The Crowning Glory of Calla Lily Ponder: A Novel

by Rebecca Wells

  When Ricky and Steve moved me back to La Luna, I took them to the Moreaus’ stand to load up on goodies for the weekend’s meals. I was surprised by Ricky’s reaction to Joseph’s sign. It was bright yellow with thick hand-painted red letters: “Home-grown, Hand-picked, Fresh as You Can Get.”

  Ricky just stared at it and then quietly said, “That is a poem. That is just a perfect Zen poem.”

  Those words embodied what my life had become since I came home to La Luna: “Home-grown, Hand-picked, Fresh as You Can Get.”

  One weekend Sukey came home to stay with Sally. Helping me paint a dining room chair that we’d made comfy with colorful pillows, she looked up from painting for a moment.

  “Calla, I’m lonely for La Luna. I didn’t know it until I started coming home so frequently, watching how everyone cares about each other, how they all remember me so well. They don’t know how I lived my life in New Orleans, but even if they did, they’d still love me. Do you think I’m right?”

  I put down the glue gun I’d been using on one of the cosmetic carts. “Yes,” I said to my friend, “you got it right.”

  “Well, then,” she said, “I’m going to wrap up things in New Orleans, and move back to La Luna.”

  I have to admit that my jaw dropped before I gave her a hug. I hadn’t known how lonely I was for Sukey. “Welcome home,” I said.

  So Sukey moved back a couple months after I did. “Hey, there are alcoholics everywhere,” she said. “Especially in small towns. And then, of course, there’s Claiborne.”

  On the afternoon of the Crowning Glory’s grand opening I happily walked the grounds. Everything was so beautiful that I spread my arms wide to the river and sky, inviting everything—birds, angels, lost souls, friends old and new, friends not yet met, babies not yet born—to join me in celebrating the Crowning Glory.

  I was halfway up the path to the house when I ran into Ricky and Steve. Talk about boys who knew how to dress up for a party! Steve wore a vertical-striped vest with a pink satin bow tie, and Ricky was decked out in a light linen jacket over elegant pale gray, pleated gabardine slacks. I squealed when I saw them, and we hugged and kissed.

  Then Ricky handed me a small parcel.

  “Calla, this was left on the porch of the shop. There’s no name on it, but it has to be for you.”

  “Oh, come on, you guys, I know you too well—”

  “No, Calla, it isn’t from us,” Steve said firmly.

  The parcel was wrapped in old-fashioned, shiny, brittle brown paper and tied with a length of brown string. I turned it over and shook it a few times before pulling the paper off. Soon I was looking at the back of an old, beautifully carved, Art Nouveau picture frame. When I flipped it over to see the front, I got a little chill. The frame held a faded but still quite beautiful picture of a Victorian woman in a flowing white gown sitting in the curve of a cutout moon. Her arms reached slightly downward toward a little painted hamlet beneath her bare feet.

  “I have no idea who this is from,” I said, unable to take my eyes off the picture. I decided to think about it later.

  Then I walked back to the salon alone and stood before a black-and-white photo of M’Dear, draped in a mist of silk gauze, with a group of young girls in leotards and tights (one of them was me). M’Dear—I smiled—be with me tonight as we celebrate. And thank you. Then I pressed my finger to my lips and kissed M’Dear’s image.

  Outside, car doors were already slamming, so I walked out onto the porch. Folks started streaming in with casseroles and side dishes. Miz Lizbeth directed the flow as if she were a seasoned traffic cop. Ricky said, “Well, my protégée, I’d say the gala has begun.”

  So many people hugged and kissed me as they arrived that I lost count after ten minutes. When the sun set, the children were finally allowed to light the luminaria lining the paths from the road to the house and to the pier. Sonny Boy and Will took charge of the lanterns they’d placed overhead in the trees. The heavenly smells of gumbo and barbecue—Louisiana ambrosia—wafted through the gathering crowd. Nelle was camped in a wicker chair, telling whoever was in earshot, “They all done a real fine job fixing up this place.” Everybody was amazed at how Sonny Boy’s crew had renovated the studio. Outside in the fading light, people happily mixing together in the patio were saying how it was magic that I had so many fireflies around when it was too early to find them everywhere else.

