The Scandalous Summer of Sissy LeBlanc (39 page)

She laughed. “Sure.”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

Sissy had an uneasy feeling he was serious. “You figure once

you’ve had your way with me, you don’t have to go to any special

trouble? Concrete walls and dirty sheets are good enough for me

now?” she said as lightly as she could manage, which wasn’t very

light at all.

“I just thought it might make a nice change.”

She leaned toward him and said softly, “I don’t want to change

nothing.” She made a little kiss at him.

Parker shifted again. He didn’t seem able to get comfortable in

his skin. Finally he admitted, “I don’t think I can swing the Guest

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 6 5

House again for a while. At least not as often as I want to see you.”

He reached for her hand.

She pulled away. “I thought money wasn’t important to you.”

What was going on? she wondered. Parker made a decent salary

and he didn’t have any dependents, at least not any she’d heard

about.

Finally, with great reluctance, he told her he was giving Clara a

little help.

“We’re all giving Clara a little help.” Sissy had gotten Peewee to

chip in an extra twenty-five dollars.

It turned out that Parker had promised her a monthly stipend. A

large monthly stipend, one that would take a big chunk out of his

paycheck. “What else was I going to do with the money? You kept

turning me down.” He seemed uncomfortable. Sissy suspected

there were things he wasn’t telling. “I just wanted to help her.

There’s no way she’s going to make enough at Gulf Chemicals.”

“In other words, you’ll be keeping her in Chicago.” She didn’t

feel much like a princess anymore.

“It’s nothing like that,” he said, hastening to assure her every-

thing was over between them. He spoke with such conviction and

sincerity that Sissy believed him. But she knew as long as he was

supporting Clara their romance could rekindle at a moment’s

notice, fanned by those two carnal emotions so difficult to resist,

emotions that were the basis of most marriages: gratitude and enti-

tlement.

“It’s temporary. Just until she gets settled and finds a part-time

job.”

“Parker, have you lost your mind? No girl getting that much

money is ever going to find a part-time job.”

The waitress brought their food.

The band at the Paddock Lounge around the corner on Bourbon

Street was playing “When the Saints Come Marching In.” Next to

them, the solitary clarinetist played counterpoint. Parker picked up

his oyster po’ boy. “Sissy, it’s her big chance to do something with

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her life. Everybody needs a chance.” Through the music they heard

the empty echoes of their own lives.

“Her father should take care of her,” Sissy said stubbornly.

“Right. This is just until he gets around to it,” he said.

Sissy made up Rule Number Thirty-six on the spot.
A man will

believe anything as long as it’s convenient for him
. She pushed her

plate away. She was feeling sick.

“Come on, babe, don’t be like that. I’ll find us a place with clean

sheets. Okay?”

It was meant as a joke, but she didn’t smile. The man in the

tuxedo lifted his glass and made a silent toast to her. Suddenly, Sissy

felt her eyes fill up with tears. She tried to tell herself it really wasn’t

important who Parker was keeping in Chicago or what it was cost-

ing him. Except it was further proof that nothing ever worked out.

And she wanted, she wanted . . . something. Something whole and

beautiful and hers. Not just bits and pieces and a few leftover

crumbs. The worst part was, she didn’t have any right to demand it.

None. After all, she was married.
Marriage. The root of all suffer-

ing
. Rule Number Thirty-seven. She wiped her eyes with her napkin

and came away with black smudges. Her mascara must be all over

her face. She threw down the napkin and ran out of the restaurant.

Parker tossed some bills on the table and ran after her.

He caught up with her on Bourbon Street just as a band came out of

a bar and marched around them, still playing “When the Saints Come

Marching In.” He had to yell over the music. “I’ll take a second job.”

Sissy swung around. “Dammit, Parker, don’t you dare to be a

martyr. I hate martyrs.” She started to storm off again, but he held

her arm. Black rivulets ran down her cheeks.

“So what do we do?”

She looked down at the sidewalk and saw an abandoned

sequined pump. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll tell you one thing, not seeing you next Saturday is not an

option.”

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The band marched down the street. A warm wave passed over

her. Suddenly she knew with her deepest voice, that she wasn’t

going to give up the first adventure she’d had in her life because of

a change in motels or because of what he might do one day with

Clara. So in spite of everything the Southern Belle’s Handbook said

on the subject, and it said plenty about what no self-respecting lady

ought to do, she decided to take the crumbs he offered her and

make the best of them. She moved into the protection of his body

and said, “I guess I’m being a selfish bitch, huh?”

He nodded. “But then I can’t stand a sweet-tempered woman.

Wouldn’t want to waste my time trifling with one.” He ran his

knuckles over her smudged cheek. “We’re going to be all right,

you’ll see.”

She managed a nod and a smile. But she wasn’t sure about any-

thing anymore.

They walked in silence until he asked, “What was that you said

about desire?”

Sissy shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

“Well,” he said, steering her toward the Guest House, “maybe

it’ll come back to you.” He slipped his arm around her waist.

Bourrée opened the door of the bar where the stripper

famous for twirling her tassels worked. He had his arm slung

around her shoulder and his fingers were reaching for one of her

famous tassels, when he saw something across the street. He

pushed the stripper back into the bar.

“Bourrée, you bastard, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

He didn’t bother to answer. He watched Sissy sashay down the

sidewalk wrapped around that worn-out football player. So that’s

why the bitch stood him up. Bourrée’s pale eyes narrowed. Spit

formed at the cracked corner of his mouth. He always hated to see

another man moving in on his property—past, present, or future.

