"I didn't buy it. Your aunt Helen made it. Took her a while to get that lace done just like she wanted it."

"Oh, please, I do want to put on Aunt Helen's nightgown."

"That's a girl," she said.

She slipped the nightgown over me. "You know, this is kind of like a gift from your mama, since Aunt Helen is her sister."

"Yes," I said. "Yes, I can see that. I can feel that."

A couple of months after Sweet's funeral, Steve came over. I was lying on the couch, writing notes, when the doorbell rang. I had some coffee already made, and we sat down at the kitchen table where I had sat so many times with Sweet, talking about nothing and everything a million times.

"Calla," he said, "I've looked into Sweet's accident and talked it over at my firm. We think you have a strong personal injury lawsuit. The oil company that owned that oil rig was also responsible for maintaining it, which it did not. To save money, it pulled back on safety measures, in violation of the law. So Sweet's death was what you call a 'wrongful death.'" He took my hands in his. "If you'd like for me to file suit against the company, I will. I can only imagine how hard this must be, Calla. But I suggest that we sue for a really high figure. It might prevent someone else from getting killed."

"I don't want to think about anyone else getting killed," I said. "Go on ahead and file it if you want to."

"In order to file suit, I just need you to sign these papers, sweetie."

"Okay." I signed them and then I said, "Thank you, dear Steve."

"Calla-"

"Sweetie, would you mind leaving me alone now?"

"Absolutely."

I gave him a weak smile.

"You take care now," Steve told me. "Ricky is going to drop by later."

"Fine," I said, lying back down on the couch. "Fine."

My head was spinning. I knew nothing about lawsuits. I only knew that I was lying here, sobbing, and glad that those greedy bastards who killed my husband might at least have to let go of some of their filthy money. I saw Sweet's face, and the faces of the riggers who came to our home for supper, missing their wives and children. I opened my eyes, picked up my pen, and continued writing notes to the families of the other men who had been killed by greed for oil money.

Chapter 33.

WINTER 19801981 I didn't feel ready to get out of bed, but one night I just couldn't take being in the house anymore. So I got up and threw on a coat over my nightgown. It was an overcast night, but through the cloud cover, I could see the glow of the moon, like a child holding a flashlight under the sheets.

Ahhhh, I thought, you're here.

For a while, just staring at that light, I began to feel-I don't know how to put it-some kind of call.

I said to the Moon Lady, "Okay, I can't really see you. But I believe you're up there, behind the clouds. And that you're looking after me as M'Dear said."

I thought of asking her to show herself. But before I got up the nerve, the clouds began to move and the light of the moon grew stronger, until I could just make out her outline: not quite fingernail and not quite half full.

The Moon Lady was revealing herself to me, and she sent a thought into my mind. I will not give you unnecessary grief.

That was her gift. That was M'Dear's promise, that suffering would happen in my life, but that even when things seemed their darkest, the suffering would have some kind of meaning.

Then M'Dear's death and Sweet's death began to come together. And I could see that M'Dear, and her death, had taught me to love-and that it had prepared me for loving Sweet.

I whispered, "Calla Lily Ponder, your heart was open, but now it is hinged shut. What will it take to open your heart again?"

It was April in New Orleans again. The azaleas had come and gone, and the Jazz and Louisiana Heritage Festival had begun. Ricky, Steve, and Sukey were going, and they dragged me out with them. I wasn't up for companionship, so once we arrived, I walked around on my own.

I wandered into the gospel tent on the grounds. Though it was a Friday morning, the tent was packed, not with tourists but with God-filled people singing, testifying, and praying.

I sat myself down at the back of the tent next to a black woman. She was wearing a navy blue shirtwaist dress with large white polka dots. The dress was strained over her belly and her huge sagging breasts. On her feet were a pair of tennis shoes that she wore like mules, with the backs of the shoes broken down and her heels hanging out. I knew the shush sound those shoes would make when she walked.

It was a sticky-hot morning, and my skin itched because of a rash I had almost all over my body. I wore a light cotton blouse with long, full sleeves to let the air in but hide my rash, and a soft old faded blue skirt. I had no idea what was causing the rashes, and neither did the doctor. All I knew was that I was feeling crazy these days.