  Then came the unmistakable ringing sound of a dinner knife hitting a glass, signaling that it was time for a toast. The crowd gradually quieted down, and in the warm center of the big room, Papa was saying, “I’d like to raise a glass to my Calla Lily. Where are you, sweetie?”

  Everyone started to clap and holler as I made my way to Papa’s side. His eyes were wet, and he glanced up at the ceiling to try to keep the tears from rolling down his cheeks.

  “I was gonna say,” Papa began, “that the only thing missing from this evening is our Lenora, Calla’s M’Dear. But you know what? I think she is here—all over this place, but mainly in my daughter, who has the hands, the healing touch, of her mother.” Then Papa gave me a hug, and said, “You want to say a few words, babe?”

  I looked out at the gathering. “Thank you,” I said, “for welcoming me home—for your love and your labor in transforming the Swing ’N Sway into the Crowning Glory. I’m gonna wash, color, and cut your hair. I’m gonna massage your bodies—if you’ll let me! And all along, I’m going to try to make this place as much fun as it was when M’Dear danced with Papa. Now—laissez les bons temps rouler!”

  Ned and Jolie, a local couple who played a guitar and fiddle, were providing the music. Two of their cousins from Evangeline Parish had joined them on the bass fiddle and squeeze-box accordion. The accordion player started out with a solo that led into a full-tilt boogie Cajun dance tune that got everyone up and moving, and the old folk tapping their feet. After a few tunes, Will and Papa and the La Lunatics sat in, too. I worked my way back through the crowd to the open French doors of the salon. I stepped out into the courtyard, where the night sky was so bright and the scent of jasmine from the garden was deliciously strong. I sat down on a garden bench and simply enjoyed the sweetness of this evening. Nelle snuck up behind me and, sitting down next to me, she asked, “So, Calla, sweetie, could you have hoped for better than this?”

  “No,” I said. “This is just perfect. Thank you, Nelle. For your encouragement and support.”

  “I told you, Calla Lily, didn’t I? You built yourself a career just like we talked about all those years ago. Now look at you! I love you—and don’t you forget it!”

  We put our arms around each other, and I kissed her on the cheek. “I owe you most of this, Nelle.”

  Nelle said, “Ha! We both know better. Your mama had a lot to do with this. And Ricky. But mainly you. Now, don’t stay up too late now, you hear me? You got to do my hair day after tomorrow.”

  Almost all the older people were making their good-byes now, leaving the dancing to the younger folks. Will took me back out to the porch with a big bowl of gumbo and some warm French bread. “Hey, sis, you sit down now and eat. You been on your feet for hours.”

  As I ate the good food, Sonny Boy and Papa came out to join us, and the four of us sat there in the light of the grand, full moon. Papa got up after a time and leaned down and kissed me on my forehead. He said in my ear, “You made your papa proud tonight. More than that, you made your papa happy. And your M’Dear, too. Love you up to the sky, daughter of mine.” I took out my hankie to wipe my tears and half-jokingly offered it to Papa. He looked at it and said, “Isn’t that M’Dear’s lavender hankie?”

  All I could do was nod. He squeezed my hand, then he hugged my brothers and headed out to his truck, giving a wave over his shoulder. He paused for a moment in the shimmering moonlight, and waltzed a few steps as though his partner was fully there. He gave a little bow, then turned and walked back to his truck. In the glow of the moon, he looked like a much younger man, a man in love with someone
he’d dance with forever.

  Will offered me his arm and said, “Hey, sugar, care for a dance?”

  “I’d love to, Will. Yes, I would. I am ready to dance!”

  So I danced and I danced. I danced with JoAnn and I danced with Aunt Helen. I danced with Will, with Sonny—and then in a trio with Ricky and Steve. I even danced with Fred Astaire, who had appointed himself my mascot for the night. With the little handmade tuxedo Aunt Helen made for Mister Astaire, he was quite the canine gentleman.

  A few minutes before midnight, the band wrapped up with a rousing swamp-pop number. Then Ricky announced that everyone was supposed to go down to the pier at twelve o’clock sharp. Folks looked at me to see what was going on. “I have no idea,” I told them. “This is news to me.”

