The Scandalous Summer of Sissy LeBlanc (45 page)

swirled around her face in the wind.

She turned coughing, gasping for breath. Her eyes burned and

teared, blinding her. She ran back down the steps, when suddenly a

strand of flaming moss dropped onto her choir robe.

In seconds, she could smell the cheap synthetic fabric ignite. She

screamed and tried to pull the choir robe off. But the hook that held

the vestment tightly around her neck was stuck. She grasped the

collar in both hands and pulled at her throat. She was flailing, tear-

ing at the robe, when she smelled the awful stench of burning hair.

Her hair.

She fell to the ground, thrashing about. But the dry pine needles

beneath her ignited and Sissy found herself rolling in a bed of flame.

Hysteria seized her throat and choked her.

Strong arms reached through the flames. Parker lifted her out of

the burning bed of pine needles and ran with her to the sand.

He was coughing as he turned her over onto her stomach. She felt

him beat on her back with his bare hands. He ripped through the

choir robe and tore the burning garment away from the collar.

His shirt began to smolder, but he ignored it as he rolled her over

in the sand, picked her up and ran with her, stumbling across the

deep, broad beach until he finally reached the water.

After the first shock, the cold water eased the pain between her

shoulders and comforted her. She began to breathe again. She

opened his shirt to see if he’d been burned. But his chest was all

right. She could feel the sand and ashes float away from her scalp.

The river was washing them clean. He held her with the cold water

rolling around them. Then she saw his hands. They were black and

swollen. He was so worried about her, he hadn’t noticed.

“I’ve got to find my children!”

A fireman told them a first-aid station was set up in the park-

ing lot.

The air was filled with suffocating smoke and the screams of fire

trucks arriving from all over the parish.

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fire for the newspaper, but Belle, Marilee, and Billy Joe were wait-

ing together in the parking lot. Chip was standing by the road in

deep conversation with an older boy wearing motorcycle boots

who had a comb sticking out of the back pocket of his jeans. Sissy’s

oldest son glanced up to see his mother soaking wet, her hair and

clothes burned, appear out of the smoke. Then he quickly turned

back to his conversation.

“Mama!” called Billy Joe, running to her, followed by Marilee.

“We were so worried!”

“What happened?” the little girl asked, trying to wrap her arms

around her mother, but Sissy gently pushed her away and took her

hand.

Parker followed Sissy up the path.

Dr. Moore took Sissy into the first-aid tent and told Parker to

stick around. He wanted to look at his hands. Parker assured him

he wasn’t going anywhere.

Billy Joe paced nervously in front of the entrance to the first aid

tent, his face shut down, worried. Marilee paced with him. Belle

watched them.

Feeling his hands throb, Parker bent down to get some ice out of

a cooler. Marilee sat next to him and began talking about her dog.

Parker listened attentively, hunkering back on his heels, rubbing ice

between his hands, as the little girl spun out a very long-winded

story. He told her he was proud that she took such good care of her

dog and Marilee just swelled with pride.

Then Hugh came up from the river, blackened by soot and out of

breath. The fire had been contained and there were no more

injuries. Peewee and Bourrée were fine. They were staying to help

the firemen mop up. He told Belle to go home. The smoke wasn’t

doing her lungs any good. He’d take care of Sissy and the children.

Belle said she’d check on her granddaughter in the morning.

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As soon as Sissy came out of the first-aid tent, her back bandaged

from her shoulders to her waist and a light sheet thrown over her

shoulders, Parker went to her.

“I’ll drive you and the children home.”

“No, I’ll be okay. I want him to look at your hands.”

“Sissy . . .”

“Parker, I can see you now,” Dr. Moore said.

But Parker ignored him. “How do you feel?” he asked her.

“I’ll survive. Go on, now.”

Parker turned to Dr. Moore, who assured him that Sissy had suf -

fered only first-degree burns thanks to his quick action. “Now let

me see those hands.”

“Go on,” Sissy said.

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

She hesitated and, giving him a noncommittal nod, gathered up

her children. Parker watched as Hugh drove them out of the park-

ing lot in Sissy’s red convertible before he turned back to the doctor.

Sissy put Marilee to bed and took a pain pill. She told Billy

Joe to stop worrying. “The best thing you can do to help me is for

you and Chip to go to bed.” He kissed her gingerly on the cheek

and went into his room, where Chip was carefully setting out his

test tubes for the next day. Sissy lay down and fell asleep flat on her

stomach as soon as she hit the pillow. She woke up at 2 A.M., her

back throbbing. In her head, all of her voices were holding a con-

vention.

She’d had very little experience making big decisions, wrenching

her life out of its grove and sending it careening off into the

unknown, so she didn’t know that her head wouldn’t be much use.

She had to listen to the quiet wisdom of the heart. But even if she’d

known, she couldn’t have heard it. The voices of her head were

working overtime.

Think! You can’t break up your family just because you have

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feelings for Parker, her Practical Voice said. You can’t take your

children out of school, away from their friends, and leave their

father over a feeling.

But, sputtered another quieter voice, even if the feeling’s love?

And then the Voice of Fear stepped in. For a month you and

Parker were wallowing in forbidden love. Forbidden love is easy.

So’s unrequited love. Intimacy’s hard. You think this “love” can

survive it? Do you really believe you’ll feel the same after months,

not to mention years of close contact? Look around and name all

the happy couples you know. Sissy couldn’t honestly name one.

Keep the memory. Cherish it, but stick with Peewee. The Voice of

Fear won out. Sissy decided she couldn’t risk it.

