The Crowning Glory of Calla Lily Ponder (20 page)

“Hey, wait a minute,” Ricky said. “Calla, I’ve been wanting to have you over. Why don’t the two of y’all come for brunch in the New Year. Calla, it’s time for you to meet Steve, my man of five years now. You two will love each other. What do you say?”

Sukey said, “We would love to!” And all I could think was: Wow, I can’t believe he’s been with Steve for five years.

“Well, I’m off,” Sukey said. “Calla, it was real good to see you. I love you, baby.” She gave me a big hug, and it struck me again how tiny she was.

She whispered, “I feel like a squirt next to your long-legged self.”

I whispered back, “You make me feel ten feet tall. What else is new?”

We’ve said this for years.

Then she went, “Ta!” and was out of the room before I knew it, leaving me with my worry.

O
n Fat Tuesday, the last day of the Mardi Gras season and the highest of its festivities, Sukey and I headed over for brunch to meet Steve, Ricky’s boyfriend, for the first time. Ricky and Steve lived in an upstairs apartment in an old building with high ceilings and slow-turning ceiling fans. Steve was so gracious and kind from the moment he opened the door and gave Sukey and me big welcoming hugs. He won my heart right off the bat.

And their place was beautiful. The floors were old cypress planks, and as you looked around the living room you could see places where the old wallpaper of magnolia flowers and leaves showed through the paint, highlighted by lamps with tiny lights behind crystal tear-drops.

“Oh, Ricky, I love this!” I said. “What do you call how this apartment is fixed up?”

“Well, Calla,” Ricky explained, “it’s Old Louisiana meets Cubana meets Parisian.”

“Wow,” I said.

“Yeah, wow,” Sukey said. Then she asked, “Can I use your bathroom?”

“But of course,” Steve said, and led us down the hallway. The bathroom had old fixtures and an extra-long claw-foot tub. Once we were alone in there, I couldn’t help but jump around and say, “Isn’t this just wild?”

“Yeah,” Sukey said, putting a pill in her mouth and swallowing it. “I have a headache.” She gave me a wink. You just had to wonder.

Ricky and Steve’s kitchen was much larger than mine, so we had plenty of room to stand around and talk while they were cooking. I took the time to take a good look at Steve.

Steve’s complexion was as olive as Ricky’s was fair. Ricky was the taller of the two, and while he was lithe and sleek, like a tawny cat, Steve was more muscular in build. And unlike Ricky, the flamboyant one always dressed in the latest style, Steve’s navy slacks and blue polo shirt were subdued, though no less impeccable. I liked the two of them together.

Ricky got out a big copper skillet and placed it on the stove. “That’s gorgeous,” I told him.

“You won’t believe it, but I got this for five bucks at a garage sale.”

Ricky then uncorked a bottle of olive oil, poured just a splash in the skillet, then added a pat of butter. He quickly peeled and chopped a few cloves of garlic, tested the oil by flicking in a drop of water, then added the garlic to the pan.

“Ricky, you’re just like a ballet dancer, only with kitchen utensils,” Sukey said, and we all laughed.

Then Ricky grabbed two little chili peppers, split them down the middle, removed the seeds, and tossed the pepper halves into the oil, along with the garlic. Next he threw open the icebox door to see what the food gods had left him. In short order he pulled out a carton of eggs and a hunk of sharp, hard cheese that he called Asiago, which he handed to me along with an antique-looking grater.

“That was my dead aunt Bettye Kaye’s,” he said. “My dad always called her ‘a piece of work,’ said that she was addicted to Hollywood. But I loved Aunt Bettye Kaye, and I think of her every time I use this grater.” Ricky was full of colorful stories.

He instructed me to grate the cheese while he finely diced a little stubble of leftover chorizo sausage, along with a red bell pepper. I was used to being Ricky’s helper.

On the counter was an odd-looking mixing bowl. It was cream colored on the inside, but the dark reddish brown outside looked like someone had tapped it all over with a ball-peen hammer, making little round indents. I turned it over and saw “Kla Ham’rd” stamped on the bottom. “Is that bad or just poetic spelling?” I asked.

“Another Aunt Bettye Kaye relic,” Ricky said. “She was known in three parishes for her cooking.”

When I set down the bowl, Ricky broke eight eggs into it, using only one hand. Then he just
whipped
up the eggs with his wire whisk, adding a touch of cold water and fresh-ground white pepper. Then he plucked the little chili peppers out of the skillet and poured in the eggs. In no time, the deliciously sweet and savory smell of peppered oil, egg, and garlic filled the room. After swirling the eggs around the pan for a minute, Ricky added the chorizo, the grated cheese, and the diced red pepper.

“Now, Steve, my secret ingredient,” he announced. Steve picked a shiny little apple from the fruit bowl and tossed it to Ricky.

