"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 grieve 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 Renee 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 and 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.

I'd been taking Sweet's T-shirts out of the drawer in the bedroom, but I hadn't yet opened the closet. The closet and I had been staring each other down. But one day, I realized that I just had to do it.

I put my hand on the old handle, which had turned brown over the years. I looked at my hands on the handle, took a deep breath, and opened the door. And there they were. My husband's shirts, the long-sleeved cotton ones that he always wore with the sleeves rolled up-plaid ones, light blue cotton ones. And his pants, all folded over hangers. But it was the sight of his shoes that did me in. Sweet was a man with small feet, size nine. I could see the way his feet had filled out his shoes, and how wrinkled they were from use, from the pressure of his feet in them. The feet of my beloved, feet that would never again walk the earth.

After that, I fell into a pit. All of my friends and my family tried their best, with all their love, to pull me out of that deep, dark hole. But the gifts they had to give were not the ones I needed. I felt that everything that had protected me had been blown apart. I felt like I did when M'Dear died-alone. Again.

I just lay there in bed-for how many days or weeks, I couldn't say. It didn't matter who came and went. I kept my bedroom door shut. I could hear the sounds of their voices, the smell of food they brought as gifts to feed me. That food they brought! "Take it away, please," I said. It made me ill just to smell it.

One time I thought I heard Renee's voice, thanking someone for their kindness. Another time, it was Nelle. "Set it down on the counter. Oh, Calla has some good friends here in New Orleans." My La Luna friends were here, staying where? Most likely in our little guest room that I'd planned to be a nursery.

I wouldn't let anyone near me except Sukey. Sukey, who knew what it was like to fall into the pit. "Sukey," I'd beg, "hold my hand and squeeze it. Tell me that Sweet and I will get our life back. We'll get it back, right?"

Then we'll sit in the kitchen, and Sweet will be cooking. I'll eat because I'll be so hungry, hungry for everything at the sight of my Sweet. He'll be home with three pounds of shrimp, and we'll boil them with some Zatarain's powder, while I make the cocktail sauce in the blue bowl that M'Dear used for little dips. I'll put the ketchup in and add as many dashes of Tabasco as it tells me it needs, plus a teaspoon of horseradish-got to be careful not to overload it with horseradish. And the Brothers will be playing on the tape deck, and Sweet and I will do a little made-up dance step here and there. We'll dance in the kitchen, like my mother taught me to do. Sweet will pretend to be a shrimp. "Sweet," I'll say, "stop making me laugh so hard-I'll ruin this cocktail sauce."

Oh, my Sweet! With that Cajun skin and dark blue eyes. While we were making love, we never closed our eyes. How could I imagine closing my eyes when he was above me, in me, smiling. "You, Calla," he would say, "sweet Calla, darling Calla, sweet Calla." And then I would feel part of his essence come into me.

Nighttime was the worst. Once I could get out of bed, I walked the city like a zombie. One night I found myself in Audubon Park in the rain. I went from one big oak to the other, feeling the bark, trying to fit my body against the trees. We used to walk under the big live oaks, Sweet and me. But the trees had lost their roots now that my Sweet was dead. I was trying to press my being into the little cracks in the wet bark. Soaked, at 3:00 a.m. in New Orleans, where a woman wandering around is not considered strange unless she's in the Garden District. Unsafe, yes, perhaps, but not strange. I'd thrown on a 1940s house-dress from JoAnn's over my baggy T-shirt, but it was not nearly warm enough. The rainwater ran off my face and down my body. I was surrounded by darkness and shadows. Take it away, I prayed. " Please just take it away!" I screamed into the wind-driven sheets of rain. "Take this pain away. Take this anger, loss, longing-take it all away! M'Dear, I miss you, I want you, I need you!" I howled. "Please come back." Oh, my sweet, sweet Sweet. Come to me, Sweet! Don't leave me here.

