Sins of Innocence

by Jean Stone

  He followed her into the dining room. Jess hesitated a moment in the doorway. It was the same mahogany table, the same matching sideboard, the same silver candlesticks. She fought back the memory.

  “Sit down,” she said quietly, as she sat in a chair—her chair, where she had spent so many meals, so long ago. She felt an eerie sensation of P.J.’s presence in her place across the table.

  Phillip set the rose on the table and took the chair beside her. Jess stared at the smooth red petals. Soon they will wither, she thought. Soon they will die. Slowly she told him of his mother. She told him of the illness.

  “Believe me, I never would have gone to you if I’d known she was sick,” Jess finished.

  Phillip’s eyes—emerald, just like his mother’s—were filled with bewilderment and pain.

  “What difference does it make if she’s sick?” he asked with a watery voice.

  Jess shook her head and reached for his hand.

  “I don’t know,” she said, “but it seems to matter to her. Apparently she’s afraid it wouldn’t be fair for you to meet her, and then have her …”

  “Have her die?” A pink flush again crept into his cheeks. “I would think,” he said bravely, “that would be all the more reason she’d want to see me.” His tears finally betrayed his courage, and they spilled down his face.

  Jess reached over and hugged the young man. He was big, bigger even than Chuck. His back felt strong in her fragile arms; sturdy, muscular. But no matter the strength, no matter the composure, Jess felt his fragility, his sensitivity. Not, she thought, unlike his mother. Trying to maintain control on the outside, while suffering on the inside, way down, deep inside.

  “My father died two years ago,” Phillip blurted out. “Of Hodgkin’s disease. He was only fifty-six.”

  Jess was startled. She pulled away and looked into his eyes. “How awful for you.”

  “Yeah. We were pretty close.”

  Jess wanted to tell him that P.J.’s father—his grandfather—had also died young. But she felt that it wasn’t her place to tell him. It was P.J.’s.

  “What about your mother?” she asked.

  “She took it pretty hard. She still does. But she’s got me—and my older brother. We try to look out for her.”

  Jess thought of P.J. Sick. Alone. With no children to look out for her. “And you’re in law school,” she said.

  “Yeah. My last year. My brother, Joe, took over our father’s practice. I’ll be joining him.”

  “In Fairfield?”

  Phillip shook his head. “No. In the city. Mom wants us both to get a place there. But I can’t picture her selling the house and moving to a condo. So Joe and I will commute. For a while.” He propped his elbows on the table and leaned on his hands. “I love my mother,” he said quietly. “But I’ve always wanted to meet my birth mother too.”

  He hesitated a moment, and Jess sat quietly, allowing him to gather his thoughts. Slowly his words came out.

  “I always wanted to know about her. And about my real father.” He sat up straight. “I didn’t tell my mother I’m doing this. I planned to though, when the time was right.”

  His eyes glazed over again. “Now I guess it won’t be an issue,” he said.

  On impulse Jess said suddenly, “Would you like me to take you to her?”

  He fingered the stem of the rose, lightly touching each spiny thorn. “Yes,” he said. “I’d like that very much.”

  Jess cleared her throat. “She may not feel up to meeting you,” she warned. “No promises, okay?”

  “That’s okay.”

  And any reservation about what she was about to do was dispelled by the look of gratitude in Phillip’s eyes.

  “But first,” Jess continued, “I’d like to go back into the other room and wait with my friends for a bit.”

  Phillip nodded. “Can I stay in here?”

  “Of course. I’ll come back when it’s time to go.”

  She left the dining room and returned to the library. Miss Taylor was chatting with Lisa. Susan was staring into space. Jess glanced at the grandfather clock: 3:15.

  “He’s not coming,” Susan said.

  “It’s still early,” Jess answered, but her voice sounded unconvincing, even to her.

  The room grew silent. The clock ticked. Jess looked around the room: Miss Taylor sat, hands folded in her lap, eyes closed; Lisa studied the worn carpet as though it might hold the answers about her mother; Susan—Susan just sat.

