Sins of Innocence (19 page)

Jess saw P.J.’s green eyes turn liquid. It was hard for her to believe any guy would walk away from such beauty. “But what about the baby?”

“To tell you the truth, Jess, I haven’t let myself think much about the baby,” P.J. said, her voice quivering. “Maybe you’re too young to understand that.” She brushed back a lock of hair. “Actually this will all be over with before we know it.” Jess wasn’t sure which one of them P.J. was trying to convince.

Ginny reappeared, surrounded by an invisible cloud of Evening in Paris cologne. “Cheap-shit bathroom. The fucking toilet wouldn’t flush. What time is the old man coming back?”

“Ten,” Jess said.

“Christ, then let’s split this ratbox joint and go find some action.” Ginny slung her huge purse over her shoulder. “I saw a bar on the ride in. A couple of blocks down the street. You two coming?” She tromped off toward the door.

Jess and P.J. exchanged glances. P.J. wiped the mist from her eyes, and Jess saw her take a deep breath. “What do you say?” P.J. asked. “Are you game?”

Jess wanted to say no, that she’d never been in a bar and surely didn’t want to start now. Not here, in this town. Besides, in Connecticut they were all underage. But Jess sensed that P.J. wanted to go, and she liked P.J. She wanted to be her friend. She swallowed a last sip of coffee and heard herself say, “Sure. Why not?”

The Dew-Drop-Inn was small, dark, and noisy. And the smell. Oh, God. Jess clutched her stomach. Sickish odors of stale beer and cheap whiskey clung to the thick cloud of cigarette smoke like Dippity-Do to hair. The girls wove their way through the maze of people toward the bar. Ginny was in the lead, followed by P.J. Jess noticed almost every man turned to check out Ginny’s miniskirt, then shifted to P.J. Good, Jess thought. They won’t even notice me. She stared into the back of P.J.’s auburn mane and kept walking.

“Seats!” Jess heard Ginny shout.

There were two vacant stools at the bar. P.J. slid onto one. Please, God, Jess thought, don’t make me stand. Then Ginny saved her.

“Take a seat, Jess,” Ginny shouted above the noise of the people and the electric piano in the corner. “I’d rather stand.”

Jess sat down.

A portly bartender with slicked-back hair approached them. “What’ll it be?”

“VO. Splash of water,” Ginny announced.

“I’ll need to see some ID,” the bartender said.

Ginny fished in her huge bag and pulled out a small square paper. Oh, God, Jess thought, Ginny must have a fake ID. What if they got caught? Her heart raced. She looked at Ginny, whose heart, Jess determined by the calm, slow smile, was not racing. The bartender looked at the paper quickly, then handed it back. He turned to P.J. “How ’bout you? What’ll it be?”

“Scotch and soda,” P.J. said confidently. The man didn’t ask to see her ID.

He turned to Jess. “And you? You’re too little to be twenty-one!” He laughed. Jess’s stomach churned.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I’ll just have ginger ale.”

Ginny and P.J. were watching the crowd on the dance floor while they waited for their drinks. Jess wanted to watch as well, but when she twisted in her chair, she felt uncomfortably on display. Instead, she studied the top of the bar, which was black Formica, covered with knotted plastic swizzle sticks and little pools of moisture where drunks had missed their mouths. Behind the bar were rows and rows of bottles, capped with silver pouring spouts that reflected the neon beer signs. One of the beer signs was a clock. Five minutes after eight. Great, Jess thought. I have to sit here for two hours before Pop comes back to get us.

The bartender returned with their drinks. P.J. opened her wallet. “My treat,” she said. But the bartender waved her money away. “It’s taken care of,” he shouted above the
loud rendition of “Your Cheatin’ Heart.” “Fella over there in the blue plaid shirt.”

P.J. nodded and looked in the direction the bartender had pointed. Jess followed her gaze. A big dark-haired guy in jeans held up his beer glass and smiled directly at P.J. “What a hunk,” P.J. said.

“Yeah, well, fuck the guys,” Ginny said. “There’s a pinball machine over there, and I’m gonna get some action.” She grabbed her drink off the bar and headed toward the sound of the buzzers and bells.

Jess was about to ask P.J. if she really wanted to stay, when she saw that P.J. was smiling across the room. The “hunk” was walking toward them. Jess turned back and stared at the bottles across the bar.

“Hi.” She heard the masculine voice behind her.

“Hi yourself,” P.J. said. “Thanks for the drink.”

