PART I
THE SUMMER OF '59
Chapter 1
July 25, 1959
"Christi! Christi, wake up! You're a celebrity!"
The young girl's muffled moan under the covers didn't stop her excited friend from rushing to the window and pulling open the heavy drapes. Christi slowly sat up in bed, blinking and rubbing her eyes, resigned to the unwelcome intrusion of summer sunshine and Kelly's loud exuberance.
"Look at this!" Kelly waved a newspaper. "Just look!"
Through her early-morning haze, Christi recognized the Vicksburg Daily Chronicle, opened to the society section. Kelly held her finger on the "Comings and Goings" column.
"Here. Read it out loud. I want to hear how it sounds."
Christi read the first few lines to herself, then, smiling, sat up straighter in bed, and started over in an elegant voice, "Clem Boudreaux (civic leader and owner/president of Boudreaux Cadillac/Oldsmobile) will miss his beautiful wife and daughter this week as the popular pair of stunning brunettes travels to Savannah.
"Helêne Boudreaux will give the bridesmaid's luncheon for the daughter of her college roommate Christina Demarest. (Yes, that is Mrs. Claude R. Demarest III of Willow Creek Plantation, for you history and society buffs.) If you've been reading Southern Society (and we trust you have), you will know that young Delores Deeana Demarest ("Dee-Dee" to her many friends) is marrying none other than William Lee Culpepper IV of the Georgia Culpepper's. Need we say more?
"Vivacious and oh-so-popular Miss Christina Boudreaux is the namesake and godchild of Christina Demarest, so it's all practically family. The stylish-beyond-her-years-pre-teen Miss Boudreaux has been seen shopping in all the best stores with her French-born mother, who still favors CoCo Chanel. You will recall that Helêne has headed Vicksburg's "Best Dressed" list since her marriage to Clem brought her to our fair burg a discreet many years ago.
"Christina Boudreaux, with her own unerring good taste, reportedly chose several one-of-a-kind specialty items which have recently arrived from fashion capitol New York City. This is not to imply that Miss Boudreaux is any less of a Southern belle, but she does have that international flair which is so refreshing for our quaint river city.
"We can hardly wait to see the wonderful pictures of the Demarest wedding, and of our own special envoys, which will surely grace the next issue of Southern Society. Until then, Helêne and Christina, 'Bon Voyage!'"
Christi and Kelly observed several moments of awed silence at the end of the article. The celebrity was the first to speak.
"Wow!" Christi exclaimed.
"'Wow' is right," Kelly echoed, still standing in deference to her now-famous friend.
Christi looked up at Kelly and, for the first time since they met, realized the one-year difference in their ages. Twelve was definitely more sophisticated than eleven. The young blonde girl suddenly appeared awkward and tom-boyish to the "stunning brunette" with "that international flair."
"Sit down," Christi invited, condescendingly patting a spot on the bed, feeling magnanimous to her social inferior. Kelly obliged. The two girls leaned back against the wooden headboard and re-read the article together. By the time they had each taken a half-dozen turns reading it aloud, they not only had memorized it, but they also had returned to the social equality which they had enjoyed since Kelly "skipped" into Christi's third-grade class. If the upcoming article in Southern Society didn't do any damage, they would enter the seventh grade as perennial best friends.
The dainty white Princess phone beside Christi's bed rang quietly.
"That will be your Daddy," Christi picked up the receiver and handed it to Kelly. "No one else ever calls this early on a Saturday."
"Boudreaux residence," Kelly answered politely. It was her father.
"May I speak with the 'vivacious and oh-so-popular Miss Christina Boudreaux?'"
"Oh, Daddy, you'll embarrass her," Kelly admonished.
"I certainly hope so," Clayton McCain responded with a laugh, "and then I'll pick you up for breakfast."
Kelly handed the receiver to the celebrity.
"It's one of your fans," she smiled. "You better figure on sitting by the phone all day."
Christi put the receiver to her ear. She giggled and blushed at the words, "Is this 'the vivacious and oh-so-popular Miss Christina Boudreaux?'"
"The same," she replied with the pretentious voice that she and Kelly had adopted for reading the article.
