Julia and the Art of Practical Travel Read online

  Well, she lets me see her, Mrs. Foxworth said. She went on:

  Every Thursday afternoon at four o’clock, we drink a glass of absinthe together, and she tells me everything that’s going to happen around the world. In fact, she predicted the shootings of both of those poor Kennedy boys and Dr. Martin Luther King.

  Moody and Bun looked terribly impressed. Mrs. Foxworth let this information sink in, and after a minute she turned to me and said gravely:

  If anyone on earth knows where to find your mother, it’s Madame Batilde.

  First of all, Madame Flavie Batilde’s house was nothing like the fake voodoo parlors in the Quarter. It sort of reminded me of the kind of place a grandmother might live, one who likes doilies and knitting and quiet evenings. When we got there, Madame was sitting on the pale gray front porch behind a curtain of night-blooming jasmine. Standing in front of her on a silver tray was a bottle with something green in it and three glasses—one for her, and one each for Mrs. Foxworth and Aunt Constance. For me she had a big crystal glass of iced tea that was so sweet, it made my teeth throb.

  Second of all: Madame looked nothing like the phony voodoo queens who’d rooked Aunt Constance out of all that money. Instead, she wore a housedress with little flowers on it and had bare feet and smelled like lilies of the valley. She had a big gold front tooth and once in a while it glinted in the sunshine. I told her that it was the nicest tooth I’d ever seen. Her laugh was like a booming cannon and she let me stick my pinky finger in her green drink, which tasted like licorice.

  Then it was time to get down to business.

  Do you have anything of Rosemary’s that I can hold for a moment? Madame asked Aunt Constance.

  Aunt Constance pulled out the pearls-and-lily picture of my mother.

  Will this do? she asked.

  Madame held the photo with both hands, closed her eyes for a minute, and then handed it back to Aunt Constance. Then we followed her into a little room inside the house, and in that room were all sorts of jars of dried herbs and things hanging from wall shelves, including animal heads and various claws. In the middle of the room stood a cutting-board table like the one Grandmother and Aunt Constance used at Windy Ridge to truss up turkeys and chickens for dinner.

  Bring me a chicken, called out Madame, and a moment later a young girl who’d been working in the kitchen scurried into the room, holding a live chicken by the legs.

  Madame took the chicken and put it on the board, and before we even knew what was happening, she picked up a big, shiny butcher knife and lopped off the chicken’s head. Aunt Constance let out a scream and the headless chicken still kicked around for a minute. Mrs. Foxworth just quietly sipped her green drink and didn’t say anything, as if this was the most casual thing in the world. And I stood there wishing that Belfry was here to see this, because I knew that when I told him about it someday, he’d probably say that I was fibbing because no one back at home invited you over for refreshments and then lopped off the head of a chicken in front of you. Aunt Constance saw me pointing my camera at the headless chicken and she rushed over to me.

  Don’t you dare photograph that, she exclaimed. Go and wait for me on the front porch.

  I want to see what happens, I protested, but she shoveled me out of the room before I could see anything else. Of course I hovered on the other side of the door and listened. I don’t know what Madame did with that headless chicken, but this is what she said a few minutes later to Aunt Constance:

  Rosemary Elizabeth Lancaster was indeed here in this town, but the spirits tell me that she left some weeks ago. Like the early adventurers determined to discover the soul of this country and discover the secrets of their own souls at the same time, Rosemary has gone out west.

  Where out west? asked Aunt Constance.

  California, Madame told her. San Francisco, to be exact. Like so many other young souls today.

  The hippies are flocking there in droves, Mrs. Foxworth chimed in. You hear about it on the news all the time.

  Madame went on:

  However, if you follow Rosemary out there, you will not find her. You will see her, yes, but you won’t find Rosemary Elizabeth Lancaster.

  This is very confusing, said Aunt Constance, and I immediately remembered what the tarot cards had told Moody and Bun when I asked if we would find my mother, and the cards said yes and no at the same time. Everyone in New Orleans seemed to be telling us the same thing. But what did it mean? This all felt like an odd wild-goose chase to me, and my mother felt farther away than ever. I started to think that the only place she really lived now was in the pearls-and-lily picture.

