The Scandalous Summer of Sissy LeBlanc

by Loraine Despres

  He knelt down and rolled off her lace panties. She arched and waited for him to enter her. But Parker just stood over her. He seemed to be drinking in her nakedness. Then he kissed her.

  Down there! Sissy had heard about men doing that, of course. Women, too. But she thought they only did it in New York.

  All her upbringing told her they were going straight to hell. She pushed against him, trying to push him off her. But he sucked on her and she began moaning in spite of herself and then as he held her thighs, flames shot up through her body and she started to scream. He didn’t even try to hush her. He just laughed and began licking her and flicking his tongue back and forth! That’s when Sissy decided hell was okay with her, especially if it took a real long time getting there.

  He entered her finally and filled her up, pushing her knees over his shoulders, rubbing places she’d never felt before, turning them to yearnings as he moved back and forth, back and forth, and exploded inside of her.

  And just as she found herself wishing he could have lasted a little longer, he wanted to do it again. And this time as she caressed him with her fingers and wrapped herself around him, there was no question of forcing herself. No question at all.

  Afterward, they lay with their legs entwined, his hand cupping her breast. “Why didn’t you do this fourteen years ago?”

  “I don’t know, I must have respected you.”

  “Shit, Parker, why’d you have to do a thing like that?”

  “You know why I love you, Sissy? You talk just like my buddies in the Marines.” They laughed, but beneath the laughter, Sissy grieved for all those years and what could have been.

  He ran a bath for her in the big claw-footed tub and washed her breasts and the inside of her legs until she pulled him in with her. As they were splashing water all over the tiles, trying to get his big body to fit, Sissy wondered how long he planned to stay in Gentry.

  “Are we just some kind of pit stop for you, Parker?” She heard a lonely wind blowing through her voice and tried to hush it. “I don’t want to pressure you or anything.”

  He laughed and slid his knees around her hips, bobsled fashion. “You trying to get rid of me, girl?”

  “No! I mean, I just…” How did she get herself into this? “Everybody expected you to be a big success. You know, my daddy wrote all those articles. And you had an international business. Don’t you want that anymore?”

  Parker shrugged. “ ‘Desire is the root of all suffering,’ ” he quoted.

  Sissy froze. “Who says?”

  “The Buddhists.”

  It was a good thing he couldn’t see her face. She thought of the years she’d spent in Gentry before he’d come back. All those years without desire. All those years of nothing much. “Well, let me tell you something, Parker Davidson, and you can tell those Buddhists of yours, Desire is the root of…” She paused, casting around for the right word. “Life! And if you ain’t got that, you ain’t got nothing.”

  Parker laughed again. “That the Word According to Sissy?”

  “You can quote me.” She thought about adding that to the Southern Belle’s Handbook. Rule Number…

  But before she could assign it a number, Parker said, “Let’s just see what kind of desire we can stir up right here.” He slid his hands under her buttocks and moved her around until she found out it was possible to stir up quite a bit even in a tub filled with hot water. Parker taught her a lot of possibilities that afternoon.

  When they left the bathroom, it was already dark. “Oh my God, Peewee’s expecting me home by now!”

  “Stay.” Parker was sitting on the bed. He held out his hand to her. “Stay the night.”

  “I can’t. You know that.”

  He took her hand. “I don’t want you to go. It’s too soon. I’ve waited too long.”

  “You think I want to?” She pulled away from him and started to dress. “Don’t worry, this is not a one-night stand.”

  He didn’t say anything, but watched her intently as if trying to make up his mind about something. He helped her hook up her bra. She pulled her slip over her head and with one leg on the bed, attached her stocking to her garter belt. But when she started to put on her panties, he took them from her. “Just put on the rest of your clothes. I want to see you in your dress and know that part’s still open and ready for me!”

  “Parker, you’re a pervert!” she said, but the thought excited her, too. He stood up and took her over to the mirror. She looked at his big, naked body and wondered how she’d be able to stand Peewee now. He slid his arm around her shoulder and slipped his hand into her bra. She slapped at him. “I’ve got to go.”

  He bent over and kissed her ear and pinched her nipple. She remembered hot nights in the drive-in when they were kids, and she pressed her body against his. But when he started pulling up her slip she pushed away from him. “I can’t stay. I want to, but I can’t.”

  She stepped into her green dress, zipping it up behind her. He picked up the phone and asked the operator for her number. Sissy tried to grab the phone, but he held it away from her until a voice on the other end said, “Hello.”

  “Say you’ll be late.”

  “Hello,” the voice said again.

  “Clara?” Sissy asked.

  “Where are you? Mr. Peewee’s been expecting you for over an hour.”

  “Tell him…” Parker reached his hand up under Sissy’s dress, feeling along the top of her stocking. She tried to push him away. “Tell him…” Parker’s fingertips gently stroked her pubic hair. “Tell him I’ll be…” He touched her skin, rubbed, and brought up the wetness… “staying …here… all night.”

  “You can’t!” The voice over the wire was shocked.

  A feeling of wild abandon swept over her. After fourteen years Sissy was busting loose. “Oh, yes I can!”

  “Oh, Lord, what am I supposed to tell your husband?” Clara asked. Sissy could hear the envy in her voice.

  That’s when Sissy experienced another first. As Parker pulled her onto his lap, she didn’t want to lie. She didn’t even want to think one up. “Tell him… tell him anything you want.”

  AROUND 2 A.M. THEY were famished and went out to an oyster bar where the night people of Bourbon Street and the jazz all came in through the open door. Sissy had been to New Orleans many times, but she’d never slept there. Peewee didn’t see the sense in putting out good money for a hotel room, when he could sleep in his own bed just two hours away. She couldn’t get over the way the city was alive all night long. People went out for supper whenever the mood struck them. She was all eyes as the musicians, the strippers, and the society crowd stood around the oyster bar calling to one another, passing the catsup and horseradish like family. A saxophone player helped her mix her oyster sauce. A man in a tuxedo drunkenly, but gallantly, presented her with the carnation from his lapel. She squeezed Parker’s hand, and his heart soared at how young and alive she looked. She felt like a princess who’d been freed from enchantment. Cinderella out of the cinders, on the arm of her prince.

  When they were seated at a table, a lone clarinetist wandered in and sat down next to them and began to play softly. Sissy kissed Parker on the cheek. She thanked him for giving her this perfect evening and told him how she loved their hotel. The Guest House. She’d always wanted to stay at a place like that. On the few trips she’d taken with Peewee and the kids to the Gulf Coast, they’d always stayed in cement block motels with broken air conditioners and dingy sheets. Parker smiled, proud he could make her so happy, but when she added: “A cheap motel would make what we’re doing feel sort of, well, you know… cheap,” he shifted uncomfortably on the wooden chair.

  “I thought we might meet out on the Airline Highway, next time.”

  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 sheet
s 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 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 everything 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 entitlement.

  “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 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 costing 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 suffering. 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.”

  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 anything 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.

  THE NEXT MORNING the bellboy brought Sissy and Parker the 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 suggested 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 colored girl would take such an interest in genealogy, but she was glad to help. She believed it was her Christian duty to eradicate ignorance wherever she found it. Besides, she liked Clara, a smart, sensible 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 t
he 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 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.