Sins of Innocence (17 page)

“P.J.? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, Mom.” How could she tell her mother? P.J.’s mother had wanted so much for her daughter to be like
her. She wanted P.J. to become an elementary school teacher, then settle down with a nice local boy. She wanted her to learn how to darn socks and do needlepoint, and to volunteer alongside her mother at the church Christmas bazaar. But P.J. had other plans. She loved her mother but was bored by her traditional values. P.J. wanted to go away to school. She wanted to be an artist. She wanted the excitement of advertising, not the weariness of vacuum cleaners, soap operas, and third graders. And her ability to get any male she wanted was never in question. Since the age of twelve, P.J. always had a boyfriend, sometimes two. Boys called her constantly, vying for the chance to date her, and P.J. sensed it was one more thing that unnerved her mother.

Over the years P.J.’s one ally was her father. “I’ll talk to her,” Daddy had said when P.J. wanted to join the Art Club instead of the Future Teachers of America. “I’ll handle it, punkin,” he’d said when she needed to tell her mother she wanted to go to B.U. instead of the local state teachers’ college. “Just remember,” he always added, “your mother only wants the best for you,” to which P.J. would protest, “But her life isn’t the best for me!” Then Daddy would hug her. Somehow his hugs always helped. Oh, God, how would Daddy take this?

“P.J., good Lord,” her mother said now. “What can possibly be so earth-shattering? Did you and Frank have an argument?”

“Mom. Mom.” P.J. shook her head. She took a deep breath, then her words spilled out. She heard them as though someone else were saying them. “Mom, he’s left me. Mom, I’m pregnant.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. P.J. visualized her mother’s jaw hardening, her back stiffening.

“Mom?”

“This can’t be true. Tell me it isn’t true.”

P.J. fidgeted with the phone cord again. “I wish it weren’t.”

“Pamela Jane, exactly how did this happen?” her mother seethed.

“Mom.”

“How could you do this to us? And where is Frank? Where is the son of a bitch?”

P.J. winced. She’d never heard her mother swear. “Gone. He wants no part of it.”

There was silence.

“You’d better get home,” her mother finally said, then added, “this will kill your father.”

Pain ripped through P.J.’s heart.

She saw her father peeking through the drapes when she pulled into the driveway of their fashionable split-level home. It had been a long ride west from Boston—more than two hours to the Berkshires, the longest two hours P.J. thought she’d ever spent. She turned off the ignition in her Volkswagen Bug, got out of the car, and went up the front walk, all the time aware that her father still watched her. Daddy, she thought, please don’t be angry with me. I really need one of your hugs now.

P.J.’s brother opened the front door. He gave the stupid, you’re-gonna-get-it-this-time grin that only a younger brother can give. P.J. ignored him and walked into the living room.

Her father stood by the picture window. Her mother was lying half sideways on one of the love seats, the cast made her leg thrust forward like a ceramic doll’s. She was staring into the empty fireplace.

“Did you have a good trip?” It was the same thing her father always asked when P.J. arrived home from school. This time, though, his words seemed forced. He didn’t move toward her for a hug; she sat down on the love seat across from her mother.

“Junior, I think you have homework,” her father announced.

“Sure, Dad,” Junior said. P.J. could tell from the way he said it that he’d be around the corner listening.

P.J.’s father remained standing by the window. “Are you certain the boy won’t marry you?” Her father, Harold Davies, decorated World War II veteran, respected small
business owner, community leader, church deacon, spoke like a scared child.

P.J. closed her eyes. Looking at him only increased her pain. “Yes, Daddy, I’m certain.”

He walked to the grand piano and struck a few pointless notes. “Reverend Blacksmith will be here shortly.”

“Reverend Blacksmith?” P.J. was confused. “Daddy, why?”

Her mother shifted on the love seat. The cast clunked on the floor. “Because your father and I don’t know what to do, that’s why,” she moaned. “He’s going to give us the name of a place you can go.”

P.J. didn’t understand. “Go?”

Her mother turned from the fireplace and threw a hurtful glance at P.J. “It’s not as though we can keep you here at home. Your father has worked very hard to give this family a respectable life. You, young lady, are not going to change that.”

P.J. fought back tears. “So I have to go away?”

