Read Online The Curious World of Calpurnia Tate by Jacqueline Kelly - Free Book Online

east, his face now in shadow.
    That night Idabelle prowled up and down the stairs, meowing all the while in a most irritating manner. I scooped her up and took her to bed with me, where I quieted her with soothing pats and honeyed words until she finally settled down. Was her uneasiness also a warning? Question for the Notebook: Wouldn’t you expect cats to be especially sensitive to such things, with their fur and whiskers picking up strange vibrations and such? I imagined that if I were so equipped, I’d be able to pick up lots of distant signals of strange events. I fell asleep and dreamed I was a cat.
    I woke up once in the middle of the night. The temperature had fallen, and there was no sign of Idabelle. Rain lashed my window. The glass shivered in its frame; its nervous rattling rhythm set my teeth on edge. I hauled up my quilt and eventually fell into an uneasy sleep, this time filled with strange birds and whistling winds.
    The next day, Father reported that all the lines to Galveston Island were down. There was no news going in. And no news coming out.

 
    CHAPTER 6
    A CITY DROWNED
    [D]uring the previous night hail as large as small apples, and extremely hard, had fallen with such violence as to kill the greater number of the wild animals.
    A LL NEXT DAY , the gusting winds spat intermittent rain. The newspaper reported that the city of Galveston lay silent, but that a mighty storm had lashed the coast, and the few survivors who had reached the mainland reported catastrophic destruction.
    We walked to the Methodist church under a clutch of dripping black umbrellas. Reverend Barker offered up a special prayer for the people of Galveston, and the choir sang “Nearer My God to Thee.” Everyone either had friends or family there or knew someone who did. Several of the adults sobbed openly; the others looked drawn and spoke in hushed tones. Tears rolled down Mother’s face; Father put his arm around her shoulder and held her tight.
    When we got home, Mother retired to her room after dosing herself with a headache powder and Lydia Pinkham’s tonic. She’d forgotten to make me do my piano practice, and I, the soul of consideration, did not bother to remind her, reckoning that she had more than enough to worry about.
    Next day there were whispers of water six feet deep in the streets, of whole families drowned, of the city washed away. Somber clothes marked the somber mood in our town. Some of the men wore black armbands; some of the women wore black veils. The whole town—no, the whole State—seemed to hold its breath while we waited for the downed telegraph and telephone wires to be restored. Ships all the way from Brownsville to New Orleans were steaming to the ruined city at that very moment, loaded with food and water and tents and tools. And coffins.
    I went looking for Harry and finally tracked him down in the storehouse off the barn, where he was taking an inventory.
    â€œHarry, what’s going on?”
    â€œShh. Seven, eight, nine barrels of flour.” He made a checkmark on a list.
    â€œHarry.”
    â€œGo away. Beans, coffee, sugar. Let’s see, bacon, lard, powdered milk.”
    â€œHarry, tell me.”
    â€œSardines. Go away.”
    â€œHarry.”
    â€œLook, we’re going to Galveston. But Father said not a word to the others.”
    â€œWho’s going? Why can’t you talk about it? And I am not ‘the others’—I’m your pet, remember?”
    â€œStop it and go away.”
    I stopped it and went away.
    I wandered around morosely for a while before I got the bright idea of checking in the Fentress Indicator , our daily newspaper. Harry was normally the only one of the children allowed to read the paper (the rest of us were still deemed too young, something to do with our “tender sensibilities”). I found a stack of discarded papers in the pantry where Viola stored them. She saved them for mulch in the kitchen