The Crowning Glory of Calla Lily Ponder (34 page)

Pana slaughtered the pig, something he rarely ever did anymore. Butchering was hard work, and he was in his eighties. Besides, the older he got, the less he liked to see blood. He no longer even raised chickens to eat, he just raised them for the eggs. But on the day that Uncle Tucker passed, Pana let it be known that he would honor his oldest friend by personally slaughtering the pig.

Two days before Uncle Tucker’s funeral, Pana and my papa sat in lawn chairs out behind the house and helped coach Pana’s grandsons and Sonny Boy and Will through all the steps of the old-time ritual. Pana was very specific about how things should be done. My father, who had learned from Pana, followed the old ways to the letter.

After Pana slaughtered the hundred-pound pig, they prepared it for seasoning. Inside and out were salt and pepper, and dozens of cloves of garlic that had been dipped in a seasoning, the recipe for which had been passed down in Pana’s family for ages. Then the marinade took some cooking up, with no shortcuts. Finally, they shot the secret marinade into the pig before it was packed on ice. No one knew what was in that marinade, but one major ingredient was hot sauce—and not one you could buy at the store.

The day before the funeral, they dug a big fire pit in my backyard, filling it with pecan wood and sugarcane. They drove the heavy spit supports into the ground and stuck the spit through the pig to roast.

At three in the morning, the smell of smoke from the fire pit woke me up. By then the coals were ready, and soon the aroma of roasting pig came drifting in. I wondered if Tuck was sleeping, or if he too was awakened by the smell. He was just next door, and if the bedroom window was even slightly cracked, he must be breathing in the tantalizing aroma, a Louisiana scent that he’d never smell in San Francisco, no matter how many fine chefs might cook in that city.

By the time we got back from the cemetery, the smell of that pig tickling your nose was so good that your mouth couldn’t stop watering, even in our sadness.

Everyone was told to gather at my place at three. Pana and Olivia’s daughter, Bertha, had stayed at the house to receive dropped-off food.

Coleslaw and potato salad; green-bean-and-onion and spinach casseroles; succotash; carrot and raisin and three-bean salads; different Jell-O molds made with mandarin oranges, cottage cheese, and pineapple; plus good, crusty French bread with cheese.

Then there were the desserts—all kinds of pies, including pecan, banana, and coconut cream; and carrot, lemon, poppy seed, and sour cream pound cakes.

What a feast!

My stomach had felt a bit churned up, but when Papa made me up a plate of pork, the tantalizing aroma woke up my appetite. The skin of the pig was perfectly crisp, and the inside well done and spiced.

“Papa,” I said, “never in my life have I eaten anything so wonderful.”

“Well,” Papa said with tears in his eyes, “there’s nothing like the true old ways.”

Cochon de lait
is just one of the old ways of my homeland, Louisiana, which makes us a world unto ourselves, and maybe not like the rest of America—and maybe not like the modern world. I sometimes feel that way myself.

T
he postfuneral
cochon de lait
was filled with good food, good drink, old friends, and lots of stories about Uncle Tucker. Underneath one of the old live oaks, Miz Lizbeth sat in a chair made of old cypress that Uncle Tucker had made for her. The chair was outfitted with the most comfortable of cushions, and it was from there that she received condolences and hugs. What always touched me about her generation is how often they hold one another’s hands. I watched as that happened all afternoon and into the evening, to the soft music that Will played on his fiddle, then on his guitar.

When the last of the pork had been wrapped in aluminum foil and put in paper sacks for people to take home, along with pieces of pie and leftover casserole put in containers that circulated around town over and over till nobody knew whose was whose, and nobody cared; when the old folks had already been seen to their cars or driven home; when Bertha, Sally, and Aunt Helen had all but swept the rug clean from under us to turn my home back into shape; there were just a few of us left.

One was Tuck.

And one was me.

I would have preferred that the crowd had stayed a little longer. I didn’t know if I was ready to face him. Or if I’d even have to.

Sonny Boy had already taken our father to his house. It had been a hard day for Papa. But no matter how tired he and Pana were, they wanted to make sure that their old friend had been celebrated properly.

As people started to drift away, there was less and less of a buffer between Tuck and me. Finally, it was just Renée and Eddie.

“Would it be okay if I stayed just a little longer?” Tuck asked.

“Sure,” I said, in a voice that was a couple of notes too high.

Renée, who was rounding up her kids to leave, shot me another one-eyed stare. This one definitely meant, “Watch yourself.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek and said, “We love you,” then she, Eddie, and their kids went out to the car.

Then it was just Tuck and me.

My heart was beating so loudly that I could almost hear it. I had to force myself to take deep breaths. I wondered if Tuck knew how nervous I was.

He looked at me. I thought I could feel the heat coming off his body.

“Well,” I said, looking around. “Good night. I have to finish up some dishes.” I turned in the direction of the kitchen.

“Can I stay and help?” he asked and stepped toward me.

“No, no,” I said, backing up, wishing I had a tray or something to hold between us, and wishing I were in his arms. “Thank you for your offer, but no, no, but thank you very, very much.” How much more idiotic could I sound?

