“I see. Thank you, Dr. Harrison. I’ll have your payment sent to your office.”
After the doctor left, my father poured himself three fingers of bourbon and stared out the window at the river.
“Father, I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
He didn’t turn around. “For what? For being born early? For being sickly? For being—” He trailed off, took a long drink. “Not your fault, Thomas, but it is our reality.”
But my father wasn’t satisfied with one opinion. A week later, Dr. Jeremiah Blackwood arrived from Vixsburg. He was younger than Dr. Harrison, more aggressive in his examination, rougher in his handling of my body. But his conclusion was identical: severe hypoganadism with associated sterility. The condition is permanent and untreatable.
The third doctor came from New Orleans in March. Dr. Antoine Merier was a Creole physician who’d studied in Paris and spoke with a thick French accent. He was the gentlest of the three, apologizing for the invasive nature of the examination.
But his verdict was the same. “Just we des but your son, he cannot father children. The development it is arrested. Nothing can be done.”
Three doctors, three examinations, three identical conclusions. Thomas Bowmont Callahan was sterile, unfit for breeding, incapable of continuing the family line.
The news spread through Mississippi’s Planter Society with the speed and thoroughess of gossip among people who had nothing better to do than discuss each other’s business. My father made no effort to keep it secret. What would be the point? Any woman who agreed to marry me would need to know. Better to be honest upfront than face recriminations later.
The Hendersons withdrew their daughter from consideration immediately. The Rutherfords, who’d expressed interest in introducing me to their younger daughter, sent a polite note, declining. The Preston’s, the Montgomery’s, the Fairfaxes, all the prominent families who might have overlooked my physical frailty for the sake of the Callahan fortune, all suddenly found reasons why their daughters were unsuitable or already promised elsewhere.
But it wasn’t just the private rejections that hurt. It was the public comments.
I overheard Mrs. Harrison at church in April. “Such a pity about the Callahan boy. The judge has all that wealth and no proper heir to leave it to. Makes you wonder what the point is.”
At a dinner party my father hosted in May, one of the guests, drunk on my father’s fine whiskey, said loudly enough for me to hear from the hallway, “It’s nature’s way, isn’t it? The weak ones aren’t supposed to reproduce. Keeps the stock healthy.”
A visiting planter from Louisiana examining a horse my father was selling commented, “Fine animal. Strong lines, good confirmation, proven stud. Not like that son of yours, eh? Sometimes breeding just fails.”
Each comment was a knife, but I’d learned to show no reaction. What would be the point? They were right in the terms they understood. I was defective merchandise, a failed investment, a dead-end branch on the family tree.
My father withdrew into himself during the spring and summer of 1858. He still ran the plantation with his usual efficiency, still served as county judge, still attended social functions. But at home, he was increasingly distant, spending long hours in his study with bourbon and legal documents, working on something he wouldn’t discuss with me.
I retreated into books. My father’s library contained over 2,000 volumes, and I’d read most of them by age 19. I particularly loved philosophy and poetry. Marcus, Aurelius, Epictitus, Keats, Shelley, Byron. I found solace in words written by men who’d contemplated suffering, mortality, and the human condition.
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