The Scandalous Summer of Sissy LeBlanc (31 page)

So there she was, standing in the cemetery with the icy rain beat-

ing on her and mud oozing up around her tennis shoes. She’d been

there over an hour, but Bourrée was nowhere in sight.

Bourrée was warming his hands in front of the gas heater.

When the bone-chilling rain started, he’d let his tree-cutting crew

go and retreated to the office of the sawmill in which he was a part

owner.

Maurice DeStephano, the mill’s manager, was pouring them

shots of whiskey and recounting a fight that had broken out at the

mill the day before. “So then this big, fat mammy comes to the door

and she yells, ‘LeRoy!’ and course LeRoy hides, ’cause she’s gotta

outweigh him by a good hundred pounds.” Maurice cracked up as

he handed Bourrée the drink. “But where does that dumb nigger

hide? Over the rotary saw!” Now Maurice was laughing so hard he

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was choking as he tried to describe the ensuing fight. Bourrée

smiled his hard, mean smile and walked over to one of the win-

dows. He made a circle in the steam and looked out. Then he

grabbed his coat. “Wait! Wait, you ain’t heard the best part.” But

Bourrée banged out the door without waiting to hear whose flesh

they’d picked out of the saw’s teeth. He’d seen Sissy emerging

through the drizzle.

He caught up with her in the parking lot and pulled her behind

his truck, where they were hidden from the office and from the men

carrying logs into the mill. “What the hell are you doing here?” He

gripped her arm hard.

“I waited for you in the cemetery as long as I could.” Her hair

was plastered to her head, and her legs under her short skirt were

chapped and gray with goose bumps. She slid her hand into his

sleeve, searching for warmth. She didn’t find it.

He pulled back, exposing her freezing hand to the elements.

“Hunting season’s over, girl. I told you that last Friday.”

“But I didn’t think that meant . . . You didn’t say anything

about . . .” Her teeth were chattering now, and tears mixed with

the rain slid down her cheeks. She wiped her eyes and left streaks of

mud on her nose. “I didn’t think we were over, too.”

“All good things must come to an end.” His voice softened. He

wiped her nose with his thumb.

His touch warmed her. He continued talking, but Sissy couldn’t

concentrate on what Bourrée said when he was touching her. She

put his hard hand to her lips and kissed it. Then she stepped in close

and slipped her hand between his legs. “Don’t you
want
me any-

more?”

A mill hand came out of the Colored Only washroom and caught

sight of them. His teeth flashed through the gloom, and Sissy heard

him chuckle. But she was beyond caring.

Bourrée yanked her hand away. “Stop it!” he growled, jerking

her back into the shadows.

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She was stunned by his anger. “I just want to be with you.” It

was so simple, why didn’t he see it?

“Where? Where you gonna be with me in a little town like this?

You tell me!”

He’d always talked so brave, like he didn’t care what anybody

thought. Now he sounded like everyone else. She was swamped

with grief. It was the same feeling of sudden abandonment she’d

felt when they put Norman in the ground. “No!” she cried, tears

streaming down her cheeks.

But instead of taking her in his arms, he moved away from her.

No! She stepped forward, shaking her head. But he kept backing

away! She had to stop him. She had to make him see they belonged

together. She threw her arms around him, still sobbing. “I’ll find us

a place. I’ll find a place where we can be together.”

It was five and the mill hands were leaving. They averted their

eyes, but Sissy heard the whispers. “Mr. Bourrée’s got him some

young meat.” “Umm-hummm!” And she saw the grins they

couldn’t hide.

He held her stiffly at arm’s length and hissed, “Cut it out, girl.

I’ve got a family.”

“Why’d you take up with me, then, if you knew all along you

were going to dump me?”

Bourrée dropped his arms and shrugged. “You looked lonely

lying there, your skirt pulled up, playing with yourself.”

Sissy hit him as hard as she could. Bourrée was primed to hit her

back, but she saw him check himself. His men were watching them,

chuckling, saying, “Man ought to be ashamed of hisself, carrying

on like that.”

Bourrée broke away. “When you get older, Sissy, you’ll learn to

take your fun where you find it,” he said and walked past her

toward the office.

She called after him, her voice raspy and hard. “This isn’t fun for

me, Bourrée!”

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“Life’s uneven,” he said as he opened the office door and went

inside.

Maurice was closing up. He gave Bourrée a peculiar look and

started to say something. Then he thought better of it. “You still

gonna be able to give me a lift?”

“Sure am,” Bourrée said, finishing his whiskey, pouring himself

another, and then pouring another for Maurice. He was waiting for

the girl to leave.

It was dark when they finally emerged. But Sissy was still there,

waiting for him in the rain, next to his truck, hidden on the driv-

er’s side. Her head was bowed. He had to push her aside to open

the door.

Sissy swung up onto the running board. Her hair was wet and

wild and falling in her face. No matter what, she couldn’t stand the

thought of him abandoning her, too. “Bourrée, don’t go! I’m sorry.

It was just . . .”

Bourrée gave her a look that would freeze a whore. Then he

turned to his partner and said, “Maurice, this here’s Hugh Thomp-

son’s girl. She’s been seeing my son.”

Maurice said something polite that made Sissy want to scream,

but she didn’t. She just stared at Bourrée with fading hope. He

spoke to her as if to a small child. “I’ll talk to Peewee, sugar. I’ll tell

him how upset you are. But you’re gonna have to let go of the

truck, you hear?”

He started the engine. The truck lurched and Sissy fell backward

into the mud. An old colored mill hand walked up and bent over

her. “You hurt?”

Sissy nodded yes, but denied it with her words: “I’m fine, thank

you, just fine.” He helped her up gently. And then after a few more

words of concern and advice and an offer to give her a lift, he piled

into an old, rickety truck with some other men. Sissy was left alone

in the dark.