Christi motioned for Kelly to scootch over closer so she could hear too. The brunette head and the blonde cradled together, basking in the fame of the moment.
When Kelly left for breakfast with her father and his friends, Christi dressed casually, but carefully, in a cotton knit shorts outfit that she had bought for the trip to Savannah. Might as well wear it in Vicksburg first, she thought. After all, I have a reputation to uphold.
Christi bounded downstairs with a decidedly local flair. Her mother was in the kitchen, sipping coffee and reading the rest of the newspaper.
"Did you see this?" Christi grinned at her beautiful mother.
Helêne nodded and smiled, "Kelly showed it to me first. She tried hard not to wake you up, but apparently she couldn't help herself."
"And I'm glad!" Christi beamed. "Where's Daddy? Did he see it?"
Helêne shook her head. "He left very early, without coffee or the paper. It's the last Saturday of the month, you know."
Christi nodded, knowing the car business well enough. It seemed there was always some big promotion or contest from the factory and her daddy always wanted to win. His dealership was the largest in Mississippi, so he won more than he lost. He never admitted losing, though, because win or lose, he was still selling cars. Even when the new-car business might slow down, there was the used-car section. Clem Boudreaux also silently owned several car lots around the state that would never deserve the Boudreaux name and upstanding reputation.
"May I ride my bike downtown to show him this?" Christi asked enthusiastically.
"Mai oui, ma cher," Helêne replied gently, "aprés le petite dejeuner."
Obediently, Christi fixed herself a small bowl of cereal and ate a few bites. She was too excited to sit still. She gulped down a glass of orange juice, kissed her mother on both cheeks in the French style, and headed for the garage to get her bicycle.
Though it was still early, the air was hot and motionless. Christi pedaled briskly, reveling in the self-created breeze. Then, eagerly anticipating her daddy's reaction to her first big newspaper story, she pedaled faster and faster, foregoing her usual detour along the ridge overlooking the river where you could see the Mississippi lying broad and flat and brown, happy in the sun, or green and angry when the thunderclouds rolled in on it. She sped past the colored peoples' shoebox shacks and the white peoples' houses built long after The War, with their porches and railings, turrets and gingerbread trim, past the houses with names like Twin Oaks that had been built, or at least started, before The War, where the same families had lived for a hundred years, passing down the houses and furnishings, clothes and letters and diaries, silver and china, useful relics of their past lives and daily reminders of The War ~ The War that had taken almost everything there was to give, the fathers, sons, brothers, cousins, and husbands of the women of the South, leaving them shaken but stronger, alone but not lonely, cautious but unafraid, and proud of their men, of their own new strengths and of the land that was still theirs, if only a garden plot behind the house where they used to own hundreds of acres rolling down and along the Mississippi lying broad and flat and brown, happy in the sun, or green and angry when the thunderclouds rolled in on it.
Christi cruised into the huge asphalt lot of Boudreaux Cadillac/Oldsmobile and as usual swelled with pride at seeing her family name in big fancy letters on the neon sign out front, above her daddy's parking space. Eager as she was to see him, she succumbed to her habit of touring around to the back, past the service bays and the car wash, just to see what was going on. Nothing. It was still early and the service department was only open from ten until four on Saturdays. The salesmen would come in at eight.
Completing the circuit, Christi rode once again past her daddy's "loaded" white Cadillac with custom gold trim that he parked out front as part of his advertising. Clem ordered the same car for himself every year. It was his trademark and the only one of its kind in Vicksburg. He would have the gold trim removed before selling the "demo" to one of his friends at a bargain price. The deal included their promise not to re-apply custom gold trim. It was a small vanity, but Clem was known for it. Christi didn't give it a thought as she parked her bicycle, took the precious newspaper out of the basket, and headed toward the short sidewalk that led between the main office and the service department around to the unseen private entrance she could enter with her key.
A chameleon darted across her path, and Christi stopped to watch it. The tiny reptile paused beside a huge green leaf, then decided to scale the office's brick wall. Matted green vines leading up to the window gave plenty of cover. Christi waited for the miniature creature to change colors, but was disappointed that he seemed to be on a mission, unaware that he was not blending into his surroundings very well.