  Jess, once again, thought back to her meeting with David, Susan’s son. In the driveway of his parents’ home she’d told him that she was a friend of his birth mother’s. She’d told him why she had come. He’d scowled at first, then continued washing his car.

  “Why should she give a damn about me?” he’d asked.

  Jess had been unprepared for that question.

  He’d picked up the snakelike garden hose and released the pressure. A sudden burst of water exploded onto the sudsy car. Its force ricocheted against his khaki T-shirt, his torn jeans shorts, and trickled down his long, lean, still boyish-looking legs. He blinked quickly, but avoided Jess’s eyes.

  “And why should I give a damn about her?”

  Jess had murmured a few more words, then managed to ask him a few pointed questions. Could she at least tell his birth mother how he was? How he had been raised? What things he enjoyed doing? He had answered in perfunctory phrases, revealing only the facts, none of the feelings. Before leaving, Jess handed him her carefully written instructions: the time and date of the reunion and directions to Larchwood Hall. She had no idea whether or not he would come, though it hadn’t seemed probable. Still, Jess was glad that, as an afterthought, she’d included Susan’s name, phone, and home address in Vermont. She’d watched as he scanned the paper, then put it in his pocket. He had not, as he could have, thrown it away.

  And now Susan sat silently. Jess could only imagine the thoughts spinning through her mind—thoughts of being the ugly duckling, the always-a-bridesmaid, the wall-flower at the school dance. The only one nobody wanted. She wondered if Lisa was feeling the same way.

  Maybe this reunion wasn’t right, after all. But then Jess remembered the boy in the next room. She would take Phillip to P.J.’s, and maybe there would, after all, be one happy reunion. Hang on to that thought, she kept telling herself.

  “Tell me about him.” Susan’s voice was sudden, jarring.

  Lisa began to chew another fingernail. Miss Taylor lit a cigarette.

  Jess cleared her throat. “He’s tall,” she said. “Very tall. And quite good-looking. Dark hair. Dark eyes.”

  “What does he do?” Susan interrupted, with an edge of impatience.

  Of course, Jess thought. David’s life would be much more important to Susan than his looks.

  “He’s a newspaper reporter. A journalist. He went to Hofstra.” She was relieved she had some information to share, that at least he had told her something.

  A smile skimmed across Susan’s full lips. She nodded.

  Jess twisted her ring. “It may be my fault if he doesn’t come,” she said. “He was the first I spoke with. I may have said everything wrong.”

  There was no hate in Susan’s eyes, no emotion, merely an empty stare from which Jess could not decipher the degree of hurt, the level of pain, that surely Susan must be feeling. But no. Susan—the oldest, the wisest, the strongest of all the girls—sat mute. Jess wished Susan would hurl one of her caustic comments at her. That would at least be expected. That would at least be familiar. Seeing Susan this way, so silent, so still, was more unnerving than any of her biting remarks could ever have been.

  “You were real nice to me,” Lisa said, then laughed. “It was pretty scary at first, though. I mean, it’s not every day a stranger walks up to you and says, ‘Hi. You don’t know me, but …’ ” Her thoughts trailed off in mid-sentence, as though Lisa was suddenly self-conscious about her admission, suddenly mindful that her humorous words were inappropriate
.

  “It’s okay, Lisa,” Jess said. “I’m sure my visit was quite a shock.”

  Lisa smiled. “A happy one though.”

  The clock ticked.

  “What else?” Susan asked. “Is he happy?”

  “He seems to be.” Jess paused, as she struggled to recall every bit of what little information David had offered. “His adoptive parents are quite a bit older than us. In their sixties. He told me they have been wonderful to him.”

  Susan nodded again.

  “He’s their only child,” Jess added.

  Miss Taylor stubbed out her cigarette and clicked her fingernails together. “He sounds like a fine young man,” she said. “Smart. Happy.”

  Jess agreed.

  “You haven’t told me his name,” Susan said. “What do they call him?”

  Jess twisted her ring again. There was a small catch in her throat as she said, “David.”

  Susan stared at her a moment, then dropped her gaze to her lap.

  The clock chimed a low, mournful sound. Four o’clock. Susan stood up.

  “Guess I’d better go.”

