The Scandalous Summer of Sissy LeBlanc (28 page)

into his pocket, but everyone saw it. And everyone had laughed. He

tried to brush it aside, as though it wasn’t important.

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Harlan Ratliff, Parker’s most reliable receiver on the football

team, had said, “Sissy, you have to understand, a man’s gotta be

prepared for any eventuality.” He nodded to Parker and Parker had

the nerve to nod back, as if they were both men of the world.

So Sissy slapped Parker and walked out. Rule Number Eleven:

The best way to get a boy to follow you is to walk out on him
. It

had always worked before and it did this time too, until his mother,

the wicked witch of the South, came charging out of the shoe store

on her broomstick and started yelling at Sissy and bawling out her

son in front of everybody.

Sissy ran across the railroad tracks and up Progress Street, hating

the old witch, hating Parker, hating everybody. She banged her ten-

nis shoes on the sidewalk and jumped in front of cars until she came

to the cemetery and stood beside Norman’s grave. She’d had the

idea she could talk to her brother if something really important

came up.

But when she brushed away all the leaves and looked at the bare

earth over the grave, she had that terrible moment of realization:

Norman was truly and permanently dead. Gone from this world.

Forever. No matter how much she needed him, he could never help

her again. A sadness welled up in her too deep for tears.

She walked back into town, to the newspaper office. Her mother

and grandmother were in New Orleans for yet another treatment

that never seemed to work. She wanted her daddy. Not that she

could talk to him about Parker, since she wasn’t even supposed to

have anything to do with Parker. But she needed to see him right

now. Just to be with him. He didn’t usually disappear into himself

at work.

Besides, deep down, she didn’t think he’d really mind. He was

still writing about Parker, predicting a great future, bringing in

sportswriters from as far away as New Orleans to see him play.

Parker had been wonderful when Norm died. And she knew how

much her whole family had appreciated it. He’d been over all the

time, running errands. Nothing was too much for him to do. He’d

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even driven her mother to New Orleans for a doctor’s appointment

when that awful pain in her stomach got worse.

Sissy remembered how her daddy had stuck up for Parker after

the funeral. Aunt Ida May, Tibor’s wife, had taken Sissy aside and

said in her most concerned voice, “Sugar, I just don’t understand

why a girl as attractive as you would want to be seen with that boy.

I mean, I know, he’s a football player and all, but my dear, he
is

Jewish.” Sissy responded in her own most concerned voice that

Jesus was Jewish and so was his whole family. “I don’t think Our

Lord would appreciate your insulting His Mother, do you?”

Her daddy had put his arm around her and said, “Well, Ida May,

it looks like our Sissy is a natural theologian.”

Aunt Ida May just pursed her lips. “You know this has nothing

to do with theology, Hugh, and you’d better watch your daughter.”

Sissy was thinking about how only her daddy understood her

when she walked into the newspaper office. The press was making

a terrible racket. She hated to be here when it was going. She put

her hands over her ears and looked around for her father. He was in

his glassed-off office with Buster Rubinstein, going over an adver-

tising layout for his store.

They looked up when she opened the door. “Not now, Sissy,”

her father yelled over the noise of the press. “Can’t you see we’re

working?”

“I’m sorry.” Sissy stood in the open door for a moment, without

moving.

“It’s not important, is it?” her father asked.

Sissy shook her head and turned on her heel.

“Close the door,” her father called after her.

Sissy stood on the sidewalk alone, berating herself. She should

have known better than to interrupt her daddy when he was selling

advertising. It wasn’t important. She just wanted to see him. His car

was at the curb. The keys would be behind the visor. She got in.

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Soon she was bouncing high and fast up over the ruts and chuck-

holes in the dirt road that wound out to the creek. She wondered if

she’d get into trouble for taking the car. Well, things couldn’t get

much worse.

She parked next to a field of goldenrod. She ran through it. The

tall, flame-colored flowers came up to her chest. Then she whirled

around, stirring up the pollen until it flew into the air. From a dis-

tance she thought she must look like she was swimming in the Lake

of Fire the Holy Rollers were so concerned about.

She walked through the woods to the creek with the bright

golden pollen still stuck to her clothes and hair. The scent of pine

comforted her and brought up memories of feelings. Happy feel-

ings. It was too cold to wade in the water, so she sat down on a pile

of leaves under the spreading branches of the live oak with the rope

swing tied to one of its broad, heavy limbs. Gray strands of Spanish

moss hung down through the leaves.

The afternoon sun slanted under the tree, warming her body in

her short purple and gold cheerleading outfit. She leaned back on

the nubby gray bark and held her face up to feel the heat. When she

opened her eyes she saw a flight of wild ducks sailing in formation

above the creek.

Sissy wished she could go with them, “wintering” in the tropics

like movie stars and spending the sweaty Louisiana summers in

Canada surrounded by polar bears.

She was thinking about polar bears lounging around in the sum-

mer sun as she pulled up her gold cheerleading sweater. Her tan

would be gone pretty soon. She looked down at her freckled tummy

and imagined it covered with white polar-bear hair. She thought

about unhooking her bra, too. But she’d never be able to explain

her brown breasts in the girl’s locker room. Amy Lou Hopper

would be sure to call her a nigger and tell everybody “Sissy’s been

painted with the tar brush.”

It was funny how the very people who called themselves Chris-

tians and carried on all the time about how we should love our

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neighbors, as soon as they wanted to insult you, called you a nigger-

lover. Maybe that’s why the coloreds had to live over in Butlertown,

so they didn’t count as neighbors. Sissy chuckled. Norman would

have loved that.

