Finally, I finished the dye job, sent my new client happily back out in the world, and went to the ladies’ room to clean up. I looked in the mirror and thought, Hmm, why don’t I loosen my hair a little bit around the sides. And you know, I could use another little dab of lipstick and just a little bit of blush.
But when I came out, the man was gone. I was surprised at how disappointed I felt.
I was cleaning my station a few minutes later when Ricky called out from his office. “Calla, come on back here.”
I did, and the man was right there, sitting across from Ricky. “Calla, I want you to meet my cousin,” Ricky said. “This is Sweet, Sweet Chalon. His boat is in New Orleans for repairs, so he just dropped by to see me.”
“How do you do?” Sweet said, standing. I must have been just staring, because Sweet then offered, “You are Calla?”
“Oh,” I said, a little embarrassed. “Yes, my name is Calla Lily Ponder.”
“Calla Lily Ponder? Calla Lily.” He twirled his tongue around my name, and somehow I could see all the calla lilies lined up, just waiting for his tongue to say their name again. Calla Lily.
I realized that I was staring again, so I made myself choke out, “What brings you to our lovely city?” Then I let go a laugh that was a little too high, and told myself, Bring it down, Calla.
He said, “Well, my boat engine. I run my own boat—I ferry the guys out to the oil rigs in the Gulf. I just came in from Cutoff, which is one of my usual stops, and my engine was making a noise I didn’t like. So I brought it in, and then I thought I’d drop in to see Ricky.”
“Ricky never told me he had a cousin who came to town.”
“Well, I don’t come in often. I usually see Ricky back in Donaldsonville with the rest of the family.”
I reminded myself to scold Ricky later for waiting so long to introduce us. “Well, how do you like it in the Big Easy?”
He said, “I think New Orleans is far out.”
I just laughed. I loved the way he said “far out.”
“When I come to town, I like to go get myself fed at Felix’s with some really good oysters. Just line them oysters up with saltine crackers, a good dipping sauce, some Dixie beer, and I’m in heaven.”
Ricky said, “Calla, Sweet’s having dinner with Steve and me tonight. Why don’t you drop by?”
And I thought, Sweet knows about Steve . That was another good sign, as far as I was concerned. Not every guy could handle his cousin liking men.
I said, “Yes, I would love that. I’ll just run home and change after work.”
“Don’t keep us waiting all night,” Ricky joked. “I know how you gals can draw out getting dressed.”
“I won’t,” I promised.
I left them and got my station clean and set up in record time. Then I ran home, undid my braid, and shook my hair loose. I flung open my closet doors, thinking, What am I going to wear? After rummaging around, I pulled out a pair of black jeans and my three pairs of cowboy boots: the red leather ones, the black ones with purple running up the side, and the brown ones. The brown ones looked too scuffed, the red leather seemed—oh, I don’t know. It just felt natural to wear the black with the purple stripes.
That meant I should wear my purple crepe shirt, which had a V-neck and sleeves that came down in big poufs. I loved that shirt. And I’d wear my braided belt with the little tassel.
And underneath—I rummaged through my underwear drawer and came across the lacy black panties Sukey gave me for my birthday a couple years ago. Back then I’d said, “Sukey, they’re too fancy! I’m never going to wear them! And look at how they’re cut—so low on the hips and high on the legs! I’d feel naked.”
But tonight I looked down at those panties and thought, Oh, you’re just going to make me feel so flirty tonight.
I was almost all the way to Ricky’s when I heard bells chiming, even though I was nowhere near a church.
“That’s a sign,” I told myself, as I walked up Ricky’s front steps. “Bells chiming.”
Steve opened the door, and I gave him a big kiss on the cheek. Then Ricky called out, “Calla! Come on in! Pop you open a beer.”
“Thank you.”
And there was Sweet. He’d changed into a plain black T-shirt. You know, not a lot of men in Louisiana wear black. Usually it’s just the guys who play music. That black T-shirt looked great to me. It fit him well, and I could see Sweet’s muscles at the sides of his stomach.
“Hi, Calla,” he said.
