The Scandalous Summer of Sissy LeBlanc (2 page)

columns that held up the porch roof was making another assault on

the house, sending tendrils through the cracks in the warped planks

under the swing. She’d have to crawl under the porch and do some-

thing about it. Soon.

Parker hadn’t even called. Not that there was any reason why he

should after all these years. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see him

anyway. He was probably fat and full of himself now. God, this

heat was making her crazy.

She sat up and saw a telephone truck had stopped across the

street in front of a scarlet oleander bush on the side of the Methodist

church. A lineman had already stepped out. She didn’t get a good

look at his face, but he was big like Parker. That boy was sure

traipsing through her mind today. If she went into town, she’d

probably see his likeness in half the men who turned a corner or

walked in front of her on the street.

As the lineman worked his way up the telephone pole, she saw

his suntanned arms glisten with sweat. She watched his back mus-

cles bunch up and smooth out under his wet work shirt.

Memories of old feelings crept over her. She reached for a spray

of honeysuckle and wound it in her hair.

Lighting a cigarette, she found herself staring up at the lineman’s

thighs. She couldn’t help but notice how his shrink-to-fit jeans had

shrunk just right. She lifted her skirt a tad to let in the breeze.

The lineman pulled himself onto the top crossbar and bent for-

ward to cut the wisteria vines that had twisted around the wires.

Sissy fanned away the smoke hovering in the still air in front

of her.

Then he bent backward under the wires. He hung upside down

by his knees and leaned way out.

She held her breath.

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 9

Reaching his arms above his head, he sheared away the vines.

Clumps of wisteria fell through the damp air.

Suddenly, Sissy saw him begin to slip off the crossbar. The

ground beneath him was littered with broken cement and covered

with gnarled roots. She imagined him falling head first. Dying right

there in front of her. Instead he tossed his clippers, jack-knifed up,

grabbed hold of the crossbar. And waved.

Jesus! Sissy blew out a column of smoke. Of course he’d re-

minded her of Parker Davidson. He was Parker Davidson! And he

was showing off just like he’d done in high school.

She stood up and waved back. Why’d he have to see her today of

all days, when she looked like a drowned cat? As he made his way

down the telephone pole, she slipped inside.

Sissy wasn’t really beautiful, but men never noticed. With her

deep green eyes, her shoulder-length auburn hair that swung when

she moved, and the way she moved as if she enjoyed just being

inside her body, men had always paid her lots of attention.

Although after fourteen years of marriage to Peewee LeBlanc, she’d

begun to need reassurance. Leaning into the little round mirror

she’d hung by the kitchen door, she freshened her lipstick and gri-

maced. She took her hair and the eyes for granted. She was worry-

ing about the almost imperceptible lines at the corners of her mouth

and the tiny fleshy places that seemed to have dropped overnight

from the edge of her chin.

But then, Sissy thought, it’s not what a girl looks like that capti-

vates a man. It’s how hard he has to work for her.
A smart girl

makes a man sweat
. She decided to make that Rule Number Six-

teen in The Southern Belle’s Handbook, which was what Sissy

had ironically titled that compendium of helpful hints and rules

her mother and grandmother had tried so hard to instill in her. Her

mother had wanted her to grow up a gracious Southern lady. Her

grandmother just didn’t want the bastards to grind her down. Sissy

had added to it over the years, until the Southern Belle’s Handbook

became her personal credo. She kept it in her head, assigning num-

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bers at random, but then Sissy always had a random relationship

with numbers.

Through the screen door, she saw Parker walk across the street.

She filled two tall glasses with ice and grabbed a couple of Cokes

from the pantry. All thought of mixing them with aspirin had van-

ished.

Then she strolled onto the front porch and found Parker standing

on the sidewalk. His tool belt was slung on his hips like a holster.

Out in the country, the afternoon freight blew its warning whistle.

“Steal any police cars lately?” he asked.

Sissy shook her head. “Crime just hasn’t been the same without

you, Parker.” She remembered the night after he’d scored five

touchdowns against Gentry’s biggest rival, they’d stolen the sher-

iff’s car and ridden all over town with the siren blaring in celebra-

tion. Until they were arrested. The sheriff had chased them halfway

to Hammond in a commandeered pickup.

Her parents had been upset. Parker’s had been beside themselves.

“We have a business to run in this town,” Mr. Davidson growled

when he had Parker by the arm and was heading out of the police

station.

Mrs. Davidson whispered to Parker, “Sugar, you just can’t em-

barrass us like this in front of the gentiles.”

But the Davidsons didn’t have to worry. Nobody blamed Gen-

try’s star football player. The teachers. The coach. The other kids.

Nobody blamed him at all. They blamed Sissy. Rule Number Six,

Southern Belle’s Handbook:
Whatever happens, they always blame

the girl
.

Parker tried to make everyone believe it had been all his idea,

that he’d talked her into it, but everyone knew he was just being a

gentleman and taking up for her.

The truth was they’d gotten into trouble together. The decision

had been mutual, made in a flash. They’d raced each other to that

empty patrol car.

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 1 1

Parker took the stairs two at a time. “God, Sissy, you’re all

grown up.”

She set the Cokes on a wicker table. Her hand fluttered up to her

hair. “Fourteen years will do that,” she said and wondered if he

meant she looked old.

“I think you’re even prettier than you were in high school.”

Was he serious or just putting her on?

They moved toward one another until they were standing so

close, she felt engulfed by his physical presence. Overwhelmed.

