The Scandalous Summer of Sissy LeBlanc (4 page)

across the broken concrete.

Parker was checking the window next to the pantry when he

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

heard the front door slam. Would he have time to get the screen

off? The only other door led through the dining room, and Peewee

was entering it now.

Peewee walked around the old walnut dining table and straight

into the kitchen. “Sissy!” He made his voice deep. He was the man

of the house, after all. He had a right to know what was going on.

“Sissy!” He heard his voice crack on the upswing.

The sun, dying behind the stained glass window, cast its red glow,

but the room was empty. Peewee glanced through the pass-through

into the pantry. Nothing. The kitchen window was open; its screen

securely in place.

“Sissy!” Peewee yelled, not caring if his voice cracked this time,

setting the tool belt down on a chair and throwing open the screen

door.

The ladies in the parking lot turned to see what the commotion

was all about just as Sissy, her mouth full of clothespins, pushed her

head through the sheets hanging out to dry in the backyard.

“You want me, Peewee, or are you practicing for the parish hog

calling contest?” She gave him an exasperated look and hefted a

wicker basket filled with damp clothes onto her hip. “Don’t just

stand there, give me a hand before it starts to rain.”

Storm clouds were closing in fast.

Peewee went out to his wife, who was jerking sheets off the line

and dropping them into the basket. Under the eager eyes of the

Methodists, she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, grimacing at

the pungent odor of tar and stale sweat rising from his body. Her

nose twitched as her lips brushed his blond stubble. “I thought you

were working in the office today.”

“No such luck,” he answered as he pulled the clothespins off the

sheets still on the line. “Norbert called in sick again. We was patch-

ing that stretch over by Raceland, so guess who had to go out

there?” He dragged the last of the sheets down and waved to the

ladies heading home before the storm.

Sissy knew that
so much of the unpleasantness in a marriage is a

2 2

L o r a i n e D e s p r e s

direct result of the husband feeling underappreciated
. Rule Number

Fifty-five. What she could never understand was how a smart

woman let that happen, especially since it was so easy to remedy.

“You poor thing. You don’t mean you were working all day on the

road in this heat?”

Peewee nodded.

“Come on, you need a beer.” Sympathy and understanding oozed

out of her words. Peewee didn’t exactly smile, but he did look

grateful and he took the towering laundry basket from her.

She followed him into the house. His sandy-blond hair was

cropped so short, she could see his pink scalp showing through and

the place where his glasses made dark marks on the back of his

ears. His otherwise trim figure was beginning to spread out softly in

the middle and roll over the top of his slacks.

Peewee put the laundry on the kitchen table, and as he caught

sight of her full on, his blue eyes narrowed. “What the hell have

you been up to?”

“I can’t imagine what you mean.” She picked up a pack of ciga-

rettes and slapped her pockets in vain for a match.

Then she noticed an ice cube on the linoleum. She curled her bare

toes over it.

“Look at yourself, woman.”

Sissy looked down and saw creosote stains down the front of her

sundress. It was not the afternoon attire recommended in the

Southern Belle’s Handbook.

“What’s been going on around here?”

Rule Number Twenty-three popped into Sissy’s mind.
When a

train heads straight at you, a smart girl derails it
. She looked her

husband in the eye and said, “Peewee, I have spent the day chasing

after a bunch of kids, cleaning up your mess, and taking care of this

big old house. Who do you expect me to look like, Dinah Shore?”

It didn’t work. Peewee pulled the chair out from under the

kitchen table and held up the tool belt. “What’s this doing here?”

“How should I know?” She kicked what was left of the ice cube

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 3

under the sink and picked up the laundry basket. Finding no

matches under it, she slammed it back down and started opening

drawers. God, she needed a smoke.

“Says it belongs to Parker Davidson.”

Sissy froze mid-drawer and then, with as much nonchalance as

she could muster, said, “Oh, yeah. Parker’s back.” She heard the

rumble of distant thunder.

“What was he doing here?”

Sissy didn’t hesitate. “He came over to make indecent advances.

In his spare time, he fixed the telephone line.” She grabbed the box

of kitchen matches from the stove and shook them, but she came up

empty.

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s working for the phone company.”

“Come on.” He sounded shocked.

“True.” Sissy didn’t understand it either.

Peewee was silent for a moment, taking it in. Then a smile spread

across his face. “The great Parker Davidson, Gentry’s biggest foot-

ball star and war hero, is stringing phone lines? The Jew boy that

was gonna bring back fame and glory?”

“Peewee! Stop it! You know I can’t stand it when you talk like

that.”

“Damn!” Peewee said, ignoring her reproach. He couldn’t

remember when he’d felt so good. And then a nagging thought

curled around his brain. “What was he doing on our front porch?”

Sissy wanted to explode, but forced a teasing smile. Rule Num-

ber Eighteen,
Fools and husbands fall for flattery
. “Oh, Peewee, I

just love it when you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous, I just want to know what’s going on.”

“I saw him working in the hot sun and offered him a Coke. Is

that okay?”

He didn’t say anything. He pressed his lips together and after

some thought nodded as if the whole issue wasn’t worth much con-

sideration.

2 4

L o r a i n e D e s p r e s

“Good. Now stop being so silly. I married you, not him. Remem-

ber?” She ruffled his blond crew cut, knocking his two-toned glasses

askew, and kissed the air near his cheek. Desperate for a match, she

sashayed into the pantry, a cigarette dangling from her lips.

And then she dropped her cigarette.

Parker Davidson was crouched on top of a shelf, partially hidden

from the little window, displacing paper bags, a carton of matches,

and four jars of Sissy’s pickled watermelon rinds, which he was

holding in both hands. The shelf was made of good, strong cypress,

but it was bowed under Parker’s considerable weight. He shrugged

and grinned.