I was down to a hundred and ten pounds, which looks pretty scary when you're five-feet-nine. I lived on diet Dr Pepper. I still cried most of the time that I was awake, and in my dreams I screamed. I spent my days napping some and waking up confused. Call Sukey, call Sukey, I'd tell myself. Then Sukey would come and help me because I was still having visions of Sweet blown up into so many pieces that we couldn't even tell what was in his casket. She would rub my head and gently massage my neck and shoulders, softly, until I calmed down.

But that day, I stayed in the gospel tent and let the music wash over me-the music and the singing, the testifying and praying. So many voices raised in song. One choir called the Savation Light Choir paraded onto the bleachers. Little children sang with grown-ups. A short black woman with a voice that could curl the clouds sang a verse of "Amazing Grace," which was then taken over by the choir that she led. As I sweated, I could smell my body odor like it had never smelled before, as if something was being leached out of me, leaving me cleaner somehow.

When I went back to the tent on Saturday, I saw the same black woman, wearing a different dress. This one was homemade, white with yellow seersucker stripes and yellow buttons. That homemade dress made me feel calmer. I'd brought a shoulder bag this time, and in it I'd packed a thermos of ice tea, a box of Kleenex, and a bottle of prescription Valium. No food-I still didn't want it, not yet, but I was thirsty.

Again, I took a seat next to the woman. As the music swept over me, I cried-the piano, the snare drum, the bass guitar; the singing voices, the call-and-response of people testifying. These people didn't find it strange for a skinny white girl to sit there all day with a box of Kleenex and an endless flow of tears. When the music was right, when the spirit filled them, a lot of people cried. They rocked their bodies back and forth. They shot their hands up in the air and waved. Sometimes they simply rose to their feet, calling out, "Well, yes!" or "Talk it to me!" or "Amen! Amen, sister!" Certain older women who were feeling the spirit would jump up and wave their hands.

There was room in that tent for my sorrow.

That day, the woman in the yellow-and-white dress sat very close to me-so close that her large brown arm touched mine, and her generous hips crowded my narrow ones. I didn't mind. I just kept losing myself in the music, listening, crying, blowing my nose, sipping a bit of ice tea, and occasionally biting off a small piece of Valium.

Sometime during that afternoon, when the sun was falling in slants on the grass at the side of the tent and the hot air was filled with the smell of sausage jambalaya floating over from the food booths, I started to feel a little dizzy but somehow comforted.

Sunday morning, I took my place in the tent first, and before long, the woman appeared again. As she sat down, her body spread out like a cushion against mine. Normally, I would have edged away to give her a bit more room, but this time, I didn't. I wanted her near me. She sat next to me like a big, soft pillow. There were all those voices singing of pain and sorrow, of faith and longing, of salvation. I continued to cry all day. During the few times when I had to leave to stand in line for the portable toilets, my friend-for I was starting to think of her as a friend-laid her pocketbook on my seat to save it till I got back. I tried to thank her, but when I started to speak, all that came out were tears.

Jazz Fest lasts for two weekends. By the time the next Friday rolled around, I knew where I wanted to be. I returned to the tent, this time with an apple in my daypack, along with the tea and Valium. My friend came as usual, too, and when she nodded to me, I nodded back. What a relief it was to acknowledge and be acknowledged, without having to talk.

This was a big day, when the first gospel choir of children filed in and climbed up the risers, their heads held high, their clothes ironed and starched. The bows on the multiple pigtails of the little girls danced, their colors moving like flags of a young nation. I could not stop a small smile from coming to my lips-the first smile I remembered since that morning Sweet left for work and I kissed him, not knowing it would be for the last time.

The power of the children's singing reached toward the heavens. The tapping of my friend's feet, her head bobbing to the music, and her hands clapping to the rhythm stopped me from going down to that dark place of loss that I'd grown so used to. Sometimes she raised her hands in the air, calling out, "Say yes! Uh-huh, hallelujah!"

She pulled me back from the pit of burying sadness. Without even turning to me, she pulled me from the edge of grief and despair. Seeing the pink flesh on the back of her heels, the gentle reverberation of her ample hips and fleshy arms as they jiggled in jubilation, I thought, You used to dance like that, Calla. You can come alive again.

