The Crowning Glory of Calla Lily Ponder (17 page)

“No, darling,” he said, “what I’m trying to tell you is that I prefer men.”

My mouth dropped open so wide that a jillion fat june bugs could have flown right in. But just as quickly I thought,
Ricky believes this because he has not met the right girl
. I figured that there were hundreds of men thinking they liked other men—especially in New Orleans—because the right girl had not yet stepped into their lives.

So I might be in a whole new situation with Ricky, but a gal has gotta go for what she wants! In this case, a sweet, handsome, funny man who knows everything there is to know about hair, and who has hands that can heal. And who can teach me everything he knows about beauty. He is the one for me in so, so many ways.

A man with strong, tender hands who could banish my loss and sadness and share a life filled with beauty! I realized that he had been sent to me for a reason. He may not know it yet, but I do. Those eyes, those lips. Those hands that can do just about anything to people’s heads and many other parts of their body, I am quite sure.

So I told myself,
Go, Calla. Bat those eyelashes!

I looked at Ricky across the stack of warm towels and said, “I think I’m going to love being
friends
with you, Ricky.”

I started making plans. First things first: the right perfume. A gal’s first subtle move. I heard that Ricky loved gardenias, so I bought a big bottle of Jungle Gardenia, and every day on the streetcar to L’Académie, I sprayed on a little extra.

I liked to get to L’Académie early in the morning, before anyone else. Ricky was always in the back, fixing a pot of coffee and reading the new issue of
Modern Hair
. I’d walk up behind him and waft the perfume his way, but he didn’t seem to notice.

So I got me one of those lace body stockings that looked like you could see through it. Twice over by the hair dryers I
accidentally
bumped into Ricky and lingered there for a minute before saying, “Oh, pardon me!”

See, I planned to try one new thing every day.
Calla,
I told myself,
if you want something, you’ve got to be willing to work for it
.

But nothing was working. I mean, zilch. Ricky just kept looking at me like I was a little
neuter
. Something just had to be done.

I
was at Godchaux’s semiannual shoe sale when I learned about Madame Marie, Modern Voodoo Queen. I was trying on a pair of pink
peau de soie
pumps with clear Lucite heels when my eye caught a flyer on the chair next to me. It had a picture of a woman on it, wearing a headdress. She was staring with what looked like lightning bolts shooting out of her eyes. Underneath the picture was a slogan: “Can Bewitch Even the Most Stubborn Beloved.”

Now, I would not normally ever need or try something like this. But tough times call for tough measures. So I decided to call up Madame Marie and make an appointment for the following Tuesday.

On that Tuesday, I rode over to Tremé, the neighborhood where Madame Marie lived, right outside the French Quarter. She had what they call a “Creole cottage,” with four rooms set two in back, two in front. There was no bell, no knocker, no nothing on her front door. Just French doors opening from the front rooms straight to the banquette, which was what they call sidewalks in the Crescent City.

Through the French doors, I saw a figure sitting up in an armchair. I cleared my throat and said, “’Scuse me, Madame Marie, I’m Calla, the one that called about the Love Enchantment appointment.”

Her house smelled like the fires Papa built in the fall to burn off brush. It was the middle of the day, but the curtains were pulled, and the only light came from a TV set and an old fish aquarium set up against the wall. I never imagined that voodoo queens watched
Days of Our Lives
. Well, I guess they have got to fill up their slack time, too. The room was tight and close, with low ceilings. Ladies with tall beehives would have to stoop to stay in the room, I imagined.

Madame Marie had wrinkles so deep you could stick a dime in them, but with those green eyes and that hair hanging down her back, you knew she’d driven men crazy in her day. Her hands were all gnarled and big-knuckled and full of rings, with skin the color of café au lait. And she had on a
tignon
, a big scarf wrapped around her head. Her earrings were so big and heavy that I couldn’t see how human ears could support them. Her mouth was large and set off by deep ruby lipstick.

“What you want, girly?”

“I got love problems, Madame Marie. I got this man, he’s my teacher over at L’Académie de Beauté. And I want him to love me. I want us to get married and open up a beauty shop together. Because, you see, he has magic hands. Only, he thinks of women as friends.”

Madame Marie let out a laugh. “He like the sweet boys, yeah?”

“Yes, ma’am, that is correct. He says he prefers men. So he won’t give me the time of day!”

“Does he do you mean?”

“Oh, no, no! He’s not mean at all. He’s the best beauty teacher a girl could have. Only he doesn’t see that I could help him with his problem.”

“Uh-huh!” Madame Marie said. “Girly, I got your answer. You take dried newt and burdock root, grind to a fine powder, and sprinkle it in this man’s food. You make sure he gets at least two ounces. Less than two ounces, no good.”

“Where can I get newt and burdock root?”