Christi thought that he deserved to be caught for his carelessness. She could take him home as a pet. She had rubbed chameleons before and there was something sweet about them. She took a stealthy step toward her new friend.
The chameleon stopped abruptly when he reached the sill. Suddenly aware of Christi's interest, he turned to face her bravely. Christi admired his audacity and decided that he would, indeed, make a nice pet. She bent closer, staring straight into his beady little eyes. The chameleon, crouched on the edge of the sill, stared back at her, unflinching.
In the stillness, Christi noticed some movement in the background behind the chameleon. Although the slats of the horizontal blinds were shut against the morning light, there was a small slit at the bottom where the blinds didn't reach to the sill. In that small space, Christi could see clearly into her father's office. She let her eyes refocus from the chameleon into the spacious wood-paneled office beyond.
The movement she had first noticed had been her daddy's new secretary Mrs. Jander going in and closing the door behind her. Christi's father was sitting at his desk, in his huge leather chair, talking on the telephone. Mrs. Jander started walking slowly toward him, touching the front of her red blouse. As Christi watched, transfixed, Mrs. Jander started unbuttoning it. Christi looked over at her father to see what he would do, but he didn't do anything. He just sat there and watched his new secretary come closer and closer, unbuttoning her red blouse.
Christi wanted to run away, but she couldn't move. Right under her nose, the chameleon started changing his color to match the red brick, but Christi didn't notice. She only noticed the color of that awful woman's orangey-red hair and the red bra that she was wearing under her red blouse. The woman took the red blouse and red bra off completely and Clem Boudreaux just kept watching her and talking on the telephone.
Mrs. Jander had breasts the size of a woman nursing twins. Christi had only seen breasts like that one other time and they were full of milk. She wondered if Mrs. Jander was full of milk too. As if to answer Christi's unspoken question, Mrs. Jander reached up and grabbed her own breasts in her two hands and began squeezing and pulling on her very pink nipples. Christi couldn't see if milk was coming out or not, but her father was watching closely and still talking on the telephone. He put down his pen. His right hand disappeared into his lap.
Rubbing and pulling on her own breasts, Mrs. Jander stood in front of the desk, rubbing and pulling, pulling and rubbing until Christi thought she was going to scream. Then Mrs. Jander walked around behind the desk and went up very close to Christi's father. He rolled his chair back. Mrs. Jander somehow slipped out of her skirt and she wasn't wearing any panties at all. Christi could only see the back of her bottom and then it disappeared below the desk as Mrs. Jander sat astride her father's lap, facing him and putting one of her huge breasts into his mouth.
He stopped talking, but he kept the telephone to his ear. Christi wondered who could be on the phone with him. Mrs. Jander started rocking back and forth on him, back and forth, back and forth, with her breast in his mouth. Finally, he hung up the phone and grabbed her other breast with his hand and he started rubbing and pulling on her nipple and he began to rock back and forth too, back and forth, back and forth, faster and faster until Christi thought she was going to scream. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, faster and faster, faster and faster, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, and then they made a strange, muffled noise, and then they stopped.
After a few minutes of not moving at all, Mrs. Jander stood up and grabbed a handful of tissues from the desk. She wiped herself as if she had just urinated. Then she leaned over to get her clothes. Her great huge breasts hung down in front of her as she pulled on her skirt. Still leaning over, she stuffed her great huge breasts into the skimpy red bra. Then she stood up straight and tucked her breasts in some more. Then she put on her tacky red blouse and tucked it into her skirt. Then she straightened her ugly red hair, which had not moved at all the whole time she had been rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
Mrs. Jander stood very close to the desk and they were saying things that Christi couldn't hear and then Mrs. Jander walked out of the room and suddenly Christi was afraid she might be seen. She wanted to disappear like a chameleon. Then she noticed that the chameleon was still resting immobilized on the sill. He had tried to blend in with brick. Instead, he had turned into the color of Mrs. Jander's hair.
In a flash, Christi grabbed her rolled-up newspaper and smashed the chameleon against the edge of the brick sill. She abandoned his flailing, dying body and the society pages of the Vicksburg Daily Chronicle in the dirt outside her father's office window.