The next day Sukey brought me a long white cotton gown, all crisp and clean. "Sweetie," she said, "come on, let's wash your hair. Then we'll put on the gown."

I didn't understand. I kept saying, "Why? Why, Sukey?"

She turned her head away for a moment, then turned it back and put her hand on her hip, the way she's done since we were little girls. "Why? Because I said so, Calla."

She pulled the covers down slowly, but I didn't get up. Sukey more or less pulled me up, and I sat on the edge of the bed, sobbing. Sukey put an arm around my shoulders. "Come on," she said, "let's stand up and go to the bathroom. I've got it warm in there for you."

Sukey had everything laid out-my razor, shampoo, and conditioner. "Okay," she said, "let me unbraid your hair. We've got to wash your hair."

"No," I said, "I don't want you to take my braid apart."

"Calla, babe, your hair is all dirty, and it's gonna stay dirty if we wash it with that braid keeping your hair so tightly bound."

I sat down in the little chair that Sweet and I kept in the bathroom so that one of us could sit while the other took a bath in the old claw-foot tub. I put my head in my hands.

"Here goes," Sukey said, and she started to unbraid my hair.

"NO!" I screamed. "Sukey, leave my hair alone."

"Come on, Calla. You can't go on like this. You at least have to bathe. You're just so filthy."

"I want to be filthy!" I cried. "Don't touch me."

"Okay, Calla. How about we just shower with your braid like it is, okay?"

"That would be just fine, just fine. With my braid like it is, just fine," I repeated after her, numbly. I looked at the tub but didn't know what to do. Sukey reached over and took off my socks and panties.

"Okay," she said, "let's get your T-shirt off so you can get clean."

"No! Don't you dare touch this T-shirt! This is Sweet's T-shirt."

"Oh, babe," she said, "you've cried all over this T-shirt. It's so dirty."

I raised my hand, just itching to hit Sukey. She grabbed it and held it tight.

"Okay, Calla Lily, let me turn the shower on. We'll shower with Sweet's T-shirt on. He'd get a kick out of that, right?"

"Right," I said. "He would." Then I would not budge.

"Calla, are you getting into the shower or not?"

"No. But I will if you will," I said to Sukey, whose hair and makeup were done perfectly. I just couldn't imagine doing it alone.

Then she started to strip off her clothes. "Okay, we're gonna shower together. Let's go."

Sukey helped me into the shower and sat me on a little bath stool. She poured shampoo onto my head and began to rub it lightly. I could feel the suds running down my braid as Sukey massaged my head on each side of the braid, being careful not to undo it.

"I will not take it apart," Sukey promised. "I'm just going to get some suds into your braid."

"I believe you," I told her. And I realized that I really did believe her, because I knew she loved me. The warm water running over my head and flowing down my body gave me a physical comfort I realized that I had missed.

When I finally let Sukey take off Sweet's T-shirt, I started crying again at the touch of her hands as she washed my back, under my arms, under my breasts, down into my belly button. It didn't feel strange anymore that she was bathing me.

My tears were flowing down the drain to the Mississippi. It felt so good to have my cold tears mix with the hot water. "Oh, I will do this more often," I said to Sukey.

"We'll do this as often as you need," Sukey said. "We'll do this until you can do it yourself."

"All right," I croaked, like a frog, and laughed.

"All right," Sukey croaked back, laughing. "Now, you just stay there till I get a towel."

She dried me as I sat on the stool, starting with my braid, squeezing the water out, then wiping down my shoulders, my back, and my front.

"Okay, girlfriend, let's get you out of the tub and dressed." Sukey wrapped a towel tightly around me, dried my hair, and rubbed my body with lotion.

"All right! 'Spa Sukey's' debut is successful. Now, into your bedroom."

Back on the bed, where the linens had been tidied, lay the gown.

"Do you want to wear the white nightgown I brought you?"

"It's so pretty," I said. "All that lace. Where did you buy that?"