Madame Marie got up and went through a beaded curtain. I waited and watched while Hope on
Days of Our Lives
came back from having amnesia, only to find that her husband had married another woman, who was a cripple. Her heart was broken, but Hope was kind and hated to steal her husband away from a woman in a wheelchair. And there was something about malaria and a brain tumor that got just too involved for me to follow.

Madame Marie finally came back. She handed me a little paper sack full of powder. “This is potent, girly. You’ll get him good.”

“This stuff sure does smell strong. Nasty too.”

“Listen to Madame Marie. If the food sprinkle don’t work, you take another two ounces, mix with talc, and sprinkle it all over his clothes and person, you hear?”

“That’s not going to be very easy,” I said.

“Look, you want this man or not?”

“Yes, ma’am, I do want him. I’ll figure out a way.”

“How much cash you got?”

“Well, I got twenty-seven dollars, but I could get more if I absolutely had to.”

“Well, Madame Marie Love Powder will be twenty-seven dollar even. A onetime special for you, today only.”

I ran straight home, thinking: Now I’m all set! Ricky will be
mine for life
!

I had my dried newt and burdock root. So next I decided to invite Ricky over to my apartment for dinner. That way I could mix the powder into his food, and he’d never know.

A couple days later, I finally got up the nerve to invite Ricky, and his answer was yes! Yes, Ricky Chalon would have dinner at my apartment that Friday. I spent my nights after class planning the menu. After much thought and study, I ruled out chili bean macaroni, because this was not an evening for anything but the most seductive of smells. Definitely said no to wild duck in a Crock-Pot, because I didn’t know where to get wild duck in New Orleans, and besides, I didn’t own a Crock-Pot. Finally, I called up Aunt Helen to get her ideas.

“Calla, hon,” said Aunt Helen, “you can always win a man’s heart with TNC—you know, tuna noodle casserole. I will light a candle on Friday night at eight to make your romance come true. And be sure you get Noah’s, not Lay’s, potato chips to crumble on top.”

I wanted my special dinner to be elegant but easy. For hors d’oeuvres, I rolled a cheese log in pecans to serve with Ritz crackers. Then I made a Sunshine Salad—shredded carrots with raisins and mayonnaise and a little sugar, with some dried newt and burdock root. Then I fixed my casserole, so all I had to do was slip it in the oven. I actually got a tad bit nervous when I went to mix more of the dried newt and burdock with my melted butter for the tuna noodle casserole. That Madame Marie Love Powder stank to high heaven. But I knew if I threw in enough garlic, it would disguise any odor. That man would never know what hit him!

I planned to serve English peas with the casserole, the little LeSueur Petit Pois, not the big fat squishy ones. Then, for my garnish, I’d serve Del Monte pineapple rings on a bed of lettuce, with a cherry on top of each one. I knew Ricky would appreciate that little touch of color.

For dessert, I made strawberry shortcake. I had to go to three different stores to find those little sponge shells, but I finally got them at Langenstein’s. I thawed out the strawberries, which I planned to put in the sponge shells at the last minute, so they wouldn’t get all soggy. Then I’d squirt on the Reddi-wip.

At seven minutes after eight, the doorbell rang and there he was!

“Good evening, Calla. Thank you again for having me over.” Ricky looked so stylish in his baby blue Nehru jacket and matching socks.

“Well, I’m just so thrilled you could come.”
Be still, my beating heart!
“Could I get you something to drink? I’ve got wine from Martin’s Wine Cellar and beer and Cokes, too.”

“I’d love a Coke.”

Damnit! This would be so much easier if only he would drink. But it doesn’t matter. Liquor might be quicker, but voodoo is pronto.

As I fixed him a Coke over ice, all words fled my brain.

“Sure is different seeing you outside the salon,” I finally said.

“Yes, it’s always different outside of the workplace.”

“How about some cheese log rolled in pecans?”

“I’d love to, Calla, but I don’t eat pecans. I am allergic to them.”

“Well, I guess if the good Lord meant cheese logs to have pecans on them, He would’ve made cows with nuts all over them!”

Then I broke up laughing at my own joke, but unfortunately my laugh turned into a snort.
Not good
. Ricky just gave a tiny polite laugh, and I tried to calm myself down. It’s no fun to sit at your dinner party and laugh at jokes you make all by yourself.

“What a sweet little place you’ve got here, Calla.”

“Thank you, Ricky. It’s just a sublet until I find my own place, but it’s home.”

“I really like all the houseplants.”

“Maybe I could send you home with a cutting from one of them.”

Oh, I would’ve cut off anything of mine and given it to him, I thought. Then I glanced down at my watch and excused myself to get the casserole out of the oven.

“Tuna noodle casserole!” I announced, bringing it to the table. “Old family recipe. Have all you want. I made two. I could even wrap some up in aluminum foil—or put it in one of my Tupperwares for you to take home. You could just return the Tupperware the
next time
you come over.”

