Sins of Innocence

by Jean Stone

  “Twelve years.”

  “Any problems during that time?”

  “None. Oh, the usual. My ex-husband can’t stand me. I can’t stand him. But we’ve been civil. For Mark’s sake.”

  “Why all of a sudden does he want to take him away?”

  “He says I’m a bad mother.”

  “Are you?”

  “Hardly, Mr. Sullivan.” She choked at calling this kid Mr. anything.

  He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. Susan cringed. The guy had an attitude.

  “Then what could have provoked this action?”

  Bert coughed. “If I can help clarify things,” he said. “Ms. Levin has reared the boy for twelve years. She has accepted only a minimal amount of child support, preferring to be responsible for Mark’s well-being on her own. She has been more than generous in allowing visitation privileges. Now what we seem to have here is a power play by her ex-husband, who suddenly wants the boy.”

  Sullivan put the tips of his fingers together and tapped them slowly, then looked at Susan. “Have you been contacted by your ex-husband’s attorney?” he asked, as an eyebrow cocked over a questioning eye.

  “No.”

  “Then there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We can’t do anything until there’s been some contact, until some demands have been made.”

  “I was trying to find out where I stood before it came to that,” she said. I was trying to find out where I stood before I made the decision about going to this damned reunion, she wanted to say.

  Sullivan stood. “You say you haven’t been a ‘bad’ mother. If you have nothing to hide, this shouldn’t be a problem. But we need to wait until we hear something from your ex-husband’s attorney. He could be bluffing, you know. No use mounting legal expenses if he is.”

  Susan took Bert’s arm. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I knew this wouldn’t do any good.”

  They walked down Main Street, toward Bert’s car.

  “What a jerk,” Bert said. “I’m sorry I talked you into going. But I don’t think Lawrence can get Mark away from you.”

  Susan buttoned her corduroy blazer. She looked in the window of the five-and-ten, amazed that such a store still existed in these days of Kmart and Caldor.

  “Maybe he gave me the best advice though.”

  “What?”

  “Do nothing. Wait to see if Lawrence is bluffing.”

  “Maybe.” Bert put an arm around her. “I thought seeing the lawyer would help put your mind at rest though. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

  She fell into the rhythm of Bert’s steps. “Don’t say things like that, Bert Hayden. It sounds like you care.”

  “I do care, Susan. You must know that by now.”

  They passed the jewelry store, the appliance-repair shop.

  “I could have left, you know,” he said.

  Susan stopped. “What do you mean?”

  Bert removed his arm from her and shrugged his shoulders. “After Gardiner got the promotion. A friend of mine from UCLA told me there’s an opening in the history department.”

  “You’re going to UCLA? You’re leaving Clarksbury?”

  When Bert smiled, the springy hairs of his beard stretched out flat. “I wouldn’t dare. I didn’t want to leave you.”

  “Bert, that’s ridiculous. We’re friends. Friends leave friends all the time.”

  “Not this friend.”

  A horn honked. Susan looked up to see the driver wave to an old man on the sidewalk. Small town, she thought. Everybody knows everybody.

  “I hope you’re not insinuating you want to do anything like marry me,” she said.

  “Nope. You know me better than that. But I do want to be with you. Be around you.”

  “I’m way too independent for marriage. It’s nothing I ever wanted.” She thought of David. A small ache formed in her heart. “Besides,” she continued, “I’m way too set in my ways.”

  “Me too. But I’m not too independent to want a friend. Someone I can count on. Someone who can count on me.”

  He jammed his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. Susan thought he looked pretty cute for a forty-eight-year-old history professor.

  “It’s a deal, Bert Hayden,” she said softly. “And part of that deal is in giving each other space, okay?”

  “Deal.”

  “Right now I need some space to be alone. I think that all this with Mark—that all this about the reunion—is something I’ve got to work out for myself. Do you understand?”

  “Only if you promise to keep me posted. And if you promise to call when you need me.”

  “I promise.” She leaned over and kissed his furry cheek. Bert was, indeed, a good friend.

