Sins of Innocence

by Jean Stone

  The bartender placed two drinks in front of them, and Ginny took a big sip.

  “Back in ’63 I think it was …” the woman continued, “yeah, back in ’63 in Sydney.” She stopped a moment, took a drink, and stared at Ginny. “Ever been down under?”

  “No.”

  “Great place. Great place. Least it was before the tourists took over.” She took another drink. “Anyway, like I was saying. Back in ’63 I met this sheepherder or farmer or whatever the hell they call themselves. Had the biggest hands you’d ever seen. Tanned. Leathery. With big, thick fingers that made you wet just lookin’ at them.”

  Ginny looked over at the bartender. He was watching them, listening to every word. She arched her back a little and cocked a shoulder, letting one breast tip out a little from the V neck.

  The woman laughed coarsely. “What a lie! Had me in a barn that night. His dick turned out to be the size of a peanut.” She shook her head again. “Nope. Never can tell by the size of their hands.” She rested an elbow on the bar. “Ever been to Kenya?” She reached over and flicked open the neckline of Ginny’s dress. “With boobs like that, you’d have ’em lickin’ your feet.”

  Ginny grabbed the fabric and pulled it back over her breast. It reminded her of something … long ago. Then she remembered. Her mother. Her mother’s Marilyn Monroe look-alike dress. The way her mother’s breast had popped from the dress that night. Suddenly Ginny saw herself as her mother. The mother she had adored, the mother she’d spent so many years protecting. Ginny had turned out no better, turning tricks for a drink, a meal ticket. Boozing it up, looking for love.

  Then an angry thought blackened her mind.

  Had her mother really not known that her husband had raped Ginny—raped her over and over and over again? Ginny was reminded of a Phil Donahue show she’d seen, where mothers of incest survivors talked about how they had all known their husbands were having sex with their daughters.

  “I knew. Of course I knew,” one weepy woman had said. “But I couldn’t leave him. I had nowhere to go.”

  At that point Ginny had clicked off the remote control. She hadn’t wanted to hear more.

  Maybe, she thought now, her mother had known. Maybe. She stared into her drink. Maybe. Probably. And somewhere in the world was a girl who had been an innocent product of all their shame.

  Ginny looked at the woman beside her. Old, disheveled, used-up, her head sagging against her chest. If Ginny survived, she would be like that woman in another ten years. She’d still be sitting in a bar, trying to hit on disinterested jocks, settling for the ugly ones just to avoid going to bed alone.

  She would be like that woman. She looked back to the bartender. No matter what he did, he’d never get better-looking. Maybe, Ginny thought, I’ve already become that woman.

  She threw a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. Then she bolted from the barstool and raced back to her room, where she flung herself on the bed.

  “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!”

  Was it really possible she—Ginny Stevens—could self-destruct like that old woman … like her own mother? Why not? Wasn’t that what she’d been trying to do when she set the fire? Wasn’t that what she’d been trying to do all her life?

  She rolled onto her back and hugged herself. Had she ever done anything in her life that meant shit? She couldn’t end it all. No. She’d found that out with the fire. If Consuelo hadn’t rescued her, sooner or later she’d have hauled herself outside, gasping and choking, but alive. No. She couldn’t end it all. She was too much of a survivor. But a survivor of what? For what? The only child she’d ever had was gone: She had run away from her, as she had run away from Jake. Running. Always running.

  Suddenly Ginny longed to be with Jake; she longed for the comfort of his big, bear-hugging arms. She longed for a life of normalcy. And she longed to be loved. It was, she knew, time to stop running.

  Maybe it wasn’t too late.

  She sat up and lit a cigarette. Then, before she thought about what she was doing, Ginny picked up the phone and asked for the international operator. A few moments later Jake’s voice was on the other end of the line.

  “Where are you?” he asked. “I thought you’d be here when I got home.”

  “How did the shoot go?” Ginny heard herself saying.

  “Fine. Fine. We wrapped up yesterday. I’ve been home since last night.”

  There was a moment of silence; then Ginny spoke again.

  “Jake?”

  “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

  “I was wondering if you’d do me a favor.”

