Read The Scandalous Summer of Sissy LeBlanc Online
Authors: Loraine Despres
Tags: #Loraine Despres - Scandalous Summer of Sissy LeBlanc 356p 9780060505882 0060505885, #ISBN 0-688-17389-6, #ISBN 0-06-050588-5 (pbk.)
believe her motives were pure bunny love wasn’t worth praying to.
Sissy switched on the radio, but instead of music, the one clear
station was filled with news of Germans and Englishmen slaughter-
ing each other over in some unpronounceable place in Africa. She
switched it off.
Shadows were filling up the silent room, but she didn’t bother to
turn on the lights. She just sat there, waiting in the dark.
“Are you sure?” Bourrée had asked over the phone.
“I’m sure.”
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There was a long pause, then: “Now, don’t you worry about a
thing, little girl, I’ll take care of you.”
So here she was waiting for him again, in the rain. This time she
was standing in front of the library in the dark, her raincoat but-
toned up to her chin, burdened down with a stack of library books
she’d chosen to give herself an alibi. Where was he? He said he’d be
here right after supper. She remembered their last meeting under the
live oak and she felt nauseous. But he wouldn’t be like that tonight.
That time was her fault. She’d scared him by going over to his
house like that. Tonight would be different. Wouldn’t it? She took a
series of deep breaths, but the nausea wouldn’t go away.
The rain fell on her cheeks and dripped over her nose. She wiped
her face with the back of her hand. Where was he?
She walked back and forth under the awning. No matter what
other options she played around with in her head, since the first day
she’d missed her period, she knew she would have to have an abor-
tion. She was going to college next year.
But how? Girls died. Girls died in childbirth, too.
A year ago Sissy never thought about death and now it was all
around her. Images from her favorite childhood story, “The Water
Babies,” had invaded her dreams. Except these babies were floating
faceup. Dead. Her brother Norman. Her mother. The rest of the
dead babies were wearing her face.
Betty Ruth said she knew someone who went to a clinic in Mex-
ico. But, my God, the whole country’s Catholic, and besides it isn’t
even safe to drink the water down there.
Maybe he can fix it with some doctor around here. She’d heard
about doctors who did abortions at night right in their offices. But
it was supposed to be awful. She imagined the shades down, the
lights dim, the doctor’s hands shaking, and everybody scared of get-
ting caught, scared of what would happen if his hand slipped.
But Bourrée was connected. He could put a fix in at some hospi-
tal in New Orleans or Baton Rouge. Her grandmother had told her
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about doctors certifying it was for some kind of female problem.
And it was all perfectly legal. All you had to do was find the right
doctor. Bourrée would know the one, if anybody would. They
called it a “c and d” or a “d and c” or something.
Finally he pulled over in his old pickup. He reached across the
seat and opened the door for her. “You look like a cat that just
crawled out of a ditch.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” she said, climbing up into the truck.
“It was nice of you to show up.”
“What’s a matter, sugar? Don’t you think ole Bourrée’s gonna
take care of you?”
“Are you?” she asked hoarsely.
“I surely am,” he said as he drove through town. Sissy started to
ask where they were going and then realized he was heading
toward the creek. Is he taking me back there to ask me what I want
to do? Or to talk me into an abortion? The memory of the night in
her yard came back to her. He wouldn’t try to do that again. Not
when I’m like this. She slid away from him and pressed herself
against the door. But he didn’t seem to notice. Then he drove right
past the Big Creek cutoff and turned onto a two-lane blacktop.
“Where’re we going?”
“To get rid of your little problem, sugar.”
“Tonight!”
“What’d you think?”
“I thought we were going to talk about it. Agree on a plan.”
“No sense pussyfooting around. The sooner you take care of it,
the better. Besides, you don’t want that thing festering inside you
any longer than absolutely necessary.”
“Where are we going?”
“Now, why don’t you just leave that to me.”
They drove past a Negro bar. Sissy could hear the band playing
as if nothing at all important were happening.
Bourrée turned off the blacktop and onto a dirt road.
“There aren’t any doctors out here!” she screamed as the truck
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bounced and bucked over the ruts and potholes. He didn’t say any-
thing. He just squinted through the rain at what was left of the
road. An edge of hysteria was creeping into her voice, and a tic was
making her leg jump. “You’ve got to take me back. I can’t do it
tonight! My parents expect me to sleep at home.”
“Where else you gonna sleep? In the fields?” He saw her staring
at him, her green eyes wide with fright. “It don’t take that long,
sugar.”
“But with the anesthetics and all . . . ?”
Bourrée laughed and patted her bouncing knee. “A young thing
like you don’t need anesthetics. Just grit your teeth.”
He pulled up to an unpainted shotgun cottage in the middle of
some fields. Sissy stared in horror at the rusting tin roof and the
sagging porch with dangerous, decaying stairs. An old Model A
Ford missing a fender and a couple of wheels was stuck in the mud.
A cracked sink was lying in a junk pile next to it.
“I’m not going in there.”
“Course you are,” he said, cutting the lights.
“I thought you were taking me to a doctor.”
“What doctor?”
“My grandmother says there are doctors and hospitals, too,
where a girl can go and they’ll certify you were just having a female
operation.”
“Belle tell you the name of any of those brave hospitals or their
intrepid doctors?”
Sissy shook her head feeling stupid, “No, but . . .”
“Well, I don’t know ’em, neither.” Bourrée had dropped the
speech he used around town and, as he often did in times of stress,
had fallen into the raw vernacular of his youth. “Now, don’t you
worry none about a doctor. Abortion’s a fact of nature. Girls have
been getting rid of their little bundles since before there was doc-
tors.”
“Girls have been dying . . .” Her voice caught on the word.