  “Come on,” he said, “I’ll take you home.”

  Later that night Susan slit the plastic on a frozen macaroni-and-cheese dinner and set it in the microwave. It had been just two years ago that she’d finally reversed her decision to own a microwave: With a teenager in the house quick meals had become essential, radiation be damned. Now, in the three weeks since Mark had left, Susan’s entire diet had consisted of herb tea and frozen dinners. Her jeans hung loosely on her: That, she mused, was a small concession for the depression that had overtaken her.

  She stood, watching the green digital numbers count down, waiting for that infernal buzzer, which sounded to her like what must be the overload signal of a nuclear reactor. Although it was only six-thirty, already it was dark outside; winter was rapidly approaching. She shivered as she stared at the numbers; Susan dreaded the long, lonely winter ahead without Mark. Bert would be there, she knew. But it wasn’t the same.

  That afternoon, when she’d arrived home from the lawyer’s office, there had been a short, curt note from Lawrence:

  Mark has been enrolled at The Burgess School.

  A snotty boys’ school, Susan thought. Out of Lawrence’s way, and out of Deborah’s precious, smooth-running household. As yet, there had been no message from Mark, and Susan had decided to let him alone, to let him come to terms with things in his own way, his own time. What she hadn’t expected was that it would hurt so much.

  And now the reunion was only ten days away.

  She studied the black glass of the microwave door. She couldn’t seem to make a decision. One moment it seemed as though after all that had happened with Mark, she had nothing to lose. The next moment she was sure she’d regret fleshing out the past. Overcome by lethargy, Susan often felt she was in that grand state of limbo that made choosing impossible. Her mood had spilled over into her work as well: She was never sure what to cover with her students on any given day. She had lost her focus, her energy to go on.

  The buzzer sounded, and Susan jumped. God, she thought, will I ever get used to this thing?

  She opened the microwave door and took out the steamy plastic tray. The tray was hot; it slipped from her hand and fell with a splat. She looked at the mess of macaroni and sauce spilled over the counter, leaned against the sink, and started to cry.

  “God,” she said aloud, “help me.” But as soon as she’d said the words, Susan knew it was hopeless. She’d rebuffed God years ago, had fought off the traditions and ties of her heritage. Now there was nowhere to turn.

  From somewhere inside her Susan remembered the words translated from an ancient Hebrew chant. God’s peace be with you. It was what Bubby—her grandmother Levin—had crooned to her young granddaughter whenever she’d tucked her into bed. Safe under the covers, warmed by the accented whisper of the kindly woman, Susan had drifted off to sleep, filled with security, surrounded by love. God’s peace be with you.

  “Bubby,” she said, “oh, Bubby, what should I do?”

  And then Susan knew where to find the answer. Bubby had always been the one to comfort a questioning little girl. Not Susan’s mother, not her father. It had been Bubby who had always known just what to say, just what to do. She was an old woman now, crippled with
arthritis and confined to a wheelchair. But Susan felt the time had come to stop hiding her past from her grandmother. Leah Levin was perhaps the only person she could trust, the only person she could turn to.

  Her legs were covered by a hand-crocheted afghan; a tapestry shawl was draped over her rounded shoulders; her sallow complexion was folded with eighty-nine years of wrinkles. But her wizened eyes watched intently as Susan told her the story: the story of David, and of the baby she gave away.

  It was Friday, and Susan had driven to the nursing home on Long Island in record time. And as soon as she’d seen her grandmother, Susan had known she’d done the right thing.

  “So now Mark has left me,” Susan continued, “all because of a reunion that I can’t even seem to decide whether or not I should go to.”

  Her grandmother was quiet as she studied the look on Susan’s face. Susan’s eyes dropped to the thin carpet on the floor of the solarium. It was a decent home, she suspected, and Bubby never complained. But Susan was still vaguely aware of a stench of urine permeating the room.

  “This is a lot you have told me,” Leah finally said.

