Finally Parker’s teammates wandered off, shaking their heads. Gentry’s greatest football star and war hero stringing phone lines for Calvin Merkin. A satisfied smile played around Plurb’s slack cheeks. Parker felt humiliated. He knew the most satisfying thing about other people’s fame is seeing them brought down to your level of everyday disappointment, but that’s not what he’d come home for.
“You still got family here?” Calvin asked, hoping to solve the mystery of why Parker had returned.
But Parker shook his head. “You know my father died.”
“I always wondered why you didn’t come back for the funeral.”
“I was trekking through the jungles of Burma. By the time I found out, my mother had already moved to Florida.” The two men looked at one another in silence. “She visited me in Bangkok that Christmas, but she didn’t like it.”
“Was you living with your Thailand cutie?”
Parker nodded and twisted his head to stretch the tense muscle.
“Your mama find out?”
“My girlfriend didn’t have any other place to go. I couldn’t throw her into the street.”
“Jesus, Parker.” Calvin wiped his head and then carefully arranged his hairs. There was admiration in his voice, but Parker heard anxiety, too. He’s afraid I’ll get him in trouble. Parker didn’t know how to reassure him. This afternoon with Sissy had ignited a spark he wasn’t sure he could snuff out. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.
They drank in silence. Calvin began complaining again about his wife, Thelma, his ball and chain. Parker tried to match his description to the perky blond in the picture. Maybe she wasn’t so perky anymore. Finally, she called and Calvin had to stagger on home for dinner. “Dammit, Parker, you’re one lucky bastard. You’re free to do anything. Anything you want.”
“Yeah,” said Parker. “Anything I want.” He stayed at the Paradise until most of the crowd had gone home to their wives. He talked to Rosalie behind the bar for a while. Then he began to feel queasy. He decided to go on home and get himself some supper.
He got into his car with a grinding sense of futility. Nothing was working out. He should have known. He thought about Sissy and how he’d had to hide in the pantry because of that bigoted toad she’d married.
He heard the Panama Limited in the distance hurtling toward Chicago. The luxury express had roared through town twice a day, every day of his youth.
Red lights flashed at the crossing.
Suddenly Parker was back in high school and in the grip of a crazed adrenaline rush. He downshifted and charged the tracks. He could beat the old Panama Limited. He could still do it. The MG was caught in the blinding light of the oncoming train as it rushed toward him. The warning bell clanged as he floored the gas pedal.
The diesel screamed.
Parker white-knuckled across the intersection.
“Yowee!” he yelled into the night as the gates closed down behind him. The adrenaline had knocked out the grinding in his stomach.
And then as the train blasted and rumbled, he heard his saner voice. That was a damned fool thing to do! You almost killed yourself and all those innocent people. For what? For nothing.
Parker began to shake and had to wipe his palms on his jeans. As a kid he’d spent hours watching the trains. He’d been fascinated by them and the tales of heroes who’d given their lives to pull innocent victims from the tracks. When he was ten years old, he’d tried to strike a deal with God. As long as I’ve got to die anyway, let me do it saving a life.
So far, fortunately, the Lord hadn’t seen fit to answer.
He crossed the tracks again at Education Drive and drove through the quiet to the high school. Nothing had changed. It was the same two-story brick building set back in the pines. The same broad steps where Sissy and the other cheerleaders used to sit with their legs bent under their skirts. The same double entrance doors, flanked by cement pilasters and surrounded by curlicues. Mens sana in corpore sano was engraved in the cement. He wondered if they were still engraving Latin above the doors of American schools. He doubted it.
He stopped the car and got out. He wanted to run those ninety-five yards one more time. His work boots made a crunching sound in the dried pine needles under his feet. The scent of pine was strong in his nostrils. He began to sprint. His face took on the wind. He rounded the corner of the school and kept on running.
The field was there as it had always been. The lights, the scoreboard, the cement stadium, in front of which Sissy had leaped into the air and led the cheers.
But they’d put up a chain-link fence.