And the way he said it was so courteous, but also playful. It shifted me from being nervous and tongue-tied to actually feeling relaxed.
“Y’all go ahead and sit down,” Ricky said. “I’ll fix you up something to eat. But first I’ll bring you a little something to snack on.”
Sweet and I sat on the couch together. Not a big man, I thought, but wiry. Maybe a little bow-legged . “Have you ever ridden in a rodeo?” I asked, before realizing that might sound rude.
He said, “It’s amazing you’d ask me that. When I was in high school, I used to bull ride until my mother made me quit. You know, just around in small-town rodeos.”
“Really!”
“Yeah, and I am flattered that you might have thought that.”
I was glad he didn’t ride the rodeos anymore. I didn’t want this man to get hurt, I wanted his body to stay just as it was. I could feel myself blushing as I felt his body touching mine.
“Yoo-hoo!” Ricky came over with a bowl of spiced cashew nuts.
“Oh, my favorite!” I said. “I can’t get enough of these.”
Sweet said, “Same here. I just love cashews—spicy, salty, any way I can get them. I could cover the side of a building with all the empty cans of cashews that I’ve eaten.”
“I can just picture that,” I told him. “All those cans sticking out. In the middle of each one you could start a plant growing, put something in that really spreads, like ivy.”
And he said, “Or honeysuckle.”
Then we just looked at each other. The word honeysuckle just hung there in the air between us.
I can’t even remember what Ricky made for dinner that night. All I could do was look at Sweet, listen to his voice, watch his eyes under those long lashes. Think about reaching out and stroking his golden skin.
Sweet—that was the right name for him.
The thrill of meeting Sweet was all mixed up with the excitement of Ricky’s new salon opening. He and Steve had bought an old house on Burgundy Street just outside of the Quarter, on the other side of Esplanade. Their plan was to live in part of it and convert the front rooms for the salon. When they’d first bought the house, the yard in back was a run-over, junk-filled mess, all overgrown and tangled up in weeds. But Ricky and Steve rolled up their sleeves every day after work and gradually transformed that place into the most beautiful and magical garden.
Right in the middle they had discovered a fig tree all covered over in vines that became the centerpiece of the garden. They’d also put in banana and lemon and kumquat trees and all kinds of fragrant flowers. And they’d strung little white lights everywhere and installed two fountains—one with the water shooting out of old bowling balls! Then Ricky collected all the broken-up china he could get and called his friends and said, “Okay, it’s time for hammering. I’m going to make cement pavers for the garden path and stick that china in it.”
Ricky even drove out to Metairie to pick up a bunch of blue and yellow pottery and told his neighbors, “Listen, if you’ve got any extra pieces of garden decorations, I want them—I don’t care how broken they are.” Over time they gave him pieces of old fountains and iron gates and little angels with their wings broken off, and the walkway he eventually made was like a little piece of heaven, surrounded by the most beautiful and unusual plants and flowers I’d ever seen. Then one of Ricky’s neighbors told him that an antique chandelier of hers had crashed down out of the ceiling and was going to be thrown out. Well, Steve and Ricky got that cracked-u
p chandelier rewired and rigged it up right in the beautiful flourishing old fig tree at the center of everything.
“The garden still has a ways to go,” Ricky said, as he showed me around one day. “But we’re getting there!” Ricky and Steve had also gotten themselves a dog, a little cockapoo who they named Ginger Rogers because they claimed she danced when she walked. She loved to prance around their gorgeous garden, in and out of the gardenias.
I loved the way they fixed up that old house. They called the decorating style “Cuban Chinoiserie,” with a “Caribbean Fiestaware” kitchen done in turquoise, yellow, orange, and red. You walked from the colorful kitchen through screen doors out onto a porch that had turquoise-painted plank floors and white tables. It was a wonderful place for customers to sit and wait and take in the garden.
I could not wait for the salon to open. Besides Ricky, I would be the only other stylist. We all discussed a bunch of names for the new salon, but he had the confidence to keep it simple. So Ricky’s was born.