  To be clear, are you telling us not to follow Rosemary? pressed Aunt Constance.

  Not at all, said Madame. You should certainly follow her. Because you will also find the real Rosemary Elizabeth Lancaster if you do so. That is, you’ll find Julia’s real mother.

  But Rosemary is Julia’s mother, Aunt Constance said, her voice rising. I should know—I was there when Julia was born.

  I couldn’t stand it anymore and opened the door a crack and peeked in. Madame was smiling gently and after that she wouldn’t say anything else. But she chopped off one of the chicken’s feet, wrapped it in a red silk pocket square, and handed it to Aunt Constance.

  Keep this with you at all times on your journey, Madame said. It will lead you to Rosemary and guard you on your journey.

  I could hardly believe it, but Aunt Constance actually took the chicken foot and tucked it into her basket purse, which up to that point had only held things like rose-smelling talcum powder and a tapestry coin purse and weekly church programs. Now there was a chicken foot in there given to her by New Orleans’s most famous voodoo queen, who had a gold tooth and drank burning green potions the way other people drink water.

  Belfry would simply never believe it.

  I suppose that the sky is the sky wherever you go. I never paid much attention to it back at Windy Ridge, unless the sun was blazing too hot up there or if there were big black thunderclouds in it. In other words, unless there was something exciting happening in that slice of sky that just happened to live over our patch of land along the Hudson River in New York.

  But when you’re in Texas, the sky is different. There is so much of it that you get lost in it even when you’re still on the ground.

  I hate the Texas sky, Aunt Constance said.

  I was surprised when she told me this because Aunt Constance didn’t usually say her opinions out loud. Lancasters did not broadcast their opinions. To do so was common and coarse. But lately she’d been telling me more and more of her thoughts about things, and it was like seeing the inside of a house that has always been closed up and wreathed in ivy before. I was discovering all of the house’s rooms and furniture and books and wallpaper.

  This sky is so gray and huge and it makes me feel too small, Aunt Constance went on as we drove through the Texas countryside.

  And even the land is so flat and hard and mean-looking, she added. I miss the Windy Ridge lawns and roses and oak trees. I’m dying to see green again.

  I felt bad for Aunt Constance that she hated both the Texas sky and the Texas land so much, because Texas was a very big state and you had to drive for a very long time to get through it, and we needed to get through it to reach California. I didn’t mind Texas as much as she did, because we got to stay in dusty little motels as we went and sometimes the owners would have a television there. We never had a television at Windy Ridge, and I liked to sneak looks at all of those flat people living strange lives inside that electronic box.

  But then one day we got to a part of northwestern Texas where there were no little motels at all. Aunt Constance drove and drove and it started to get dark, but we found no place to stay for the night.

  I don’t see that we have a choice: we’ll just have to camp out in the desert, Aunt Constance told me, and I thought about how different she seemed ever since we went to Paw Paw and she wouldn’t even think about sleeping in a t
eepee.

  She drove off the road and parked in the middle of the dry plain. We pulled our Oriental carpets out to use as sleeping mats, and I took out the silver candlesticks also, to help make Aunt Constance feel at home. But it was too windy for the candles to stay lit, and it got very cold out there in the desert night. Luckily Aunt Constance had brought along a mink coat and a beaver coat and we could sleep under those.

  Isn’t it funny? said Aunt Constance. Grandmother used to wear these fur coats to the Colony Club and fancy dinners in the city. If only she could see us now, huddled under her fine furs like hoboes on the ground.

  I told her that I didn’t think that many hoboes had fine mink coats, but she was already fast asleep by then, the fur ruffling in the desert wind.

  The next morning for breakfast we had peanut butter spread on crackers, and my stomach was still growling when we got back into the car and started driving into all of that nothingness again. I turned on the car radio but we got only static, and Aunt Constance said this was the sort of country that made you go crazy. So we were pretty happy when we saw a sign in the middle of that desert:

  Aunt Constance stopped the car in front of the sign, and we got out and studied it together.

