The Scandalous Summer of Sissy LeBlanc (18 page)

“You want another?” Amy Lou asked.

“Think I should?”

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“Half a dose couldn’t hurt; it’s tonic.”Amy Lou poured him an

ounce and went over to the soda fountain and brought him back a

glass of water over cracked ice.

Peewee downed it. The drugstore became a warm and friendly

place. The smells of the sweet syrups and ice cream mixed with the

smells of dark oiled woods and medicinal agents brought back lay-

ers of memories. His eyes made another foray at the spectacular

prow displayed before him. Inches away. His fingertips were itching

to brush it once more.

“Can I do anything else for you?” Amy Lou asked.

Peewee’s eyes shot up. Could she read his mind? “No, thanks,

this will be fine.” But he was contemplating what she could do for

him when the door chimed again.

A voice called cheerfully, “Yoohoo, Amy Lou.” Wobbling a bit in

her ankle-strapped spike heels was Sister Betty Ruth Bodine, her

full skirt aflutter with ruffles, her hair done up in a blue bow.

Amy Lou sighed and climbed back up on the stool and reached

for another bottle of Hadacol.

“Make it the giant economy size, sugar,” said Sister Betty Ruth.

“How’s Brother Junior? I heard something about a radio show,”

said Amy Lou, without turning around.

“You heard right. He’s gonna be spreading the word of the Lord

far and wide. ‘Speak forth the words of truth and soberness,’ Acts

23, verse 25,” she said. “And while you’re up there, sugar, make it

two bottles, I don’t want to risk running out. I can’t tell you what a

blessing a dose is now and then.”

The tonic was making Peewee feel gregarious and belligerent at

the same time. He left the ladies and headed over to the prescription

counter. The more he thought about it, the more pissed he was that

Gentry’s greatest football star and war hero hadn’t even bothered

to say hello. Maybe they hadn’t been exactly friends, but they had

gone to high school together. The least he could have done was

wave. “Hey, Parker,” said Peewee when he got close enough, and

added for conversation’s sake, “What you doing here?”

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Parker hadn’t noticed Peewee.

“Here you go,” said Lester, handing him a package of Trojans.

But Parker, frozen at the sight of Peewee coming at him, shook his

head and Lester slid the condoms right back under the counter.

“What’re you getting?” asked Peewee.

Parker didn’t even flinch. “Aspirin,” he said in a deep, sure voice.

The way things were going with Sissy—or not going, he hadn’t even

seen her in three weeks—aspirin would be more useful anyway.

“Here you are, boy, double strength. I figured you’ll need it.” The

pharmacist handed him a big bottle.

“Thanks, Lester.” Parker took out his wallet.

Peewee picked up the bottle of aspirin, pretended to study it, and

said, as if it were an afterthought, “Found your tool belt.”

This time Parker flinched; in fact he positively winced. Lester

watched them, fascinated.

“Did you?” asked Parker trying to recover his composure, but

his voice was no longer deep. It cracked.

“Sure did.” Peewee felt great. And he was taking such pleasure in

making his high school nemesis, the Big Man on Campus, squirm.

Parker had no idea what Sissy had done with his tool belt and

was afraid to ask. Peewee wasn’t about to give anything away.

Lester was all ears and wished they’d hurry up and get on with it.

Finally, Parker said, “Thanks, Peewee.” His voice was deep and

resonant again. “Couldn’t remember where it had got to.”

“My front porch,” said Peewee.

“Right,” said Parker, “I remember now. I was working right out-

side your house and your wife was kind enough to offer me a glass

of water. I must have forgotten it. It was a real hot day.”

“I heard it was a Coke.”

“Uh?”

“The way I heard it, you and she were sitting on the porch drink-

ing Cokes.” His eyes were tight and suspicious.

“Could be,” said Parker, wondering what else Peewee had heard.