He stood panting. He went over to the gate and shook it. It was padlocked. Damn. For a brief moment he considered climbing over it. He fit the toe of his work boot into a hole in the chain link. He grabbed the fence and looked up. Running around the top were two rows of barbed wire.
He got into his MG and slammed the door hard behind him. He switched on the engine, let it roar, and drove straight to the furnished house he was renting.
As soon as he opened the front door, Sid, his Brittany spaniel, exploded through it and threw himself onto his master’s chest. Parker had rescued the dog in Florida after his former owner had abandoned him. Parker had renamed the dog for Sid Luckman, the famous Bears quarterback and hero of his youth. The beast barked and tried to lick his face.
“Cool it, Sid,” Parker said as he pushed the dog down. “We gotta have a talk about gender. Not to mention species.” He walked into the kitchen and heard his work boots make a hollow sound.
He opened a can of all-meat dog food and scooped it out into Sid’s dish. Parker watched the big orange and white spaniel sniff it expectantly. Then, discovering it was only dog food, the animal lumbered over to the door, where he cast reproachful looks at his inadequate master.
“Starve,” said Parker. But after a long canine stare and a few whines, Parker reached into the cabinet, took out a large dog biscuit, and tossed it. Sid caught it in his teeth.
Parker switched the radio to a country station. The cheerful voice of Gene Autry was singing “I’ve Got Spurs That Jingle, Jangle, Jingle.” Parker opened a can of corned-beef hash. The aroma that wafted up around him reminded him of the food in Sid’s dish, but he threw it into the skillet anyway. It would taste better once it was cooked.
Then when Gene extolled the joy of being single, Parker switched off the radio. A man could stand just so much cheer.
He paced the warped plank floor, waiting for the hash to heat up. He wondered what Sissy had fixed Peewee for supper and he wished she’d fixed it for him. He tried to imagine her here, in his kitchen, leaning over the stove, the strap of her sundress falling off her shoulder as she stirred her special stew or fried chicken for him.
The canned hash sizzled. He dumped the soft, greasy mess onto a plate. It didn’t smell like dog food out of the can anymore. Now it smelled like hot dog food. Parker smothered it with American cheese and catsup. He started to add some of Sissy’s pickled watermelon rinds, but thought better of it. He’d keep the jar as a souvenir.
He took the plate and a glass of milk into the living room and set them down in front of the TV. Surrounding the Naugahyde lounger and TV table were the crumbs and stains of other meals.
A cockroach darted out from under the couch and made a run for an old potato chip. Parker watched it. He figured he was still fast enough to grab it, but what the hell, everybody’s got to make a living. Just as long as he doesn’t bring his friends. He patted his chair and got Sid to stand guard as he switched on the TV.
On top of the console his old football trophy—“Most Valuable Player, Gentry High School, 1941–42”—gathered dust. Most Valuable Player. That was him, Parker Davidson. Most Valuable. Most Locked Out. He remembered a sliver of poetry he’d had to learn for senior English class: “And that one talent which is death to hide/ Lodged with me useless.” He rubbed some of the dust off the trophy with his shirttail, wondering who wrote that. Milton? Then he realized his shirt w
as caked in creosote.
The Most Valuable Player of Gentry High sat down and spooned a gob of corned-beef hash onto a piece of white bread. He considered it for a moment. Then he pushed the greasy mess, dripping with catsup and cheese, into his mouth as Ralph Edwards appeared on the screen and said with jovial excitement, “This is your life.”
Chapter 5
A girl has to look her best while she’s still young enough to look real good.
Rule Number Twenty-four
THE SOUTHERN BELLE'S HANDBOOK
THE MEN IN Buster Rubinstein’s glass-enclosed office at the top of the store were finishing up their noontime poker game. Sissy’s father-in-law, Bourrée LeBlanc, laid down his final hand and pulled a pile of bills across the table. “Nice doing business with you all,” he said.
“What I can’t figure out, Bourrée, are you the luckiest white man in the parish or the biggest cheat?” That was Tibor Thompson, the district attorney and Sissy’s uncle.