  How puzzling, said Aunt Constance. I can’t tell if Mr. Cantor-Battle would shoot us if we drove up to the house or welcome us with a bunch of daisies.

  I said that it sounded like some sort of riddle. We stood there and puzzled some more, and the wind blew swirls of dust around us. And then Aunt Constance said that she’d take her chances; she couldn’t stand one more night out in the Texas desert. She rummaged around in one of our trunks and pulled out a white lace handkerchief with the initials EL sewn onto it, which stood for Ellen Lancaster. That was Grandmother’s name, and the handkerchief had belonged to her. Then Aunt Constance tied the handkerchief around the end of a stick like a flag, and we got back into the car and drove onto the World’s End Cattle Ranch, with Aunt Constance waving the flag out her window as we hummed along.

  A white flag is a universal sign of surrender, she explained. No one with a scrap of manners would dare to shoot two ladies waving an embroidered white lace flag.

  Then she added that someone with a name like the Honorable Winston Cantor-Battle simply must have at least a scrap of manners, and I hoped for our sake that she was right.

  On the horizon stood a long, low house, and when we got closer, we saw a man standing on the front porch. He wore tan trousers that looked like balloons tucked into his high leather boots; a little round monocle glimmered over his right eye; and his hair shone like it had been combed through with butter. A horsewhip dangled from his left hand, and I told Aunt Constance to turn around quick: he probably had a pistol in his back pocket. But then he waved at us, and Aunt Constance pulled up in front of him and got out of the car.

  Good afternoon, sir, she said. My name is Constance Lancaster of Windy Ridge, New York. Are you the Honorable Winston Cantor-Battle?

  To the best of my knowledge, he replied.

  We are terribly sorry to intrude, Aunt Constance said meekly, but my niece, Julia Lancaster, and I are on a long journey through the state and are hoping to board here for the night.

  There is indeed plenty of room here at World’s End, the Honorable Winston Cantor-Battle told Aunt Constance, but then he didn’t say another word after that. There was an awkward silence until I piped up.

  How can you tell the difference between a trespasser and a traveler? I asked him.

  It’s simple, said the Honorable Winston Cantor-Battle. Trespassers don’t ask permission to be here, and travelers do. Trespassers are sullen and quiet, and travelers always have fine stories to tell. Trespassers are squirrelly hiders, and travelers are curious adventurers.

  After this little speech, he lit a pipe, blew out a cloud of smoke, and asked what brought us all the way out to western Texas. Before Aunt Constance could respond, I blurted out that we were looking for my hippie mother, who’d run away to Greenwich Village and then gone to New Orleans to learn voodoo, but that the city’s voodoo queen had given Aunt Constance a magic chicken foot and told us to go to California to find my mother, who had flocked there with legions of other hippies.

  The Honorable Winston Cantor-Battle just stared at me for a minute, his eyeglass glinting in the sunset. Then he told us:

  You clearly meet all of the criteria of travelers and not trespassers. Welcome to World’s End. Please join me for supper, and stay as my guests overnight at the ranch.

  Right away we noticed two unusual things about World’s End.

  First: every bit of the floor and the walls was covered in animal hides—some with the heads still on them. They included:

  • 2 bears (one black and one brown)

  • 1 cheetah

  • 1 leopard

  • 2 zebras

  • 1 lion

  • 1 lioness

  There were cows too, of course, because this was a cattle ranch after all. The Honorable Winston Cantor-Battle informed us that he had shot every single one of these animals himself.

  The second unusual thing: all of the ranch servants and cattle hands were Chinese. I had only seen a Chinese person once when we lived at Windy Ridge: a woman who got lost on her way to New York City and stopped her car near the five-and-dime to ask Belfry and me directions.