  “Susan, wait.”

  Susan waved Jess off. “It’s all right, Jess. Maybe it’s better this way.”

  She headed for the doorway, then turned back to Jess. “I have a son at home who needs me very much. It’s all right, really it is. I have a son I love, and my freedom, which I treasure. And believe it or not, I also have a really good man, a really good friend.”

  Jess didn’t know what to say. Somehow, saying “I’m sorry” to Susan was all wrong.

  “As for this son,” she continued, as she brushed back the hair from her face, “I guess he’ll remain where his father is. Missing.” She raised her head and opened the door. “My grandmother still speaks of the Holocaust. Of the people who vanished. I guess life can continue—even with unanswered questions.” She shook back her hair and nodded, as though reassuring herself. “It’s better this way,” she said. “It’s time for me to move on.”

  With that, she turned and left. Jess watched the broad backside go, and she knew Susan would be all right. Susan would always be all right. She would always be able to rationalize things, to be sensible. But Jess knew she would never forget her son, and Jess was glad she’d given the boy Susan’s name and address. Maybe at some other time, maybe when he was ready …

  Footsteps sounded in the foyer. There had been no doorbell, but now there were footsteps. Jess looked up. Ginny stood in the doorway. Behind her was a man, an older man with thick white hair and a pleasant face that glowed with the unmistakable bronze of a California tan. He put one hand on Ginny’s shoulder in a protective gesture.

  “Well, I’m here,” Ginny said.

  Jess felt a rush of warmth surge through her. She jumped from her chair.

  “Lisa,” she said, “I’d like you to meet your mother.”

  Ginny’s daughter beamed as she stepped forward.

  Ginny and Lisa faced each other, speechless.

  “You don’t look anything like me,” Ginny said at last. She turned to the man behind her. “Jesus, Jake, she doesn’t look anything like me.”

  Jess smiled. “She’s your daughter, all right. Wait till you hear what she does for a living.”

  “I’m an actress,” Lisa said in the same low, throaty voice as her mother’s.

  Ginny stared at her daughter. Jess was sure she recognized Lisa’s voice as her own. “No shit,” she said.

  “No shit,” Lisa responded, and smiled again.

  The man tightened his grip on Ginny’s shoulder. There were tears in his eyes, and his mouth was turned up in a warm smile. Jess saw love there, pure, real love. And Ginny seemed at last content, comfortable. Jess’s heart swelled.

  “Film?” Ginny asked.

  “Broadway,” Lisa replied. “Off–off–off.”

  “You’d be good in film. You’re better-looking than me.

  “Do I look like my father? I’ve always wondered about him too.”

  Pain shot across Ginny’s face. The memories. The ghosts. Jess held her breath. Ginny’s jaw stiffened. Her eyes locked on Lisa. They didn’t flinch. Is she, Jess wondered, about to run?

  Suddenly Ginny broke into a smile. She reached out and hugged Lisa. “There’s a lot to tell you,” she said. She looked at Jess. “Hey, why not? This is the nineties. My daughter deserves to know about her old man.”

  “Everything?”

  Ginny looked back to Lisa. “She can handle it,” she said. “Something tells me she’s a survivor.”

  They had left Phillip’s car at the train station in Greenwich, and Jess drove into the city. It had been an odd drive, dotted with spurts of conversation about P.J. between long, thoughtful silences. Now, as they stood in the lobby of P.J.’s condominium building, Jess prayed P.J. would let them go up.

  The doorman rang. From upstairs came a man’s voice.

  “Yes?”

  “A lady and a young man to see Ms. Davies,” the doorman said into the speaker.

  There was a pause.

  “Who is it?”

  “Lady’s name is Jessica Bates.”

  Another pause.

  “What does she want?”

  Jess stepped in front of the speaker. “Please,” she pleaded, “are you P.J.’s friend? Please, I don’t remember your name, but there’s someone down here I think she really wants to meet.”

  The seconds ticked by.

  “You’re Jess, right?” the voice asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Walter,” the voice directed the doorman, “send her up.”

  The door opened. Inside stood the same man who’d breezed by Jess the night she’d gone to see P.J.