Ricky pulled the skillet off the fire. He cored, peeled, and quartered the apple in the blink of an eye, then diced it and tossed the tiny pieces into the omelet. After thrusting the skillet back onto the burner he sprinkled the top of the omelet with dried dill. When the egg started to firm up and the mixture could easily slide around in the pan, he slipped an extra long spatula under it, tilting the pan slightly, and flipped one half of the omelet on top of the other. Then letting the folded omelet cook for another minute, he flipped it in the air, catching it back in the pan.

“Bravo!” we all said, clapping.

Steve had started setting the table with plates, forks, coffee cups—all wonderfully mismatched—and linen napkins embroidered with the name of some restaurant. Sukey and I sat down and started tearing off big pieces of crusty French bread, as Steve splashed some red wine into our juice glasses. By then the omelet was done. Ricky topped it off with a dollop of sour cream and fresh dill. It arrived at the table like a starlet pulling up to the theater for a movie premiere, camera flash-bulbs flashing, on the arm of Ricky, the leading man. We all oohed and aahed.

“That just smells so delicious,” I told Ricky, “but it’s way too pretty to eat.”

“Not for me,” Sukey said. “I’m starved!”

Ricky cut the omelet into four portions and slid them onto our plates. Then I raised my glass of wine and said, “A toast! To Ricky, the master chef.”

After we finished eating brunch, Ricky put on some Neville Brothers and I started to boogey. I couldn’t help dancing whenever I heard my favorite band. The music got going, and so did I.

“Come on, y’all!”

And soon the four of us were dancing all together, our hips swaying, and our arms high up in the air.

Then Ricky went to the other room and came back with four gorgeous Mardi Gras masks with blue feathers that I couldn’t believe were for us.

“Look! Look, look!” Sukey said, as she put hers on. “Please, a mirror, please.”

“Mystical blue, just beautiful,” I said, turning toward Steve, who was beaming with pride. “You made these, didn’t you?”

Ricky jumped in. “Yes, he did! My lawyer, the mask maker!”

“It’s a lot more fun than writing briefs,” Steve said, grinning at Ricky.

I looked at them and saw two happy people, and my idea of perfect love changed completely in that moment.

We all clinked glasses, and then Ricky stood up to make a toast of his own. “To us!” he said. “To the four of us!”

“To us!” Steve sang forth.

“To us!” Sukey said, swallowing her wine in one gulp, “to us, the Quartet That Care Forgot!”

“To us!” I said. But in fact, I cared about so much.

Then Sukey said, “To the big party!” And we headed out on to the streets for the biggest party in the country.

We stepped into a sea of thousands of people, parties of every kind and stripe and gender—people in costumes, people on stilts with painted faces, men elaborately dressed as women, dogs dressed as kings. The city became one giant party, one giant bar. Before long the crowd began to move like one giant body of music, drumming, bright feathers, sequins, rhinestones, and jewels of every color. I found myself being pushed along by the crowd of people until I could hardly make a decision about where I wanted to go. I didn’t like this feeling. When it comes to Mardi Gras I like feathers and rhinestones, but just on Main Street where kids can run alongside the floats and catch beads and candy while their parents sit in lawn chairs visiting and keeping an eye on their little ones.

A
few weeks after Mardi Gras, Sukey and I were over at Ricky and Steve’s for the evening. I had been going back and forth about whether to go up to La Luna for my birthday. The three of them were encouraging me to stay in New Orleans to celebrate this year, and as they were suggesting places in town they might take me, the conversation turned to the most unusual bars in New Orleans. I swear, I could not believe some of the things they were describing! At one bar there was a live monkey, they said, and at another, a stuffed alligator as big as the
entire
length of the bar. Then Ricky said something about a carousel bar, and I asked, “What’s that mean?” All three of them turned to me, and Steve said, “Calla, have you not been to the Carousel Bar in the Monteleone Hotel?” Ricky chimed in, “That does it, Calla. That’s where we’re taking you for your birthday.” So the four of us made a date.

Because the Monteleone is a famous old hotel, I decided to wear the ice blue linen halter dress that Aunt Helen made for me. It was elegant, not too dressy, and not quite as short as a miniskirt, but still sexy. I had platform shoes that would go with the dress just fine, and some spangly earrings. For a bit of flair, and just to keep that Sukey girl on her toes, I decided to wear the fall I had gotten at a discount through L’Académie. So I put my hair up, weaving in the fall, and ended up using quite a bit of Aqua Net. My hair was long and thick to begin with, so I didn’t really need a fall like someone who had thin hair or wanted their hair to look longer. As I stared in the mirror I worried that I looked like a Dairy Queen triple soft ice cream cone. But hey, I was the birthday girl, after all!

JoAnn’s shop downstairs was closed, but I could see that she was still there, having a glass of wine with a friend, so I knocked on the window and she waved for me to come in. When I did, JoAnn said right off, “A vision has entered my shop. A vision.”

