The Crowning Glory of Calla Lily Ponder: A Novel

by Rebecca Wells

“Well, I’m afraid there’s more to the story.” I took a sip of my Coke and told him about Madame Marie and her potion.

  “Calla! Honey!” Ricky reached for my hands and looked at my palms. Then he said, “I want you to take a vow right now to put your past behind you. Become friends with me, and open up to your new life in this city. Can you make that vow?”

  I thought for a moment, remembering how sad I’d been. Then I said, “Yes, I, Calla Lily Ponder, do vow that I will let go of the past. And I vow to let this lunch be the beginning of our friendship. To launch it like a rocket!”

  Then Ricky was dead serious. “And now I want you to do something else,” he said. “Remember I said you have the same magic in your hands as I do in mine?”

  “Ricky, it’s true, I’ve been wanting to tell someone. One time, I got this great sense of warmth when I was doing hair. I felt that I was moving energy around. I thought that I could read emotions. My mother, M’Dear, is the one who taught me that I had healing hands.”

  “I believe it, Calla,” he said. “That’s the highest gift. The challenge is to learn how to use your healing hands. The Bible says, ‘Study to be quiet and do your work with your own hands.’ Look at your hands, Calla. I mean, really look.”

  I looked hard and saw my hands—really saw them—for the first time. The lines on my palms, my fingers, my thumbs, my strong wrists. I thought of how much my hands did for me, how many different things they could do.

  Just then an image of M’Dear came to me. She was saying good night to her ballroom dancing students. One of the men said something about how he didn’t know where she found the energy to work so hard. M’Dear smiled at him and replied, “Oh, my body loves to work!”

  Calla, my hands whispered to me, we love to work.

  “You see?” Ricky said. “I believe that you have the gift of beauty.”

  “Ricky.” I smiled. “I have healing hands. I got them from my mother.”

  September 10, 1972

  New Orleans

  Dear Papa,

  Oh, how it did my soul good to spend the weekend with you! Friday night, you outdid yourself with that trout almondine. Any man I end up with is going to have to be a good cook to measure up. Sitting down, just you and me, was so nice. I needed that.

  Riding over to Pana and Olivia’s house on Saturday morning put me in a great mood. I’m glad I used M’Dear’s satchel bag to swing over Golden Princess to carry back those good fresh collards. And you were right to make me take them up on their offer to go back into their “hidden” garden to pick sweet potatoes to take back to New Orleans. You tell Pana that he is right: Mister Pana LaVergne’s sweet potatoes are famous here in the big city! Please thank him again for me.

  And thank you, Papa, for such a wonderful weekend back home.

  I love you!

  Calla

  Chapter 20

  1973

  I was so excited to see Sukey, I waited for half an hour on the steps to my new apartment for her to arrive. “Sukey!” I said, when she walked up, like a one-person welcome wagon. “I couldn’t wait for you to get here.”

  I’d left Mrs. LaBourde’s place and moved about twenty blocks to my new apartment a month ago, but Sukey hadn’t seen it yet. Our schedules were just so different, with her work at the Playboy Club and my going to school and working at the Camellia Grill, that it was almost like we lived in different worlds in New Orleans. I had only visited her apartment once so far. So it was so good when she finally got a Saturday off and called me to just hang out. I had missed her!

  My new place was a darling little one-bedroom place in uptown New Orleans, right above a vintage clothing store called JoAnn’s Vintage Palace. My rent was $150 a month—which seemed like a fortune, but Mrs. LaBourde told me it was a pretty good deal. My apartment was clean and pretty with new harvest gold appliances and a pink bathroom with little one-inch octagonal floor tiles New Orleans people call a “drugstore floor.” I had French doors opening onto a skinny little balcony facing the street—well, really, it was more like a balconette. But it was all mine! Right there on the river side of St. Charles, on Magazine Street.

  Walking to and from my apartment to the streetcar everyday, I went by the St. Elizabeth’s Home. St. Elizabeth’s is this huge orphanage that’s been in New Orleans since before the Civil War. It’s a three-story, U-shaped building with a courtyard in the middle that takes up an entire block, with Prytania Street on one side and Napoleon on the other. It’s still run by the nuns. I always think about all those girls who got sent there, back when the yellow fever used to hit New Orleans like a long, slow hurricane, killing many parents. So many children were left behind.