  “Yes, Bubby, I know. I’m sorry I never told you before. But my parents …”

  The old woman waved a blue-veined hand. “We try to protect our young. We all try to protect our young. That is not wrong.”

  Susan shook her head. “It was wrong, Bubby. Wrong for me to keep it from you. You were the most wonderful grandmother any girl could have ever hoped for.”

  “How do you think your parents will react if you do this thing?”

  “I’ve thought about that a lot, Bubby. I think enough years have passed. Not that I’m saying they’d be any too pleased, but I think, in time, they’d come to accept it. They’d come to accept the boy. Besides, it’s not like I live next door to them. It’s nothing they’d have to be faced with—or have their friends faced with—every day.”

  “So now you want me to help you make your decision. Well, little one, this is not an easy matter. You have just told me you have another son. That means I have another great-grandson.”

  Susan swallowed. She hadn’t thought of that before. She hadn’t thought that Bubby might, too, feel a sense of loss.

  “I always knew the ways of your parents weren’t for you. I always knew you were a little bit different, my Susan. You had spunk—a ‘freethinker,’ I think we called it then.” With a wink of an all-knowing eye, she added, “You always took after your Bubby.”

  Susan was startled. She’d never considered herself to be as strong, as solid, as her grandmother.

  “It’s true, you know,” the old woman continued. “When I was just a girl, I met your grandfather. I was only a stitcher in his shop, but I knew what I wanted. I didn’t want the ways of my family: the ways of hardship and sacrifice.” She folded her hands and looked squarely at Susan. “I did not love your grandfather when I married him. I only wanted his money.”

  There were no words for Susan to say. Her grandmother’s confession was matter-of-fact, and though it had never been anything Susan had considered, watching the old woman now, Susan wasn’t surprised.

  “You didn’t love him?”

  “Not at first. Not for a good many years. But Ira Levin was a good man, a good provider. That meant more to me than anything. In time I came to have great respect for him, and I guess then you might have called it love. So, you see, my Susan, I was a freethinker too. Don’t feel sorry that you never told me about this boy before. Sometimes it is only time that can free us from our guilt.”

  Susan nodded. “What should I do?”

  The old woman stared into space, and for a moment Susan was afraid her attention had waned. The solid look that had been on her face had now been transformed to a dreamlike, faraway gaze. She’s thinking of the past, Susan thought. She’s thinking of Grandfather. Susan felt a twinge of remorse for Ira Levin, a man she’d barely even let herself get to know.

  “Your son Mark doesn’t want you to go.” The old woman’s words came through with unquestionable clarity. She looked back at Susan. “He is afraid, no doubt. Afraid you will love the other boy more than you love him.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Susan said. “I don’t even know my other son.”

  “Still,” Leah continued, “he is afraid. He is just a boy.”

  “You don’t think I should go?”

  “I came to America with my mother and father when I was twelve years old. We left behind family. We left behind friends. The years went by. Then, the Holocaust.”

  Susan pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. What is Bubby trying to tell me? What does the Holocaust have to do with David’s baby?

  “We never knew what happened to any of them,” her grandmother continued. “It was best that way, it was best. It would have been too painful to know. We did not forget them, but we put their memory in a special place in our hearts. Oh, sometimes we’d take them out, dust them off, and think about them with smiles, and with sadness. No, we did not forget them, but we knew to tuck them in their place again—out of harm’s way.” The faraway look had returned to her eyes, and Susan paused before interrupting her thoughts.

  “You think it would be painful for me to meet my son?” she asked quietly.

  The old woman blinked and coughed the aged cough of loosened phlegm. “For you? Maybe not. For your son Mark, yes. It is the present we must concern ourselves with, my Susan, not the past. We cannot change our pasts; we can only hope to guide our futures in the way God wants.”

  Susan stood up, leaned over the old woman, and kissed her rubbery cheek. “Thank you, Bubby,” she whispered. “Thank you for always being here for me.”

  “You make your own decision, my Susan. No matter what you decide, I will be here for you. But the decision, it must be yours and yours alone.”

