"My goodness, y'all," I said, "those girls risk slipping off, in slick taffeta gowns, and being crushed under the wheels!"

"I bet those hoods are hot!" Sukey said, then took a big sip of Diet Coke.

"Oh, my God!" Ricky said, "look at them! Those poor girls are having to rock from side to side, trying to cool off the right cheek while they lean to the left. That is just butt torture."

"That takes skill, y'all," Sukey said.

"No kidding," I added. "I've heard one year an attendant's pantyhose melted-actually fused to the hood of the car. Think of what that did to her behind."

We all started laughing hysterically, holding on to the arms of our lawn chairs. "There's a lawsuit somewhere in there," Steve said, barely able to talk.

As the festival royalty passed, the folks who were lined up on the sidewalk flung candy at them. A man walking in Earth Shoes picked up some of the candy and pretended to feed it to the statue of the Infant of Prague that he was carrying in a basket.

"Uh-oh, I hope the baby Jesus doesn't get a case of the chewdalooskas," Sukey said. That's what her mama used to tell us we'd get if we ate too much candy.

Of course, that set the four of us off into more fits of laughter. Then we watched the parade for another hour, and headed to the Yamatorium.

As we walked down the residential streets off the main parade route, there was a nip in the air. Sweater weather. Enough to make you feel alive with a new season.

All of a sudden, I ached to have Tuck next to me, holding my hand as we walked. I remembered when he'd taken me to this festival all those years ago. It had been the day after he'd made two touchdowns for La Luna High. I can still remember the crowd yelling, "Go Snake Boy! Bite 'em, Snake Boy!"

The memory of that made me giggle a bit. My friends turned to me. "Do you know a secret that we don't?" Ricky asked.

"No," I said. "Still thinking of the parade. Why don't the three of y'all head on over to the Yamatorium, and I'll meet you there."

"But Calla," Steve said, "you'll never find us. Not with this massive crowd of yam fans."

"Oh, leave her alone," Sukey said and looked at me. "Meet us back at the car, Calla. It's easy enough to find."

Then I walked along the streets by myself, with the memory of Tuck's hand in mine. The smell of his leather letter jacket, the way we'd stop and kiss every ten or twelve steps. All that we'd already been through at such a young age made something like a yam festival silly, fun, and precious.

I stopped abruptly for a moment at the sound of a distant car horn. It pulled me out of my reverie, and I felt such a complex weave of grief, guilt, love, and longing that I could barely stand. I found the nearest place where I could sit on a curb.

I'm sorry, Sweet. I miss you, I want you, I would give anything if you were still alive. Forgive me for this longing that I still carry like a stone in a beautiful basket. I still want him. I still want Tuck. How does that feel to you, now that you are on the other side?

I stood up and resumed my walking. It felt good to move my body, to feel its muscles and bones work together. I felt myself moving into a dance. Du plus profond de mon coeur, from the bottom of my heart. I was in my own world when I heard a little boy say, "What is she doing?" I opened my eyes to see a towheaded five-year-old wearing very small cowboy boots. His hair was blond and curly. A combination, I thought, of what Tuck's and Sweet's hair might be if they were combined. And that longing for a baby rose back up in me so strongly I had to wrap my arms around my waist as I forced a smile toward his mother.

Had I lost my chance to have a child? Would I ever love someone in that way again? I watched as the mother and her little boy walked off, the sight of his small cowboy boots staying in my mind.

I'm sorry, Sweet, but I know now that I'm still alive and I still want. And the one I want I may never ever see again. But at least now I have admitted it to myself, and to you.

Chapter 41.

NOVEMBER 1984.

Olivia was the one who found him. Though she was in her seventies, she still came over to prepare meals for Miz Lizbeth and him. She told me later that the chickens were flapping around him on the ground, like they were trying to wake him up. The doctor said that Uncle Tucker had died of a heart attack.

Tuck never got a chance to see his grandfather one last time before he died.

Within an hour, the news of Bernard Tucker's death was all over La Luna. Businesses closed, and people came in from the fields to be together and mourn. That's how beloved Uncle Tucker was. When I called the fishing camp to tell Papa, he broke down in tears.

"Calla," he said, "I have lost my friend. You don't get another one like Tucker. Only one in your life. And now he's gone."

Papa asked me to come and pick him up, since he didn't trust himself to drive. On the way, I thought about how Papa and I had lost M'Dear, how I had lost Sweet, how Papa had lost his closest buddy, and how Miz Lizbeth had lost Uncle Tucker .

