But this morning, Doreen McAlister had taken Sissy aside and told her she’d seen Parker in New Orleans Saturday night with his arm around some girl. Parker had admitted it when Sissy caught him between classes, but had said that the girl was a cousin.
“A kissing cousin?” Sissy asked. She knew Parker couldn’t stand to be without female companionship for long.
He just laughed it off and told her he was saving himself for her.
But this afternoon, at Hopper’s Drugs, when he pulled out his wallet to pay for her soda, a condom fell out. He slipped it back into his pocket, but everyone saw it. And everyone had laughed. He tried to brush it aside, as though it wasn’t important.
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 tennis 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 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 advertising 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.
Soon she was bouncing high and fast up over the ruts and chuckholes 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 distance 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 feelings. 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 summer 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 Christians and carried on all the time about how we should love our 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 remembered 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 underpants. 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 stand their lives? Of course, she hadn’t seen many priests with pimples. 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 sensations 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.
“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 anything comes of it or not. What I can’t understand is why the preachers 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 figured 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, breaking 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 hundred 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.”
“There’s no thrill like it!”
She was close to him now. Close enough to smell the warm liquor on his breath, close enough to see the skin sagging on his cheeks and the creases in his neck. She usually hated old people, because of their wrinkles and sags, but Bourrée was different or he seemed different after all the moonshine. She thought his face was dissipated and interesting, etched by experience. She shivered in her skimpy skirt and cotton sweater, and saw mischief sparkle in his steel-blue eyes.
Bourrée took off his jacket and wrapped it and his arms around her. She leaned unsteadily into him. He squeezed her shoulders and she felt a forbidden thrill.
She watched him load his gun. The sun hung on the treetops and the woods grew cold. The crickets came out and the frogs sang to them. Bourrée took off the safety.
At the place where the creek turned north he spotted a flight of ducks. They soared in formation over the treetops. Then they dipped down low, skimming close to the water. Bourrée cradled the shotgun in his arms, took his time fixing his sights, and when his prey was right where he wanted it, he squeezed the trigger and blew a duck out of the sky. Sissy saw it fall away from the flock and drop into the creek. She felt a surge of excitement she had never known.
Bourrée released the dogs. Joyously they leaped, yipping and crashing through the icy water, racing each other to get at the fallen bird. The black-and-gray bitch pushed her way through the pack and swam back to lay the kill at Bourrée’s feet. She wagged her tail proudly. Bourrée threw the dead bird into his game bag and said to Sissy, “Your turn.”
For a moment she didn’t understand. Was he going to shoot her? Then he handed her the shotgun. She took it with reverence, cradling it in her arms just as he’d done. He reached around her and loaded it and stood in back of her, cradling her in his arms, his hands under hers, until they spotted the next flight. She felt his body come alive as he sighted with her, but she was stiff and frightened. She’d never killed anything.
“Pull the trigger, girl.”
The explosion rocked her body, and the birds seemed to laugh as they flew away, leaving her with a terrible sense of loss.
“That’s all right, you’ve got one more shot. Just relax and remember, pick your bird, follow it, and don’t let it out of your sight, not for a second.”
As they waited together, little by little, she abandoned herself to his arms, so that when they spotted the next flight, they were one. He turned her, following the dark silhouettes as they dipped down toward the creek. This time she was ready for the explosion. And when she saw the bird drop straight into the creek, Sissy knew what power was.
She turned to him, her face shining. “I did it. I did it, didn’t I?” He smiled a tight little smile and took the shotgun from her. She was hugging him now. He dropped the gun and took her face in his hand. “We did it!” she corrected herself breathlessly.
He kissed her lips. He was old. Over forty. Nobody this old had ever kissed her before, not like this. She could taste liquor and tobacco on his lips. They tasted wicked and grown-up. Still, she pushed him away. “I don’t think you should have done that, Mr. LeBlanc. It just isn’t right.”
“Call me Bourrée, sugar.” He stroked her cheek and offered her another drink from his flask. “Everybody calls me Bourrée.” And when he kissed her again, after she’d had a long drink, Sissy felt a new kind of excitement. Deep and sinful.
He laid her down on a bed of fragrant pine needles in the duck blind.
As her hair touched the sand, her head started to spin from the moonshine. The black-and-gray bitch was panting in her face. Sissy’s dead duck wa
s in her mouth.
Bourrée flipped the bird into his game bag next to his other kills and pushed the bitch away. Then he turned back to Sissy and pulled up her sweater. As her white cotton bra came into view, Bourrée said, “I already seen this.” He reached around in back of her and snapped off her bra. “But not these.”
Sissy knew she should stop him, and she had started to protest when suddenly a deep pleasure pulsed through her body and she didn’t want to stop him anymore. Bourrée was licking her nipples with his tongue. Sissy wondered if Parker had licked his cousin’s breasts. And then when Bourrée started sucking, a shiver shot through her, lodging between her legs. Sissy stopped thinking about Parker. She stopped thinking about anything. She moaned and lifted her hips. Bourrée pulled up her cheerleading skirt and slipped his hand into her panties.
“Oh my God,” said Sissy, sitting up. “We can’t. You’ve got to stop, Mr. LeBlanc.”
“Bourrée,” he said, stroking her with his fingertips. She tried to pull his hand away, but he was too strong. He rotated his thumb under her panties and she couldn’t stop a moan. “You’re gonna have a real good time, you hear. I told you, the Almighty set this whole thing up for you to enjoy yourself. So just put yourself in His hands.”
But it wasn’t the Almighty’s hands that Sissy was concentrating on when Bourrée opened her up and entered her, pushing her down into the sand covered with pine needles and tufts of grass, pushing her into the earth. She wanted to rise and fall with him and tried to meet him with her hips, but she couldn’t keep up. He was pounding on her, beating on her. She knew her hair was caked with sand, she could feel the little twigs and pine needles making welts in her back and she still never wanted him to stop.
The Scandalous Summer of Sissy LeBlanc Page 19
