by Isobel Bird
“Okay,” Kate said to the Goddess statue. “Maybe I don’t understand my challenge. Maybe I never will. But I’ve learned a lot from you. So thanks.”
She didn’t really know what else to say. Really she had just wanted to make the little shrine because it seemed like the right thing to do. Now that it was done, she wondered if she should leave it there or take it down. She decided to leave it. Probably no one else would ever see it because the wind and rain would knock it down, but maybe they would. Maybe someone would decide to hike through there, like she had, and stumble across it while sitting in the clearing for a rest. If they did, would they know what it was? Would they wonder who had made it, and why? Or would they assume it was just a pile of rocks?
Kate liked thinking that someone would see her makeshift shrine. But now it was time for her to leave. She zipped up her pack, slung it onto her back, and, with a final look at the Goddess standing atop the rocks, she left the clearing.
Finding her way back was easy. She walked slowly, savoring her time alone in the woods. When she reached her car again, she slipped off her wet jacket and put it on the floor in the back. Then she removed her boots, put on the extra socks she’d brought, and put her sneakers on over those. Her feet indeed felt toasty, and as soon as she’d started up the car and let the heater run, she was warm again.
When she reached her house her mother’s car was gone, meaning she was off at one of her catering gigs. Kate looked at her watch. It was a little after six o’clock. Her father would be closing his store soon. While he could easily take the bus back to the house, Kate decided to surprise him by picking him up. She backed the car out of the driveway and headed into town.
She found a parking spot right in front of the store and squeezed into it. Then she went into the store. Just as she’d thought, her father and the staff were closing up, sweeping the floor and making sure everything was tidied up for the night. Her father was straightening a display of ski equipment, and had his back to her.
“Excuse me,” Kate called out in a nasal voice. “I was wondering if you sell lawn furniture?”
“Sure,” her father answered. “Right over there behind the riding mowers.” He turned around and smiled at Kate. “Don’t think you can fool me with a fake voice,” he said. “I know all.”
“Apparently,” Kate said. “So, you want to go to dinner?”
“I think your mother left us stuff in the refrigerator,” her father answered.
“I’m sure she did,” said Kate. “But I’m sort of in the mood for bad Chinese. What do you say to a little Pooping Panda.”
Pooping Panda was what they called Peking Panda, a Chinese restaurant the family had gone to ever since Kate and Kyle were little kids. Over the years it had gone from being really good to just okay, but they loved the overdone interior, which was all red silk and lanterns, and it still made great hot-and-sour soup, which was what Kate was really in the mood for.
“It’s a date,” Mr. Morgan said. He turned to one of his assistants. “Rick, I’m leaving with this beautiful young woman. Lock up, and don’t tell my wife.”
“Sure thing, Mr. M.,” Rick replied. “See you tomorrow.”
Kate and her father left. Mr. Morgan let Kate drive, and he didn’t even correct her once on the way to the restaurant. Soon they were seated in their favorite booth, drinking hot tea and munching on fried wontons dipped in hot mustard sauce.
“So, what’s the occasion?” Kate’s father asked her.
“What do you mean?” Kate said.
“You never have dinner with your old man,” Mr. Morgan said. “Something must be up.”
“Nothing’s up,” Kate replied. “And you’re not that old.”
“Gee, thanks,” her father said.
“No,” Kate said. “I just thought it would be fun.”
Her father eyed her suspiciously but didn’t say anything. Kate ate a few more wontons, then said, “Actually, there is something I want to talk to you about.”
“Ah-ha,” said her father, gloating.
Kate hesitated before continuing. “You know I’ve been taking the Wicca class,” she said.
Her father nodded but didn’t say anything.
“Well, it’s almost over,” Kate continued. “It’s been almost a year.”
She was interrupted by the waiter bringing their food. She waited until he had set down the hot-and-sour soup, followed by the steaming bowl of rice and plates of orange chicken and shrimp with cashews. As she scooped some rice onto her plate she said, “We have to decide now if we want to be initiated or not.” She paused before adding, “As witches.”
Her father looked at her, a forkful of orange chicken on its way to his mouth. Kate pretended to be very interested in the soup so that she wouldn’t have to see the expression on his face.
Mr. Morgan put the chicken into his mouth and chewed. He didn’t say anything for a minute, which worried Kate. Usually whenever her father took time to think about something before answering it meant that he was trying to decide how to give bad news.
“And do you?” he said finally.
Kate was shocked. Of all the responses, that was the last one she’d expected.
“I think so,” she said before she could overanalyze her father’s reaction. “I mean yes, I do want to.”
Mr. Morgan took another bite of food, then a sip of his water. Then he looked at Kate, who now was able to look back.
“You know how I feel about this stuff,” he said.
Yes, Kate knew. She knew her father thought Wicca was ridiculous. He had been furious when he’d found out she was studying witchcraft. He’d even insisted she see a therapist because of it. They hadn’t really spoken about her interest in the Craft since then, although he’d agreed to allow her to keep attending class.