Finally the big night came—the opening party for Ricky’s! It took me ages to decide how to wear my hair, since after all, a cosmetologist’s look is her best advertisement. Ricky taught me that. Finally I settled on keeping it long, but curling it into what the latest hairstyle publications called “cocktail-party look,” soft and feminine, but romantically coiffed. It would be basically a deep dip of a wave, with long, loose ringlets held in place by a camellia.
I picked a little floaty chiffon dress to wear, with red and white swirls. It was ruffled around the neck and came down low, but not too low. Its waist was cinched in, and then the skirt flowed down. The ruffles around the skirt were just a little bit longer than mid-thigh to keep the lines going.
When I got to the party, the salon couldn’t have looked more beautiful. The entire front was decorated with sparkling Christmas lights, cowboy hats, all kinds of feather boas, Mardi Gras beads—you name it! Its French doors were flung wide open, and I could hear Ella Fitzgerald on the stereo.
I got there a little bit early, to help set up.
“I’m here!” I said. “Where’s my apron?”
“Ooh, la-la!” Ricky said as he greeted me. “My dear little Calla Lily of the Valley! Turn around. Yes, you look so flirty, sexy, fresh, and innocent—if I weren’t into my man a hundred and ten percent, I’d be into you.”
“Well, that’s a compliment!” I said. “Give me a kiss.” And he gave me a kiss on each cheek, like the French do. Then Steve came in and asked, “What are you doing, flirting with my girlfriend?”
Both Ricky and Steve were dressed to the ninety-nines, as they put it. Ricky was wearing a pair of vintage white baggy linen pants with a gold silk shirt, and beige-and-white two-tone shoes. Steve wore a stylish pair of slacks with a light pink oxford cloth shirt.
We were in the kitchen when the first guest to arrive was JoAnn, whom I’d invited. “Don’t worry,” she told me. “It doesn’t hurt me one bit that you are wearing a new dress. I am not offended. Not to worry, doll, my ego was removed surgically years ago.”
Then she gave me a big kiss. She had picked up a stunning indigo-colored vase as an opening gift. My own gift was a vintage set of beauty tools—combs, brushes, and a manicure kit.
Then, as I was tying on my apron, who should appear but Sweet, carrying a big heavy pot from which I could smell some good cooking. Ricky hadn’t told me his cousin was coming! My heart was racing. I’d just recently started wearing M’Dear’s ring on my hand, and now I rubbed it, trying to calm down.
Sweet gave me a big smile as he walked up and said, “Calla Lily, it’s good to see you again.”
I just melted at that smile. Sweet had on a pair of tight bell-bottom jeans with the most beautiful embroidery down the side, spelling P-EA-C-E. I liked that he wasn’t afraid to wear them. And his shirt was aqua, with rolled-up sleeves that were kept up by little buttoned tabs.
His hair was long—thick, black Cajun hair—and those dark eyebrows set off his blue-blue eyes. Oh! He was gorgeous.
“Did you come early?” I asked him, immediately realizing what a dumb question it was.
“I did. Ricky wanted me to cook up some red beans and rice and bring it over.”
Joining us, Ricky said, “Yeah. My cousin is a master of red beans and rice, especially.”
“Hey, don’t brag too much. Calla hasn’t tasted mine yet.”
“Oh, I bet I’ll like them a lot,” I said. I like any man who cooks. “I come from a family where men cook good, and I appreciate it.” Oh, brother! Everything I say seems to come out wrong.
Ricky picked up on my nervousness. “Calla, have a gin and tonic. I think that’s what the doctor ordered.”
“I think you’re right.”
He made one for me. I drank it a little quicker than usual, and it did help me feel less self-conscious. But whenever I got near the stove where Sweet was stirring the red beans and rice, my insides started fluttering like the ruffles on my dress.
“What’ve you been up to?” he asked me. “How’s the hair business?”
“It’s great. I’m so excited about the salon opening,” I told him.
“Well, Ricky sure is lucky to have you coming with him into the shop.”
I laughed. “Well, I don’t know about that!”
I went out to see how Ricky and Steve had decorated the yard for the party. Then Sweet did the dearest thing. He brought out a little piece of French bread with warm crab dip, one of Steve’s specialties.
