The Crowning Glory of Calla Lily Ponder (14 page)

“Yes, I do want that.”

“I’ll write you every day, Calla. We’ll be together on holidays, and every summer. I promise.”

A little breeze rippled across the water and broke the still air. Tuck noticed it too and said, “As a matter of fact, I think I better give you my jacket right now.”

“No,” I told him, “I don’t need your jacket, it’s not that chilly.” Then I sat up, gave him a mischievous little smile, and said, “Give me your shirt, though. Your shirt would be just right.” That made him throw back his head and laugh. Then he unhooked his cummerbund, took off his tux shirt, and wrapped it around my shoulders.

Then we lay back down and stared up at the sky again, and I could feel it protect us. The rays of the morning sun worked their way over the trees behind us and lit us up with warm gold light. I leaned in close to Tuck and watched his bare chest rise and fall with each breath. I was happy, and I knew it. Knowing that I had someone who loved me, someone who might be leaving but who would come back to me, seemed as beautiful as the La Luna sunrise.

Right after graduation, I got a job as a waitress at Melonçon’s Café in Claiborne. I figured it would take me a year to save up the money for three months of living expenses in New Orleans, the car that I’d need there, and my beauty school tuition.

M’Dear and Papa first took me to Melonçon’s Café, and I always loved it. Its double doors are old, varnished wood with heavy, wavy glass in them, and the floors are shiny black and white tiles—a traditional Louisiana place where you feel comfortable right away. It was not a big restaurant—people sometimes had to wait in line—but it was elegant, with real linen tablecloths and sterling silverware.

And the food! We served all kinds of Louisiana seafood, like shrimp, oysters, crabs, and catfish, but our specialty was crawfish. We made them any way you’d want—spicy-boiled or in étouffée, in boulettes, boudin, bisque, casseroles, and cornbread—but our crawfish pie was famous. I mean, it was written up in the
Times-Picayune
. People from all over Louisiana came to Melonçon’s for the crawfish pie.

I took a lot of pride in making sure that my tables were clean, that the baskets of Saltine crackers were full, and that my napkins were folded just right. I liked to fold them into a fan shape to suggest a scallop shell. The owners, the Melonçons, who made me part of their family, loved this idea. It was a little extra effort, but I felt that our customers should enjoy every bit of their dining experience, right down to the napkins.

Since I felt that I represented Melonçon’s Café, I always made sure that my nails were short and painted with a light pink polish—something that looked neat but didn’t stand out while I was serving the food. My uniform was always perfectly ironed and starched. It was a shirtwaist dress, blue-and-white checked, and over it I wore a cotton pinafore—a real apron, not those plain nylon jobs that the other places made you wear.

I got some very good shoes, too, thanks to Aunt Helen. But my hardest decision was how to wear my hair, which was halfway down my back. People told me it was beautiful when I let it flow loose with its waves cascading down my shoulders. Most of the time I wore it in a long braid, but I felt Melonçon’s called for something more fluffy. So I ended up wearing it in a high ponytail. It’s funny, I always thought about other people’s hair but I rarely thought about mine, even though folks told me that it was lovely. I took my hair for granted most of the time except when I looked at it in the mirror and thought of M’Dear.

Anyway, since we were near the courthouse in Claiborne, I’d gotten to know a lot of lawyers who came for lunch. They’d call over, “Calla Lily! How are you blooming today?” I’d go on over there, and often it would be Randall S. Beaumont III. “Hey, the Third!” I’d call him. “How’re you doing?”

“Miss Calla Lily, I’m doing fine. Why don’t you bring me two of those good crawfish sandwiches? Tell Mister Melonçon that his grandson will be okay. He wasn’t driving under the influence; he was just driving fast. And I’m going to get him off before you know it.”

One Sunday the café was closed so that the Melonçons could celebrate their thirtieth anniversary. I helped serve, and there was so much laughter and kissing and hugging between Mister and Mrs. Melonçon and their seven children and all their grandchildren. It was so inspiring to see such history and family in one room.

Renée and Eddie came in a few times to visit while I worked there. One night they came just for cocktails. Just to look at them you could tell they were married, the way they easily held hands. “Calla,” they said, “tomorrow night, on your day off, could you come over for dinner?”

“Sure,” I said. Now, I didn’t know why they were making this dinner so special. I was at their house all the time, a darling little house that Renée was fixing up in the most colorful way. They had saved money for it by skipping a big wedding and getting married at city hall.

So the next night we had dinner in the small breakfast room that Renée painted so pretty with buttery tan walls, to match the kitchen. She had cooked a great meal, and for dessert we had carrot cake. I was already on my second cup of coffee and piece of carrot cake.

“Calla,” they said, “we wanted you to be the first to know, after our family.”

“Know what?” I said.

They held hands, and Renée gave me a big smile and bit her lips for a moment, just like she always did when she was about to burst out with something. And she said, “We’re going to have a baby!”

“Oh!” I said, getting up and giving Renée a kiss. “That’s so wonderful!”

“Hey,” Eddie said, smiling, “don’t I get a kiss? I did have a small part in this, you know.”

I turned to Eddie. He suddenly seemed so much more—oh, I don’t know how to put it—
substantial
. They both seemed so grown-up.

“Of course you deserve a kiss,” I said, and gave him a peck on the cheek.

He smiled at me. “Renée’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

“Oh, I’m the lucky one,” I replied. “I’m lucky to have both of you.”

We all finished our desserts and chatted about the baby. That was the evening when I missed Tuck the most.