“Of course. What did you think? That I want my bridge ladies to know that my daughter, Pamela Jane Davies, is pregnant? That I want everyone whispering behind our backs? How would you expect your father and me to show our faces in this town after what you’ve done?”

P.J. was all too familiar with this tone of voice. It was the same one her mother had used when P.J. announced she wanted to go away to college. She looked to her father for reassurance. He went back to the window. This was one time he would not be able to save her. “But where, where will I go?” she asked.

“You’ll go where Reverend Blacksmith suggests,” her mother continued. “You will have the baby and put it up for adoption. No one will ever find out.”

P.J. saw the anger in her mother’s eyes.

“It’s for the best, dear,” her father said. He walked to P.J. and placed a hand on her shoulder. No hug, just a hand. It helped. But not much. “We’ll get this matter straightened out, then you can return to your education.”

As easy as that, P.J. thought. She looked at her father.
He was fifty years old. He had worked hard all his life, managed to accumulate enough comforts for his growing family and enjoy a round of golf with his buddies in between his civic, church, and family duties. But his usually cheerful, round face was strained and pale.

She looked at her mother, now forty-four. P.J. never understood why her mother didn’t wear makeup. Although she was well-groomed and meticulous, it was as if her mother tried to downplay her good looks. P.J. thought about the old snapshot she’d stumbled across one day while playing in the attic: Her mother was young and breathtakingly beautiful. P.J. had been struck with how much she resembled her. What had happened? Why did her mother choose to hide behind dowdy clothes and an unflattering hairstyle? Now P.J. noticed that lines had crept in around her mother’s eyes and mouth; a certain hardness had set in.

It was too late for her mother—she, like P.J.’s father, was getting old. And this “matter” would be easy for them only if P.J. did as her mother wished. And she would, for once.

“Help me into the bedroom,” her mother ordered. “I feel a migraine starting.”

As P.J.’s father hoisted the tense deadweight from the sofa, he locked eyes with her. P.J. saw his pain. It was not stress, not self-serving pity. It was real pain.

He is right, P.J. thought. She would get this over with and pick up where she’d left off. She’d return to school—not B.U., but some college—and she would go on to become a fabulous commercial artist. She would have wealth and success and men falling at her feet. Maybe she’d even live in New York. She would do that. Yes. New York. She would make them proud.

And she would pretend that this “matter” had never happened.

Ginny

Pain gripped her chest. Her heart banged against her breast, ramming the blood through her veins—fragile, translucent veins that screamed to explode.

“Take more blood.” The voice was blurred; the face was a haze haloed in bright white light.

“Certainly, Doctor.”

Ginny felt a rubber strap squeeze her forearm. She tried to breathe. She couldn’t; the strap must be tied around her throat. The nurse pulled it tighter, tighter. She fought to fill her lungs. Her head turned to water, the faces above her became like Jell-O, shimmering, formless.

“Make a fist,” the nurse commanded.

Ginny’s body convulsed. Sweat sprang from her temples. She felt the needle plunge into her arm. Her chest heaved. The strap grew tighter on her throat, squeezing, squeezing. Slowly the thick red blood was sucked.
Her
thick red blood. She tried to move. Her legs were too weak, her arms too weak. She couldn’t get out. Couldn’t get away. A rock pressed on her chest. She was trapped.

“Here we are, miss.”

Ginny’s eyes flew open. Her heart still pumped wildly. She was soaked with sweat. Christ, now she was even having these attacks in her sleep. She looked out the window of the Yellow Cab as they turned up the long driveway toward Larchwood Hall. She closed her eyes and willed the panic to subside. She was exhausted. There was no way she’d be able to go through with having this kid. An abortion would have been no better; they still would have stuck her with needles … needles … she felt herself grow faint.

Fuck it
. Her street-sense will took over.
I’ll have a miscarriage. A simple miscarriage. It happens all the time
. Her pulse slowed, her strength returned.

“Nice place,” the cabbie was saying.

“Hmm,” Ginny replied, not even glancing at the house. She took out her compact and flipped open the mirror.
It had been a long train ride from Boston: Her black eyeliner was chipped a little; her eyelashes, heavy with mascara, drooped a bit; her straight black hair, cropped above the ear on one side, swept down across her forehead on the other, remained teased to perfection, plastered with layers of hair spray. Ginny frowned. Her liquid makeup, long since worn thin, revealed deep pockmarks of adolescence. Not that it matters, she thought. Not that it matters one flying fuck anymore.

