The Scandalous Summer of Sissy LeBlanc (35 page)

believe her motives were pure bunny love wasn’t worth praying to.

Sissy switched on the radio, but instead of music, the one clear

station was filled with news of Germans and Englishmen slaughter-

ing each other over in some unpronounceable place in Africa. She

switched it off.

Shadows were filling up the silent room, but she didn’t bother to

turn on the lights. She just sat there, waiting in the dark.

“Are you sure?” Bourrée had asked over the phone.

“I’m sure.”

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There was a long pause, then: “Now, don’t you worry about a

thing, little girl, I’ll take care of you.”

So here she was waiting for him again, in the rain. This time she

was standing in front of the library in the dark, her raincoat but-

toned up to her chin, burdened down with a stack of library books

she’d chosen to give herself an alibi. Where was he? He said he’d be

here right after supper. She remembered their last meeting under the

live oak and she felt nauseous. But he wouldn’t be like that tonight.

That time was her fault. She’d scared him by going over to his

house like that. Tonight would be different. Wouldn’t it? She took a

series of deep breaths, but the nausea wouldn’t go away.

The rain fell on her cheeks and dripped over her nose. She wiped

her face with the back of her hand. Where was he?

She walked back and forth under the awning. No matter what

other options she played around with in her head, since the first day

she’d missed her period, she knew she would have to have an abor-

tion. She was going to college next year.

But how? Girls died. Girls died in childbirth, too.

A year ago Sissy never thought about death and now it was all

around her. Images from her favorite childhood story, “The Water

Babies,” had invaded her dreams. Except these babies were floating

faceup. Dead. Her brother Norman. Her mother. The rest of the

dead babies were wearing her face.

Betty Ruth said she knew someone who went to a clinic in Mex-

ico. But, my God, the whole country’s Catholic, and besides it isn’t

even safe to drink the water down there.

Maybe he can fix it with some doctor around here. She’d heard

about doctors who did abortions at night right in their offices. But

it was supposed to be awful. She imagined the shades down, the

lights dim, the doctor’s hands shaking, and everybody scared of get-

ting caught, scared of what would happen if his hand slipped.

But Bourrée was connected. He could put a fix in at some hospi-

tal in New Orleans or Baton Rouge. Her grandmother had told her

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about doctors certifying it was for some kind of female problem.

And it was all perfectly legal. All you had to do was find the right

doctor. Bourrée would know the one, if anybody would. They

called it a “c and d” or a “d and c” or something.

Finally he pulled over in his old pickup. He reached across the

seat and opened the door for her. “You look like a cat that just

crawled out of a ditch.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” she said, climbing up into the truck.

“It was nice of you to show up.”

“What’s a matter, sugar? Don’t you think ole Bourrée’s gonna

take care of you?”

“Are you?” she asked hoarsely.

“I surely am,” he said as he drove through town. Sissy started to

ask where they were going and then realized he was heading

toward the creek. Is he taking me back there to ask me what I want

to do? Or to talk me into an abortion? The memory of the night in

her yard came back to her. He wouldn’t try to do that again. Not

when I’m like this. She slid away from him and pressed herself

against the door. But he didn’t seem to notice. Then he drove right

past the Big Creek cutoff and turned onto a two-lane blacktop.

“Where’re we going?”

“To get rid of your little problem, sugar.”

“Tonight!”

“What’d you think?”

“I thought we were going to talk about it. Agree on a plan.”

“No sense pussyfooting around. The sooner you take care of it,

the better. Besides, you don’t want that thing festering inside you

any longer than absolutely necessary.”

“Where are we going?”

“Now, why don’t you just leave that to me.”

They drove past a Negro bar. Sissy could hear the band playing

as if nothing at all important were happening.

Bourrée turned off the blacktop and onto a dirt road.

“There aren’t any doctors out here!” she screamed as the truck

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bounced and bucked over the ruts and potholes. He didn’t say any-

thing. He just squinted through the rain at what was left of the

road. An edge of hysteria was creeping into her voice, and a tic was

making her leg jump. “You’ve got to take me back. I can’t do it

tonight! My parents expect me to sleep at home.”

“Where else you gonna sleep? In the fields?” He saw her staring

at him, her green eyes wide with fright. “It don’t take that long,

sugar.”

“But with the anesthetics and all . . . ?”

Bourrée laughed and patted her bouncing knee. “A young thing

like you don’t need anesthetics. Just grit your teeth.”

He pulled up to an unpainted shotgun cottage in the middle of

some fields. Sissy stared in horror at the rusting tin roof and the

sagging porch with dangerous, decaying stairs. An old Model A

Ford missing a fender and a couple of wheels was stuck in the mud.

A cracked sink was lying in a junk pile next to it.

“I’m not going in there.”

“Course you are,” he said, cutting the lights.

“I thought you were taking me to a doctor.”

“What doctor?”

“My grandmother says there are doctors and hospitals, too,

where a girl can go and they’ll certify you were just having a female

operation.”

“Belle tell you the name of any of those brave hospitals or their

intrepid doctors?”

Sissy shook her head feeling stupid, “No, but . . .”

“Well, I don’t know ’em, neither.” Bourrée had dropped the

speech he used around town and, as he often did in times of stress,

had fallen into the raw vernacular of his youth. “Now, don’t you

worry none about a doctor. Abortion’s a fact of nature. Girls have

been getting rid of their little bundles since before there was doc-

tors.”

“Girls have been dying . . .” Her voice caught on the word.

He laughed, mocking her. “Aunt Sarah’s not gonna kill you,

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Sissy. Hell, she’s been in business for years and years and never lost

a girl that I’ve heard of. So come on, get out. You’ll be fine.”