On my days off from Melonçon’s, I would do hair. I knew I would miss the customers once I moved, so I was greatly relieved that Aunt Helen and a friend of hers had agreed to keep the Crowning Glory open and alive. This made it so much easier for me to follow M’Dear’s wishes for me to go out into the world. After she died, people had started going to Claiborne to get their hair done, but there were some older people who couldn’t make the trip. So, that first Saturday after Tuck left, I had Miss Mildred, who lived across the road from us, out on the Crowning Glory Beauty Porch as my first customer. Miss Mildred had never married and had retired from her job as a social worker in Claiborne, working with the mentally ill.

She needed a wash and set. So I sat her down in the chair, tipped her head back, and began to drizzle her hair with warm water. I put some shampoo in my hands and then began to massage it into her scalp. I could feel the tension, but as I rubbed the shampoo in, I felt her scalp relax.

Then I felt it. Suddenly there was a warmth under my palms. I felt a strong wave of tenderness toward Miss Mildred, and I realized how lonely she had been since retiring. I kept my hands in place, massaging, until the warmth moved down her scalp.

“Ohhh, Calla, honey, this feels so good, to be touched like this right now. Oh, I just can’t tell you.”

I lifted my palms up off her head, but the warmth was still there. I could feel it moving under my hands, down her neck, over her shoulders, then down her back. As my hands moved, I was overcome with visions of the feelings Miss Mildred was releasing—missing her clients but also feeling exhausted from all those years of giving. I was shocked by the power of these revelations and by the fact that my hands could sense and soothe the way they were doing, entirely on their own. It was a strange and intimate connection that was kind of frightening.

Then, as suddenly as it came, the warmth passed. Soon I was just standing there with shampoo on my hands, ready to give Miss Mildred a rinse like nothing happened.

It struck me that this was what M’Dear meant by my having healing hands. Somehow she knew. But I’d never felt that kind of power within me before, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted it to come back.

I didn’t know how to describe the strange warmth, so I didn’t tell anyone about it—not even Sukey, when she came from New Orleans to visit. She had moved right after graduation, and had already gotten a job. I just about fell on the floor when my girlfriend since the third grade told me that she had become a Playboy Bunny.

She never told us this was what she was planning. While we were still seniors she actually sent away for a Playboy Bunny kit! She had passed the test, so now she was an actual Bunny.

Luckily, there was a Bunny Mother at the club to make sure that the girls were treated properly and that the men didn’t touch them. But knowing Sukey, if some of them bothered her, she’d have liked it. Sukey said that I could live with her when I moved to New Orleans. But I didn’t think that would be good for our friendship, since she could get wild. I really needed my own apartment.

The first time Sukey came home with her Bunny outfit, my jaw just about hit the floor. So did Renée’s. You could have put the entire thing into your purse—and still had room left over. That’s how tiny it was. I mean, the biggest part of the whole outfit was the bunny ears! The rest was just a skimpy satin leotard, white cuffs with cufflinks, and a bunny tail on the butt.

“Sukey,” I said, “couldn’t you just be an airline stewardess?”

“Yeah, Sukey,” Renée said. “The life of an airline stewardess would be so adventurous. Just think, a stewardess flying high in the sky!”

“Calla, Renée,” she said, “you just don’t understand. Being a stewardess is just like being a waitress, except you’re in the sky, and I don’t want to be a waitress. Being a Bunny is a whole way of life! So much more
now
.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well,
now
is just
now
, Sukey.”

“Oh, God,” she said, rolling her eyes. Then, as she’d always done when she was upset or when she thought you were being stupid, she crossed her eyes. “Look, I just wanted you to see my costume. If you don’t like it, tough.

“Now come help me pull it up a little bit. And see if we can stuff a little Kleenex in there to make it look…not so baggy at the top.”

“All right,” I said.

And Renée started pulling out Kleenexes. She looked up at Sukey at one point and said, “Well, Sukey, are you sure we can get by with just one box?”

“Okay, Renée, let’s not be snippy about this.”

Then Renée started laughing, and I started stuffing Kleenex under Sukey’s boobs, trying to lift them up and make them look fuller. When I pulled them up as much as I could, I said, “Now Sukey, you know, these Kleenexes could come out at any point.”

“Hmm. That’s right,” Sukey said. “I don’t want to serve drinks and have a Kleenex fall right into a cocktail.”

Renée and I both started laughing.

“All right, y’all, cut it out!” Then she said, “Well, Aunt Helen is such a great seamstress. Do you think that maybe she could—you know, help make it so it pushes my bosom up higher?”

“Oh, Sukey,” I said, “I really don’t know if Aunt Helen would work on that Bunny outfit. You know, she is wide-minded—of all the people in La Luna, she is wide-minded—but I don’t know if she is wide-minded enough for this.”

“Maybe I’ll ask her. But in the meantime, let’s just see what we can do.”

So I reached down in the Bunny outfit and carefully tried to pull her bosom up a little more, knowing that my face was turning beet red.

Then Sukey looked at herself in the mirror. “Well, that’s a little better,” she said.

None of this Playboy Bunny stuff should have surprised me; Sukey had always been a character. Even though I didn’t agree with everything she did, I wanted to go visit her and see New Orleans. But it was hard without a car, and weekends, when I was off work, happened to be Sukey’s busiest time. She came home to La Luna often to see her mother, though, and we’d tell each other, “Girl, we’ll be together soon. It’s just a matter of time.”