  There were only about twenty of us left, and we all wandered down the path toward the pier. Some of the luminaria had burned out, and a few others were flickering. But the bright moonlight helped us to make our way.

  As we got to the pier, we could see lanterns being lit on a small boat drifting toward us, silhouetting two passengers. As the boat drew closer, we could see a man who was rowing and a woman wearing a large, loose-flowing dress that was falling off one shoulder. The woman took two long objects, one in each hand, and touched their tips to the six lanterns on the bow, setting off a shower of light on each. She then flung her arms out to her sides, which revealed the objects to be two large, pale fans, now fully open, with sparklers extending from the ribs. In the white light of the sputtering sparklers, we could see that the figure was Sukey, moving her fans in a slow dreamy dance.

  Our small crowd stood silent as the sparklers burned out and the boat slipped back into the darkness. Then Renée broke the spell by whispering, “Oh, Sukey, you always did have—” Then we finished the sentence together: “Jewels in your purse!”

  Renée called out, “The La Lunettes live eternal!”

  Then we all let go with whoops and hollers. What a night! What a magical, overflowing night.

  As I walked back to the house with Ricky and Steve, I asked them, “Y’all know a lot of painters down in New Orleans, don’t you?”

  “Sure, we do,” Steve replied. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, I’d love to get someone to paint a scene of the moon over the river and Sukey in the boat. I want to hang it in a place of honor in the Crowning Glory. I want art all over the place. I want the whole place itself to be a work of art.”

  When we reached the back door, I told Ricky and Steve, “Y’all go on in. I’ll join you in a minute.”

  I looked up at the moon and I thought of something M’Dear told me on one of the afternoons when we talked about her dying: “Look up and throw me a kiss, baby, and I’ll send one back to you. Think about the stars, Calla, think about the moon.”

  Through happy, teary eyes, I threw kiss after kiss after kiss up to M’Dear and the Moon Lady, and the friends who had helped carry me this far.

  Chapter 39

  SPRING 1983

  As soon as the Crowning Glory was open for business and I got my schedule down, I was able to go out to St. Mary’s Home one afternoon a week to do the old people’s hair. I took Fred Astaire with me because the old folks just loved to pet him. Sometimes Nelle would come with me just to visit with the folks and try and cheer them up. With Bertha and Cleveland at the Shop, Snack ’N Skate, she had more time to herself. We made a point to ride at least twice a week, and I was in love with her horse, Mister Chaz.

  We both enjoyed our time at St. Mary’s.

  St. Mary’s used to have a staff beautician, but she insisted on smoking because it was her constitutional right. According to Nelle, who heard everything, Sister Claire told her, “You go exercise your constitutional right somewhere else.”

  When word got around that I was back in La Luna, Sister Claire asked me to take over the position of in-house hairdresser. But I told her that I was up to my ears in my own practice.

  “Oh, my,” she said. “I suppose we should pray to Mary Magdalene, patron saint of hairdressers.”

  I was so surprised that she knew that. But, of course, nuns know exactly how to get their way.

  “Tell you what, Sister,” I said. “I’ll come every Wednesday afternoon as a volunteer. It’ll be my donation, okay?”

  Between my volunteer work and the salon, I was busy as a Mexican jumping bean. I started getting clients from Claiborne. Beth Owens was one of them. The first time she arrived she was dressed chic as the day was long, with a French manicure, which I appreciated because I was exhausted with all the foot-long fake scarlet-colored nails I’d been seeing.

  “My daughters have raved about you,” she said. “And I just had to see who was giving them such smart cuts.”

  “That would be me,” I replied.

  She smiled and started admiring the art on my walls, including the new painting of Sukey on the boat I’d just hung.

  “That other painting, the one of the woman with long red hair,” I said, pointing to it, “it was done by a woman who lives in the French Quarter. She’s never had any formal art training. She just loves to paint people that most folks don’t consider saints—not yet anyway.”

  Underneath the painting, I’d put a plaque reading “Saint Mary Magdalene, Patron Saint of Hairdressers.”