He pulled out a bill to pay the druggist when a tattered picture cut

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from an old high school yearbook fell out. Parker slapped his hand

down over it and tried to cover with a large theatrical cough. Lester

brought him a glass of water and a knowing look.

“What was it?”

“Oh, just an old . . .” Suddenly Parker stopped himself. Peewee

hadn’t seen the picture, he was still talking about what he and Sissy

were drinking over two weeks ago. As if anyone cared. And then

Parker had an idea, an idea that would solve his immediate prob-

lems, an idea so good he began to feel giddy. Palming the picture

and putting it behind Peewee’s back with an affectionate arm on his

shoulder, he said, “Tell you what, let’s go on over to your house and

ask Sissy. Maybe she’ll remember.”

Peewee started. “I don’t know, Parker, Sissy doesn’t like me

bringing people home at the last minute.”

“Oh hell, boy, I wouldn’t stay for dinner. I’ll just say hello and

pick up my tool belt. I’ll even pick up a six-pack. What do you

say?”

“Watch out for Satan!” Sister Betty Ruth had just consumed a

couple or three shot glasses of tonic and was wobbling over to the

prescription counter.

“We will,” Peewee said.

“We’ll make it our constant concern,” said Parker gaily, trying to

get his mouth straight.

“Don’t you laugh, Parker Davidson. Satan is walking abroad on

the streets of Gentry. I’ve seen him going toward your house and

heard his cloven heels.”

Parker remembered what a terror Betty Ruth had been in high

school and was filled with sadness at what she’d become. “Go easy

on the tonic, Betty Ruth,” he said as Lester brought out a bottle of

Miltown and put it in the bag with her Hadacol. Betty Ruth looked

up at him and the ghost of the girl she’d been drifted across her

face. But only for a moment.

“He’s right,” said Lester, his freckled hands resting in the pockets

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of his white pharmacist’s jacket. “I’d be seeing the devil, too, if I

were mixing this stuff with alcohol.”

“Lester Hopper, you take that back. You know as well as I do

that I haven’t touched a drop of liquor since I took the pledge and I

won’t listen to your lies about my tonic. The formula’s a secret, so

there! Satan is putting those ideas into your head. Why, this stuff is

as sweet as baby syrup.” She turned to Peewee. “I told you Satan

was abroad.”

“Come on, Peewee,” said Parker with his best good ol’ boy

aplomb.

Peewee still hesitated. “I don’t think tonight’s such a good idea.”

“Well, at least let me pick up my tool belt.”

Peewee didn’t know how he could deny him that, especially since

he’d brought it up.

Parker put his arm around Peewee’s shoulder and said confiden-

tially, “Besides, when you get a chance to save an old schoolmate

from Satan, you gotta take it. Sister Betty Ruth says he’s stalking

my house at this very minute.”

Without realizing it, Peewee had slipped back into the boy he

was in high school, the boy who would have done anything to be

accepted by Parker Davidson and the crowd he hung around with.

And now this same Parker Davidson had his arm around him and

was begging for an invitation to his house. What the hell, might be

a good thing to let him see him in the bosom of his family. Once he

saw how happy they were, he’d quit sniffing around Sissy.

Sissy shook a couple of drops of Tabasco sauce into a bowl of

beaten eggs and then tossed in as many pieces of chicken as would

fit. A cigarette dangled out of her mouth and moved around as she

talked. Clara, her hands protected by yellow rubber gloves, stood

at the sink washing iceberg lettuce and drying each lettuce leaf sep-

arately on a clean dish towel. They were discussing Yankee men.

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Clara wasn’t supposed to be working this late, but she’d stayed,

as she’d done for the past two weeks. Sissy suspected she was prac-

ticing her “white folks” speech and was glad to have her.

Sissy hadn’t realized how lonely she’d been. People had always

called her a man’s woman. At first, when she was in high school,

she’d been proud of that. It sounded cool. But who’s a man’s

woman supposed to hang out with once she’s married? If she hangs

out with men they call her a lot of other names, and she sure didn’t

crave the company of those church ladies from hell—Amy Lou

Hopper or Sister Betty Ruth Bodine.