“It looks like a real feast,” Ricky said, ignoring my rambling and unfolding his napkin carefully.

“Be sure to have a little Sunshine Salad, too. And here, can I butter a hot roll for you? I like my butter
dripping
off a roll, not stuck on there like a hard little plastic pat, you know what I mean?”

“Calla, I never knew you were such a good cook as well as a career woman.”

“There’s a whole lot you don’t know about me, Ricky.” Then I gave him a long, slow smile.

“What is that special seasoning in this casserole, Calla? I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.”

“Oh, that’s just my little secret seasoning
.
My aunt Helen would kill me if I told. That secret seasoning is what makes her recipe so special.”

He touched his hand to his chest. Good Lord, I thought
,
that is a sign—that is definitely a sign the newt is working.

“So what are your plans, Calla?”

“My plans?” I was stunned.
Oh sweet Jesus, he knows I’ve asked him here for a reason.
“My plans for what?”

“Your plans for after graduation.”

“Oh, after graduation,” I said, and laughed like I had never even given it a second thought. “Graduation’s not for a whole six months. You never know what could happen in six months, do you? By the way, Ricky, do you by any chance like strawberries?”

“I love strawberries.” He smiled at me.

“I knew it! I said to myself: ‘Self, Ricky Chalon is a strawberry man.’ That is very, very good because I just so happen to have made you a strawberry shortcake for dessert. But I need your help, Ricky. Could you do the honors later by squirting on the Reddi-wip?”

“You’ve got a deal.”

“And do the Supremes happen to strike a chord in your heart, Ricky?”

I stood up to put on the record, and then he actually asked me to dance with him. Hot dog! I thought. This newt stuff is working for sure.

Being in his arms felt as good as I imagined. I floated in his arms like chiffon, like the Reddi-wip on the berries. I could smell Ricky’s good clean scent topped with a touch of English Leather cologne. And I was getting warm and runny myself, just like the Reddi-wip.

“Calla, I hate to eat and run, but I really have to go.”

“Go? Now?”

“Yes, I’m really sorry,” he said, backing up. “But I didn’t realize it was so late. I have to meet some friends down in the French Quarter.”

“Oh, I see. Yeah, I guess things are just getting started down there about now.”

“Thank you for going to so much trouble with dinner,” he said, getting ready to leave. “It was wonderful.”

“Oh, don’t mention it. Well, I guess I’ll just see you on Monday, then.” I felt defeated as I opened the door for him to let him out.

“You bet you will.”

“Okay. Well, bye-bye.”

I shut the door and just stood there, staring at the table, at the cherry on top of my garnish. Ricky didn’t even touch them, let alone comment on how red and perky they looked.

I could hardly sleep that night. I couldn’t believe that Madame Marie’s magic powder had failed. I was going to have to take the rest of that powder and sprinkle it all over Ricky’s body somehow, just as Madame Marie instructed. I’d do it if it killed me.

The next morning I remembered Ricky saying that he was giving a cut to a friend on Sunday afternoon. Probably a man-friend, but I didn’t care because I was determined: this was for the good of both of us!

Sunday afternoon I got to L’Académie and sneaked in through the back, working my way quietly into the laundry room. Then I climbed on top of the dryer to peek through the vent into the training salon. Sure enough, there was Ricky, kneeling in front of a man in one of the chairs! My heart was pounding out of my chest, but I knew what I had to do. As quietly as I could, I reached down behind the dryer and jerked the dryer hose out of the wall, then ripped open the love powder packet. Standing on that dryer, I cursed myself for wearing platform heels instead of more practical shoes. Then, with the dryer hose in one hand and holding the open love powder packet in my mouth, I reached down and turned on that industrial dryer to high—and whoa! The hose assumed a life of its own. It blew my hairdo to pieces and even blasted off an earring.

Not a minute to waste! I regained control of the dryer hose by holding it under my arm, turned it down to low, stood up on tiptoe on the back edge of the dryer, and started to blow out the love powder onto Ricky through the vent.

In struggling to get the dryer hose higher and pressed against the vent, my platform shoe slipped and my right leg plunged into the crack between the wall and the dryer. The dryer hose got loose again and started blowing up my dress. Desperately I tried pulling my leg out of the crack, but
it would not budge
! I tried again. No luck. I took a deep breath and gathered all my strength for one last attempt. No way.

I tried to calm myself and somehow managed to turn off the dryer. This stopped the dryer hose in its tracks. But there was no getting around the fact that I was stuck.

I’m going to have to call out for help.

“Ricky?” I called out real softly. Nothing. Then, a little louder: “Ricky!”

Still nothing.

Eventually Ricky and the man would leave. I’d just stay trapped with my leg against the wall, my magic love powder covering my face, my hairdo blown to smithereens, and count my blessings. M’Dear always said, “What matters today, won’t matter tomorrow. Count your blessings instead of your sorrow.”