  “You do know about Mary Magdalene, don’t you?” I asked her.

  “Well, yes, I mean, she was a sinner. I know that,” Beth replied.

  “Indeed she was!” I said. “History’s most famous reformed harlot. I am devoted to her. I mean, any woman who washed Christ’s feet with her tears, dried them with her hair, anointed his toes with perfume, and also enjoyed sex has my vote! She’s the one who was with Christ when he died, and she helped bury Him—not to mention she was the first witness to the Resurrection. Saint Luke wrote, ‘Her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she loved much.’”

  I caught myself and slapped my hand over my mouth. “What a way to welcome a new client! I’m standing here acting like this is catechism class.”

  Beth said, laughing, “Lord knows, I need forgiveness, for I have sinned a helluva lot myself.”

  I laughed. “Oh, I think you might be a daughter of Mary Mag.”

  “Mary Mag! That’s hysterical. And to think I’ve spent my whole life trying to be a good daughter of the other Mary.”

  Suddenly, my new client burst into tears.

  “I’m awfully sorry,” she said, “I must, I just can’t seem to—you must think I’m deranged.”

  “Who isn’t deranged one way or the other? It’s how we dance with the derangement,” I said, leading her to the massage chair.

  “Now, before I wash my clients’ hair, I like to give them a scalp and neck massage. How’s that sound to you, Beth?”

  “Delicious.”

  “Then just lean back, and let your head rest in the cradle. You’ve had massages before, right?”

  “Yes,” she said. “But not as much as I crave them.”

  “Okay, now, just breathe.”

  “I’m not good at just breathing,” she told me. “My mind is always too busy.”

  “Well, pretend this is your to-do list for the afternoon: (1) Breathe in. (2) Breathe out. (3) Breathe in. (4) Breathe out. Count up to a hundred that way and see what happens. Let me do the rest.”

  Then I took a deep breath myself and began to massage her scalp, rubbing circles around her temples. I remembered watching my mother do this with Mrs. Gaudet, years ago, when the woman was grieving for her husband.

  Beth’s head was heavy in my hands. I moved down to the base of her skull, rubbing every little point in her ears. She breathed more deeply, exhaling little puffs of tension. As I massaged the different points, I felt her fear. We all have our fears, some that are known, and others that are unknown. I let her fear come into me, as the large black lady in the gospel tent did for me.

  I massaged the crown of her head and then the sides. Slowly, I worked my way to her shoulders. That�
��s when I heard her heave a huge sigh of relief. I kept kneading her shoulders, but not too hard. Her shoulders sank and relaxed.

  I finished the massage by placing both of my hands on top of her head, holding them there for a moment. I waited a beat. “Okay,” I asked, “are you ready for your wash? Come on and get up, slowly.”

  I led her over to the part of the shop where the sink and shampoo were, and leaned her back in the chair. I carefully lifted her neck to put a rolled-up towel underneath it.

  “Your neck feel okay?” I asked.

  “Fine,” she said. “I’m still floating from the massage. You could do anything to me.”

  “Well, for now I’ll give you a wash and a good conditioner, and then we’ll talk about a cut.”

  When I was done shampooing, I took Beth over and sat her in the beauty chair and pumped it up so that I could work comfortably.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “I’m in your hands, Calla Lily,” she said.

  “Then I’m going to sneak up on you and just give you a little trim. Texturize a tiny bit in the front, take a little off the back, but keep it feminine. Nothing big this time. Okay?”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  I began snipping carefully on her hair. I studied the lines of her face to see what would accentuate her eyes. “So, what brings you to La Luna?” I asked.

  “My oldest recently got married, and my younger daughter flew in from New York, where she lives. The entire time she was here, she kept pointing out all the Claiborne ladies who she thought were really très élégante, and she found out they all got their hair cut by you.

  “I couldn’t believe your shop was in La Luna.” She laughed. “I mean, I hadn’t crossed the bridge for years. I loved the name of your salon. Anyway I called the Crowning Glory, and I was shocked to hear that it took weeks to get an appointment. But then you said, ‘Once you’re in, you’re in.’ And here I am!”