had.
In Savannah, we ate drive-thru fried chicken sandwiches, then went to a used-car dealership on a seedy strip of highway. Calpurnia said she might be a while, so I dug the latest Redwall novel out of my backpack and became happily engrossed in the adventures of Matthias the mouse, while Calpurnia went inside the office. She emerged forty minutes later with the keys to a blue 1987 Chevy Cavalier and a wad of cash, which she quickly stowed in her purse.
“Why would you want this old thing?” I asked when she asked me to move the suitcases to the Cavalier. “It’s all scratched. Your other car was brand-new.”
“I know, but the mileage was terrible. Besides, this one’s a convertible. If you’re going on a road trip, a convertible is absolutely required.” She opened the trunk. “Didn’t you ever see Thelma and Louise?”
I had. It was the greatest of all girlfriend road trip movies with a poetic but disturbingly tragic end. But when Calpurnia slammed the trunk and beamed at me again, I forgot all about convertibles plummeting off cliffs.
“Ready?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Wonderful. The adventure begins!”
FOR A CHILD as sheltered as I had been, who had journeyed only in books because the ailments of her mother and grandmother made family travel almost impossible, it really was an adventure.
Our first stop was Waycross, Georgia.
We took a boat ride on the murky, mysterious waters of the Okefenokee Swamp, through trees shawled with Spanish moss. It was strange and beautiful and unlike anything I’d ever seen in my life. Gray-green garlands brushed my face and shoulders. I pushed them aside again and again, as if parting an infinite series of proscenium curtains, imagining myself entering a time portal to an exotic, prehistoric land. It truly did seem like another world.
Turtles sunned themselves on waterlogged tree trunks. Water lilies bloomed yellow and abundant in brackish ponds. Alligators lazed on boggy banks and slipped beneath the blackened waters if we came too close. Cranes waded through fields of swamp grass searching for frogs. Osprey called from the treetops, summoning potential mates in high-pitched whistles that raised the hair on the back of my arms. It was peculiar and mystifying and just spooky enough to be thrilling, the perfect beginning to a grand adventure.
Next we rode a steam train on a two-mile track through the swamp. It was anticlimactic after the boat ride. We posed for a picture with Old Roy, a taxidermied alligator almost thirteen feet in length. I bent down and stuck my head in his open mouth while Calpurnia put her hands on each side of her face and bulged out her eyes, miming a panicked scream as the photographer snapped the picture, then requested four dollars for a copy. Calpurnia peeled off the bills and put the snapshot in her purse.
When the sun dipped lower, we checked into a tourist cabin, Calpurnia paying cash for one night in advance. We had apples, pimento cheese on crackers, bottles of lukewarm sweet tea, and more pralines for dinner, then changed into warmer clothes before getting back into the car for another destination Calpurnia refused to disclose.
“Wait and see,” she said. “Sometimes it’s good not to know what comes next.”
What came next was a return to the Okefenokee and a magical, nighttime hike through a state park. We were surrounded by strange cheeps and growls and rustlings. When the path narrowed, I imagined the trees were leaning closer to whisper secrets. I turned my flashlight toward the swamp and saw spots of orange flame floating on the water; the watchful eyes of alligators. When we came to a clearing, Calpurnia said, “Look up!” in a voice breathless with awe.
Before or since, I have never seen so many stars.
The next morning, we rose before the sun—to beat the traffic, Calpurnia explained. We left the room key dangling from the doorknob and drove slowly out of the parking lot without headlights. Calpurnia said we were being polite, careful not to wake the other guests. I never thought to question it.
“Where to now?” I asked when we hit the road and picked up speed.
“Wait and see,” she said.
It was the same every day. We left our motel before dawn without checking out, traveled to the next destination—I never knew where until we arrived—taking circuitous routes on country roads through microscopic towns until we got to wherever Calpurnia had decided we were going. And I was fine with it. We’d talk or sing along with the radio; “Girls Just Want to Have