  “I’m Bob,” he said quickly. “She’s in the bedroom. “I’m not sure if she’ll see you.”

  Jess smiled. “Thanks for letting us come in.”

  Jess and Phillip stepped into the living room. Seated on the low white sofa was an older woman. Jess looked quickly, then knew. It was P.J.’s mother.

  The woman stood up.

  “Hello, Mrs. Davies,” Jess said, and extended her hand. The woman took it questioningly. She looked at Jess. She looked at Phillip. She stared at Phillip. Then she dropped her gaze to the rose he clutched in his hand.

  She left the room without saying a word.

  The man gestured toward the bedroom, and Jess and Phillip went ahead.

  Inside, the room was in semidarkness.

  “P.J.?” Jess called softly. “It’s me. Jess.”

  A form on the bed turned over. “Jess. What are you doing …?” She stopped talking. She was staring at Phillip.

  “P.J.,” Jess continued, “I’ve brought you your son.”

  P.J. pulled the comforter over her turbaned head. “No!” she screamed. “You had no right.…”

  Phillip held his hand up to Jess, then walked toward the bed. “It’s my fault,” he said. “I wanted to see you. I wanted to meet my mother.”

  Slowly P.J. pulled the comforter from her face.

  “Well, take a look,” she said sharply. “If you want to look closer, I’ll take off this rag, and you can see the bald freak that’s your mother.”

  “P.J.…” Jess said.

  Phillip sat on the edge of the bed and moved closer to P.J. “Your eyes,” he said. “I’ve got your eyes.”

  P.J. blinked.

  With a shaking hand he extended the rose to her. “I brought you this. It’s a little droopy. I’m sorry.”

  P.J. took the rose. “Oh, God,” she said. “Oh, God.” Then she shivered and started to cry. She reached out and touched Phillip’s face. “You are so handsome,” she said. “You are so handsome. You look just like …”

  “His grandfather.”

  Jess turned and saw P.J.’s mother standing in the doorway.

  “He looks exactly like his grandfather,” she repeated in a voice that sounded distant, blurred by time.

  P.J. held her hands to Phillip’s face. “It’s
incredible. You do. You look just like my father.”

  Phillip smiled. “I take it that’s okay?”

  P.J. smiled through her tears. Her mother crossed the room and sat on the bed beside Phillip. “I guess it will have to be, now won’t it?”

  Jess suddenly felt the salt tears on her cheeks. She stood in the doorway, watching what she had hoped for all along. And yet there had been more than she’d expected: P.J. had welcomed her son; Ginny had come to her daughter. For Susan, and for herself, there would be no reunion. But now, they at least might be able to close the book on their pasts.

  Jess turned and left the room, passing Bob as she left.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Jess nodded, unable to speak. There was only one thing left for her to do.

  It was a pretty cemetery, banked by golden oaks and trimmed with well-kept evergreens. Jess climbed a small knoll, following the directions she’d been given at the gate. And there it was: a rose-colored headstone, engraved with a single rose and a simple cross. Amy Hawthorne, the inscription read, 1968–1979.

  Jess said a silent prayer, then stooped to the ground. She unsnapped her purse and took out a small brown-paper-wrapped package, then peeled back the paper. In her palm lay the red satin Santa with the marabou beard. Gently Jess placed the ornament in front of the headstone. She brought two fingers to her lips, kissed them, then touched the stone.

  “I did find you, my little girl,” she whispered. “I did find you, after all.”

  Behind her Jess felt someone’s presence. She didn’t turn around. But part of her wished it was Charles.

  “I was wondering,” he would say nervously, “I was wondering if we could go somewhere and talk.”

  She would look at him without speaking, and she would see tears in his eyes.

  “I want to come home,” he would say. “I want to come home to my family.”

  Jess stood up and brushed the dried autumn leaves from her skirt. She looked behind her. It wasn’t Charles. It was the gatekeeper.

  “Find what you were looking for, miss?”

  “Yes,” Jess replied. She clutched her purse and twisted her emerald-and-diamond ring. “Yes, I did.” She glanced back at the headstone, then turned and walked toward her car.