She wished she had someone to talk to, someone who saw things

the way they really were, instead of the way everybody said they

were. She thought about Parker. He’d been so convincing. She’d

really thought he was straight. Oh, to hell with him, the two-timing

louse. She wondered what he’d done with his “cousin.”

She stroked her chest and ran her hand underneath her bra. She

pinched and rubbed her nipples. They said it would give you acne.

She decided she’d risk it, but only this once.

She closed her eyes and rubbed the smooth skin on her stomach

with her right hand. She thought about Parker again. She remem-

bered those nights at the drive-in, when he’d slip his hand, covered

with butter and salt from the popcorn, into her blouse. But he’d

never touched her below the waist. He’d never even tried.

Had he really gone “all the way” with some girl in New Orleans?

Or just hoped to?

Sissy wondered what was wrong with her as she reached under

her short purple skirt and spanned her flat tummy with her hand.

Was she too scrawny? Sometimes the boys called her skinny. Maybe

Parker’s “cousin” was voluptuous, with big bosoms and soft hips.

She touched her right hipbone with the heel of her hand and her left

hip with her fingertips, spanning her flat tummy. Her little finger

strayed and reached under the elastic of her white cotton panties.

She wished her mama would let her buy black lace. When she was

on her own, she’d have drawers full of black lace panties, slips, and

nightgowns, just like Rita Hayworth.

Her finger touched the coarse hair growing under her under-

pants. Was she really going to hell? The Catholics had to confess all

this stuff. She rubbed the hairs with the palm of her hand. Funny

they were so coarse. She’d hate to have to tell some priest what she

was doing. She wondered if priests did it, too. How else could they

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stand their lives? Of course, she hadn’t seen many priests with pim-

ples. Actually, she hadn’t seen many priests.

Her fingers began to curl down to the place she didn’t have any

real words for. She shut her eyes tight and gave way to the sensa-

tions when she heard:

“Hey, girl, a pretty little thing like you shouldn’t have to do that

all by herself.”

The first thing Sissy saw was his gun and then the dogs.

She shot up in the air and was off. She pulled her gold sweater

down with one hand and pulled her white panties up with the other

as she ran across the sand.

The dog pack barked and nipped at her heels, running alongside

of her, crisscrossing in front of her, making her stumble. The hunter

yelled for her to stop, but she’d be darned if she was going to, even

though a stitch was burning into her left side. He yelled at her

again. Sissy ran into the wet sand, trying to make it around the

bend in the creek. Suddenly a gun blasted through the air. She froze.

The hunter came up to where she was standing and looked her

over. Then he held up a big paw and said, “I’m Bourrée LeBlanc.”

Sissy was stunned. “Peewee’s father?”

“Yeah, he’s one of mine.” She’d heard of him, of course. Bourrée

had a reputation even among the children, although they had a

hard time pinning down exactly what it was he’d done to deserve it.

They’d hear his name in connection with mumblings such as “It

serves her right for marrying a Cajun.” But when they’d ask what

he did that was so bad, the grownups would become very vague

and say things like “You’ll find out when you’re old enough.” Sissy

wondered if she were old enough yet.

She cautiously gave him her hand. He patted it and his eyes

sparkled dangerously in his dark Cajun face and his white teeth

gleamed. “Now, you listen to me, chère,” he said. “Don’t you let

nobody make you feel ashamed for what you was doing.”

She pulled her hand away and straightened her sweater. She

could feel her face getting hot.

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“It’s what makes us human. Look at this bitch.” He gestured

toward the black-and-gray dog trying to lick his hand. “She can

only have sex when she’s in rut. Then sure as shooting she’ll drop a

litter and have to spend all her time taking care of her pups. But

God in His Infinite Wisdom wanted us to be different. He wanted

our women to
enjoy
sex, all the time, with a partner, with a whole

lot of partners, or by herself, making never-no-mind whether any-

thing comes of it or not. What I can’t understand is why the preach-

ers want us to ignore God’s plan and act like animals.”

He bent down and patted the head of the black-and-gray dog

bouncing around next to him. “This bitch here, she don’t try to

mess with the Almighty’s design.”

Sissy was stunned. She’d hardly ever heard a grown-up talk sense

before. Never about religion and certainly not about sex! She fig-

ured she’d finally met someone who could teach her how things

really were. So when he said, “Come on,” she followed him to the

edge of the woods, to the makeshift duck blind.

He sat down on top of a patch of wild black-eyed Susans, break-

ing their stems and knocking them to the ground, and pulled a flask

out of his pack. “How old are you, girl?”

“Sixteen.” No sense lying, Peewee was in her class. He’d tell.

“Well, hell, you’re old enough.” He handed her the flask. Sissy

swallowed the sharp, amber liquid and was surprised at the kick.

She felt hot. He laughed. “That your first taste of moonshine?” She

nodded and handed it back to him. She felt dizzy. He tipped the

flask up and passed it back. “Nothing like it in the stores. It’s a hun-

dred proof. I was making it myself by the time I was your age.”

“Did people say you corrupted your classmates?”

He paused for a moment. “I did my best.” He gave her another

drink. Sissy savored his saying “I did my best.” It made her feel like

her part in corrupting Parker wasn’t so shameful after all. It was

simply wicked and wonderful.

“You ever killed anything?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, sir.”

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“There’s no thrill like it!”

She was close to him now. Close enough to smell the warm