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* * *

Sunday
Times-Picayune
on a tray with their rolls and coffee. They

read it naked in bed, their legs entwined in the crumpled sheets and

each other. “This feels like home,” he said.

“Not my home,” said Sissy. Then on one of the back pages, she

spotted something that just might be the answer to getting Clara

that scholarship she’d promised her and getting Parker off the

hook. She considered sharing it with him, but decided against it.

Parker could be awfully high-minded. Rule Number Thirty-eight.
A

smart girl never disillusions a high-minded man
. Besides, at that

very moment he had an inspiration all his own, an inspiration that

took Sissy’s breath away and her mind off everything else.

She stopped in Butlertown on her way home. If Clara’s mother

had been there she might have been able to talk some sense into the

two young women. But she wasn’t.

Sissy remembered Clara bragging about her grades in English.

She inquired into Clara’s essay writing skills, and upon learning

she’d won every prize, Sissy showed her a contest she’d seen in back

of the
Times-Picayune
. Clara was all for it. She would finally get

back at her father for all those years of neglect. And when Sissy

explained how they could use it to collect the money she needed for

college, a dangerous light shone in Clara’s eyes. “Is blackmail part

of your Southern Belle’s Handbook?”

“Why no,” said Sissy, “but I’m sure I could make up a rule for a

situation like this, when it’s for a really good cause.”

Clara assured Sissy she could have the essay ready by Labor Day,

the official kickoff of Tibor’s congressional campaign. Sissy sug-

gested she also check out something her father had let slip about the

lineage of the Great White Hope.

In the coming weeks, the parish librarian wondered why a col-

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 6 9

ored girl would take such an interest in genealogy, but she was glad

to help. She believed it was her Christian duty to eradicate igno-

rance wherever she found it. Besides, she liked Clara, a smart, sen-

sible teenager and a credit to her race. When she heard the girl had

won a big scholarship to a Yankee college, she took it on herself to

break the rules and allowed her checkout privileges.

While Clara was following these intellectual pursuits, Sissy was

following others, not nearly so mental, but much more pleasurable.

Except for her alibi.

She’d always been terrified of dentists and needles and hadn’t so

much as had a checkup since her marriage. Now, to get out of the

house every Saturday, she found herself forced to expiate the sin of

adultery with long-overdue dental appointments. She had to show

up, because Peewee paid attention to the bills.

Every Saturday morning, after checking Clara’s progress with her

research, she’d drive to New Orleans and creep into Dr. Cohen’s big

black dental chair and let him torture her. Then she’d drive out to

the Airline Highway and meet Parker, who’d make her moan and

writhe all afternoon. For Sissy, affairs of the heart were never easy.

Someone once said that the depth of love can only be measured

by the sacrifices you’re willing to make for it. Sissy was willing to

make great sacrifices in pain, but she wasn’t willing to admit it was

for love. For her, love was standing in the rain on the running board

of a truck and getting thrown into the mud.

She told Parker as much one afternoon, when he asked if she

loved him. “I don’t believe in it,” she said. “What we have is an

acute case of raging hormones. Pure and simple.”

She would have shown him how acute, but he said, “You’re

probably right.” Then he got up and went into the bathroom.

But in spite of her protestations, she lived for those Saturdays. All

week she was in a frenzy of desire. She wallowed in it, reveled in it

like New Year’s confetti and Mardi Gras all rolled into one.

She discovered their cheap motel with its cement block walls lent

a certain romantic squalor to their affair. She lightened her hair to

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red and picked up a set of trashy, black-lace underwear in the

French Quarter that encouraged wild abandon in Parker and

heightened her own sense of sin. Sin, Sissy believed, was hardly

worth committing if it didn’t produce a rush of naughty, wicked

feelings.

But deep down, Sissy’s true voice admitted it wasn’t just the com-

ing together of their bodies she cherished. It was the way he cared

for her. The way he treated her, making her feel that she, Sissy, the

high school dropout, might not be disposable after all. She might

not be just a piece of trash that men wanted to paw over.

That’s when she realized she hadn’t thought about the Southern

Belle’s Handbook in a long time. She didn’t need it with Parker.

That she could be with a man and trust him to be good to her with-

out having to manage or manipulate him was a whole new world

for her.

One afternoon in late August, as she lay naked on those perspira-

tion-soaked sheets, under Parker’s big, hairy legs, she caught him

looking at her, searching her face for the answer to what seemed

like the most important question in the world. When she asked him

about it, he just shook his head.

The next day, however, he began to make phone calls. As the

summer rushed toward Labor Day, Parker discussed his future with

old friends and Marine buddies all over the country. And when a

man he’d fought side by side with in the Pacific told him he was

building a subdivision outside of Boston, Parker told him, “Let me

know if I can do anything for you.” And then he said, after a long

hesitation, “No, I’ve got nothing to keep me down here. Nothing

at all.”

Letting go is the best revenge. It frees your heart for much

more satisfying pursuits.

Rule Number One Hundred

The Southern Belle’s Handbook

C h a p t e r 1 8

Labor Day in Gentry was usually celebrated with the same

indifference as in the rest of the country, offering the men an excuse

to get drunk with their buddies and offering their exhausted wives

real hope that the long summer was ending and school would actu-