Kate wasn’t sure what to say. Was her father telling her that he didn’t want her to undergo initiation? One of the conditions of being allowed to go through with the ceremony was the approval of her parents. Sophia had made that very clear to her, especially given the Morgans’ initial response to their daughter’s involvement in the study group. Even though Kate didn’t know yet if she was going to be invited to be initiated, she wanted to talk to her parents about it and sound them out on the subject. If they flat out said no, it would at least make figuring out her challenge easier. But she didn’t want them to say no.
“Do you not want me to do it?” Kate asked finally. She figured she might as well get it over with.
“No, I don’t want you to do it,” her father answered, making the food in her mouth suddenly taste like cardboard. “But I’m not going to stop you,” he added a moment later.
“You’re not?” said Kate, shocked.
Her father shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m not. But under one condition.”
“Sure,” Kate said, ready to agree to anything. “What is it?”
Her father looked at her. “I want you to tell Father Mahoney why you’re leaving the church.”
“Father Mahoney?” Kate said.
“That’s right,” said her father. “I want you to sit down with him and talk about this.”
“But what does he have to do with anything?” asked Kate. “I’m not his daughter.”
“Maybe not,” Mr. Morgan said. “But all the same, I want you to talk to him. If you can do that, then you have my permission to do this.”
Kate sighed. What kind of game was her father playing with her? She looked at him, but now he was the one busy looking at the food on his plate. He seemed pleased with himself, though. He’s up to something, Kate thought. She wasn’t sure what it was, but she knew her father wouldn’t give in so easily if he really thought he was going to lose the fight.
“Okay,” Kate said. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Good,” said her father. “I’ll give him a call. Now, how about some of this chicken? It’s great.”
Kate took the plate from him. She was still suspicious. But she was also determined to
make it to initiation. If it meant having a talk with Father Mahoney, she could do that. It just means I have two challenges instead of one, she told herself as she spooned some chicken onto her plate.
CHAPTER 8
Cooper watched as Juliet hung the painting Annie had brought for her over the fireplace in the living room. Juliet stood on a chair, moving the canvas around, trying to center it.
“Perfect,” Annie said as her sister got it exactly right.
Juliet made a mark on the wall with a pencil, then handed the painting down to Annie. She then took a nail and hammered it in with sure strokes. Annie gave her the painting back, and Juliet hooked the wire on the back over the nail. She straightened the painting and turned around.
“How’s it look?” she asked Cooper, who was sitting on the couch.
“It’s great,” answered Cooper.
Juliet climbed down from the chair and put it back in the dining room, where she’d gotten it. Then she returned to the living room and sat down.
“I still can’t believe you picked that one,” Juliet told Annie, who was sitting beside Cooper. “I had a dog who looked just like that when I was a kid. His name was Rabbit.”
“Rabbit?” Annie said.
Juliet nodded. “I’d asked for a rabbit,” she explained. “Dad brought home a dog instead.” She looked at the painting for a minute. “I wish I could have met her,” she said. “Both of them.” Then she took Annie’s hand. “But I’m glad we found each other,” she said.
Annie picked up the photo album she’d brought. “Want to see some pictures?” she asked.
“Do you have to ask?” replied Juliet.
Annie opened the photo album and began telling Juliet about the first picture. Cooper listened for a minute and then said, “I’m going to go for a walk.”
“I’m sorry,” Annie said. “I didn’t mean to bore you. It’s just that—”
“No,” Cooper said, smiling at her friend. “It’s not that at all. You guys need some time together, and I’d like to walk around the city. I’ll just go out for a while. It’s no biggie.”
“You’re sure?” Annie asked her, sounding concerned.
“I’m sure,” Cooper said. “You two have fun. I’ll be back around seven.”
She left the sisters in the living room and went outside. The afternoon sun was warm, and she was happy to be on her own, walking around New Orleans. She was having a great time with Annie—and she really liked Juliet and her friends—but she wasn’t used to being around people all the time. Being able to walk around by herself made her feel like she was alone. Even though she was surrounded by hundreds of people, none of them were people she had to talk to.
She really didn’t have a particular destination in mind. She just wanted to walk around and see what she found. She liked walking around cities she had never been in. Tourist attractions didn’t interest her; she was more interested in finding out what the people who lived in the city were like, what their real lives were like.
She headed away from Bourbon Street with its gaudy gift shops and hawkers trying to get people to come into the bars and restaurants. As she moved farther away from the busier tourist areas, she found that the shops she passed changed. Gone were the garish Mardi Gras masks and the endless piles of New Orleans T-shirts. Instead, she was walking by old bookshops and galleries selling work by local artists. The noisy, crowded bars were replaced by quieter neighborhood establishments.
She began to relax. While she enjoyed the energy of the crowds that thronged the area around Bourbon Street, sometimes she preferred things to be quieter. It helped her clear her mind, and she could think about things. All morning she and Annie had helped Juliet, Andre, and the others work on the Mardi Gras float. They’d gotten a lot accomplished, and Cooper had had fun doing some of the painting. It was interesting to see the float come to life, and she was anxious to see the finished product. But right now she was happy to be just walking along in the late-afternoon sun.
As she passed the doorway of a little restaurant she heard music coming from inside. Pausing, she listened. Someone was playing a guitar. But it wasn’t the usual random playing that she often heard from people sitting on stoops or in parks. This was real playing. It was old-time blues. And it was great.
