Free The Scandalous Summer of Sissy LeBlanc by Loraine Despres

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
    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 5 5
    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 score-
    board, 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 fur-
    nished 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 bis-
    cuit, 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, Jin-
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    L o r a i n e D e s p r e s
    gle.” 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 water-
    melon rinds, but thought better of it. He’d keep the jar as a sou-
    venir.
    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 Valu-
    able Player. That was him, Parker Davidson. Most Valuable. Most
    Locked Out. He remembered a sliver of poetry he’d had to