocolates out there. Keep a count.”
I went back to the party and handed around the chocolates, keeping them away from my brothers as best I could. Sanjuanna rounded up the younger ones for bed. Reverend Goodacre discussed the vagaries of the cotton market with my father. Granddaddy trapped Harry and Miss Goodacre in a corner and gave them a detailed explanation of the difference between the male and female Deinacrida, or giant locust. Miss Goodacre’s smile grew fixed.
“Come to the library,” Granddaddy said to her. “I have an excellent pair of specimens to demonstrate the difference.” He took her by the elbow and steered her out of the room.
“Bring her back to us soon,” Harry called out. “Don’t deprive us of her company for too long. Ha ha.”
Harry radiated bonhomie. I stood there and handed him a chocolate truffle. I wanted my brother to love me again at any price. In a weak voice I—the World’s Biggest, Fattest Liar—said, “She seems very nice, Harry.” Welts erupted on my neck. This time they were the hives of hypocrisy.
“Yes,” he said, “she’s a grand girl, isn’t she? I knew you’d like her once you had a chance to meet her. Good bonbon. Let’s have another.”
Blind, I thought. You’re blind.
At that moment, Miss Goodacre burst into the room looking flushed and tense. She bustled up to Mrs. Goodacre, and they conversed in an agitated whisper. Mrs. Goodacre turned to the gathering and said, “Minerva has a sick headache, and I’m afraid we must get her home. Such a shame, such a lovely party, but her mother has entrusted her to me for safekeeping. I’m sure you all understand.”
They collected their wraps and made their abrupt good nights while Mr. Goodacre and Harry prepared the buggy. There were many calls of thanks to my mother but no promises of doing it again soon. They disappeared into the night.
Harry looked pensive. “Grandfather, did Miss Goodacre seem all right in the library?”
“She seemed well enough. She did display some interest in the gossamer-winged butterflies. I wish she had shown more interest in the carrion beetle collection, though. They are, after all, exceptionally fine specimens.” He lit up a cigar. “All in all, we had a good talk, I’d say.”
The next day my mother received hand-delivered thankyou letters from our guests and left them out on the dining table to serve as a lesson in good manners to us. The notes were flowery and effusive, except for Miss Goodacre’s, which, although correct, was terse to the point of rudeness.
Two days later, Harry tried to call on her. Her aunt informed him that she was not at home. Three days after that, Miss Goodacre returned to Austin without any notice. Harry found out when he stopped in again and the Goodacres’ maid told him. He came home and took to his room.
There was speculation among my older brothers about whether he would be dosed with cod-liver oil. If not, exactly how old did one have to be to escape it? Was sixteen the cutoff? Fourteen? It was a question of intense interest.
Harry did not get dosed with the stinking oil. Instead, he was drenched with confusion and sadness when his letters to Miss Goodacre were returned unopened. He stumbled about the house for days like one of the walking wounded. It was pitiful. I tended my own stupendous bruise through its lurid healing colors and vowed to resign my commission as a meddler.
Chapter 8
MICROSCOPY
The crust of the earth is a vast museum. . . .
AFTER OUR NARROW BRUSH with the drippy Miss Goodacre, the house stayed discombobulated for weeks as Harry mourned and moped. I did keep my vow not to meddle, too, except for listening at the keyhole when Granddaddy had a talk with Harry in the library a few days later. Something about how the Law of Natural Selection, which always worked in Nature, sometimes inexplicably broke down in Man. Harry did seem a bit better after that, but it still took a while longer to get our old Harry all the way back. I wondered if Harry blamed our grandfather in some part for showing Miss Goodacre his carrion beetle exhibit. If that’s all it took to put her off my brother, she wasn’t worthy of him.
I could tell that Mother was relieved that the wretched Goodacre had gone. My mother’s usual attitude of noncommittal formality toward her father-in-law warmed to something approaching gratitude or maybe even affection. She enquired after his health at dinner and made sure he got the choicest cuts, although I don’t think he noticed.
Harry forgave me. After all, I hadn’t been able to prevent him from having his main chance with Miss Goodacre. I had put on my best party manners and was above criticism. Whatever happened that night hadn’t been my fault; I had given her no cause to flee from the house. And I was his long-standing favorite, his own pet, the one he had carried pig-a-back since infancy. I was flooded with relief to find myself his pet again.
THE SUMMER WORE ON. Sometimes my father would seek advice from Granddaddy about some aspect or other of the farm or the cotton gin. Father found it difficult to tear his own father away from his study of the natural world and make him focus on some point of commerce. Granddaddy had started the business and made it a success, but now he couldn’t be bothered. I thought it odd that my parents couldn’t understand how Granddaddy could have turned his back on his old life. Ever since he ’d told me about his bat, it made perfect sense to me.
“I don’t have that many days left,” he said as we sat together in the library. “Why would I want to spend them on matters of drainage and overdue accounts? I must husband my hours and spend every one of them wisely. I regret that I didn’t come to this realization until I reached fifty years of age. Calpurnia, you would do well to adopt such an attitude at an earlier age. Spend each of your allotted hours with care.”
“Yessir,” I said. “I’ll do my best.” There was no chair for a guest, so I sat on the slanting footstool, supposedly a camel’s saddle. It didn’t look like any saddle I had ever seen, but it had a funny smell and was covered in lots of little beige hairs similar to a Chihuahua’s, so I guess it was real. I never tired of looking at Granddaddy’s things: his brass spyglass from the War; wide, shallow drawers containing rows of desiccated lizards, spiders, and dragonflies; an ornate black cuckoo clock that announced the quarter hours in a droll, cracked voice. A moldering blue rosette with tarnished print that read “Best Fat Stock, Fentress Fair, 1877.” Thick, creamy, parchmentlike envelopes from the National Geographic Society affixed with red wax seals. A carved wooden mermaid holding a pipe rack. Even the bearskin, with its gaping mouth. (The number of times I put my foot in that mouth, I can’t begin to say.) In the locked cabinet on the shelf above the prize book was the gnarly stuffed armadillo, the worst example of taxidermy I had ever seen. Why did he keep this, when all his other specimens were paragons of their species?