“I understand. Thank you, Dr. Harrison. I will forward the payment 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 softly.
He didn’t turn around. “For what? For being born prematurely? For being sickly? For being…” He paused and took a long sip. “It’s not your fault, Thomas, but this is our reality.”
But my father wasn’t satisfied with just one opinion. A week later, Dr. Jeremiah Blackwood arrived from Vixsburg. He was younger than Dr. Harrison, more aggressive in his examination, and more brutal in his treatment of my body. But his conclusion was identical: severe hypogandism resulting in infertility. The condition is permanent and incurable.
The third doctor arrived from New Orleans in March. Dr. Antoine Merier was a Creole physician who had studied in Paris and spoke with a strong French accent. He was the most polite of the three and apologized for the invasive nature of the visit.
But her verdict was always the same: “Only we, not your child, can have children. Development is arrested. There’s nothing we can do.”
Three doctors, three tests, three identical conclusions. Thomas Bowmont Callahan was sterile, incapable of reproducing, incapable of perpetuating his lineage.
The news spread through the Mississippi Planters’ Association with the speed and precision of gossip among people who had nothing better to do than discuss their affairs. My father made no attempt to keep it a secret. What sense would there have been? Any woman who agreed to marry me would have to know. Better to be honest now than face accusations later.
The Hendersons immediately withdrew their daughter from the list of candidates. The Rutherfords, who had expressed interest in introducing me to their youngest daughter, politely declined the offer. The Prestons, the Montgomerys, the Fairfaxes—all the prominent families who might have overlooked my physical weakness for the sake of the Callahans’ fortune—suddenly found reasons why their daughters were unsuitable as wives or were already engaged to others.
But it wasn’t just the private refusals that hurt. Public comments also hurt.
In April, at church, I heard Mrs. Harrison say, “It’s a shame about that boy, Callahan. The judge has so much wealth and no legitimate heir to leave it to. It makes you wonder what the point of this whole thing is.”
At a party my father threw in May, one of the guests, drunk on my father’s excellent whiskey, said loud enough for me to hear from the hallway: “It’s nature, isn’t it? Weak individuals shouldn’t reproduce. It keeps the herd healthy.”
A Louisiana breeder who visited me and inspected a horse my father was selling commented: “A beautiful animal. Strong lines, in good condition, a proven stallion. Not like your son, eh? Sometimes breeding doesn’t work out.”
Every comment felt like a stab in the back, but I’d learned not to react. What would have been the point? They were right, as they understood it. I was a defective product, a failed investment, a blind branch in the family tree.
During the spring and summer of 1858, my father withdrew. He continued to run the plantation with his usual efficiency, fulfill his duties as county judge, and attend social events. But at home, he became increasingly distant, spending long hours in his study with bourbon and legal documents, working on something he refused to discuss with me.
I took refuge in the world of books. My father’s library contained over 2,000 volumes, most of which I had read before I turned nineteen. I especially loved philosophy and poetry. Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus, Keats, Shelley, Byron. I found comfort in the words of those who reflected on suffering, mortality, and the human condition.
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