Bourrée got out of the truck, walked all the way around in the

mud and opened her door. The rain was coming down in sheets.

“Get out, girl.”

Sissy sat looking straight ahead.

“Dammit, Sissy, get out, I’m getting mired down in all this mud.”

Sissy didn’t move.

He grabbed her arm and jerked her out. “Act sensible, girl, ’cause

there ain’t nothing else you can do.” And he led her up the rotting

stairs.

“Aunt Sarah.” His voice boomed as he pushed Sissy into the

house. The screen door banged behind them. The rain was making

a racket on the tin roof, so he called again.

Sissy tried to pull out of his grip when a stout Negro in a white

uniform came out of a back room, wiping her hands on a bloody

apron. She was in her late fifties. She squinted at them as she

walked through the kitchen. And then a big smile spread across her

face. “Mr. Bourrée, I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“How you been keeping yourself, Sarah?”

“Busy, real busy.”

“This here little girl went and got herself in trouble,” he said,

pushing Sissy toward her. “Think you can help her out?”

“I always got time for one of your gals, Mr. Bourrée, you know

that, but,” she said, turning to Sissy, “I’m afraid you’re gonna have

to wait. I’m working on a little gal right now.”

Sissy smelled liquor on her breath and wondered how many of

Bourrée’s “gals” Aunt Sarah had worked on.

“That’s okay. Take your time,” Bourrée said expansively.

Sissy shook her head. “Maybe we better come back tomorrow.

My parents think I’m at the library, and they’ll worry if I come

home too late.”

Bourrée laughed and tightened his grip. “Oh, you’ll come up

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with a story for your parents. I have faith in you.” He winked at

Sarah.

“You all sit down and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be with

you in just a little while.” Sarah went back through the kitchen.

When she opened the door, Sissy caught a glimpse of a skinny

brown leg, tied with a rope to a table covered in old newspapers.

Her heart began to race. “I’m not staying here.”

“Now don’t you worry,” Bourrée said in a calming voice. “If

anyone knows what she’s doing, Aunt Sarah does.” He squeezed

Sissy’s shoulder reassuringly as he took her raincoat and hung it on

the coat rack by the door. He pointed to a chair and said, “Sit

down, chère. A girl in your condition shouldn’t be on her feet.”

Sissy sat down on the edge of an old wooden rocking chair. Bour-

rée leaned over and patted her on the knee. “Good girl, I’ll be back

for you around midnight.”

Sissy jumped up. “What!”

“Don’t worry. I’m not gonna leave you here forever.” He opened

the front door.

“Aren’t you gonna wait and make sure I’m all right?” It didn’t

look like it. She heard herself pleading, “Bourrée, please don’t leave

me alone. I can’t stand it.”

“Now, honey, I’ve got business to attend to. Besides, what am I

gonna do around here while you’re getting yourself fixed?”

She grabbed the back of his hunting jacket. He turned and took

her shoulders in his hands. His voice was harsh. “Be sensible, girl,

you don’t have no choice.” And with that, he twisted out of her

grip. The screen door banged behind him.

For a moment she was too stunned to move; then she ran outside,

only to see him climb in the truck and slam it into gear. She ran,

stumbling, through the front yard. The truck leaped forward and

splattered her with mud.

Sissy went back inside. There wasn’t much furniture in the front

room: a couch with a Bleeding Heart of Jesus hanging above it, a

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couple of chairs with the stuffing coming out, and a scratched cof-

fee table. “At least it’s swept out and clean,” she said aloud, trying

to cheer herself up. She sat back down on the old wooden rocking

chair, but as soon as she took the pressure off, her leg began to jerk.

She had to rock back and forth, back and forth.

Then the screams began. The terror of the girl tied to the table

behind the kitchen called out to her and Sissy answered with silent

screams of her own. Her mouth became so dry, her tongue stuck

to it.

She got up and went into the kitchen, where she took a glass out

of the drainer. It was coated with a thin film of buttermilk. Behind

the curtains, beneath the sink, the trash can was overflowing.

Newspapers clotted with blood were hanging from the edge and

falling out. Sissy looked down and saw the blood from a balled-up

newspaper drip onto her shoe. She screamed out loud.

Her scream was drowned out by louder ones behind the door.

The fear coming from the back room had turned to searing pain.

Aunt Sarah sharply ordered the girl to hush up. What was that

woman doing? Sissy had no idea how abortions were performed.

She’d heard of girls using coat hangers on themselves. The image of

a serrated kitchen spoon dripping with blood and buttermilk came

unbidden into her mind. “You don’t have no choice.” She wiped

her shoe on the sink curtains. When she stood up, a tall boy—a year

or two older than she—was standing over her, weaving.

“Well, well, look who’s come to call. You waiting for my mama?”

Sissy nodded and tried to say yes, but she couldn’t make any

words come.

“Then I guess I knows what you been doing.” The boy was

drunk and thought he was hilarious. He slapped his leg at his own

joke.

Sissy tried to edge out of his way. But as she edged to the left, he

followed her, putting up his right arm to cut her off. He leaned over

her. She could smell his fetid breath. “Where’s your boyfriend? He

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take off so he won’t have to partake in the consequences in case my

mama’s hand slips?”

Sissy edged to the right. He almost let her go, but when her back

was to the wall he took her by the arm. “You ever try dark meat?”

Sissy pulled herself up and, in her best imitation of her grand-

mother doing her high and mighty act, said, “Would you please

move aside and let me pass.”

But the drunken boy was not about to be intimidated. All the

constraints that protected white women and kept them safe in col-