  “Sure, honey. Anything. You know that.”

  She bit back the urge to scream, “Say no! For once, say no! Don’t be so fucking nice to me!” Instead, she looked down at her wrinkled dress. She didn’t know if she could make things with Jake work out, but she knew he at least deserved her to try, and that letting him into her life was a beginning—letting him in on everything: the good, the bad … the painful.

  “Could you meet me in New York?”

  “New York? You’re in New York?”

  “No. Not yet. But I’ll be there tomorrow. Can you meet me?”

  “Where?”

  “How about the Plaza? If you get there before me, get a room. Otherwise I will.”

  Jake laughed. “What’s this? A spontaneous vacation?”

  But Ginny didn’t laugh back. “No. There’s something I may want to do on Saturday, and I’d really like it if you were there with me.”

  After she hung up the phone, Ginny knew what she was going to do. She was going to tell Jake everything. About her mother, about her stepfather, about her daughter. If he told her to go to hell, fine. But Ginny Stevens-Rosen-Smith-Levesque-Edwards wasn’t going to run away again.

  CHAPTER 19

  Saturday, October 16

  Jess

  Jess climbed the wide stairs to the veranda, filled with an inner peace such as she had never known. Now she only could hope that things would work out for the others, that they would all come, that they would all be reunited with their children. But Jess also knew the odds against everyone ending up happy were bleak. This is not Oprah, she remembered Miss Taylor saying. This is real life.

  She stood at the door a moment, then rang the bell. She touched her purse, secure in the knowledge it held her daughter’s picture, the pretty, bright little girl who had, it seemed, lived a wonderful life, short as it had been.

  The door opened, and Miss Taylor greeted Jess with a warm hug.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” Jess said.

  “I wouldn’t have missed it.”

  “Am I the first?”

  Miss Taylor nodded. “It’s only one-thirty.”

  Jess nodded and straightened her skirt.

  “Good. I’d like to talk with you a few minutes before the others get here.”

  “Are they?”

  “What?”

  “Are they coming?”

  “I don’t know. I hope so.”

  Jess stepped into the foyer and was overcome by a dizzy sense of having been propelled back in time. She felt alien, and yet familiar, as though she had stepped into a dream. She looked up the staircase, expecting to see Susan, P.J., and Ginny coming down the stairs, young and vibrant, their bulbous stomachs leading the way. But the staircase was empty; time had passed around it, leaving only the solid mass of wood as the lone proof that Larchwood Hall, and 1968, had ever existed.

  “Oh my,” Jess said, and leaned on the mahogany staircase, trying to regain her balance. “I didn’t think this would have quite this effect on me.”

  Miss Taylor put her arm around her.

  “I thought it would be best if we sat in the library. The residents here went into town for the afternoon.”

  Jess nodded and followed Miss Taylor into what had once served as the housemother’s office. Jess scanned the room. The desk was the same; it even seemed as though the books were the same. But something was missing. Miss Taylor’s sc
ent. The lavender / tobacco fragrance had long since evaporated from this cozy room, and probably had been gone not long after the old woman had left Larchwood. Miss Taylor had never married, and for that, Jess felt sad.

  “Miss Taylor?” she blurted out. “You and Sheriff Wilson …”

  A faint smile crossed the old woman’s lips. “Ah, yes. Bud.”

  “What happened?”

  The woman sighed, a sweet, gentle sigh. “He was married, you know. His wife refused to give him a divorce. Back then,” she added, “divorce wasn’t as easy as it is today. When I left Larchwood, I left Bud. I knew it was time for me to stop taking care of others. It was time for me to start taking care of me.”

  Jess nodded. She understood the feeling only too well. On unsteady legs she sat in the chintz-covered chair, the same chair where she’d sat that first day she’d come to Larchwood. She could almost feel her father’s presence, almost hear the click of his pen as he signed the check.

  Miss Taylor sat in the leather chair beside Jess.

  “It must seem odd, being here.”

  “Oh, yes,” she answered. “Very.”

  “Would you like to tell me your progress?”