The cab came to a stop.

“I’ll help you with your bags, miss,” the driver said.

“Forget it,” Ginny barked. She stuffed a twenty into his hand, then got out and yanked at her two heavy suitcases. She’d read somewhere that carrying heavy things could cause a miscarriage. Might as well start working on it now.

Ginny slammed the door and watched as the yellow car sped off, swerving to avoid a white Cadillac parked in the driveway. She lugged the suitcases up the stairs and juggled them as she turned the huge brass knob on the front door. She stepped into the foyer and heard voices in the room on the left.

“Of course we do everything possible to maintain our girls’ anonymity,” Ginny overheard. She dropped her bags and went to the doorway.

An over-forty bleached blonde sat behind a desk. In the chairs facing her sat a balding man, a redheaded girl with one hand on her stomach, and a woman with a cast on her leg and crutches beside her chair.
Guess which one’s knocked up
, Ginny thought with a smile. The bleach head looked up.

“Yes?”

“Ginny Stevens,” Ginny said. “I’m here.”

The three visitors looked at her, and Ginny did not miss the look of concern that passed quickly between the man and the woman with the crutches.
They probably disapprove of the miniskirt. Tough shit
.

“Of course, dear,” old dark roots said, as she got up from her chair and swaggered to the doorway with a
swivel in her hips.
Hey, this old broad has some life in her after all
. “I’m Miss Taylor,” she continued. “I’ll be tied up a while. You can wait outside if you’d like, or you can go on up to your room.”

“I’ll go to my room. Where is it?” Ginny scanned the massive foyer.

“Up the staircase, left at the top, the first door on the right.”

“Got it.” She grabbed her suitcases and started toward the stairs.

“Oh, dear,” Miss Taylor called after her. “Mr. Hines will take those up for you.”

“No. I got it.”

“Oh, Christ. Pink and white.” Ginny shoved her suitcases up against the white eyelet dust ruffle and flopped on the bed. She stared at the ceiling, at the foot-square frosted-glass light fixture. She touched her flat stomach, still disbelieving that she was already more than three months’ pregnant. Shit, she hadn’t even had morning sickness. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe … yeah, right. She felt wet salt form in her eyes. She shut back the tears as though someone else were in the room.

Ginny rolled over and reached down to a suitcase. She unzipped the outside pocket and took out her movie magazines. Joanne Woodward. Ginny laughed. She had seen
Rachel, Rachel
three times. Not because she liked the movie. Christ, how could anyone like a queer story about a spinster schoolteacher who led about as exciting a life as a subway conductor. But still, for a woman like Joanne Woodward, married to that hunk Paul Newman … shit, how could
she
play a role like that so convincingly? Ginny wondered if she could ever be that good an actress.

She flipped through the pages. Stars in their furs, jewels. Behind the wheel of their sports cars. Having cocktails beside their built-in swimming pools. Jayne Mansfield. Marilyn Monroe. White-blond-hair. Perfect teeth. Perfect boobs. Tiny waists. Everything.

“Yeah,” Ginny said. “I’ll be that good. Goddamn, I’ll
be that good.” She closed her eyes and saw Hollywood. Pink stucco buildings. Tall, peaceful palms. Leopard-skin pants. Capris. Tight and sexy. Stiletto heels to make her five-three frame long and lean, confident and mean. Ginny saw herself standing on the corner of Hollywood and Vine, waiting for her agent to pick her up for their lunch date on Sunset Strip.

Yeah. It was all going to be hers. All she had to do was find a way to have a miscarriage, then get her mother away from that scum she was married to. There had to be a way.…

Ginny dozed.

An hour later there was a knock on her door.

“Yeah?” she called out, quickly sitting up.

The door opened and old bleach head stood there. With her was the redhead who’d been sitting in the office.

“Ginny, dear, hello. I’d like you to meet P.J. Davies. P.J. and you are the last of our first group of girls.”

Christ. “Our first group of girls.” She sounded pleased. Like they were all now in place for summer camp. Oh, goody. Was this P.J. person supposed to be her camp buddy?