“Okay. Well,” he said, “thank you for being so gracious with the
cochon de lait
.”

I looked at him and thought how I saw some of his grandfather’s face in his.

“You’re welcome. It’s the way things are still done here. One of the old ways that still makes the community.”

“Well, ’bye, Calla,” he said, and it sounded old-fashioned or something and made me want to kiss him. He turned, went out, and closed the door behind him.

I stood in the kitchen and beat myself on the head with a dish towel. Was I really that scared? Was I really that
scarred
? Couldn’t I just wash dishes with the man, for goodness sake!

My mind was an arcade of thoughts and emotions. With all these memories flooding back, I realized the only thing that could possibly console me now was Golden Princess.

Running up the stairs to my room felt good. My body needed to move. In a second, I ripped off the funeral pantyhose, pulled on some jeans and a sweatshirt, and ran down the stairs and out the back door. But not before putting my hair back in a braid. I didn’t like my hair flying all around my face, especially when I was in the barn.

Ah, it felt good to be outdoors.

I felt invigorated by the comfortable air of the unseasonably warm November night. One of the things that I loved about returning to La Luna after those years in New Orleans was how easy it was to see stars. Lots of them.

I walked into the barn and was immediately struck by that intoxicating smell of the horses, the sweet hay—and even the manure, sweet in its own way from the grass and feed. The smell of horses is one I love so much, and a comfort to me in so many ways. It was Nelle who taught me to ride, and thoughts of us riding together always came with caring for the horses. This old wooden barn was full of these scents, and I filled my lungs. I closed my eyes the way I do when I smell something good, and let it fill me up. I went over and stroked Golden Princess’s mane. “Hey Golden Princess, hey girlfriend,” I whispered as I nuzzled my face into the soft folds of her neck. I breathed in again, and immediately sensed another presence. Not Sable Star. And not Mister Chaz, Nelle’s gelding.

This smell was human. Tuck. I didn’t know if I had thought his name or whispered it or shouted it, but it could have been anything because I was just so shocked.

There Tuck was in the shadows, down by the dark brown gelding’s stall, talking to him softly, feeding him sugar cubes from his blue jean pocket. Tuck had changed clothes since the party, and was now wearing almost the same outfit he used to wear when we were teenagers. In fact, it looked as though he might have just reached back into his old closet and put on the rumpled white oxford cloth shirt and jeans, his look that I’d always loved. Both still fit him perfectly.

Had I not noticed him when he came in? Was he already there, and I hadn’t been aware?

I walked over and touched his horse’s mane, and my hand brushed his.

“Calla,” he said.

I took a step into him.

“Tuck.”

We each knew the other remembered that day in the hot morning sun, two teenagers drenched by sweat and rain and something that could have been love—that kiss, that morning, that touching.

We kissed in the near dark this time, the horses’ smell all around us, the same horses making their own tired sounds as they shuffled and sighed in their stalls. Our bodies remembered that summer. And now, the same horses bore witness as we kissed. The inside of my mouth became the inside of his, until we didn’t know the difference.

I pulled back, in shock. The moment was over. I tried to breathe.

“We just seem to do that in here, don’t we?” I joked, stepping away nervously.

“Yeah, Calla,” he said, and looked at my jeans. “Those the same ones you had on a few years back?”

“You trying to talk like a La Luna boy?”

“I
am
a La Luna boy.”

“’Scuse me, I have to go finish cleaning up.” I needed to get out of there. I patted my horse, then flicked off the light.

“It’s getting late,” Tuck said, following me out. “How about I give you a hand?”

I knew my way back home with my eyes closed. Tuck stumbled twice. I didn’t reach out to help him.

“I can clean up by myself,” I said.

“Why don’t you just treat me nice?”

“Who says I have to treat you nice?”

I walked up the kitchen steps, opened the door, then let it slam. He followed me in anyway.

“Well, help if you want,” I said, and turned to the sink. I filled the sink with soapy water and started washing the dishes. Tuck grabbed a towel, and pretty soon, we had a rhythm going. I’d wash the plates, the silverware, and glasses, then hand them one by one to Tuck, who dipped them in the rinse water and dried them. Whenever my hand brushed Tuck’s, I couldn’t help but shiver. I didn’t trust myself to say a word.

I washed the dishes in silence, feeling the hot soapy water, the soft scent of the mild detergent wafting up. We worked side by side without talking. The sound of the water splashing, the light clinking of silverware, the swoosh of the rinsing, the placing of the dishes in the drainboard rack.

Then, without looking at me, Tuck said softly, “Calla, I’m sorry.”

At first I thought I’d imagined it. I waited a while, kept washing. “’Scuse me, did you—did you just say something?”

Tuck stopped rinsing dishes. “I’m sorry, Calla.”

“Could you please look me in the face and say that again?”

Tuck closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, tears were gathering.

“I’m sorry for hurting you, Calla Lily Ponder,” he said, his voice rough. “I’m sorry I left.”

Our eyes locked on each other.

“It was a bad decision, Calla,” he said. “I never stopped loving you. I was young, I was stupid, and I was scared.”

We were both silent for a moment.