I'm sure I'm not the only person to notice that the most segregated hours of the week are Sunday mornings, when black and white worshippers head off to different churches. It was true in La Luna as well, where the pews at Our Lady of the River usually held a sea of white faces. But on the day of Uncle Tucker's funeral, at least a third of those faces were dark-all sitting at the back of the church, like they always did when they came to a white church. Many of them worked at the La Luna cotton gin that Uncle Tucker owned. They'd picked cotton, starting probably when they were six or seven years old, and as they grew up, they worked on the tractors, then in the combines-running the gin, alongside Uncle Tucker.

My papa was invited to sit up front to bid his old friend good-bye. Aunt Helen was sitting next to Uncle Richard, who came out for the occasion. Sonny Boy and Will and their families were sitting all in one row, near the confession booths with Eddie and Renee and their kids. Sukey and her mama sat across the aisle.

I deliberately chose to sit next to Olivia and Pana. The two of them had loved Uncle Tucker so much, and taken care of him for so many years, and yet no one had thought to ask them to sit up front. M'Dear did not like the custom of black people sitting in the back, and neither did I.

In addition to grieving for the old man they loved, the church was buzzing over the fact that Tuck had returned to La Luna for the funeral. Tuck the big-time lawyer, pride of La Luna, now coming home for the first time in years. I'd heard from Eddie that Tuck had flown into Claiborne, rented a car, and driven to La Luna. Eddie also told me that Tuck was recently divorced. I was truly sorry to hear that.

And then, there he was. Marching right past me down the center aisle, staring straight ahead. He took his place in the front pew with Uncle Tucker's other surviving relatives. We all noted that Tuck's mother, Charlotte, was not there. Nobody knew what had become of her.

I must have flushed bright red when I saw Tuck, because Olivia reached over and placed her hand on my arm. Sukey and Renee kept turning around to look at me. Renee shot me her famous one-eyed stare. This could mean anything from "Watch yourself," when she turned it on Eddie or the kids, to warm encouragement, which is what I was getting. Sukey kept making faces at me, but subtly, so as not to disrespect Uncle Tucker.

Throughout the Mass, Tuck faced his grandfather's coffin. Now and then, he bowed his head to bury his face in his hands. Then, after the sermon, Father Gerard asked Tuck to come to the podium to deliver the eulogy. When he stood up to talk, I gasped and covered my face with my handkerchief.

I'd dearly loved Uncle Tucker. He was like a grandfather to me and like a second father to Papa. I don't know what would have happened to my father after M'Dear's death if Uncle Tucker hadn't been around. I'd cried long and hard for Uncle Tucker, but now I also had to hide my emotions at seeing Tuck for the first time in a decade. His face hadn't changed much at all. It was more angular, with cheekbones more pronounced than when he was in his teens. His thick blond hair was shorter and more carefully shaped than when I knew him. Definitely an urban professional cut.

His tailored suit hung well on his tall, lanky body. But the language of his body contradicted his sophisticated image. My body immediately responded to his, a deep animal identification with what he must have been going through. He held his arms behind his back. I feel the shaking of your hands. He dropped his head and took a deep breath. I can feel the tightness in your shoulders. A hush fell over the church as Tuck paused to compose himself, with the discipline of a well-trained lawyer. Then he looked up and took in the different faces around the church.

"Thank you all for coming here today to say good-bye to my grandfather, Bernard Tucker," he began. "He was 'Uncle Tucker' to many of you, and he was a true papa to me. I know you all might think I broke his heart by not coming back to La Luna. I can tell you that it was done out of love, between Papa Tucker and me, a love which maybe only one or two other people might understand. Finishing college and law school was a dream for me, for my mother, Charlotte Tucker LeBlanc, and for all my family. All I can say is that I'm speaking for Papa Tucker at his own request, delivered through Father Gerard. My mother isn't here today. But I'd like to think that I'm representing her as well.

"Papa would appreciate y'all being here because he loved La Luna. And he earned your love in return. As you know, he was a man who gave a lot and didn't keep score."

Tuck closed his eyes for a split second. I feel the tears being held back. I know.

"Papa was born and raised here. He met and fell in love with my grandmother, Miz Lizbeth. The two of them were always the greatest of companions. My mother, Charlotte, was their only child. She left La Luna when she was eighteen. I left La Luna when I was eighteen. Both of us went looking for something better, but a lot of what we found was simply harder."

Tuck seemed so vulnerable and wounded that I could sense my body leaning toward his, willing him to go on. I could feel a ripple pass through Olivia beside me, acknowledging Tuck's frailty. It was as if the two of us had become a silent chorus for him.

"Papa and Miz Lizbeth took me in with open arms when things were not good-not good at all-with my parents."