“Is my hair too much, JoAnn?” I asked a little sheepishly.

“Where are you off to?”

When I told her, “The Carousel Bar at the Monteleone,” JoAnn and her friend looked at each other, nodded, and said in unison, “Perfect.”

Then JoAnn had me walk back and forth a couple of times so she could study me.

“Beautiful. Calla, that dress looks like it was just made for your body.”

“It
was
, JoAnn. Made by my aunt in La Luna,” I told her.

“I have a vintage clutch in that same shade,” JoAnn said to her friend. “Marti, don’t you think this outfit calls for a clutch?”

“I’m not sure I can afford a clutch on top of drinks at a pricey hotel bar just now. I have my monthly budget to think about,” I said.

But JoAnn patted my hand and said, “I’m sending it out with you as a loaner—to advertise.”

“Oh, JoAnn, thank you so much. Do you want me to take some business cards to hand out at the bar?”

Both JoAnn and Marti just laughed at that. Then JoAnn said, “Calla, don’t you tell
anyone
that I lent this to you. I have a business to run. I’m only doing this because you’re my friend—and my very favorite tenant.”

“JoAnn, I’m your
only
tenant,” I had to point out, and we laughed. It is so good to have friends. Here I was, nervous as a tick when I walked in, and now I was ready to hold my head high—and I do mean high—and strut out into the Big Easy.

Right before I left, JoAnn said, “Calla, sweetie, take a moment to look at yourself in the mirror before you go. You are
so
beautiful.”

I got to the Monteleone Hotel a few minutes early, so I walked around the lobby trying to act like I fit in. And I thought about the fact that this was the first birthday in my entire life that I wasn’t in La Luna. All of a sudden I felt like a real grown-up. And I was getting some interested looks from people, if I do say so myself. Then I saw Sukey walking across the lobby. She was wearing high black leather zip-up platform boots, a black leather miniskirt that was more mini than skirt, and an aubergine flouncy Qiana blouse with balloon sleeves. To top off her outfit, Sukey had a purple-and-black-checked newsboy cap perched on that Sassoon cut of hers. Of course, the first words out of her mouth were, “Sometimes I just wish I was five-foot-nine, like you.”

Then she stood on her tiptoes and I leaned down a bit, and she kissed me right on the lips, like we always do, and said, “Speaking of tall, look at you! I
love
your hair—but you’re going to have to duck when you go through doorways! I’m so glad you didn’t wear your usual braid, Calla. Oh, you look so gorgeous! You’ll be turning heads tonight, girl, let me tell you. Ooh, look over there—you already are.”

She was right. This handsome guy gave me quite a long look, so I looked right back and smiled. He was so busy staring, instead of watching where he was going, that he walked smack into one of those stand-up ashtrays.

Oh my, I could not
believe
the Carousel Bar. It looked like a movie set! There were booths and tables all around, of course, but the bar itself was an actual carousel, like the kind kids ride on. Now, I don’t mean the ponies with the brass poles, but the center part that’s wood with mirrors, all carved and painted and lit up with hundreds of little white lightbulbs. The backs of the barstools circling around were also carved wood, each with its own brightly painted circus animal, lions and zebras and elephants.

Sukey and I grabbed two stools at the bar, and the bartender asked us what we’d have. Sukey said, “Two martinis, Billy. Make them dry doubles, sweetie pie, with olives.”

I don’t think Sukey actually knew the bartender, but she was very good at glancing at nametags without a person noticing. I had never had a martini before, but I decided if I was going to have a big-city experience, why not do it on my birthday? When Billy set our frosty cold martinis in front of us, we clinked glasses and said, “Cheers.” Then Sukey said, “Here’s to the best friend a girl could have. Happy, happy birthday, Calla.”

I felt so sophisticated. But when I took a sip of my martini, I just about gagged! It was the worst drink I’d ever had in my life, and it burned all the way down my throat. That made Sukey laugh. “Sweetie,” she said, “you have to be bolder when you drink a martini and not take tiny sips like that. Here, watch me.”

She proceeded to drain about a quarter of her glass, then she slowly crossed her eyes, which got me laughing. I tried taking a bigger gulp, and it burned twice as bad! “Sweet Jesus Sukey, I can’t believe you like these!” I said.

I excused myself to go powder my nose, since I wanted to see how my hair was holding up. When I got in front of the mirror I thought, Lord, it
is
tall. But it looks good. It looks
very
good
.

By the time I got back to the bar, there was already a guy on either side of Sukey. No surprise, she was flirting her little butt off. I had to say “Excuse me!” twice to one of the gentlemen—I’m using the term loosely—just to get back to my barstool. The guy looked me up and down, but not in a nice way, like the guy in the lobby. I had about four inches on him, even without my hairdo, so I just stared him down until he slunk away and I sat back down next to Sukey. The guy who was standing on the other side of Sukey was making stupid jokes.