Finally, it was Saturday, the next-to-last day of the festival. That day, I shocked myself by falling asleep in public. When I woke, I was startled to see that it was already dark and that a whole different crowd was now inside the tent. I remember awakening to the scent of hair pomade. That confused me, and at first I thought I was back in La Luna, sitting next to Olivia and M'Dear in the kitchen. Then I realized that, all the time I'd been asleep, my head was leaning against the black woman's shoulder, close enough to smell her hair product.

"I'm sorry," I muttered. "It's kind of warm in here, and I-"

"You tired, that's all," she said.

"Yeah, I am," I replied. "Yeah, I think I am."

Those words were the first we exchanged.

Each day that I'd spent in the gospel tent had left me feeling a little stronger. Each day, I had moved a little further into the land of the living.

That night, I brushed my teeth, I loosened my braid, tried to brush out at least some of the wild tangles, and I washed my hair. I cleaned myself well and let my hair dry freely.

When I woke the next day, I realized that it was Sunday, the last day of the festival. I could feel something in the air, some rare sensation almost touching on magic, the way I imagine birds must feel around certain flowers. Back in the gospel tent, a choir came in, all in blue robes, led by a tall slim black man in his late teens. The children who came in first were some of the youngest I had seen in my days in the gospel tent. Some of those little boys and girls were just five and six years old, not even in first grade, and they behaved better than any child that age I had ever witnessed. Soon four black women in blue skirts and white shirts were buzzing around, helping the little ones, shushing them, hugging the ones who were nervous or crying, helping them get in their right singing places. I couldn't take my eyes off one little girl who smiled from the moment she came in. Just being there was enough to make her happy.

That is how I want to live, I thought, I can be like that. I have that little girl somewhere inside my skinny, weeping self.

I'd read about this particular choir. Pastor Tanisse Jackson of the First Evening Star Church held Sunday services in an old filling station where the tanks had been removed. Pastor Tanisse and the First Evening Star Gospel Choir had opened their doors to children, teenagers, and adults-black and white-who needed something to hold them off the streets, and had given them a discipline that came from learning to sing together as a choir as best they could. Sunday mornings, she dished out donated meals of fried chicken, string beans, cornbread, and slices of coconut cake. During these dinners, Pastor Tanisse moved among the tables, greeting family members who had been convinced by their children to come to church. In a city filled with gospel choirs, the Times-Picayune wrote, the First Evening Star Gospel Choir rocked the roof like nobody else.

They sure did.

While all the singing I'd heard in that tent had been good, the First Evening Star Gospel Choir took jubilation to new heights. I thought the whole tent would explode, just be blown apart by all that energy and joy. My eyes were as tuned in as my ears, watching the little ones sing with their mouths wide open, totally focused on every movement of Pastor Tanisse's hands. If one of the young ones began to lose focus, the pastor would give her an eye. If one of the teenagers began to slouch, I could see her head nod toward him. My friend sitting next to me began to sway and call out, and I joined her, unable to stop myself. How could my life be unbearable when there was singing like this in the world?

When the First Evening Star Gospel Choir reached its thundering finale, I realized that I would most likely never see, let alone sit next to, my new friend again. While the choir lifted me up, the thought of losing another person in my life brought my tears back. I couldn't bear the thought that I would never again feel her soft wide flesh, her heavy arm, her huge bottom that spread out and touched my hips, just as I would never again feel Sweet's body beside me. I felt naked, terrified, at the thought of being separated from her. Without thinking, I grabbed her hand.

"Oh, don't go, please," I said. "You don't have to leave right away, do you?"

She sat back down, and I felt a wave of relief.

"I do got to be going home soon," she said. "This meetin' just about over."

"But-" I sat next to her, trying to think of what to say.

She took my hand and held it for a moment, looking into my eyes.

"You doin' much better, baby. I think you gonna make it now. We was worried 'bout you at first, but now you okay. You might not know it, but you gone be just fine."

"Thank you," I said.

"You don't need to thank me, baby. Just go on with your praying."

I watched her large chest expand as she took a deep breath. As she exhaled, she reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a flattened cigarette pack that looked empty. It was a green-and-white package of Kools with a book of matches slipped under the cellophane. She pressed it into my hand, and gave me a smile. Then she stood up and walked out of the tent.