Sissy was furious. He thinks this is some kind of a damned adven-

ture. She backed out of the pantry, closing the door behind her.

Stretching her mouth into an imitation of a smile, she said to her

husband, “Why don’t you go on over to the telephone company

and drop off the belt?”

“Why should I?” He wiped off his two-toned glasses, which Sissy

had smudged.

“Well, Parker just started working there. He could get into a lot

of trouble.”

“No skin off mine,” Peewee said, taking a beer from the icebox

and crossing to the pantry door.

Sissy heard the first drops of rain hit the roof and saw the sky

flash white.

A small face peered through the kitchen window.

Sissy put her arms around her husband. “I’m sorry I blew up at

you, sugar, but you know how I hate it when you ask me all those

questions. I mean, I already have a daddy. I never expected to marry

one.” She kissed him and then made a face. His skin was greasy.

“Why don’t you run a nice bath and I’ll come in and wash your

back.” She did her best to make it sound suggestive and it worked

because Peewee said:

“For God’s sake, woman, we haven’t even had supper yet.” He

took a swig of beer and pushed her aside. His hand was on the

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 5

pantry door. Sissy blocked his way. Her heart was pounding. She

had to think of something. She took the beer out of his hand and

sipped it. Then she handed it back. “I wasn’t making an indecent

suggestion. I just thought you’d feel better after a nice, cool

bath.”

Peewee wavered, and then turned the doorknob. “Just as soon as

I get me some of your pickled watermelon rinds.”

“Why, sugar, I got a plate of them, nice and cold in the fridge.

Tell you what, you just go and lie down in that tub and I’ll bring

them to you on a tray with another beer. What do you say?” She

was proud of how casual she sounded.

Peewee let go of the pantry door. “You mean it?” There was sur-

prise in his voice. She knew he felt she should wait on him more,

the way women were supposed to wait on their men, but with three

kids and a big house she could never work up the energy.

“Course I do. You deserve a little attention after spending the day

in this hot sun.”

That did it. “Sounds good to me.” He turned toward the door,

slapping her on the butt as he passed, when Billy Joe rushed into the

kitchen, breathing hard. “You all gotta come . . .”

“Billy Joe, you’re sopping wet!” Sissy said,

Sounding just like his own father, Peewee took his son by the arm

and said, “Young man, you know better than to stand there drip-

ping all over your mother’s linoleum. Now, march!”

He pushed the boy toward the bathroom, but Billy Joe stood his

ground. “Marilee fell into the gravel pit.”

Sissy saw the lightning splinter down the middle of the sky.

“I told you kids to stay away from there, didn’t I, didn’t I!” Sissy

cried, clutching her son. Hysteria tightened around her voice.

Sissy’s brother Norman, the big brother she’d spent her childhood

trailing after, the reason she was nicknamed Sissy—he couldn’t pro-

nounce Cecile—dove into the gravel pit the day he came home from

college. And drowned.

She was surrounded by the thunder.

2 6

L o r a i n e D e s p r e s

* * *

stop in the mud. Layers of clouds shrouded the late afternoon sun.

Before Sissy and Billy Joe could get their doors open, Peewee

jumped out of the pickup and ran to the edge of the water.

He knew his little girl could hardly swim. He’d never found the

time in all her six years to teach her. He’d left that to Sissy, and that

wasn’t good enough, not nearly good enough.

Rain obscured his sight behind his two-tone plastic glasses. He

took them off and wiped them on his shirt when a flash of lightning

lit up the man-made lake and Peewee saw Chip, his oldest son, with

his shirt off, staring into the far side of the pit. Then Peewee spotted

a lump of pink caught up in a bunch of branches. Was that Marilee

wrapped around a fallen tree?

He yelled. Chip looked up through the pelting rain, pointed into

the pit, and yelled back, but Peewee couldn’t hear him. Peewee bent

down to untie his boots. He handed his glasses to Sissy, who’d run

up behind him.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “We’ve got to find out where she

went . . .” But the rest of her words were smothered by the roar of

thunder that seemed to shake the pond. Billy Joe was screaming

something, too. He grasped his father’s arm, but Peewee pushed

them both aside and plunged into the deep water of the pit.

“Peewee, don’t!” Sissy screamed.

But he didn’t hear. He tried to strike a bargain with God. Don’t

take Marilee, not yet. Please. Let us have her a little longer and

I’ll . . .

Lightning zippered across the sky. The pit lit up. Peewee froze in

the water. But no electricity charged through his body. He word-

lessly thanked God for saving him this time and began to count the

seconds before he heard the thunder. One and . . . He splashed

wildly toward the mound of pink. Two and . . . His arms and legs

were working like pistons. Please just let her hold on. Just let her

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 7

hold on until I get there. Three and . . . He lifted his head up and

yelled in Chip’s direction, but he got no response. Four and . . . Pee-

wee was swimming as fast as he could, but not nearly fast enough.

His legs were getting heavy in his waterlogged slacks, which were

riding up on him. Five and . . . Thunder shook the pit. God, he

wished he were out of here. He tried to think about John Wayne.

What would the Duke do? He wouldn’t let a little lightning stop

him. Finally Peewee reached the floating tree. Branches tore his

arms as he fought through their tangle, but he hardly felt them. He

snatched up the pink mound. And came away with Marilee’s shirt.

His little girl wasn’t in it. He put his face into the murky water

and opened his eyes, hoping he wouldn’t see her floating naked in

the dark. The darkness went on forever. He’d heard the pit went