I guessed that Tuck didn't even want to mention his father.

"They fed me good food from the La Luna earth, put me in the fields, loved me, and managed to make sure that I still had plenty of time to ride horses, play football, make friends, and enjoy high school. Papa Tucker taught me to hunt and fish at his beloved 'Camp David,' where at night a lot of y'all here would cook duck gumbo and play cards. Y'all were what made Papa's life such a rich one. And mine too, back then. It was the first time in my life that I'd ever been among generous men who actually loved each other and who were willing to welcome in a confused young man. I can't say that I've seen much of that since I left La Luna."

Some of the older men in the audience, mostly in their seventies and eighties, squirmed in their pews. A few were trying to stay pokerfaced, others nodded in agreement, and even more were blowing their noses and dabbing their eyes. My papa was one who let tears roll down his face.

"But it wasn't just hunting and fishing that Papa taught me about being a man. He taught me that kindness is more important than anything-that what you do and how you treat people means more than what your last name is. That's a lesson I've had to keep on learning. And he taught me a tough lesson: that the largest part of kindness is to ask for it when you need it, and to give it whenever you can. And he taught me an even tougher lesson in the end-that the highest form of kindness is to ask forgiveness and-"

Tucker's voice broke in a sob. He covered his eyes with his hands. For a moment, the whole gathering held its breath.

He looked back out and continued. "He taught me that true kindness includes the ability to ask for forgiveness, and to forgive."

I watched Miz Lizbeth as she ever so slightly touched her short widow's veil.

"As a boy growing up, I did my best to listen to Papa. I trusted him. He always wanted the best for me-no matter what it cost."

I couldn't tell if I was imagining it, but it seemed that Tuck was now staring straight at me.

"It took me a while to understand Papa's lessons on being a man in the truest sense. He raised loving a woman to an art form. I'm seeing that the way he treated my grandmother-so different from the way my own mother was treated-was gallant, a word Papa Tucker would never have used himself."

Olivia, who'd been getting worked up in her seat, called out, "Amen!"

The attendants, most all of them white, were not used to shouting in church, and a good number of people crooked their heads around. I figured there would be some sore necks in La Luna the next day.

"Thank you, Olivia," Tucker said, and smiled.

"My grandfather knew most everyone, and most everyone knew him. Sitting up here is Will Ponder. While Will is easily twenty years his junior, their friendship was solid and true.

"The man who Papa Tucker was closest to is sitting in the back-'Pana,' Papa Tucker's name for him when Papa was around four years old. We white people just kept on calling him that. James LaVergne is his given name and he is as fine a man as I've been honored to meet. And he's patient enough with us to let us keep calling him Pana."

Tuck looked out at us, and with what sounded like forced cheerfulness, said, "I'll end by saying that I was lucky to have been loved by Papa Tucker. And by you, Miz Lizbeth. And by you, La Luna." He smiled. "How about we say a silent prayer, then head on over to the Ponders', where I hear there is a cochon de lait waiting for us."

We bowed our heads in prayer, eyes closed. But I couldn't resist keeping mine open. I guess I thought I might have a chance to see Tuck when he didn't know I was looking at him. Opening my eyes, though, I saw his eyes glance quickly at the back door of the church, where a woman in a blue skirt was quickly exiting. The look on his face was one of such pain and longing that it made me feel ill to witness it.

I knew who it was. I had wondered if she would come. I feel the pull toward your mother. All pulls toward the mother have something in common. I watched him. What could he do? Run down the aisle to try and stop her before she could get away? But he did not run, and instead stood solemnly at the podium.

The look on Tuck's face: loss, longing, letting go. I know what these are. These years of good-bye. These times of good-byes. I thought of Sweet's funeral. It hurts to hold on to anger. And I realized that I could no longer be angry at Tuck. In the presence of his grief, my anger turned back into love.

After we left the church, when we were all at Uncle Tucker's grave-side and Father Gerard was commending him to the earth, Tuck kept staring at me. I noticed he was clutching a small, clear vase of irises, and I wondered where he had gotten them. It was well past the season for them, and- I stifled a gasp as I suddenly recalled another bouquet of irises at Sweet's funeral.

When we all took a handful of dirt and tossed it into Uncle Tucker's grave, Tuck's hand brushed against mine. The contact was electrifying. I stared mutely at my hand, and when Tuck removed the irises from the vase and dropped them carefully onto the coffin, it sent a shiver through my whole body.

I told myself, "We're celebrating Uncle Tucker, as Tuck well knows. We cannot be thinking about each other."

When the ceremony was done, I got into my old Mustang with Sukey and her mother. Sukey, as usual, asked, "Okay, Calla, what's up?"