Sissy spooned flour into a brown paper bag and shook salt and

pepper into it. It was more than loneliness that made Clara impor-

tant to her. Clara bustled around the house with a zest for life Sissy

had almost forgotten. She was always up on a ladder, cleaning the

molding around the high ceilings, washing the ceiling fans, or pol-

ishing the brass chandelier that hung over the dining room table. She

made the scuffed hardwood floors shine and never tired of waxing

and oiling the dark Victorian furniture. Coming from nothing, she

was experiencing her first chance to care for beautiful things.

Clara’s constant caressing of her furniture, arranging the antimacas-

sars, smoothing out the flowered slipcovers, stirred in Sissy a desire

to fix up her home, which had suffered from her long malaise. Dur-

ing Clara’s second week, they took all the oriental rugs outside, hung

them on the line, and beat them. Marilee and Billy Joe joined them in

a frenzy of satisfying swatting and whacking and smacking until they

all felt empty and giddy and were covered in a rich layer of dust.

Best of all, Clara asked Sissy for advice. Except for her children,

nobody ever asked Sissy’s advice anymore. It made her feel smart.

And they shared a daydream. Sissy thought of it as the Great

Chicago Fantasy.

It had started the morning Clara brought the University of

Chicago catalog to work and asked Sissy what some of the courses

were: Advanced Semantics, Beginning Etymology, Epistemology.

Sissy hadn’t had a clue, except she’d thought semantics had some-

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thing to do with Jews. But a course on Advanced Jews hadn’t made

much sense.

A moldy dictionary, holding up a leg of the couch, had not eluci-

dated: “Pert. to a study of meaning. A branch of semiotics dealing

with relationships of signs and symbols to the things to which they

denote. See semasiology.”

“I know I’ve always wanted to learn about that,” Clara had said.

Then Sissy remembered her father had given the children an old

set of encyclopedias. With Marilee looking on, the two women

pulled them down from a high shelf in the boys’ room, wiped off

the dust, and looked up semantics. Or rather Clara had. Sissy, with

Marilee in her lap, had been busy with Volume C—Chicago—and

then Clara had wanted to see that, too.

But the encyclopedia had been written in the thirties, so when

Sissy took Marilee to see the story lady at the library, she checked

out everything she could find on Chicago. The public library was

open to all, but only whites could check out books.

Together Sissy and Clara pored over pictures of sailboats on Lake

Michigan, concerts in Grant Park, and skyscrapers on Lake Shore

Drive with smartly dressed people streaming out of them. Sissy

imagined Clara riding along the shore of Lake Michigan on the

back of a motorcycle driven by the stud in the soap opera. And then

she put herself in Clara’s place and felt her auburn hair flying in the

wind. But when she wrapped her arms around him, he always had

Parker’s back and Parker’s shoulders and Parker’s waist.

They argued endlessly about what courses Clara should take,

how to spend her weekends, and what to wear in the snow. Myste-

rious adventures in smoky jazz clubs beckoned.

Sissy dropped chicken parts coated with egg into the paper bag

with flour in it, and shook it as she free-associated about all the

Yankee men Clara would soon meet.

But that made Clara anxious. “I just hope I don’t make a fool of

myself.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” And then without knowing why, she quoted

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Rule Number Eleven:
Men find themselves the most fascinating

subject of any conversation. When in doubt, let him talk about

himself
. It was the first time she’d ever told anyone about the

Southern Belle’s Handbook or spoken a rule out loud.

“Handbook?”

“Well, it’s my own rules of behavior. You know, how to attract

men and get them to do what you want. And most important,

once you’ve got them, how to stop them from stepping on you.

Seems like that’s been my curse since I was seventeen. I thought

calling it the Southern Belle’s Handbook was sort of humorous. I