  I often say a prayer for them when I look out my bedroom window, watching a wisteria vine and tuberoses growing up the back stairs by my kitchen.

  “Well, Calla Lily, I really think you’re cutting loose a little bit. I saw you from down the block, sitting there with your legs crossed like we were raised never to do.”

  We laughed as we hugged each other tight.

  “I’m dying for you to see my apartment. I’ve spent so much time—”

  “Wait a minute! You didn’t tell me that you lived above JoAnn’s Vintage Palace! I can’t believe that you live right upstairs!”

  I said, “Maybe we can come back down after—”

  Sukey interrupted me. “It’s famous!”

  “Yeah, I’m lucky.” As I followed Sukey into JoAnn’s, I could hear the familiar sound of the bells tinkling. I introduced Sukey to JoAnn.

  JoAnn seemed to know everyone in New Orleans, or at least in our neighborhood. Since I’d moved there, she’d been kind and funny, and I felt safe knowing we lived together—she on the floor above the shop, and me up another flight of stairs. Today, she held forth wearing a paisley caftan over her head of wild, curly hair.

  “Well, Sukey, it’s a pleasure to have you,” JoAnn said. “Are you new here in New Orleans too?”

  “Oh, no,” Sukey said. “I’ve been here working at the Playboy Club for a year.”

  “Oh, really!” JoAnn said. “Then you must know Dick!”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Oh, wonderful! Dick has been a great doorman for that place, and the fact that his name is Dick just makes it all the better. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  We all laughed.

  “Absolutely!” Sukey said. “I couldn’t believe that was his real name. I thought he’d made it up.”

  “Well, he did,” JoAnn said. “His actual name is Douglas Francis Pritchard.”

  “Oh, I’m going to tease him with that,” Sukey told her. “I love to tease every boy in that club.”

  “Yeah,” JoAnn said. “That’s what they go for, to be teased.” She winked. “Well, y’all just look around now. I’ve got plenty of work to do. Holler if you need anything. And Calla, I understand you’ve had a little dripping with your faucet. I’ll get somebody over there as soon as I can.”

  “What a great landlady!” Sukey said. She was heading straight for the hats. Sukey loved hats because they looked so good with her short shiny jet-black Sassoon haircut. She’s worn her hair like that ever since I gave her a Sassoon cut when we were teenagers—the first that had ever been seen in La Luna. Nothing made Sukey happier than being original.

  We started trying on all the vintage hats. None of them fit over my thick, almost waist-length hair. JoAnn, who’d come over to see how we were doing, said to me, “Sweetie, what you need is a man’s fedora. Don’t worry, Barbara Stanwyck wore them all the time, and Hepburn too. You know, Hepburn had thick hair like yours, and it was about the same color, though she dyed it red.”

  Then JoAnn whipped out a fedora, which fit me perfectly.

  “I keep my men’s things over here because it’s basically a women’s shop. But some of the men come in for ladies’ clothes, too.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Why would the men come in for ladies’ clothes?”

  JoAnn laughed. “Oh, Calla, you really haven’t b
een in New Orleans for long. Let me just say that there are men in this town who like to dress up in women’s clothes and strut around. And if you go down to Godchaux’s Department Store on Canal Street, you’ll notice that they stock the latest ladies’ platform shoes up to size thirteen.”

  “Oh,” was all I could say.

  Sukey told me, “Calla, don’t worry. You’re going to do okay here in New Orleans.”

  After the hats, we started working through the racks. So far I’d only bought some vintage jewelry from JoAnn, one or two skirts, and a cute little jacket with a peplum skirt and wide shoulders, which I loved. I wore it with slacks, and it sort of made them look more feminine.

  But today I was in the mood to splurge. A girl always has to keep Mardi Gras in mind, and I had been asked out on a few dates. Sukey was pulling out all kinds of wild clothes for me. One was a mauve silk full-length dress that looked like a nightgown, with ecru lace on its hem and at the bodice. “You’ve got to try this on,” she insisted. “This is just too glamorous to pass up.”