I thought I was going to throw up—and not from the martini. I cleared my throat rather loudly and gave kind of a snort, too. Sukey rolled her eyes and then crossed them again as I said to the joker, “We’re waiting for our husbands, who are police officers here in New Orleans, but it has just been lovely chatting with you.”

Thankfully he took the hint and moved on down the bar. I attempted yet another sip of my martini, but I quickly came to the conclusion that, birthday or no birthday, I was just a wine and beer kind of gal. Sukey saw me wincing and said, “Hang in there, baby. It’s
worth
it for the olive. And like I said, take bigger sips. They go down easier.” I noticed that Sukey had just polished off her second double martini, so when she wasn’t looking, I dumped the last of mine into her glass. She was right about one thing, though—the olive was just about the best-tasting olive I have ever had.

I ordered a glass of white wine from Billy, and out of the corner of my eye I saw two men in tuxedos staring at us. Great, here we go again, I thought. It wasn’t until they’d walked almost all the way over to us that I realized it was Ricky and Steve in
tuxedos
!

“Ohhh! Y’all look like Cary Grant! Two Cary Grants, right here in the Carousel Bar. I can’t believe it!”

The three of them proceeded to sing me “Happy Birthday.” In harmony, to boot. Lots of people in the bar joined in too. Then Steve and Ricky each gave me big hugs, and they presented me with a beautifully wrapped little box.

I had to stop myself from getting up and pawing them, because I loved them both so much and they looked so handsome.

“Where did y’all rent those?” I said. “At Simonsen’s rentals?”

Ricky said, “Oh, Calla, shush up.”

“No, Calla,” Steve said, “though they do an excellent job of custom tailoring there, if you don’t mind having straight pins at the back of your pants.”

Sukey and I laughed, and she blew a little martini through her nose.

Ricky added, “But it’s worth it to look good for you on your birthday, honey.”

He ordered a martini too, but Steve asked Billy for a “Vieux Carré.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s a cocktail created by the head bartender here in 1938. I believe his name was Walter Bergeron. It’s equal parts rye, cognac, and vermouth, with a little Benedictine, Peychaud’s, and Angostura bitters, on the rocks. A lovely little New Orleans refreshment.”

Now, if anyone else was to say something like that, I would think they were pulling my leg. But that was just Steve. His mind was an encyclopedia of New Orleans.

Then we all got to yakking and joking and having a good time before I eventually opened my gift from them. Ricky and Steve gave me a beautiful vintage bracelet. Then Sukey slid a little box over to me. In it was a pair of lovely little pearl earrings.

“Y’all,” I said, “your gifts are so wonderful and perfect. Thank you.”

I carefully put my gifts into my clutch. As I looked up, I started to feel a little queasy and disoriented, even though I’d only had one glass of wine and half a martini. I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room, but it wasn’t there anymore! I knew I wasn’t drunk, but there was a wall with a painting where I was
certain
the bathroom had been before.

I began to walk around the bar trying to find the ladies’ room, but just kept feeling more and more confused. I turned to look back at Steve and Ricky and Sukey, and
they
weren’t there.
I must be losing my mind. Ohhh!

While I was looking back, I ran smack into a big tall man wearing all these gold chains around his neck. “Oh, I am so
sorry
, sir,” I said. “Please excuse me.”

Luckily, this was New Orleans, so the man just laughed and said, “Don’t worry hon, pretty young women don’t run into me often
enough
!” He knew where the bathrooms were and pointed me in the right direction. Once I got in there, I saw that my fall was gone!

I rushed back out to the bar to try to find my fall. I was crawling around the floor between potted plants when Ricky and Steve came up to me, looking very concerned. “Calla, are you okay?” Ricky asked.

I started babbling about how I had been looking for the bathroom and it had disappeared on me and—

“Oh,
honey
!” Ricky said, “I guess you didn’t know that the Carousel is a revolving bar! The bathroom changes positions!”

“What! What do you mean? Like the earth revolving around the sun? And the moon revolving around the earth? Or the earth revolving around the moon, or however it is?”

I was patting my head. “Ricky,” I said, “my fall has vanished!”

And he said, “Yes, honey, it has. But I know that Steve and I can catch up with it. We saw it go by, hanging off the gold neck chains of a rather imposing gentleman over there.”

Well, at least that got us all back to laughing, and Sukey came over to hug me and dab at my eyes with a Kleenex.

Back to my first-ever sip of a martini, though. I did love the olive—I always have loved olives. As nasty as that martini tasted, I had said to myself, “Suck it down. Get that olive, just get that olive.” But later, as I lay in bed and thought about the night, looking at my beautiful fall—now mangled on the wig stand—I thought to myself, Calla, some olives just aren’t worth it.