I looked at Sweet’s forehead, his eyes, his nose, and his full lips. God, I loved those lips. I pictured every inch of his body, which I knew so well. I brought my own breath into sync with his, and I pictured his penis inside my vagina. And I pictured that white light that M’Dear taught me about, circling around the two of us, binding us together even as we were bound as individuals. And within that white light, I pictured room for a baby.
I believed that the Moon Lady would know just when it was time for a spirit, for a soul, to come down into a body. I remembered that once, when I was very little, I asked my papa, “Where do babies come from?” I could hear my own little girl voice, and I could hear Papa’s answer, “Calla, babies come when an angel blinks her eye. They’re like dewdrops from heaven. Babies come when the dewdrop falls on M’Dear and me. Babies come when they are ready.”
I had forgotten his words in all my longing for a baby. I had forgotten that, just because I was ready, it didn’t mean that a baby was ready. I had started to think of it as my baby, as Sweet’s baby, as mine and Sweet’s baby, but it wasn’t. If I was ever graced with a baby, it still wouldn’t be mine. It would belong to the Moon Lady—like I did, like M’Dear did, like Sweet, my husband, did. I’d forgotten that we all are called down, just at the right time, and that every little baby eventually hears its call.
Chapter 32
1980
One fall afternoon, I was doing a coloring job on one of my regulars, Julie, when I saw two men walk in, wearing somber gray suits. They sure didn’t look like clients or beauty supply salesmen. They didn’t look around, just stayed focused, like they were there on some mission not related to beauty. Out of the side of my eye, I saw Cindy, our receptionist, listening to them. Then she went over to Ricky. He dropped what he had been doing, and went to speak to the suits. I kept on working. Doing hair—that’s my job, that’s my work. It could be anything, I told myself, all kinds of people come in the shop.
I put my customer in a chair. “Here’s some magazines,” I told her. “Look at this Town and Country. There’s a good piece on Louisville. I’ve never been to the races there, have you?”
I kept acting like everything was normal, ignoring the men standing by Cindy’s desk.
When Ricky turned away from them, he looked so strange. I had never seen him look so—I don’t know how to put it—so composed and deliberate looking.
I watched as he walked over to me, faking the whole way. “Calla, sweetie, come back to the kitchen and have a Coke with me. I need a break from the fumes. I swear this colorant will kill me with headaches.”
He looked at me carefully as we headed to the kitchen.
“What’s up?” I asked him. “Is this about taxes? You can tell me, Ricky. If I’m going to be partners in this salon, you have to let me know what’s happening before—”
Ricky opened the refrigerator that had a philodendron on top of it, its vines trailing down the sides. He pulled out a bottle of Coke, snapped off the cap, and handed it to me.
“Let’s sit down for a minute, okay?” I nodded yes.
“Calla, sweetie, it’s not about taxes,” he said. “Something has happened to Sweet.”
I stared at the leaves of the plant, which were heart-shaped, and at the vines, marveling at how long they could get.
“Calla.” Ricky reached for my hand, I jerked it back. I was studying another plant, an African violet, that had been growing on the back windowsill. It was a virtual jungle in here.
“Calla,” Ricky said again. “Honey, please look at me.”
“I don’t want to look at you,” I said. “I’ve got a color to check.” I tried to get up and head back into the salon, where my customer was reading about entertaining during Derby Week. Then Ricky stopped me, his hand on my shoulder. Softly he said, “Calla, honey, there was an offshore explosion this morning. Sweet was killed.”
It was like someone came from behind and cut me off at the knees as my mind whirled, Derby Week brunches, hair color, Sweet, explosion. Then I went to the ladies’ room and I couldn’t come out, I wouldn’t come out. Somebody knocked on the door. I didn’t answer. “Calla?” Ricky said.
“Calla, are you okay?” I locked the door. I closed my eyes. Finally he said, “Calla, look, maybe you don’t want me to come in. Maybe—Calla, somebody’s got to come in there and check on you, okay?” I didn’t respond. And finally he said, “How about we have Cindy come in?”
“Get out! Just get away. Nobody is gonna come in here.”