  “Good eye, Suke.” The skirt was cut on the bias, and it hugged my bottom like it was made for me.

  I twirled, and the way that silk moved was like a wave. “Wow,” I said, rubbing my thighs. “This feels so good against my legs.”

  “Oh,” Sukey said. “That is fabulous!”

  “I love the way the dress is open down to the waist with lace, giving the illusion that it’s see-through.”

  “And look, there’s a little peignoir sort of jacket you can wear over it if you feel shy. That dress is you, all the way. Look in the mirror. Now, undo that braid.”

  “I can’t undo it right here in the store.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  Sukey got up on a stool inside the dressing room. She quickly undid my braid and ran her fingers down my hair.

  JoAnn came over and examined me. “You fill that dress out divinely, Calla! Hmm, you really look like a movie star. There’s just one more thing you need. Take off that jacket.”

  She waved her hand at me, bossy as could be. She went to the mannequin in the display case at the front of the store and brought back a long white feather boa. We cracked up laughing as she swept it around my neck.

  Though it did look good, I said, “No, I cannot wear this. Where would I ever go in a feather boa?!”

  “You’ll find a place in New Orleans. I promise you,” Sukey said.

  No one could ever win an argument with Sukey. “Okay, I’ll get it. But what about you? Aren’t you going to get anything?”

  “Nope,” Sukey said, “this is your day to splurge. But I do want to try this on.”

  She held up an outrageous olive green dress with dolman sleeves. “Look at these winged sleeves. They’re lined with leopard skin! JoAnn, is this real leopard skin?”

  “Of course,” JoAnn told her. “This is from the 1930s.”

  So Sukey put on the dress, and I had to admit it was a very gorgeous idea on Sukey. The stand-up collar was lined with leopard skin, too, which was just meant to go with Sukey’s jet-black hair. The dress had a zipper down the front, a leopard-skin belt, and a swirly skirt with leopard-skin trim. It was too long on Sukey, and kind of baggy in the chest, but otherwise it fit perfectly.

  “What do you think?” Sukey asked JoAnn, doing a Loretta Young twirl.

  JoAnn studied Sukey. “It needs to be shortened, which I’d be happy to do for you. I can raise the hem and stitch the leopard skin back on. And you need to wear more of a push-up bra under it.”

  “I know about that. It’s my tiny boobs, right?” Sukey said. “I need push-up bras because my breasts are smaller than every other Bunny.”

  “You have beautiful breasts,” JoAnn told her. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  And I could see for the first time that Sukey truly worried about the size of her breasts. She used to kid about them in high school, but now she was noticeably relieved to have someone like JoAnn tell her that they were the perfect size.

  After JoAnn finished pinning Sukey’s hem, we paid for our new outfits.

  “Okay,” Sukey said. “Now, let’s go see your apartment.”

  We climbed the twenty-eight hardwood steps up from the first floor. The first thing I wanted Sukey to see in the apartment was the balcony. As soon as we walked in I raised the nine-foot double hung windows that led to it, and Sukey stepped out. “Oh, my! This is lovely, Calla!” she said.

  When she came back in, I gave her the full tour.

  “Ohh, Calla! Your ceilings!”

  “They’re ten feet high,” I told her.

  “And your bathroom—it’s huge! You could park a Volkswagen bug in there. I love your four-poster bed, too.”

  “I bought it on Magazine Street when I got here. It was a steal, though I had to clean it up. I rubbed Vaseline on it from head to toe.”

  “It’s beautiful. And look at your great duvet!”

  “Aunt Helen made it. I picked out the fabric.”

  “Gosh,” Sukey said, “this is like a real New Orleans apartment. It kind of makes me wish I’d gotten real furniture, instead of beanbags. I like them because they’re ‘mod,’ but they basically mean you’re always sitting on the floor.”

  “I like your beanbags and throw pillows,” I told her. “Now, would you like something to eat?”

  “No, thanks,” Sukey said. She walked into my kitchen and opened the fridge. “But would you mind if I had a beer?”

  “No, help yourself.”