She stood outside, listening to the guitarist. One of the things that had gotten her interested in guitar in the first place was hearing old blues records, records by people like John Lee Hooker, B. B. King, and Muddy Waters. The sound was so different from the pop music they played on most radio stations. It had real feeling to it, and she had loved listening to the way the guitar players seemed to be telling stories. The playing she was hearing now reminded her of that kind of music.
“If you’re going to stand there, you might as well come on in,” said a voice.
Cooper looked up and saw an old woman standing in the doorway. She was wearing a white apron over her blue dress, and she was wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her once-black hair had turned almost pure white, and her dark skin was wrinkled with age. She looked at Cooper with bright eyes and a small smile.
“Thanks,” Cooper said, smiling back and stepping inside the restaurant.
It was small, and not much to look at. The wooden floor was covered in sawdust, and there were only a dozen or so little tables, which really weren’t more than picnic tables covered with red-and-white-checked tablecloths. Swinging doors on the far side of the room led to what Cooper guessed was the kitchen, and there was a bar along one wall. A few of the tables were occupied by people drinking beer or enjoying bowls of gumbo.
At the front of the restaurant an old man was sitting in a straight-backed chair, a guitar on his lap. He was the one Cooper had heard playing. He sat with his eyes closed, his fingers moving over the strings as his body rocked slowly from side to side.
“Why don’t you have a seat over here,” the old woman said to Cooper, leading her to a table near the old man.
Cooper sat down. A moment later the old woman came back and set down a big glass of water and a basket of hush puppies. The crispy fried pieces of cornmeal bread were just out of the pan, and they smelled wonderful. Cooper dipped one in the little dish of sauce the old woman gave her and bit into it.
“Good, aren’t they?” the woman asked her.
Cooper nodded. “Delicious,” she said.
The woman looked at her appraisingly. “I think you need yourself some crawfish,” she said.
“Oh, no,” Cooper protested. “I’m not really hungry. This will be fine.”
The woman shook her head. “Crawfish,” she said. “You just sit right there. I’ll be back.”
Before Cooper could say anything else, the old woman turned and disappeared through the swinging doors. Cooper sighed. It looked like she was getting crawfish whether she wanted them or not. She really didn’t know if she did want them. She was a vegetarian, and normally she avoided anything that, as she put it, “had a face.” But she sometimes ate shrimp, she told herself, and crawfish weren’t much different. Besides, the old woman seemed intent on feeding her, and Cooper didn’t want to disappoint her. Plus, Cooper felt like she was on some sort of adventure, and one thing she’d learned during her months of studying Wicca was that she should never turn down an adventure.
While she waited for her crawfish, she listened to the man playing the guitar. He hadn’t stopped playing yet, and seemed content to keep right on playing the same beautiful music that had drawn Cooper in in the first place. The song made her think of all kinds of seemingly unrelated things: a slow-flowing river, fireflies blinking in the darkness, T.J., standing in a ritual circle holding hands with people on either side of her, listening to the sound of rain on her bedroom roof. It was almost dreamlike, yet there was a harshness to it as well, a sadness, as if the song was supposed to remind the listeners that life was hard but wonderful.
The old woman returned carrying a big white bowl heaped with bright red crawfish. They were still steaming, and the smell
rising from them was a combination of salt, garlic, and hot pepper.
“They’re boiled in my secret recipe,” said the old woman as she set the bowl down in front of Cooper, along with a stack of napkins and little bowls of butter and more hot sauce.
Cooper looked at the crawfish. They were sort of like miniature lobsters. But she wasn’t sure how to eat them. The old woman, noticing her hesitation, laughed.
“Like this,” she said, picking up a crawfish. First she broke a claw off and, putting it between her teeth, cracked it open and sucked on it. She repeated the process with the other claw, then turned her attention to the crawfish’s tail. Holding it in her hands, she gently split it open, peeling away the shell and throwing it into an empty bowl that sat on the table. She pulled the tail meat away from the body and dipped it into the butter before eating it.
“Now for the best part,” she said. Taking the crawfish’s head, she placed it in her mouth so that the creature’s eyes and antenna were hanging out and, to Cooper’s horror, sucked on the open end. Then she cast the empty head into the bowl with the rest of the shell.
“Try it,” the woman instructed Cooper.
Cooper looked doubtfully at the bowl of crawfish. She wasn’t sure she could do it. It’s part of the adventure, she told herself. You have to face your fears. Face her fears. The idea suddenly struck her as being very funny. Surely crawfish weren’t her greatest fear? No, this wasn’t her big challenge. But it definitely was some kind of challenge. And if you can’t face this one, how are you going to face the really big ones? she asked herself.
Here goes nothing, she thought as she picked up a crawfish. Imitating the old woman, she pulled a claw off and put it in her mouth. When she bit down, it split open. She sucked on it a little, and was rewarded with a piece of sweet, tender meat. It was delicious, and she put the second claw into her mouth without hesitation. The tail was even better, especially soaked in butter and dipped in the sauce, which turned out to be a mixture of horseradish and hot pepper.