“Hell, Tibor, I ain’t never heard of a politician getting cheated. Not in Louisiana, anyway. It’s them that does the cheating, isn’t it?” Bourrée accompanied these remarks with a bland smile.
Tibor’s handsome, avuncular face froze. His brown eyes blinked a couple of times like a calculating machine counting up insults. Then he slapped Bourrée on the back. “What’s that they say about Cajuns? If you know one that’s rich and honest, you don’t know him well.”
The men laughed. Bourrée kept the smile on his lips, but his eyes narrowed. He was a timber manager who managed to pocket most of the profits as he clear-cut the land he was paid to take care of. He specialized in rich widows from New Orleans. His steel-blue eyes, which spoke of danger, and jet-black hair streaked with gray were an irresistible combination. Each widow recommended him to a friend. And Bourrée took care of them all.
His real name was Beauregard LeBlanc, but everyone called him Bourrée after a fast-paced, high-stakes Cajun card game, at which he was a master. Bourrée had always loved to gamble. He stood up to transfer the money from the table to his pocket and saw his grandchildren run into the toy department. Then he spotted Sissy following them. She was wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a wine-colored halter. His eyes narrowed as he watched all the men in the hardware department turn and stare at those long freckled legs.
He saw Chip take an elaborate chemistry set off the shelf and Billy Joe climb onto a new bike. As Bourrée carefully folded his winnings into his gold money clip, he figured he’d ask Sissy just what those children had done to deserve such expensive presents.
WHILE THE KIDS were making up their minds, Sissy wandered into the dress department. Above her, chipped mannequins in bad wigs perched on pillars, making even the latest fashion from New York look dowdy. She tried to tell herself she wasn’t really giving in to Chip’s blackmail. She was simply expiating her guilt, like when she made the boys mow the lawn after they’d done something naughty. Of course she knew better, but in a little town like this, with everybody minding everybody else’s business, Rule Number Twelve of the Southern Belle’s Handbook applied. A lady must develop the knack of finding a noble motivation for doing what she wants, or she’ll never get a chance to do what she wants at all. Besides, she was always coming down on Chip. Maybe giving in to him this once would build up his self-esteem and he’d start acting like everyone else.
She idly went through the dress rack. She had no intention of buying anything, she assured herself, even though she’d had to throw away her favorite sundress. She couldn’t. Peewee would have a fit, especially when he found out about all the stuff she was getting for the kids. She pulled out a green linen number and held it up to her, studying her refection in the mirror.
“It matches your eyes.”
She swung around and saw Parker Davidson emerging from the hardware department with a new tool belt.
“I’ve been thinking about your eyes…” He was so close, she could feel his breath on her cheek. “And the rest of you.”
“Go away, Parker,” she hissed.
“You don’t mean that.”
“Oh yes I do.” She stepped back against the dress rack. Her heart was pounding, but she couldn’t be seen like this with him. “I’m a married woman!”
“I remember.”
“Go away!” she said again. But he didn’t go away. “Look, even if I wanted to see you again, which I don’t…” She paused. She hadn’t forgotten her vow to be good and faithful, but her breath was getting short just standing next to him like this and for a moment she lost her train of thought. “Even if I wanted to see you again, I couldn’t. I’ve got to think about my children.” She saw Amy Lou Hopper eyeing her from the hardware. Oh God, that’s all I need, the fifty-thousand-watt voice of the Southern Methodist Auxiliary. Amy Lou squinted and then slipped on her pointy glasses to get a better look.
Sissy slid out of Amy Lou’s sight. “Dammit, Parker, you know it’s impossible.” Her back was against the wall.
“I know. That’s why I had this made.” He pressed a house key into her hand. His address was wrapped around it.
“I can’t take this!” Her voice was low, urgent. She tried to open her hand, but he had it in both of his and his hands felt so warm. “I mean it. I’ll never use it,” she said, but all she wanted to do was stand there with her hand in his.
“Just come over and talk. We haven’t talked for years,” he said softly.
“Hey, Sissy.”