Besides, added the Voice of Guilt, think about Peewee. Think

how he’ll suffer. She remembered how his lip had quivered when he

saw her with Parker. She didn’t have the heart to hurt him.

He’ll get along without you. Better. Came a whisper. Stop think-

ing about his lip and remember how he looked chugging after Amy

Lou.

Give me a break! said the Voice of Guilt. You don’t believe that.

Sure I do, said the whisper. I’m not be-all and end-all. If I stay,

he’ll never have a chance to feel really loved. He deserves that

chance, doesn’t he?

Yes! said Sissy’s true voice, at last. And so do I! I can’t let Parker

leave without me. I’m going to Boston! Having made her decision,

Sissy dozed off. Half an hour later she woke up again.

Miss Practicality was screaming, or was it the Voice of Fear?

What makes you think Parker will stick around? For the last four-

teen years the man’s done nothing but run from responsibility.

What happens if he leaves you in Boston with three little children

after you burn all your bridges? You can’t risk it. You’ve got to

think about your children. You don’t even have a high school

diploma.

As soon as Sissy made up her mind, the chattering would begin

and she’d make her mind up all over again. You have a duty, chat-

T h e S c a n d a l o u s S u m m e r o f S i s s y L e B l a n c 3 1 1

ter, chatter, chatter. But what about me, don’t I count? Chatter,

chatter, chatter. What about Peewee? I’ve already humiliated him.

Chatter, chatter, chatter. What about Parker? What about his suf-

fering? How will he feel if I reject him twice? She remembered his

face at the Christmas dance when she told him she was going steady

with Peewee. She remembered his face when she told him marriage

was the root of all suffering and he said, How do you know?

You’ve never been married to me. Maybe happiness was possible,

after all. For both of them. Conversations got stuck in her head and

replayed again and again, like a broken record.

She finally fell asleep again. Around five, she woke up in scream-

ing pain. Peewee, reeking of beer he’d drunk with the firemen, was

climbing over her burned and bandaged back, trying to get inside

her. He’d decided the time had come to assert his marital rights.

Never marry a man who makes your skin crawl.

Rule Number One Hundred and Three, a late addition to

The Southern Belle’s Handbook

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“Get off me!” Sissy tried to push him away, but she was on her

stomach and vulnerable. He held on like some little animal. “You’re

hurting me.” He didn’t seem to care. He rubbed against her. “For

God’s sake, Peewee, you’re pulling off my bandages!” Her skin was

raw and burned where he touched her. “Stop it!”

“What’s the matter? You’d rather fuck Parker Davidson in the

woods?” He was in her now and pumping, his full weight pressing

on her back. She was in agony.

“You’re going to learn to treat me like a man!”

“Get off, damn you!” She gave him a jab with her elbow. She

tried to scratch him, kick him, anything. But he was on top of her

back and she was helpless. She tried to roll over, to roll him off her,

but he wouldn’t let her. She tried to slip out from under him, but he

grabbed her by her shoulders. She started to scream. That’s when he

pushed her head into the down pillow.

“You’re going to learn some respect!” he growled.

“It’s over, Peewee!” But the words came out muffled as he stuffed

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another pillow over her head and held it down. Now Sissy was

fighting to breathe.

He kept on grunting and rubbing, grunting and rubbing. Then he

grunted one final time and came inside her. He gave a contented

sigh and rolled over. She crawled out of bed and headed for the

bathroom, her bandages flapping.

Sissy stood at the sink looking at herself in the mirror. She felt

violated, abused. Hell, she felt raped. Except she knew the law said

a woman couldn’t be raped by her husband. Well, dammit, she felt

raped all the same! She felt the way she’d felt all those years ago

when Bourrée had shoved her against the oak tree. Only this was

worse, because she was already so bruised. How could he do that to

her? What was it with the LeBlanc men? She had to get her sons out

of there.

She had to get herself out of there.

She filled a douche bag with water and vinegar. She was not a

piece of trash. She was not the kind of girl a man can treat any way

he wanted. She would not be the kind of girl a man could abuse.

She would clerk in the five-and-dime, she’d wait tables in a diner,

but she would never, never let a man treat her like this again.

Peewee hit the door. This time it swung open. “What are you

doing?” he asked as if she were merely having a fit of pique over an

everyday marital squabble. Then he saw the bandages flapping,

pulled off. Saw the red, burned skin in the bathroom light. “You

okay?”

Her eyes narrowed. Her face was haunted and determined. “Get

out, Peewee. Get the hell out of here!”

Then he realized she was getting ready to wash him out of her.

He slammed the door, swearing, threw on his clothes, and left the

house without breakfast.

Sissy sat at her dressing table in her slip, staring at herself in the

mirror. Her back was throbbing. She felt like a piece of raw meat

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somebody had used a meat mallet on. It was nine-thirty. Her grand-

mother should be here any minute to take the children. She had to

get herself ready. She wanted to be at the Paradise at ten o’clock

sharp.

The morning was breathless. The air was so hot and still that

dust kicked up by passing cars hung suspended over the road and

floated through her open window where it clung to her lips. She

reached up and began to take out the bobby pins. What was left of

her hair sprang free like little coiled snakes. But the movement of

her arms intensified the throbbing in her back. She leaned into the

mirror and stared at herself. She took a deep breath and heard her

true voice. It’s not falling in love that makes a girl come of age. Any

snit can fall in love and usually does.
What makes you a woman is

working up the courage to take your life into your own hands.
She

thought about that for a moment.
The courage to take your life into