  It was after dark when Susan returned to the cottage in Vermont. As she pulled down the street, she noticed the glow from a light in the living-room window. Mark, she thought. Her pulse quickened, her spirits soared. Mark, thank God you’ve come home. I’m here for you, Mark. Please God, let it be him. But as she turned into the driveway, reality flooded into her. It wasn’t Mark. He wasn’t coming home. You must have left the light on this morning before you left for New York. You stupid fool.

  She turned off the ignition and got out of the car, slamming the door behind her. The comfort she’d gotten from Bubby quickly slipped away, and now she was back—dumpy, dowdy, indecisive Susan. Get a grip on reality, she commanded herself as she turned the key in the back door lock. She pushed open the door. Mark was standing there.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.

  She stood for a moment, frozen on the doorstep. She noticed his acne looked worse through the tears that were streaming down his cheeks.

  “I wanted to know if it was okay for me to come home.”

  She threw her arms around him and felt her own tears come. Her body trembled with disbelief, and with relief. She clung to him, one hand across his shoulders, one hand on his neck, stroking his head, crying into his hair.

  “Of course,” she whimpered. “Of course.”

  A moment passed, then another.

  “Mom?” Mark spoke again.

  “What?” she asked, still stroking his hair.

  “Dad said he would get me away from you.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “That’s what I told him. I said I’d tell the judge there was no way I wanted to live with my father.”

  Susan smiled at a picture of that—at a picture of Lawrence’s humiliation.

  “Mom?”

  “What, Mark?”

  “Would you please let go? You’re breaking my neck.”

  Susan laughed and pulled back from him. She wiped her tears, then his.

  “Oh, Mark, are you all right?”

  He half smiled. “I am now.”

  “You’re just in time for dinner,” she said as she dumped her oversized pocketbook on the floor. “
I don’t know what we’ll have … I haven’t been the greatest cook lately.”

  “Oh, Mom.” He laughed. “Why don’t we order a pizza? I’m starving.”

  “Sure, honey, sure. You go call. Then we can talk.”

  He went into the living room, shedding his jacket as he walked. Susan turned to the sink and grasped the edge. She looked down at the porcelain, and new tears flowed again. He is home. He is home. She heard Bubby’s words: He is afraid. She steadied herself again. Well, my son, there’s nothing to be afraid of any longer. You are home, and everything’s going to be fine.

  He came back into the kitchen, and Susan quickly wiped her tears and tossed her coat on a chair. Mark turned another chair around and sat down, his legs wrapped around the high back of oak spindles.

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “What?”

  “Twenty minutes till the pizza comes.”

  Susan turned and leaned against the counter, facing her son.

  “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  Mark shook his head and looked at the floor. “The Burgess School sucked.”

  “That’s not what you wanted anyway, was it?”

  “I wanted to be with Dad. I thought I did.”

  Susan was silent.

  “I never told you this, Mom, but his wife is a witch.”

  “Your father loves her.” Susan almost choked out the words. Why did she suddenly feel it was important to defend Lawrence?

  Mark looked up at her. “I can’t imagine why. She hates me, you know. She’s the one who made me go to Burgess.”

  Susan carefully chewed a fingernail. “But he agreed.”

  “Yeah,” Mark said, dropping his head again.

  Susan squatted in front of him. “Mark, honey, I know this is hard for you. When parents are divorced, it’s always the kids who get the short end of the stick. But your father does love you. It’s just that he has a different life now. You’ll always be a part of it, though maybe not in the way you’d like.” She could see his tears drop onto the linoleum.

  “I’m sorry for everything I said to you, Mom. I’m sorry for running away I’ll never do it again.”

  She put her arm around him. “Sometimes the only way we can learn what it is we want is to let it go. And sometimes,” she continued, “once we’ve let it go, it’s too late to go back.” But now Susan wasn’t thinking about Mark as much as she was about David. For the thousandth time in twenty-five years, she wondered why she had ever let him go. Maybe Bubby was right. It is only time that can free us from our pasts. But how much time, Bubby? How much time?