"Nothing," I said.

"Come on, I could feel the vibrations between you and Tuck."

"That's just your imagination."

"Bull," Sukey started. But thankfully, her mother told her, "Sukey, have some respect and leave the girl alone."

When we got home, I changed out of my black funeral dress and into the charcoal gray outfit that Sukey had bought me back in New Orleans.

And I began to pray, this time to Sweet. Sweet, my beloved, my husband, my heart is going out to this man who I no longer know. Oh, Sweet, give me guidance if you can.

I keep seeing you and me eating leftover gumbo and laughing. You, in your clean brown pants and your sleeves rolled up, with your face all tanned and kind. Bless your sweet soul, bless how you told me, "I'll love you, Calla Lily Ponder, in each and every way, each and every day, until the day I die." You did that, my love. So how can I open up my heart to the past?

Then I felt a sense of peace flow through me, like a blessing. Dear Sweet had always filled me with calm and certainty, along with passionate desire. Never with the wild adolescent confusion that I'd felt with Tuck. I had never doubted that Sweet deserved love and trust. But Tuck had betrayed me-how much, I wasn't sure-and in some ways that were profound.

The sense of peace faded, and I took it as a sign that my Sweet, my beloved riverboat pilot, was telling me to chart my own course.

In most of the United States, roasting a pig outdoors on a spit is not your usual approach for cooking funeral food. Where I come from in Louisiana, a cochon de lait, a pig roast gathering , is expected. M'Dear and Miz Lizbeth weren't born in La Luna, but Papa Tucker was. He could never rest in peace without the traditional farewell.

My papa said he would host it at our family's home. Since it was my house now, I was more or less expected to help out, so I did. Besides, it had been years since I'd been part of a cochon de lait.

Pana slaughtered the pig, something he rarely ever did anymore. Butchering was hard work, and he was in his eighties. Besides, the older he got, the less he liked to see blood. He no longer even raised chickens to eat, he just raised them for the eggs. But on the day that Uncle Tucker passed, Pana let it be known that he would honor his oldest friend by personally slaughtering the pig.

Two days before Uncle Tucker's funeral, Pana and my papa sat in lawn chairs out behind the house and helped coach Pana's grandsons and Sonny Boy and Will through all the steps of the old-time ritual. Pana was very specific about how things should be done. My father, who had learned from Pana, followed the old ways to the letter.

After Pana slaughtered the hundred-pound pig, they prepared it for seasoning. Inside and out were salt and pepper, and dozens of cloves of garlic that had been dipped in a seasoning, the recipe for which had been passed down in Pana's family for ages. Then the marinade took some cooking up, with no shortcuts. Finally, they shot the secret marinade into the pig before it was packed on ice. No one knew what was in that marinade, but one major ingredient was hot sauce-and not one you could buy at the store.

The day before the funeral, they dug a big fire pit in my backyard, filling it with pecan wood and sugarcane. They drove the heavy spit supports into the ground and stuck the spit through the pig to roast.

At three in the morning, the smell of smoke from the fire pit woke me up. By then the coals were ready, and soon the aroma of roasting pig came drifting in. I wondered if Tuck was sleeping, or if he too was awakened by the smell. He was just next door, and if the bedroom window was even slightly cracked, he must be breathing in the tantalizing aroma, a Louisiana scent that he'd never smell in San Francisco, no matter how many fine chefs might cook in that city.

By the time we got back from the cemetery, the smell of that pig tickling your nose was so good that your mouth couldn't stop watering, even in our sadness.

Everyone was told to gather at my place at three. Pana and Olivia's daughter, Bertha, had stayed at the house to receive dropped-off food.

Coleslaw and potato salad; green-bean-and-onion and spinach casseroles; succotash; carrot and raisin and three-bean salads; different Jell-O molds made with mandarin oranges, cottage cheese, and pineapple; plus good, crusty French bread with cheese.

Then there were the desserts-all kinds of pies, including pecan, banana, and coconut cream; and carrot, lemon, poppy seed, and sour cream pound cakes.

What a feast!

My stomach had felt a bit churned up, but when Papa made me up a plate of pork, the tantalizing aroma woke up my appetite. The skin of the pig was perfectly crisp, and the inside well done and spiced.

"Papa," I said, "never in my life have I eaten anything so wonderful."

"Well," Papa said with tears in his eyes, "there's nothing like the true old ways."

Cochon de lait is just one of the old ways of my homeland, Louisiana, which makes us a world unto ourselves, and maybe not like the rest of America-and maybe not like the modern world. I sometimes feel that way myself.

Chapter 42.