I set a match to the kindling in the fireplace and ran and got extra lamps and set them around the perimeter of his blotter like an intimate constellation. He dipped his pen, paused and stared into space, dipped his pen again, and then wrote in his old-fashioned hand,
August 8, 1899
Dear Sirs,
It has come to our attention during our daily rambles in this small corner of Caldwell County, located in the center of Texas, forty-five miles (approx.) due south of the State Capital of Austin, that there may be a new species of vetch, which we have the honor to present to you gentlemen. The plant is, on first inspection, a common member of the lowly pasture Vicia villosa, also known as hairy vetch. However, you will see, as described below and from the photographs . . .
It took him two full pages to describe the Plant and the Very Important Tiny Leaf. And at the end he signed it, as I looked over his shoulder,
Faithfully yours,
He sat back in his chair. “There we are,” he said. “We shall see. We shall have to wait and see.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. He took a slow deep breath and said, “I thought the day would never come, my girl. I thought I might die before it happened.”
And there we were. A new species. A photograph. And me, his girl.
Chapter 13
A SCIENTIFIC CORRESPONDENCE
When a race of plants is once pretty well established, the seed-raisers do not pick out the best plants, but merely go over their seed-beds, and pull up the “rogues,” as they call the plants that deviate from the proper standard.
THE PLANT TOOK UP RESIDENCE in the southern windowsill of the laboratory and, after some anxiety on my part, grabbed a firm hold on life. We inspected it several times a day, vigilant for signs of under- or overwatering, too much or too little sun, spider mites, drafts, chlorosis, general malaise. Every time I found a ladybug, I rushed it to the Plant to stand guard for pests, but my tiny crimson sentries always wandered off. We made detailed daily notes in the log, a crisp new marbled-cover book reserved for the Plant. Terrified that somebody might toss the Plant out in some misplaced fit of tidying up, I tacked a small warning sign beneath the flowerpot:
EXPERIMENT IN PROGRESS. DO NOT
MESS WITH THIS PLANT. I MEAN IT.
Twelve days later, we received our first correspondence about the Plant. From Mr. Hofacket. He wrote asking if we’d received word from the Smithsonian. He’d put copies of the photographs in his window between the stiff bride and the naked baby lolling on a white bearskin rug, and several new customers had come into the shop to inquire after the curious pictures of a nondescript weed.
“Calpurnia, you are part of this endeavor,” Granddaddy said. “Would you please write to Mr. Hofacket and remind him again that it is far too soon to receive word about this? I told him repeatedly that it would be months. Nevertheless, we must cultivate enthusiasm in the layman whenever and wherever we find it.”
Ah! An assignment to enter into a scientific correspondence—of sorts—with an adult. I wrote my draft in pencil, and when I was satisfied with my efforts, I sought out Granddaddy to show it to him. I knocked on the library door, and he called out, “Enter if you must.” I found him poking through one of his lizard drawers, muttering something about a missing specimen.
“Calpurnia, have you seen my five-lined skink? It should be filed here between the four-lined and the many-lined, naturally, but I seem to have misplaced it.”
“Uh, no, sir, I haven’t, but I have written a letter back to Mr. Hofacket, and I need you to look at it.”
“Mister who?” he said, rummaging.
“The photographer. You remember, in Lockhart.”
“Ah, yes.” He waved me away and said, “I trust you’ve done a fine job. Yes, yes, go ahead and send it. Here are the newts,” he murmured. “Here are the salamanders. Where are the rest of the skinks?”
I was thrilled to the marrow. I was about to run from the room when I remembered another problem.
“I have no stamp, Granddaddy,” I said.
“Hmm? Oh, here we go,” he said, digging in his pocket for a coin. He gave me a dime, and I took it and ran upstairs to my room. I pulled out a new nib and my box of good glossy foolscap paper reserved for special occasions. I arranged these items on my vanity and sat down. It wasn’t a long letter, but it took me an hour to make the final copy.
August 20, 1899
Dear Sir:
Your letter of Wednesday instant at hand. My grandfather Captain Walter Tate requests that I inform you that we have, as yet, received No Word from The Smithsonian Institution. My grandfather, Captain Walter Tate, wishes you to know that he will send correspondints the moment he receives Word. My grandfather conveys his complimints and appreciates your interest in the Subject.
I remain, vy truly yrs,
I put it in a nice thick envelope and clattered down the stairs, determined to get it in the post that day.
Travis and Lamar were playing Cowboys and Indians on the front porch, firing popguns at each other. I ignored their cries of “Hey, Callie! Where you going?” and ran as fast as I could. I didn’t feel like sharing, and I didn’t feel like explaining. They had their own lives. And now I have mine, I thought, exulting as I ran.
I made it to the post office in record time, puffing and covered in fine road dust. Mr. Grassel, our postman, stood behind the counter. There was something wrong with Mr. Grassel, but I wasn’t sure what. He always made a great show of waiting on the Tates; he kowtowed to my parents when they came in. He pretended to like children, most of all the Tate children, but I could tell he really didn’t. He chatted with Lula Gates’s mother and handed her a parcel. I waited like a polite child.
“Good afternoon, Callie,” Mrs. Gates said, noticing me a minute later. “Is your family keeping well? Your mother is not too bothered by her headaches, I hope?”
“Hello, Mrs. Gates,” I said. “We are all keeping well, thank you. And you?”
“We are all well, thank goodness.”
After a few more pleasantries and her urging me to convey her respects to my mother, she left. I edged up to the counter and placed my envelope on it so that I wouldn’t have to put it in Mr. Grassel’s hand. His puffy palms were always sweaty. He made my skin crawl.
“So, Missy Tate,” he said, picking it up and inspecting it, “you are writing to Lockhart, I see.”
“I want a stamp,” I said, teetering on the knife edge of rudeness.
He narrowed his eyes. Was I being impertinent or not?