She jerked around and faced Uncle Tibor, the D.A. He was smiling his politician’s smile, only inches away. The other men from Buster Rubinstein’s noontime card game were coming down the stairs. What am I going to do now? she wondered, holding up her cheek for a kiss. She introduced her uncle to Parker. “We went to school together.” She hoped he didn’t remember they went together in school.
“I remember this boy,” Tibor said in his hearty voice, the one he reserved for voters. “The best quarterback Gentry ever had.” Sissy relaxed. “When you were playing, you were the best in the state.”
“Thank you, sir.” The two men shook hands and Sissy realized she still had Parker’s key.
“I heard something about your running for the U.S. Congress,” Parker said.
Tibor’s face became very somber. “They need me, boy. They need me now more than ever…”
Oh no, Sissy thought, don’t get him started.
But it was too late. Tibor threw back his wavy white mane, and like a racehorse who knows the course, he was off and running. He left the gate “protecting our way of life,” galloped into the first turn “upholding states’ rights,” and hit his stride “getting rid of the Communists on the Supreme Court.”
Sissy turned away in disgust. Ever since the Supreme Court decided to desegregate the schools, the poor, the ignorant, and the brutal had found a cause and were looking for a leader. So the politicians, like her uncle, were falling all over themselves trying to out-bigot each other. But Parker seemed fascinated. How could he be fascinated? Let a man out of your sight for fourteen years, and you never know what he’ll turn into. Sissy decided to make that Rule Twenty-five of the Southern Belle’s Handbook. Well, she hadn’t exactly engaged him in a political conversation yesterday. She didn’t have much time to think about it, though, because Buster Rubinstein and her father-in-law, Bourrée LeBlanc, were bearing down on her.
“Hey, Sissy.” Buster held out his hand, but Sissy couldn’t shake it. Her right hand still held Parker’s key. She kissed Buster instead, using his considerable girth to drop the key into her purse. She hoped her father-in-law wouldn’t notice.
As she expected, Buster became flustered by her kiss. Sissy had never kissed him before. As she put her lips next to his sagging white cheek, she caught a whiff of sweetness emanating from his skin. Was Buster using cologne? she wondered as she pulled away from him. She didn’t know any other men who did. Maybe they all use it in the city. It was about time.
Buster adjusted his tie. He always wore a suit and tie at his
place of business even on damp summer days like today. The fluorescent lights reflected on his bald head fringed with white curls. “Haven’t seen you in a while. How’re Peewee and the kids?”
“Peewee’s fine. Just fine. And the kids are in your toy department right now, buying you out.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” he said with a wide grin, rubbing his hands in front of his belly.
Sissy turned from Buster and offered a chaste cheek to Bourrée. He ignored it. His eyes switched from his daughter-in-law to Parker and back. “What you been up to, Sissy?” He knew who Sissy had gone with before she’d married his son.
Her heart was racing, but she managed to shrug. “Just taking the children shopping. These long summer vacations make them crazy.”
“Makes a lot of people crazy,” he said, eyeing Parker. I can’t believe I got myself into this, Sissy berated herself as Tibor crossed the finish line, “protecting both races from mongrelization.” Parker looked dumbfounded, which comforted Sissy, but surprised her too. She figured her uncle was just your garden variety bigot. Parker ought to be used to them by now.
Parker turned to say hello to Buster Rubinstein. The Davidsons and the Rubinsteins were the only Jewish families in Gentry when she and Parker were growing up, and subject to endless speculation among the kids, especially in seventh grade after a visiting evangelist had proclaimed amid an orgy of foot stomping and speaking in tongues that to get into heaven you had to save at least three souls and bring those benighted heathens to Jesus.
Suddenly, Parker became a hot commodity. He was the only kid anybody knew who wasn’t already a Christian. Sissy would see him in intense conversations around the school yard with different boys and girls. She’d watch them press literature into his hands and watch him read it. But in the end he was a great disappointment to the faithful. He withstood their most fervent spiritual assaults.
They then turned their attention to the senior Davidsons and Rubinsteins, filling their mailboxes and covering their lawns with religious tracts.
The Scandalous Summer of Sissy LeBlanc Page 6