Ricky stood at the door, and said, “Calla, I’m just gonna stand here, okay babe, you don’t have to talk to me, you don’t have to do anything. Just gonna stand here.” And he stood there till well after the shop was closed. Until finally I began to feel cold, a kind of cold crept through me, and inside me, going out, down my arms, down my legs. My feet and my hands were so cold I couldn’t bear it. Finally I began to shake, and I began to cry. “Ricky? Ricky, I’m so cold. I’m real cold in here. Did you turn on some air conditioning? Please turn off the air conditioning.”
“No, Calla,” he said, “everything’s still the same.”
“I’m really cold in here,” I told him.
He said, “Why don’t you let me come on in there, help warm you up.”
I couldn’t think anymore. I was so cold. Finally I unlocked the door.
Vaguely, I remembered being in Ricky’s car with Steve driving. Then I had a flash of being in the guest room at Ricky and Steve’s. By the time I propped myself up in bed—nauseated, too weak to stand—it was dark outside. Later I learned that I’d been out of it for a night and a day.
And then, there in the room with me were Papa and Olivia. At first, I wasn’t sure if they were real or an illusion. They reached out for me, but I couldn’t lift my arms to touch them. I had the beating heart, the blood flowing in my veins, the breath filling my body, the skin and muscle and hair intact. But my will and spirit of life, which I’d fused with Sweet’s, had blown up with him.
I was no stranger to death, but I was a stranger to murder. And that’s what the oil company had done to my Sweet. They took him away from me. Ricky and Steve and Sukey and other friends did what they could, but I just couldn’t reach down and find what it took to connect with them. I was a skin, bone, and blood machine with working parts, but that was all.
The doctor gave me pills to help me sleep. But even with the pills, I kept dreaming about explosions, body parts flying randomly through the burning air, falling in the burning water, Sweet’s body all burned flesh red, and then Sweet’s firm, muscled body next to mine. Then in my dream, I was screaming, swimming, trying to reach him. If I could only reach him, if I could get to the boat and stop it from blowing up. I pictured that when I got to Sweet, I’d hold his head on my side and use my scissors kick and swim to shore, no matter how far it was. But I could never swim fast enough, even using my strongest strokes.
Calla Lily, my darling girl, I’m right here with you, holding your hand. Open your heart and let Sweet go, gently and swiftly. Do not hold on. His life was taken so cruelly; help his spirit pass away from this earth to a place where there is no greed that kills. Only full acceptance, full forgiveness.
None of us ever got to see Sweet’s body. Whatever remains they could gather were placed in a closed casket. That’s what we had at the funeral home. I kissed the coffin, and I stood there until I saw the kiss move through the wood to my husband. My kiss reached his body, then to his heart and then to his soul. Then I broke down crying, and could hardly stand up.
M’Dear’s voice came to me then, a faint whisper, saying, “Calla, Calla, you can make it.” Then came the night of the Rosary, the night before Sweet’s funeral. Sweet’s maman and papa had been with me at the funeral home the whole time. That night, I reached for their hands and could see that they needed a hug. I hugged Sweet’s maman, and tears streamed down my face and neck. “Oh,” was all she could say. And then we pulled back and she kissed me and said, “Dear Calla, we all grie
ve together. Cher, we all grieve together.”
Her husband, Everett Chalon, was reluctant to show his emotions. So I reached up to hug him, and he hugged back. He gave me a big bear hug like Sweet’s that lasted a long time. When he stepped back, I looked at him, this man—this father of my beloved—and I could see how hard it was for him. He just held my hand, squeezed it once, and turned away so that I could not see his face.
Then I was with my papa, and my two brothers. They stood close and surrounded me as if I might fall.
Other La Luna folks turned out, some that were close to me, and others who just knew M’Dear and Papa over the years. All of my close friends came, including Renée and Eddie. “Where are the kids?” I said.
“Calla, don’t worry,” she told me. “My children are just fine. I came to be with you.” I could see her sweet face, that blond hair, the sadness in her eyes, and I wanted to take away all that sadness. I thought if I could take away everyone’s sadness, then mine would be lessened too, and somehow it would all go away.