He laughed, mocking her. “Aunt Sarah’s not gonna kill you,
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Sissy. Hell, she’s been in business for years and years and never lost
a girl that I’ve heard of. So come on, get out. You’ll be fine.”
Bourrée got out of the truck, walked all the way around in the
mud and opened her door. The rain was coming down in sheets.
“Get out, girl.”
Sissy sat looking straight ahead.
“Dammit, Sissy, get out, I’m getting mired down in all this mud.”
Sissy didn’t move.
He grabbed her arm and jerked her out. “Act sensible, girl, ’cause
there ain’t nothing else you can do.” And he led her up the rotting
stairs.
“Aunt Sarah.” His voice boomed as he pushed Sissy into the
house. The screen door banged behind them. The rain was making
a racket on the tin roof, so he called again.
Sissy tried to pull out of his grip when a stout Negro in a white
uniform came out of a back room, wiping her hands on a bloody
apron. She was in her late fifties. She squinted at them as she
walked through the kitchen. And then a big smile spread across her
face. “Mr. Bourrée, I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“How you been keeping yourself, Sarah?”
“Busy, real busy.”
“This here little girl went and got herself in trouble,” he said,
pushing Sissy toward her. “Think you can help her out?”
“I always got time for one of your gals, Mr. Bourrée, you know
that, but,” she said, turning to Sissy, “I’m afraid you’re gonna have
to wait. I’m working on a little gal right now.”
Sissy smelled liquor on her breath and wondered how many of
Bourrée’s “gals” Aunt Sarah had worked on.
“That’s okay. Take your time,” Bourrée said expansively.
Sissy shook her head. “Maybe we better come back tomorrow.
My parents think I’m at the library, and they’ll worry if I come
home too late.”
Bourrée laughed and tightened his grip. “Oh, you’ll come up
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with a story for your parents. I have faith in you.” He winked at
Sarah.
“You all sit down and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be with
you in just a little while.” Sarah went back through the kitchen.
When she opened the door, Sissy caught a glimpse of a skinny
brown leg, tied with a rope to a table covered in old newspapers.
Her heart began to race. “I’m not staying here.”
“Now don’t you worry,” Bourrée said in a calming voice. “If
anyone knows what she’s doing, Aunt Sarah does.” He squeezed
Sissy’s shoulder reassuringly as he took her raincoat and hung it on
the coat rack by the door. He pointed to a chair and said, “Sit
down, chère. A girl in your condition shouldn’t be on her feet.”
Sissy sat down on the edge of an old wooden rocking chair. Bour-
rée leaned over and patted her on the knee. “Good girl, I’ll be back
for you around midnight.”
Sissy jumped up. “What!”
“Don’t worry. I’m not gonna leave you here forever.” He opened
the front door.
“Aren’t you gonna wait and make sure I’m all right?” It didn’t
look like it. She heard herself pleading, “Bourrée, please don’t leave
me alone. I can’t stand it.”
“Now, honey, I’ve got business to attend to. Besides, what am I
gonna do around here while you’re getting yourself fixed?”
She grabbed the back of his hunting jacket. He turned and took
her shoulders in his hands. His voice was harsh. “Be sensible, girl,
you don’t have no choice.” And with that, he twisted out of her
grip. The screen door banged behind him.
For a moment she was too stunned to move; then she ran outside,
only to see him climb in the truck and slam it into gear. She ran,
stumbling, through the front yard. The truck leaped forward and
splattered her with mud.
Sissy went back inside. There wasn’t much furniture in the front
room: a couch with a Bleeding Heart of Jesus hanging above it, a
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couple of chairs with the stuffing coming out, and a scratched cof-
fee table. “At least it’s swept out and clean,” she said aloud, trying
to cheer herself up. She sat back down on the old wooden rocking
chair, but as soon as she took the pressure off, her leg began to jerk.
She had to rock back and forth, back and forth.
Then the screams began. The terror of the girl tied to the table
behind the kitchen called out to her and Sissy answered with silent
screams of her own. Her mouth became so dry, her tongue stuck
to it.
She got up and went into the kitchen, where she took a glass out
of the drainer. It was coated with a thin film of buttermilk. Behind
the curtains, beneath the sink, the trash can was overflowing.
Newspapers clotted with blood were hanging from the edge and
falling out. Sissy looked down and saw the blood from a balled-up
newspaper drip onto her shoe. She screamed out loud.
Her scream was drowned out by louder ones behind the door.
The fear coming from the back room had turned to searing pain.
Aunt Sarah sharply ordered the girl to hush up. What was that
woman doing? Sissy had no idea how abortions were performed.
She’d heard of girls using coat hangers on themselves. The image of
a serrated kitchen spoon dripping with blood and buttermilk came
unbidden into her mind. “You don’t have no choice.” She wiped
her shoe on the sink curtains. When she stood up, a tall boy—a year
or two older than she—was standing over her, weaving.
“Well, well, look who’s come to call. You waiting for my mama?”
Sissy nodded and tried to say yes, but she couldn’t make any
words come.
“Then I guess I knows what you been doing.” The boy was
drunk and thought he was hilarious. He slapped his leg at his own
joke.
Sissy tried to edge out of his way. But as she edged to the left, he
followed her, putting up his right arm to cut her off. He leaned over
her. She could smell his fetid breath. “Where’s your boyfriend? He
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take off so he won’t have to partake in the consequences in case my
mama’s hand slips?”
Sissy edged to the right. He almost let her go, but when her back
was to the wall he took her by the arm. “You ever try dark meat?”
Sissy pulled herself up and, in her best imitation of her grand-
mother doing her high and mighty act, said, “Would you please
move aside and let me pass.”
But the drunken boy was not about to be intimidated. All the
constraints that protected white women and kept them safe in col-