  But at World’s End even the cowboys had come all the way from a farm in China’s countryside, where the Honorable Winston Cantor-Battle had lived long ago. I couldn’t stop looking at them. I immediately pulled out my postcards and wrote one to Belfry, another to Jack in Paw Paw, and a third one to Moody and Bun to tell them about it.

  That night dinner was served in a big room with walls covered with moose heads. We ate big steaks that practically took up a whole plate each, and a fire roared at the far end of the room in a big stone fireplace.

  Do you ever feel bad when you shoot animals? I asked the Honorable Winston Cantor-Battle.

  Never, he told me. If I hadn’t shot these divine creatures, they’d have died someday anyway. There would have been nothing left of them, no record that they’d ever even existed. But this way, they’ll live on in posterity here at World’s End.

  I’d never looked at it this way before, but those moose heads still made me feel funny.

  I would feel bad shooting a zebra, I told him. They’re so pretty.

  Haven’t you ever been hunting? he asked me.

  You mean with a gun? I asked him.

  Lancasters have not borne arms since the Revolutionary War, Aunt Constance interrupted. She added: And anyway, Grandmother Lancaster did not approve of ladies bearing guns—even small pistols. It’s not very feminine.

  Nonsense, said the Honorable Winston Cantor-Battle, and informed us: All Texan women can shoot guns. It’s as much a ladies’ pastime as drinking tea. Plus, it’s just good common sense to have one with you at all times. You might have to kill a rattler at any moment—or worse, a trespasser with no good stories to tell.

  And—he went on—anyone who consents to eat a steak or any other sort of meat should know what it feels like to kill the animal from which it came.

  With that, he beckoned to a young Chinese servant who’d been standing quietly in the corner.

  This is Li Yong, said the Honorable Winston Cantor-Battle, and told us firmly: Tomorrow morning he will take both of you hunting on the ranch grounds.

  Oh, we really couldn’t trouble you, exclaimed Aunt Constance.

  I won’t hear a word of protest, said the Honorable Winston Cantor-Battle. This is what the best sort of travelers do—they have new experiences. And now you’ll have one more adventure story to tell your next host. You’ll be in good hands with Li Yong. He’s an expert marksman.

  Li Yong bowed silently. Aunt Constance didn’t know what to say, but I noticed that she didn’t eat any more of her steak.

  Just before dawn, there was a knock on our door. There on the other side stood Li Yong with three shotguns. He looked a
t our flowered dresses, left the room, and came back with an armful of clothes.

  You cannot wear ladies’ clothes, he told us. You need man clothes. Like pants and tall boots to protect from scorpions and snakes.

  Aunt Constance looked like she might cry but she put on the clothes anyway. Then she popped on her flowery straw hat, tucked her lace handkerchief into her pocket, and picked up her basket purse, which she hugged to her chest.

  We may be going into the wilderness, Julia, but let’s not be totally uncivilized, she said.

  I put my camera around my neck and we set off. The sun rose over the horizon just as we walked out of the house. Rabbits and gophers scattered through the dry brush as we walked across the plain.

  We will go into the canyon, Li Yong told us. The animals flock there to drink, and there is always good hunting.

  The land got rocky and then very steep and from the grass we heard rattles but didn’t see any snakes, which was good because Aunt Constance and I both hated snakes. After a while, we came to a rocky hill that led down to a stream. We settled behind some boulders overlooking the water and then had to sit very quiet and still so the animals wouldn’t hear us.

  Soon a very strange-looking pig with bristles all over his body stumped down to the water.

  It is a javelina, Li Yong whispered to Aunt Constance. Point the gun at his heart.

  Aunt Constance pointed her gun but her hands were shaking.

  I can’t do it, she told Li Yong.

  Yes, you can—just pull the trigger, said Li Yong.

  No, I can’t, said Aunt Constance, and she threw the gun down on the boulder. Suddenly the gun went off and the bullet must have hit the stone cliff just above the javelina, because a big rock chipped off it and landed right on top of the animal. Li Yong leaped up from our hiding place and scrambled down to the pig’s side.

  You got him, lady, he yelled to Aunt Constance.