Olivia was there with her husband, Pana. Olivia wasn’t crying. She was just nodding her head from side to side like this shouldn’t have happened. Pana was the one who hugged me. He said, “I hug you for both of us, babe. I don’t think Olivia can handle it right now.”
I was shocked, so I turned to her and said, “Please, Olivia, give me a hug.” She hesitated for a moment, then she gave me the hug that she had all bottled up inside. Oh, how everyone grieved differently.
Ricky was weeping into a starched white cotton handkerchief for his cousin, for his good cousin, who had accepted Ricky when many members of his family hadn’t. Sweet had said, “Hey, man, whichever way the bell rings, you just go with it, huh?”
In the midst of his tears, Ricky took my hands, forced a big smile, and said, “You look simply stunning! Stunning. I love you, dear girl,” he whispered, and hugged me. “I love you.” Oh, it was so odd to laugh and cry at the same time, and that’s what he made me do.
Sukey had gone out and bought me a dress on her credit card. It was a plain black dress with just a nipped waist and silk sleeves that were buttoned up high above the wrist. The skirt flared out slightly at the bottom. The dress had a V-neck, nothing too fancy, but it fit perfectly.
“How did you know how perfectly this dress would fit?” I had asked.
“Oh! You could not look more beautiful at a funeral if you were Jackie O,” Sukey said, kissing me on the forehead.
Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. When I turned around, I saw Nelle. She looked so solid, somehow so permanent. She took me into her strong arms. Without speaking, I stood there, my head on her shoulder, and felt the strength of her love for me.
“I’ll be there whenever you need me,” she said. “Wherever, whenever. Don’t doubt it, you hear me?”
Then it was time for the Rosary. Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, we all said together. I could hear Olivia’s voice singing above the others.
As I prayed, I heard the voice of the Moon Lady saying, “Calla, look at me.” It was dark outside. “You don’t have to see me,” she said, “just know that I am here. Light will keep the darkness away, if you let it. You are embraced by those who are alive and by those who have passed on. I am waiting. I am just waiting for your call.”
Why didn’t you answer Sweet’s call when the rig caught fire? Where were you then?
Oh, there was so much anger mixed in with grief. I went back to the Rosary, feeling that the Moon Lady had let me down.
That night, I took the pills again, more than usual to sleep. The next day was Sweet’s funeral.
Sukey came over in the morning and said, “How about breakfast?”
“Oh, God, Sukey, no,” I told her.
“Just a minute. Hold your horses, Calla.” She came back into the room a few minutes later with a small bowl and sat on the edge of the bed. “Here, sweetie,” she said, holding out her hand. In it was a little bowl of cottage cheese and peaches chopped really small, one of my favorite dishes from childhood.
I looked at it, and for the first time since Sweet’s death, I felt a desire for food. “Yes,” I said. “I’ll have just a little bite.” The soft cottage cheese and sweet peaches comforted me. Like baby food.
“It’s the kind of dish that’s good going down,” Sukey said.
She stood up to show me the outfit she picked out for me to wear. “You wore black at the funeral home,” she told me, “so you can’t wear it again. We got you grayish black.”
She unzipped a garment bag and brought out a little charcoal-gray suit. She practically dressed me, right down to my pantyhose and a pair of matching low-heeled pumps. “You look just right, Calla,” she said. “Let’s pull your hair into a very tight bun. Now, for the finishing touch,” she said, and put some little pearl earrings on me. “Remember, accessories make the girl.”
“Sukey, you are one sweetheart of a friend.”
“Well, Calla,” Sukey said, “so are you.”
We drove for an hour or so to Donaldsonville, where Sweet was born and lived until we fell in love. Family and friends from all over Louisiana gathered. The little church was full of big arrangements of flowers—plus one small, clear vase of irises that struck me with its simplicity. There was no card. I didn’t know who sent it, but it was perfect for my Sweet.
Father Gerard, who married us, came to lead the prayer service. He had a Cajun accent, so the service was Cajun Catholic, not “crazy Catholic,” as M’Dear used to say about people who she said were “just a tad bit too devout.”