  Jess sighed and took the envelope from her purse. She hesitated a moment, looking down at the happy face of the photo, then handed it to Miss Taylor and told her about the search for her daughter.

  When she was finished, she noticed the old woman’s eyes were filled with tears.

  “So this has not ended happily for you, my dear. I’m so sorry.”

  “Maybe it will be happy, though, for the others.”

  An old black man stood in the doorway. He was stooped and white-haired, but even from where she sat, Jess could see that his dark eyes still sparkled.

  “Pop!” she called, and went to greet the man.

  “Miss Jess. Miss Jess. Oh, it’s good to see you.”

  They hugged.

  “Gosh, you look wonderful,” Jess said. Behind her she heard the telephone ring.

  Pop chuckled. “Nah. Workin’ around here ain’t what it used to be. ’Cept I finally got rid of the station wagon. Got me one of those ‘minivans’ now.”

  Jess laughed. “We could have used that.”

  “Durn tootin’.”

  “Jess?” Miss Taylor interrupted them. “Jess, there’s a phone call for you.”

  Jess looked at the housemother quizzically.

  “It’s P.J.”

  “Oh,” Jess said, as she twisted her ring and walked toward the desk. She picked up the receiver and nodded to Pop. “Maybe I’ll see you later.” Pop waved and disappeared, no doubt to his workshed.

  “P.J.?” Jess said into the receiver.

  “Jess. I didn’t want you to think I forgot.”

  Jess pulled at the phone cord. “You’re not coming, are you?”

  “It’s not what you think, Jess. It’s not because I don’t want to.”

  “What is it then?”

  There was a long pause, then P.J. spoke again. “I’m sick, Jess. I have cancer.”

  Jess slid onto the chair. “Oh, P.J., why didn’t you tell me?”

  “When I saw you, I didn’t know. But I’ve decided it wouldn’t be fair for my son to meet me, then”—she half laughed—“then have his mother go and die on him or something.”

  Jess couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Oh, P.J.,” was all she could seem to say.

  “It’s okay, Jess, really it is. Chances are, he won’t show up, anyway.”

  “But if he does … what should I tell him?”

  There was another pause, then, her voice quivering, P.J. said, “Tell him I’m sorry.” Silence lingered another moment, then she added, “Tell him I will always love him.”

  When Jess hung up the phone, she looked at Miss Taylor.

  “She’s not coming,” she said. But her heart was aching so badly, she couldn’t tell Miss Taylor why.

  The doorbell rang.

  It was Susan.

  She lumbered into the library, gave Miss Taylor a perfunctory handshake, then sat awkwardly on the chintz-covered chair, her long legs protruding from the smallness of the seat.

  “P.J.’s not coming,” Jess blurted out. “She has cancer.”

  After a moment of shocked silence, Susan and Miss Taylor spoke at once.

  “God, that’s horrible,” Susan said.

  “Oh my,” Miss Taylor murmured.

  “Will she be all right?” Susan asked.

  Jess shrugged, stood up, and walked to the window. She put her arms around herself and hugged herself from the chill in the room. She’d forgotten how drafty this old house could be.

  She stared out the window. Behind her Jess could hear Miss Taylor and Susan speaking in soft whispers, as though someone had died. Someone has, Jess reminded herself. My daughter. And now, maybe P.J. will die too. Jess looked out across the sweeping front lawn, feeling the loss of the daughter she had never had a chance to know, and of P.J., whom she probably had never really known. On the distant street Jess noticed a white car. It looked as though it was parked. Of all the girls, Jess thought, I thought P.J. would be the one to come. No matter what.

  “What kind of cancer is it, Jess?” It was Susan’s voice, but it was soft, quiet.

  As Jess turned to look at Susan, she thought she saw the car pull away.

  “I don’t know,” she answered. “She didn’t say.” She rubbed her arms and walked back to the desk. She wondered who had been in that car. She wondered if it had been any of … them. It wasn’t, she reminded herself, P.J. No. Not P.J.

  “Is Ginny coming?” Susan asked gently.

  Jess shook her head. “I don’t know that either.” She looked at the grandfather clock, which still stood, marking time, in the library: 2:45. “I’m glad you came,” she said to Susan.