Jess watched the bartender turn two bottles upside down and, without measuring, pour a little of each into a blender container. He popped the container onto the blender base; the whir of the mix wasn’t even discernible over the noise.

Jess felt a hand on her arm. It was, thank God, P.J. P.J. leaned close to her ear. “I’m going to dance. Will you be okay here alone?”

Jess nodded and clutched her glass of ginger ale. “Sure. Have fun.” She watched as P.J. strode toward the dance floor with the hunk. Her head was starting to throb. She looked back to the beer sign/clock. Fifteen minutes past eight. She decided to try to read the labels on the bottles behind the bar. Anything would be better than making eye contact with any of the people here. She held firmly onto her glass, as though it were a talisman that would keep strangers away.

Just then she caught sight of P.J.’s drink, nearly full, still sitting on the bar. On the dance floor P.J. was slow-dancing with the hunk to the tune “Teach Me Tonight.” The bartender was at the other end of the bar, his back toward Jess. She glanced around the room. No one seemed to be watching her. The only time Jess had touched
alcohol—not counting an occasional glass of Beaujolais when she was included in one of her parents’ special dinners—was the day of her mother’s funeral. The day she’d finally let down her guard and proved to Richard how much she loved him.

She looked back at P.J.’s glass, then picked it up and took a long, slow sip. She didn’t like the taste of the scotch, but she liked the way it warmed her insides.

Later that night Jess lay in her bed, trying to shut out the loneliness. She had showered the smoke and alcohol odors from her body. She’d only had half of P.J.’s drink, but her head was fuzzy and dull, and her shoulders ached from the tension of rigidly sitting for two hours on that godawful barstool.

Jess stared at the calendar spread out on her bed. It was June 22. She slowly flipped the pages. July. August. September. October. November. December. December 14. She rolled onto her side, the curve of her stomach now visible, filled as though she’d just eaten an enorous Thanksgiving dinner with her nanny. Slowly Jess felt a flutter from within. Then another flutter. And another. It stopped.

What was that? Was it the baby moving?

Suddenly there was a strong cramp. Jess curled her legs toward her stomach. The cramp lessened.

Must be part of it, she reasoned. The doctor had told her she’d start to feel movement soon. This must be it.

The flutter returned, followed by another cramp. This time the cramp didn’t subside as quickly. It hurt. It made her feel sick.

Is this what my mother went through? she wondered. No wonder I was an only child.

Jess closed her eyes and thought about her mother. She had been so fragile, so sensitive. When Jess was young, her mother was so full of fun, always making ordinary things into little games, like stirring sugar into tea-milk. Nothing was ever ordinary or mundane; her mother had a way of putting sweetness and life into everything she did
and into eveyrthing around her. Like the first time they had gone to FAO Schwarz.

Inside the huge toy store on Fifth Avenue a toy soldier stood guard, welcoming all who passed through the doors. He stood tall and straight, dressed in a red jacket with brass buttons and chains, white pants, and a high black fuzzy hat. On his cheeks were perfect polished red circles.

“Mommy, Mommy!” Jess had exclaimed, wriggling her tiny fingers free from her mother’s delicate white-gloved hand.

“Yes, darling!” her mother had cried. “It’s the soldier from the
Nutcracker
!” They had been to see the performance the week before, and now, in full view of Fifth Avenue, her mother began a slow pirouette around the soldier, humming the theme from the ballet, then embraced him and made him sway and twirl with the music. Jess giggled and clapped her hands with glee, as several other customers passed by and smiled.

It had been a joyous day, one that Jess would always remember, especially when she tried to figure out what had happened: What had happened to snuff the spirit from her mother’s life, to make the fantasy fade. Had her father really had a mistress? Or was it something else? Something more? Jess simply didn’t know. She knew only that she had loved her mother, and that her mother had loved her. And Mother had liked Richard. She would have let them get married. She would have figured out a way.…

The pain was gone. Jess fell asleep.

Sometime during the night she awoke with a jolt. Another cramp gripped her abdomen. Something was definitely wrong. She stumbled from her bed, doubled over with cramps. She unlocked her door and went toward the bathroom. Just as she reached out for the door handle, the hallway swirled around her. She slid down the door, a limp pile of delicate bones, ivory skin, and a softly rounded belly.

It was P.J. who heard the thump as Jess’s body hit the floor. Within seconds everyone in the house was awakened by P.J.’s piercing screams. Jess lost consciousness.

* * *

“Jess, my dear, you’re going to be fine.”