Father Gerard began, “I baptized Joseph DeVillierre Chalon, and then I had the privilege of marrying him to Calla Lily Ponder.” He looked toward me and paused, giving a slight nod. “I never thought that, just a few years later, I would be saying good-bye to him as we knew him here on earth. And even though I’m here as a priest representing Mother Church, I’m also a man, and right now, I’m an awfully sad one.
“His family was in the funeral business, so being a priest, I got to know them pretty well. One thing I remember about Sweet was that when he was out playing as a little boy, and he got hungry, he’d just head to the nearest wake to see what kind of cakes and cookies were laid out. I had to laugh at that. He’d be so happy to see all the cakes and pies brought here today by those who loved him.
“I didn’t encounter Joseph, or Sweet, for a few more years. When I did, I was impressed with the man he had become through a lot of hard work as a riverboat pilot, and with the fine lady Calla Lily Ponder.”
Father Gerard’s voice cracked with emotion, and he paused. He looked out at the riggers who Sweet had piloted back and forth from home. Most of them weren’t wearing suits, but they had dressed up the best they could. “Remember that none of us is alone in our grief,” Father Gerard said. “All of us, every one of us, is held by God—whatever we think God to be. Whatever Holy Force we might conceive of holding us together is here with us now and will be with us forever. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, go in peace now, to love and serve the Lord and to bless our brother and our son, Sweet Chalon. And we thank the Lord for his gracing us with Sweet’s presence on this earth.”
Then Sweet’s young nephew, who was a fiddler, said, “This is for my Uncle Sweet, who we’ll sure miss.” He took a deep breath and then began to play a soft, mournful waltz on the fiddle. It seemed like all of our tears went into those strings, and into that song. And, for a moment, the tightness around my heart eased, and I felt a kind of communion, as if my soul was uniting with so many souls standing there with me. And I felt not so alone.
After the cemetery, we all gathered at Sweet’s parents’ home, a small wooden house up off the ground. In the back, extra bedrooms were built out from the back porch, and they had opened up the living room and dining room into one big space. Still, there wasn’t really enough room for everybody.
Sweet’s best friend an
d best man, Antoine, had come. Oh, he broke my heart. Tears were just streaming down his cheeks. “I’m all torn up, Calla,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t control it. If only I could’ve been on that boat. If Sweet had been carrying me, maybe I could have saved my buddy.”
“Antoine,” I said, squeezing his hand, “you know how beautiful and strong Sweet was. I feel just the same way. I wish I could have saved him, too. But neither of us could. All we can do is love and remember him.” Then I could not breathe, I could not stand. Antoine caught me, and the next thing I knew, Sukey was at my side.
“You can make it, Calla Lily.”
For days after we lowered Sweet’s casket into mother earth, I was so angry that I swore sometimes as I lay in bed that I would tear the mattress apart, just yank out all the batting and fling it against the wall. I could take a glass of water and just throw it against the door until it crashed into a million pieces. The most that I did to get my anger out, though, was hit my pillows so hard that the feathers exploded like snow all over the bed. I felt my own anger come loose in the feathers that floated down onto me. Amazing how anger can turn into feathers. If that’s possible, then grief can turn into something else, can’t it? Can’t it?
What rough God has ridden through my life, like some wild, mean horse—taking away my mother and Tuck, taking my tender teenage trust and bashing it. And now Sweet, my husband. Dear husband who could not give enough, who was always one to make me laugh and to give everything to me. “Calla,” he used to say, “you give so much all day long. Let me take care of you. Let me just take care of you.” And so finally, after a while, I did sink down and let him take care of me, let his love just flow all over me. And now my Sweet was dead.
I was afraid to open the door of the small closet that Sweet and I shared. You don’t get a lot of room in these old shotgun Irish Channel houses. As pretty as we had the house fixed up, we hadn’t got around to building another closet, so the rest of our clothes, mainly mine, were out in the hall. I even kept some of my blouses folded up in a drawer in the kitchen.