She’d forgotten how tall he was, well over six feet. She lifted her

face to kiss his cheek and then thought better of it. His shirt and

hands were covered in creosote, the dark brown tar they painted on

the telephone poles to preserve them. She stepped back. “Parker,

what in the world were you doing on that telephone pole?”

She caught the blush even on Parker’s dark skin. She saw the

color rise up his neck and over his cheeks. “Have to clean the debris

away from the lines before it takes out the power.”

From the sheepish way he said it, Sissy had a sudden insight. No

one had actually sent him to cut down the wisteria across from her

house. She’d bet Parker had thought that up on his own when he saw

her sitting on her porch. Was he just showing off for her? She exam-

ined the pole and realized that when he’d leaned way out, he could

look directly into her backyard. He wanted to see if Peewee’s truck

was parked there. He was spying on her. Damn! Nobody had gone

to that much trouble for her in years.

She wondered why he was working for the phone company in the

first place, but she felt it would be rude to come right out and ask.

Rule Number Nineteen,
A lady never embarrasses a man with direct

questions
. That had come from her mother, but Sissy being Sissy

had embellished it with an addendum all her own:
There are plenty

of other ways a smart girl can find out what she wants to know
.

She fell back on her teasing ways. “I don’t know why I’m even

talking to you, Parker Davidson. I know for a fact you’ve been in

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town over a week. And you haven’t even called.” She tossed her

wet hair.

Parker licked a droplet of water that had been whipped off her

hair and onto his lips. “I tried. Three, four times.”

She thought he must be lying. Then she remembered the phone

had rung several times that week, but when Peewee or one of the

boys had picked it up, no one was there.

As if reading her mind he asked, “How is old Peewee?”

“Fine, just fine. He works for the parish.”

“Sounds like a real steady job.”

“It is.”

The freight train rumbled through town. They felt the house

tremble. Sissy searched the man for clues of the boy she had known.

He had the same strong features, the same dark brown hair and

heavy eyebrows, the same dark eyes. But now, their corners were

crinkled. She felt an irrational envy. He’d gotten those lines without

her. His skin was tanned tight across his high cheekbones. With his

athletic grace and dark skin and prominent nose, he looked like an

Indian. Not a real Indian with their round faces, flat noses, and

slightly oriental eyes. But the movie version: Jeff Chandler playing

Cochise. Tall, dark, and Jewish. She caught an earthy smell of musk

mixed with the creosote.

The ladies’ choir began to file into the Southern Methodist

Church of Gentry on the opposite corner. They wore starched cot-

ton dresses with sleeves and collars so as not to give offense in the

House of the Lord. Some of them waved to Sissy, standing bare-

footed on her porch in her low-cut, yellow sundress. Parker and

Sissy parted self-consciously and waved back. She saw Amy Lou

Hopper—who always prided herself on dressing appropriately—

adjust her pointy blue glasses before entering the church. Poor Amy

Lou, Sissy thought.

She took a seat on the far corner of the swing and smoothed her

circle skirt demurely over her knees. Underneath, she felt her legs

stick together.

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 1 3

Parker took off his heavy tool belt and sat down so hard the

swing jumped and whined. They turned to one another, but four-

teen years of silence came between them.

Sissy took a Coke off the wicker table and offered it to him. She

heard the ice clink and felt the glass sweat. For the first time in four-

teen years their hands touched. Sissy was shocked at the sensation

that rushed through her body. It was as if he had reached his big,

hairy hand down her dress.

“Thanks,” he said and took the glass, leaving Sissy’s hand wet

and empty.

She touched the tips of her fingers to her cheek and felt where his

hand had touched hers. She started to speak, thought better of it,

offered him a cigarette and took one for herself. He cupped his

hand and leaned forward to light hers.

A hummingbird fluttered inches from the honeysuckle on the

porch post. It hovered in space, lusting for the nectar.

The silence between them became charged and dangerous. Sissy

had to fill it, but she didn’t want to sound strained, or worse, stu-

pid. But she felt stupid and he looked strained. And then she

remembered Rule Number Eleven.
Men find themselves the most

fascinating subject of any conversation. When in doubt, let him talk

about himself
.

“Sammy showed me some of those postcards you sent.” Parker

hadn’t sent many, but the ones he’d sent had pictures of golden

Buddhas, elephants, Chinese junks. “Did you really see all that

stuff?”

He was flattered by her interest, as she knew he would be, and

launched into the story of his travels. “You’d love it, Sissy. Temples

a thousand years old next to skyscrapers.” He told her how he’d

sailed the South China Sea, trekked through the mountains of Thai-

land on elephants, swum in the Bay of Bengal.

“It must be something to be wild and free,” she said, and there

was naked longing in her voice.

“It’s something, all right.”

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Sissy flashed back to that last year in high school, when her

future was wide open. Anything seemed possible then. Anything,

except that she’d spend the rest of her life trapped in the little town

she was born in. While Parker roamed the world. Oh well, like her

grandmother said,
Don’t jump off the roof if you don’t expect to hit

the ground
. Rule Number Sixty-two.

He asked about old friends. Sissy answered mechanically, but she

was listening to the sound of his voice, not his words. The air was

breathless, heavy, the way it gets before a storm. She felt they were

wrapped together in the late afternoon heat. She rubbed the cold,

wet glass against her neck and rolled it over her chest.

Parker watched and stopped talking. He gulped down his icy

drink.

The organist across the street played the first chord. Sissy felt