Jess caught the scent of English lavender before she opened her eyes. Miss Taylor stood over her hospital bed.

“The doctor said it was just a scare. He wants to keep you here for a couple of days, then you’ll need some bed rest for a week or so.”

“The baby?”

“The baby is fine too, dear. But you’ll need to rest to make sure everything will be all right.”

Jess closed her eyes again, listening to the unfamiliar hospital sounds. Tears slid down her cheeks. “Mommy,” she cried softly. “Mommy,” she cried, then drifted off into drug-induced sleep.

Ginny

“That’d be my luck. Finally have a chance to get rid of this fucking kid and blow it.” Ginny sat at the breakfast table, sipping a Coke with no ice. She’d had too much whiskey last night; her mouth was cottony inside; her head felt tight. But her stomach—and the baby—were just fine. It figured.

“You shouldn’t drink so much soda, Ginny,” Susan said. “All that carbonation could hurt the baby.”

“No shit?” She laughed. “Think I’ll have another.” Her comments were interrupted by the sound of the phone ringing in the library. A moment later Mrs. Hines appeared in the doorway of the dining room, hands on her broad hips, her eyes staring slits.

“Miss Stevens,” she barked. “Phone call.”

Ginny set down her glass. “Must be Hollywood,” she announced, then went to take the call.

She went into the room and closed the French doors behind her. She knew the call was from her mother before she picked up the receiver: Ginny’s mother was the only one who knew where she was.

“Hi, Mom,” she said into the phone.

“We’ve got trouble, Ginny,” the hoarse voice whispered quickly. “He knows.”

Ginny felt her knees weaken. “What?” She sat down in Miss Taylor’s leather chair. “How? It’s not possible.” Then she shouted. “Did you tell him? Mother, for Chrissake, did you tell him?”

The voice on the other end began to sniffle.

“Mother! I can’t believe you told him!”

The voice faltered. “He … he made me.…”

“Shit. What did he do, beat it out of you?”

There was no response.

Ginny was numb. She played with the jar of paper clips on the desk. She needed a cigarette. She opened the drawer of old bleach head’s desk and ripped open a pack of Pall Malls. She laid one cigarette in the desk and put another in her pocket.

“Was it because of the money? Did he find out you took the money?” she asked.

Her mother sighed. “When you didn’t come home last night, he was mad. He said you must be out whoring. That you’d regret it when you got back.”

Ginny felt a rush of flames rise in her cheeks. She dug through the clutter of pens and notepads and finally came up with a pack of matches.
RUBY’S DINER
, the matchbook proclaimed.
Turkey Dinner with all the fixin’s. $1.25
. “What else?”

“He didn’t figure out about the money until this morning.”

Ginny didn’t want to hear the details. The fact that the son of a bitch knew about the money was bad enough. The fact that he took it out on her mother was even worse.

“So you admitted you took the money.”

“Not right away.” Her mother started to cry.

She lit the cigarette and spit out a piece of tobacco. “Mom. Mom, does he know I’m pregnant?”

Her mother sniffled. “Yes.”

Shit. She blew out the smoke in a single rush.

“But, Ginny, there’s nothing he can do. He’s only your stepfather. I don’t care how rich he is, so help me, I’ll leave
him.” Ginny heard the sound of clinking ice cubes. “We were better off when it was just you and me living in that one room apartment.…”

“Mom, are you drinking?”

“Just a little one … the pain …”

“Mom.” Ginny knew she had to ask the next question, and she was afraid. “Does he know where I am?”

“No! I swear, I’ll never tell him! I said you ran away, that I needed to give you the money so you could run away and have an abortion.”

She swallowed hard and took another drag. “What did he say?”

“He said …” She stopped.

“Mom, what did he say?”

“He said, ‘That slut never better show her face around here again.’ ”

Ginny put her face in her hands. “Mom, I think you’d better get out of there. I think he’s going to hurt you real bad.”

“He doesn’t care about the money. He’s got plenty.”

“But he’s bad news, Mom. He’s going to hurt you again.”

Her mother didn’t reply. Ginny heard the ice cubes rattle again. She pictured her mother lounging on the gold brocade chaise in the massive bedroom of the Beacon Hill Victorian brownstone, wrapped in a white silk robe to hide the bruises from the maid. Her dyed black hair would be disheveled now, her face white and worn. Ginny’s stepfather never hit her mother in the face: He was too smart to let the marks of his anger be visible to the world.