I held up the pack to look inside. There was only one cigarette left. Her last smoke.

I was not a smoker, but I fished that crumpled cigarette out of the pack and lit it. I took a long, slow drag, which made me cough. Then I took a deep breath without the help of the cigarette, let it out, and felt my shoulders drop. It was the deepest breath I had taken in ages that did not end up in a sob.

I breathed in and out slowly and fully for the first time since I learned Sweet died. I breathed, watching the smoke from the cigarette in my hand curl up into the air. I watched it burn all the way down, then stubbed it out against the sole of my sandals. It was as though my friend had absorbed my sadness into her large body, shot it up to the Moon Lady, then let it fall back into herself fully cleansed. So the cigarette she gave was an invitation to breathe again, and a temporary memento of the days she sat by my side in a hot gospel tent filled with suffering turned into song and sent to God.

She was doing what M'Dear taught me to do with my hands-absorb the sadness, the grief of others into my own body, send it up to the Moon Lady, then breathe out a fresh breath.

On the way home, I looked up at the sky. "I need you tonight. I need to see you, La Luna," I whispered.

I remembered M'Dear's voice, telling me, "The moon, La Luna, is always there. Her pull is strong, strong enough to move the mighty Mississippi, Calla. The Moon Lady, La Luna, is your bridge from darkness to light. Trust in her strength."

I caught sight of the moon through the trees, and I prayed. Oh, Moon Lady, I need your strength. I need some way of just letting this be. I ask you to teach me acceptance. Help me to accept this hard death of Sweet.

And again M'Dear's voice filled my mind. "Look closely now," she said, "and wait. These are the two most important things I can tell you now. Look closely and wait."

Chapter 34.

1981.

Steve did some investigation for our case against the oil company. In his research he found out that something had fallen on Sweet during the explosion, and it hit his neck and head. I kept thinking about that, about my husband's bones, his tendons, his muscles. The thought of then holding someone else's head in my hands, well, it was more responsibility than I wanted right now. Just the weight of the skull, encasing the head. The muscles and bones. The top of the spinal column right there at the base of the neck. These precious parts terrified me. What if I hurt someone? It was all too much.

I had to tell Ricky that I couldn't work for a while. When I told him that he should maybe find someone else to replace me, he didn't speak at first. When he did, his voice was kind of husky.

"There is no replacing you, Calla."

When M'Dear died, I felt like a big safety net was torn apart. When I married Sweet, I felt that net start to mend. Then Sweet was killed, and the net was blown apart again. Now there was nothing underneath. My life was my high wire, and I had to build my own safety net. Let the Moon Lady weave it out of stronger material than I or anyone could devise.

I took M'Dear's words to heart. I looked closely, and I waited.

I walked, usually one to two hours a day at first, trying to think my way to the next step. I walked all around the Garden District until I cleared my mind of everything except the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other.

Then I wrote letters to the folks at home who were worried. They hadn't heard much at all from me since the funeral. Finally, it was time to write.

The best place was our porch in the mid-morning sunlight.

May 5, 1981

New Orleans

Dear Nelle, I can't thank you enough for coming down to be with me. First of all, to close the rink for a week. Everything you did gave me more hope. Your cooking-even though I know I didn't eat-made our home feel alive again for the first time since Sweet died. The smell of bell peppers and onions being sauteed, the early morning scent of bacon frying, made me remember that life had been good, and that it might be good again.

Our talks in the living room about Golden Princess and Mister Chaz doing well, but getting older. I miss them. This is the longest I've been away from home, and you're right. Maybe I should consider coming back some time soon. Will has offered to actually drive down, pick me up, and drive me to La Luna for the weekend. And drive me back to N.O. He is my sweet, quiet, sensitive brother, and when he plays his fiddle you know what kind of heart he has.

Not now, but maybe down the road, we'll talk more about my coming home and practicing beauty. Isn't it interesting that even though I've lived here in N.O. I still call La Luna my home? You're right, maybe because my roots are there my heart is there. Sweet & I used to talk about it-how we would have one child, or maybe two, and move back. This was before I knew that somehow it wasn't meant to be one of my blessings in this life.