  Sukey opened a beer and took a big gulp.

  “How’s your job going?” I asked.

  “Well, I feel like I know a lot of valuable information now, like all about wines and liquors and about the psychology of customers. And our ‘Bunny Mother’ has taught me a lot about hairstyling and makeup and that kind of thing. You know, if I wanted to, I could ask to transfer to another club. There are clubs all over the country. They have one in Jamaica.”

  “Jamaica!” I said. “That’s amazing.”

  “Calla, I got my one-year raise, and you won’t believe what I’m making now. I mean, I don’t want to make you feel bad or anything, but I make almost three hundred a week!”

  “A week? You make three hundred dollars a week?!”

  “Well, almost,” Sukey said, “almost three hundred dollars a week.”

  “Still, Suke! That’s just—girl, if you’re saving that money, you’re not going to have to work for the rest of your life!”

  “Calla, I have to tell you, I love my job. It’s exciting. I’m never bored! And I get to meet international and famous people. Guess who came in two weeks ago? Tony Curtis. You know, it’s an elite club, so you need a key to get in, and Tony Curtis is a key holder! And the atmosphere of the club—oh, it’s just like walking into another world. It’s designed to feel like you are at a cocktail party with fine food and drink and entertainment, and us—the Bunnies! It’s not sleazy because we have members—not just anybody off the street. They have to wear dinner suits, or at least sports jackets, they must treat us with respect, and they are told that they cannot ever touch the Bunnies.”

  Sukey popped up and got another beer.

  “I’ve met several girls there that I like very much,” she told me when she came back. “Bunny Ginger and Bunny Lou are the best. One of them is from Iowa, and the other is from Indiana. They applied and became Bunnies right out of high school, like I did, but some of the Bunnies have actually been fashion models.

  “So, Calla, my world is fulfilled. Every time I go to work, I look forward to it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I really feel like I’m part of the sexual revolution. Like I am representing the fact that we have a whole new freedom about sex that would blow those pointy red hats off the Vatican cardinals.”

  I got up and walked to the refrigerator. Sukey seemed like someone had wound her up, and she couldn’t stop talking. “How about something to eat?” I offered, setting out a platter of cheese and crackers that I’d prep
ared for her visit.

  “No, thanks,” she said with a little laugh. “I’m on the New Orleans Liquid Diet.”

  When I didn’t laugh, she said, “Oh, my God, Calla Lily, don’t start jumping down my throat.”

  “What do you mean, Sukey?”

  “I mean, be a good hostess and please get me another beer,” she said, imitating the voice of our Home Ec teacher. When I went and got her the beer, she continued talking.

  “And I feel that I’ve gained so much grace and poise being a Bunny, like when I do the ‘Bunny Dip,’ which is the way you have to put one foot forward and lean back on the other while you’re holding your tray. It’s very important to learn, because if you bend down to serve drinks, your boobies can just fall right out of that uniform. Well,” she said, “in my case, the brassiere pads!

  “And then there’s the ‘Bunny Perch,’” Sukey continued. “That’s when you sit down on the edge of a chair or on the edge of a booth, just barely touching with your butt, and holding on with your hands, so that you don’t fall. And you’ve got one leg down and one leg up, because that’s the most attractive way to present your legs.”

  While she was opening the beer, I thought, I hope she doesn’t ask for another one.

  Sukey came back and said, “You really have to come to the club sometime.”

  “Well, sure. Yeah. Sometime.” But I thought, Please. No.

  “So,” Sukey said, “now tell me all about you and what you’ve been up to.”

  I had to hesitate a minute because suddenly it seemed like there was no way I could talk to Sukey about what I’d been “up to.”

  Closing my eyes for a moment, I thought about my life. “I’m beginning to grow into what M’Dear had been teaching me all along—to touch people in a way that doesn’t shut them out. To let them in. And I’m surrounded by good people, who are helping me learn my craft. Good, kind people.”

  “And boobs,” she said. “God forbid if your boobs are small.”

  I wasn’t sure Sukey and I were occupying the same place. I was just there in my apartment, and she was—I don’t know exactly where Sukey was, but I sure missed her.