  Susan nodded. “Miss Taylor told me about your daughter.” She cleared her throat and brushed a few strands of graying hair from her face. “I’m sorry.”

  It wasn’t difficult for Jess to detect the sincerity in Susan’s voice. She remembered hearing Susan speak those words once before, long ago. I’m sorry. It was the day Susan had run over the kitten, the day she had killed Larchwood. It had been the first time—the only time—Jess had seen Susan cry.

  Jess swallowed and tried to smile, appreciative of Susan’s words, aware that any display of emotion did not come easily to Susan.

  The doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” Miss Taylor announced. She lifted herself off the chair with surprising agility and went into the foyer.

  “Maybe it’s Ginny,” Susan said.

  Jess leaned against the edge of the desk, trying to balance her unsteady legs, trying to balance her seesawing emotions. “I hope so.”

  But it wasn’t Ginny. It was Ginny’s daughter.

  “Lisa,” Jess said. She forced herself back from the desk, waited a brief moment, then, as if in slow motion, moved toward the young woman. “Lisa, I’m so glad you’re here.” She silently wondered if anyone noticed the trepidation behind her words.

  Lisa smiled at Jess. It was, Jess noted, a beautiful smile, a smile of hope, a smile of … innocence. Then Lisa glanced around the room. Her eyes rested on Susan.

  “No, Lisa,” Jess said quickly. “This is Susan. She’s not”—Jess paused, not wanting to sound brusque—“she’s not your mother.”

  Lisa reddened, visibly embarrassed by the awkward moment. Her beautiful smile vanished. When Jess had met her backstage, she thought she’d recognized the same hard edge that Ginny had. Now she saw something else equally familiar: vulnerability, defensiveness.

  “Your mother’s not here yet.” Jess tried to sound reassuring, though suddenly she was swept with apprehension herself: fear that none of this was going to work out, that no one else was going to show up, that those she’d involved in her own selfish quest were going to be nothing but hurt. She took Lisa by the arm and introduced her to the woman who’d made such a difference to all of their lives.<
br />
  “We’re so glad to meet you,” Miss Taylor said, as she extended her hand to the girl.

  “This is something I’ve always wanted,” Lisa replied. “But I never knew how to make it happen.”

  “Sit down, dear, and tell us about your life.”

  Lisa smiled again, though this time with guarded uncertainty. Jess motioned her to the chair across from the housemother, then sat beside her.

  “Have you had a happy life?” Miss Taylor asked.

  The girl nibbled at a thumbnail. “Yes and no,” she said, then put her hands in her lap. “Like everybody, I guess. My mother and I don’t always get along. But my dad, he’s cool. He’s the one who encouraged my acting.”

  “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

  “Sure. Two sisters. Twins. They were adopted after me. They’re twenty-one now.” Jess wondered if they were as pretty as Lisa, as seemingly confident.

  “One of them’s going to be a doctor,” the girl added.

  From the corner of her eye Jess caught sight of Susan. She was sitting quietly, disinterested.

  “What does your father do?” Miss Taylor asked.

  Lisa laughed. “Right now he’s struggling. He’s a contractor. Sheetrock.”

  The doorbell rang again.

  Please God, Jess thought, let that be Ginny.

  Miss Taylor went to the door, and returned with a young man. He was more handsome than Jess remembered. He was dressed in a gray suit, a pale gray silk shirt, and a blue-and-gray tie. His round face was eager, the pink in his cheeks a hint of the charismatic personality Jess had witnessed when they’d first met. In his hand, he carried a single red rose.

  Susan’s alert expression faded instantly as she some-how knew that this was not her son. She turned her head away.

  Jess greeted him, then turned to the small group. “Everyone,” she said, “this is P.J.’s son.”

  Jess watched Phillip’s eyes dart around the room, an expectant smile on his face. He’s looking for her, she thought. He’s looking for his mother, and she’s not here. Jess twisted her ring and stood up. My God. She cringed. What have I done?

  “Phillip,” she said, “why don’t we go in the other room? I’d like to talk to you.”