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 2 1 1

The icy rain beat down on her, but she didn’t move. Her fingers

turned blue and still she didn’t move. Bourrée’s words were playing

over and over in her mind: “This here’s Hugh Thompson’s girl.

She’s been seeing my son.” Finally a bitter smile spread over her

face and Sissy knew how to take her revenge.

Peewee was hunched over his notebook drawing the circuitry

of an imaginary radio when a girl in a tight red skirt placed her butt

right on top of his hand! A deep blush spread up from his collar

over his neck and face and landed in his ears. He heard giggles and

looked up.

It was Sissy Thompson. Sissy! The popular kids were always

picking on him, but Sissy never had. She’d always been real nice,

saying hello and everything. Maybe she was on some kind of dare.

He pulled his hand out from under her, feeling the soft flesh move

as he did. Oh man! But he said only, “You’re on my paper.”

She smiled down at him and said, “Oh, I’m so sorry,” and sort of

slithered off his desk. Then she turned and leaned over. He had to

duck his eyes or he’d be looking right into her blouse! “What you

got there?” she asked.

Should he snatch up the paper and hide it? She was smiling at

him as if she meant it, but they always sucked you in like that. Of

course she’d smiled at him just the other day in the hall. And she’d

said hello that afternoon in Hopper’s Drugs.

Before he could make up his mind what to do, he was saved by

the arrival of Miss Rose, their European history teacher.

Sissy went back to her desk, rubbing her behind where his fin-

gers had been. She looked at him over her shoulder and whis-

pered, “You’ve got real nice hands.” Then she hid her face in her

book.

Jeeze! What did she mean by that?

“Turn to page eighty-four,” said Miss Rose. Peewee opened the

book, but he was looking at his hands. Nice? They were stubby and

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broad like his father’s. What was nice about them? He looked

around the room.

“The only way we can understand the war in Europe today is to

understand the past.” Miss Rose pulled down a historical map of

Europe. Everybody was hunched over their notebooks taking furi-

ous notes. Miss Rose pointed to the middle of the map and started

talking about the Holy Roman Empire. Peewee put the hand that

had been under Sissy up to his nose and inhaled. He didn’t smell

anything special, so he sniffed the paper.

He was leaning over it when Sissy turned around. He whipped it

away and hid it under the desk.

She smiled and bit her lips.

He was in for it now. He didn’t know what that smile meant, but

it couldn’t mean anything good.

When the bell rang, he took his time packing up his books. He

figured if he dawdled just long enough, they’d have to go to their

next class and he’d still have time to make his.

But when he walked into the hall, she was there, surrounded by

what looked like the whole cheerleading squad. He tried to make a

dash for it, but she detached herself from the group and hurried

after him.

“Hey, Peewee, wait up.”

“I gotta go to class.” He kept his head down and his books

clutched to his body. She had to run after him.

She couldn’t believe it. She was running down the hall after Pee-

wee LeBlanc! “Now, you just stop it!” she called and was gratified

to have him stop. Boys were sure a lot easier than men. She ought

to make that a rule, but she forgot all about the Southern Belle’s

Handbook when he turned and she looked right into Bourrée’s

eyes. The swamp of misery she’d sunk into and tried to banish with

her outrageous flirting was everywhere. A lump grew in her throat

that made her voice sound all husky and hesitant. “I just wanted to

ask you to come over to the house tonight and study with me.”

“I don’t think so.”

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Peewee LeBlanc turning down Sissy Thompson! She couldn’t let

that happen. “Please, you’ve just got to help me.”

“Why me?”

She gazed into those pale blue eyes and said, “Because I think

you’re really smart.” He looked at her as if she were crazy, so she

went on very fast. “I know you’ve always been real quiet in class,

but that’s ’cause you’re shy.” No boy she knew could resist flattery

like that. “Come on, say you will. I’m going to flunk the test if I

don’t get some help.”

He looked like a rabbit sniffing a trap. “I don’t think I can.”

“Peewee!” A look of annoyance crossed her face. The boy was a

real drip. But then she quickly bent her head and looked up at him

through her lashes. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll be home studying at

seven-thirty with a whole pot of coffee. And if you don’t come, I’ll

be forced to drink it all by myself and by ten I’ll have a tizzy fit and

it’ll be your fault.”

“Well . . .” he said as the second bell rang.

“Say you’ll come.”

“I gotta go.” He sped off to his next class.

“I’ll be waiting, seven-thirty,” she called after him.

Sissy turned and saw Amy Lou Hopper giving her a look. Don’t

worry, Sissy thought. I’ll send him back to you when I’m done with

him, and he’ll be as good as new. Better. He may even have the

nerve to ask you out.

Doreen and Betty Ruth came up to Sissy in home ec class

while she was stirring her slime stew. Miss Loretta, their teacher,

had gotten it into her head to teach the girls to cook what she called

in her high-pitched, fluttery voice “indigenous foods.” And then

some fool farmer had donated okra. Well, she’d cook it, thought

Sissy, but she wouldn’t eat it.

Doreen stuck her head near the pot. “Owww, your slime smells

even worse than my slime.”

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“If the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, who do you

think we’re gonna catch with this?” asked Betty Ruth.

“I’ll bet old Peewee LeBlanc would eat it if Sissy fed it to him,”

said Doreen, giggling.

“What you doing with him, anyway?” Betty Ruth asked.

“I’m gonna save him,” said Sissy, throwing a shake of Tabasco

into the pot for Miss Loretta’s benefit, so they’d look like they were

doing something.

“Uh-huh,” said Doreen. “That’ll be the day.”

“He’s not so bad. He’s just shy and doesn’t know how to dress,

that’s all.” She thought of his hands, those short, stubby hands. “I