“Just thought you might want a little bite with that gin and tonic,” he said, and popped it in my mouth. “But I have a hard time just spreading this dip on a cracker. I want to dig into it with a spoon.”
“I feel the same way,” I said, swallowing the delicious dip. “I swear, I could swim in it. I’m a real swimmer, and I ride horses too—although not here in New Orleans, of course.” Oh God, is there anything more idiotic I could say?
“I wondered how you got such strong arm and back muscles,” Sweet said.
I reached behind me and felt my muscled swimmer’s back, then I told him, “And here I meant to look feminine in a ‘soft cocktail kind of way.’”
“You do,” he said. “But you look strong too, and that’s beautiful to me.”
I started blushing, so it was a good thing Ricky called me just then to help arrange the hors d’oeuvres.
On the way back in, I showed Sweet the walkway with everyone’s china embedded. Somehow, remembering all that hammering made me bold.
I said, “Sweet, I’ve been thinking about you, and I was wondering—” Oh my God! My mind went blank!
Sweet didn’t seem to notice.
“I’ve been thinking about you, too,” he said. “I would have called, but I work long stretches sometimes, you know, piloting the guys out to the rig. I know it’s only been two weeks since I met you, but I find myself thinking of you at the oddest times. Like when I’m shaving. Isn’t that crazy?!”
“Oh, no,” I told him. “That’s not crazy at all. When I wake up in the morning and make coffee, I’ll be pouring water into the coffeepot—you know the way it sounds, water going over the coffee grounds—and that makes me think of you. Now that’s weird, huh?”
“No, it’s not weird.”
We looked at each other. Sweet’s eyes were such a deep, dark blue. His lower lip was just a little fuller than the top.
“Sweet,” I said. “Boy, that’s a name.”
“I know, the girls started to call me that in school, and the name stuck. It’s a name to live up to. I’m not always sweet, but I try. Now Calla Lily, there’s a name with a story, I bet.”
“Yeah, but I’m not what you think of when you think of a flower.”
“But you really are. You’re not a rose or a super-sweet gardenia. You’re like, oh, like the note of a song on the stem of a flower.”
That gave me butterflies inside.
“I’d better go help Ricky with the hors d’oeuvres,” I said, trying to keep my v
oice from trembling.
By this time, guests were streaming into the salon. The stereo was blaring Ricky’s favorite, early Louis Armstrong, though the music was almost drowned out by glasses tinkling and loud squeals of laughter.
Sweet and I pretty much stuck together for the rest of the night, with the party swirling all around us. At sunset, we wound up back in the garden, where I could smell lemon blossoms and see the magenta glow of bougainvillea in the changing light. A young man dressed in a sailor suit with short pants, carrying a tray of champagne flutes, stopped to offer us two. We toasted each other, and then Sweet was holding my hand. I felt that we were alone on a little boat, out there among sparkling lights and garden torches, a little boat adrift in the sea of people.
Then I heard, “Calla, babeeee!” and the sound of glass shattering on the china walkway. “’Scuse me, getoutamywayou, would ya, babe? And oooh—love the look.”
It was Sukey, and she was making her way over to us.
At that moment it seemed the fountain stopped gurgling, the music stopped playing, the people stopped laughing.
I got a bad tingling feeling in my hair. The little boat that Sweet and I made was rocking on wild waves.
“Hey you darlin’ thing,” Sukey was saying to a man whose arm was draped lightly over the woman next to him. “Hey you darlin’ thing. I bet I got something you want.”
Oh, no. No, Sukey. No!
I wanted to pull Sweet through the crowd and flee from Sukey. What would he think? He barely knew me. I didn’t want him to think that I was like her. But Sweet saved me by taking my hand. “Let’s go inside for a while, see what Rick and Steve are up to,” he said.
“I’m here. Sukey is here. La Suke is ready for action.” She was shouting now, slurring her words. And I realized just how drunk she was.
“Who is that?” Sweet asked.
“Uh, I think that’s my best friend Sukey,” I told him, biting my lipstick off as I felt my heart beat faster.