“Can you forgive me?” he asked.

I turned. It was his eyes. The words were important. But it was his eyes.

My hands were shaking. I kept on scrubbing at some crust stuck on a pie plate. Words were running around my head:
honey, peaches, white flour, sugar
…
Run, run, danger, danger!

I wanted to touch his cheek and assure him that I forgave him everything. I wanted to make him crawl across the desert on his knees.

Could I forgive him? Had I already forgiven him? I must have, on some level, or I wouldn’t be standing there next to him washing the dishes after his grandfather’s funeral.

When I had nothing left to scrub, I passed a final clean plate to Tuck. Our fingers brushed once more. He set the plate in the drainer and covered my hand with his. Achingly, I remembered everything about his hands: their size, their color, their texture, his long elegant fingers, the strong grace. And how those same hands once knew how to please every inch of my young body.

“Calla,” he said. “Calla Lily.”

I stared at his hand on top of mine.

Tears streamed down my face. Longing shot through me like a cramp. I lifted my eyes to look at Tuck. His were filled with tears again.

I turned my hand over so our palms touched. Slowly, our fingers began a smooth dance of touching, turning over to feel the back of each other’s hand, then palms. Then his thumb pressed hard in the center of my palm, and it was all I could do to swallow. It had been so long since I had been touched.
Don’t stop touching me, Tuck. Please don’t stop. Oh, God, stop now. I cannot bear for you to hurt me again.

He stepped behind me, and slowly, he lifted my hair and kissed one spot, one particular spot, and with that, my heart and my body began to open. At that sink, on that night, I was sixteen years old again. I was being given a second chance. What I thought could only be fantasy was actually becoming real.

“Your hair,” Tuck breathed. “Oh, that lavender-vanilla smell…”

He turned his head and gently kissed the side of my neck, and all the vulnerable places that I touch on so many people.

His hand came around so that his palm was cupping my cheek. I turned around to face him and gently moved Tuck’s hand from my cheek to my lips. He did the same with my palm. I could now feel his lips on my palm, feel his breath on my skin. I began to kiss the palm of his hand. I kissed his life line, his love line, then the center of his palm. He sighed, and with the exhale let out a trembling sound. Each of us closed our eyes. The world met at two points: where our lips met our palms.

I opened my eyes and looked into his. Then my head dropped forward slightly and I gave a soft little moan. He heard my consent.

I listened as he deeply inhaled the smell of my hair.
Tuck next to me riding Sable Star. Early morning storm rolling in. Hot summer morning. Freshly cut hay. The scent of leather.
I began to have trouble standing up. I reached out to hold on to the counter.

“Calla,” Tuck softly asked, “you want something to hold on to?”

I could not believe he was saying this. I breathed deeply for a while before I answered.
Once I answer, it’s all over; I’m gone.

“Yes,” I murmured.

“Calla?” he whispered, his voice a soft puff.

“Yes,” I said, “I do.”

“You do what?” Tuck asked.

“I do want something,” I said.

“What do you want, Calla?”

I knew he was both teasing me and checking with me every baby step of the way.

“I want something to hold on to, Tuck.”

“So do I,” he said.

“Then hold on to me,” I said, facing the sink and looking at my reflection in the kitchen window. I moved my thick braid to the front and pulled off the little elastic band at the bottom. As my fingers began to loosen the strands of hair from each other, I turned and looked up at Tuck in invitation. He took my braid from my hands, wrapped his arms around me, and gently finished loosening my braid. Then slowly he pulled his fingers through my hair.

In front of me was the wooden carpenter’s table that my grandpa had built, with its warm, gleaming surface. Most of it was covered with open Tupperware containers of leftovers: spinach casserole, shrimp succotash, and crawfish étouffée. Tuck lifted me and set me down on the table’s edge. His hands went to my hips. They were trembling as he bent to kiss me.

My legs wrapped around his waist and pulled him slightly forward. I lifted my lips so they were right next to his. For a while our lips almost, but not quite, touched. He moved a tiny bit closer. I moved a little closer, and then our lips definitely touched. Full smooth lips. No tongues just yet. He was waiting for my subtle signal. I gave it, and then our kisses began.

I touched the very tip of my tongue to his. Tuck’s tongue came a little ways into my mouth. I let my tongue trace the inside of his lips slowly. There was a whole world inside Tuck’s mouth. Then, just when my tongue was coming back to the front, his lips closed on it and began to suck on it softly.

Find me, kiss every little place
. Worlds slowly fell away. World of loss, world of anger, world of buying, world of selling, world of loudness, world of cars and asphalt, world of clocks, world of scarcity, world of thinking, all fell away. Only lips and tongues, all energy focused on small intersections
.

My legs closed tighter around Tuck. Our kisses took us further and further down the road we were walking. He did nothing without my permission. Finally, he pulled away and looked at me, tilting his head to the side in question. I laughed, and tilted my head back as if to say,
You may, oh yes, you may
. Tuck gave me a big smile. He reached his hand down and began to touch me. With each touch he gave a little groan of arousal, a little groan of recognition. He leaned in and put his face close to mine and breathed in my scent.