Sins of Innocence (22 page)

He propped one arm up against the chain-saw display, his solid biceps bulging beneath his blue
CHAPIN’S HARDWARE
T-shirt. He had told P.J. he was eighteen—two years younger than she was. But his body certainly didn’t look like a kid’s. “Are you shopping, or did you come to see me?”

P.J. melted at his smile, but she coyly shrugged. “Chances are, I won’t be needing a chain saw,” she said.

“You mean that aunt of yours isn’t making you work for your keep?”

P.J. felt a quick flash of guilt. She tried to laugh.

Peter rubbed his biceps, flexing the muscle so it grew even larger. “Does this mean you decided you’ll go out with me?”

She touched his muscle with a fingertip, then looked into his eyes. P.J. knew she was flirting. She couldn’t help it. He was so damned good-looking, and she loved the way he stared at her, as though she were the only woman in the world. What harm could a little flirtation bring? It wasn’t as though it could last long, a month, maybe two, before she really began to “show.” And it could make for a pleasant way to pass the time. “Sure,” she finally answered. “I’d love to go out with you. But you’ll have to give me your phone number. I’ll have to call you. My aunt wouldn’t be too pleased if you called me.” She ran her finger over his muscle and watched as he blinked at her touch.

He took a stub of a pencil from the pocket of his T-shirt and hastily wrote a number on the back of a sales slip. “I’ll give you both. My number here and at home.” P.J. took the paper. He smiled. “Make it soon, okay?” he said in a low, sexy voice.

“Sure,” she answered. “Well, I’ve got to go. My cousin’s waiting for me.” Another lie. So what? She turned and went to look for Susan.

A few days passed. Then a few weeks. Each day P.J. considered calling Peter. And each day she talked herself out of it.
He’s too young. There’s no point. You’ll only hurt him. My God, you’re pregnant!
But each night, alone in her room, alone in her bed, P.J. thought about his smile, his body. It helped keep her mind off Frank, and off the pain he’d caused.

More than once P.J. thought maybe she could get Peter to marry her. She spent hours fantasizing about a peaceful life in this country town. She would keep this baby, and she and Peter would have more. Many more. Some with her auburn hair and his turquoise eyes; some with his black hair and her green eyes. They would be exquisitely beautiful children. It would be an exquisitely beautiful life. No parents around, and no expectations to have to live up to. No one to report to but Peter. Handsome, sexy Peter. She would learn how to can vegetables and how to bake. There would be shelves filled with zucchini and tomatoes and carrots to last them through the cozy, snowy winters, and apple pies cooling at the kitchen window in autumn. She would not have to think about a career; she would not have to think about anything. Peter would take care of her. He would love her. But then, with the light of dawn, P.J. knew the truth: She would be bored out of her mind with a life like that. And worse, it wouldn’t be fair to Peter. The time passed, and P.J. didn’t call him. But she kept his phone number safely tucked in her nightstand drawer. Just in case.

Toward the end of July P.J. burst into Susan’s room and threw herself on the bed. “Oh, God, you’re not going to believe this!” she groaned. Susan was crouched by her closet, tossing clothes in all directions.

“Don’t talk to me. I’m having a crisis. The waist on my jeans won’t snap.”

P.J. laughed. “Sooner or later it was bound to happen. God, you’re almost five months, aren’t you?”

“Up yours,” Susan shot back. She slumped to the floor and flung the pile in the air. “Caftans!” she shrieked. “I need caftans!
Sleeveless
caftans!” The steamy New England humidity hung heavily in the attic room.

“Maybe Pop will drive us into town tonight,” P.J. said. “I’m too tired to walk, and I need something to wear Saturday.”

“Heavy date with the muscle man?” Susan chided.

“No.” P.J. was a little surprised at the reference to Peter. Susan hadn’t mentioned a word about him since the night they’d gone to the hardware store. “My mother just called. My parents are coming Saturday.”

“Lucky you. And the National Guard has been called back into Cleveland. First the race riots, now your parents. What a week.”

“All things considered, I’d rather be in Cleveland.”

Susan held up a tie-dyed tunic. “Hey, how about if I cut off the sleeves? Do you think anyone would mind if I just wore this?”

“Couldn’t be any shorter than some of Ginny’s getups. Sure. Do it. Wear it Saturday. Then maybe my parents will see what a sleazy place they’ve had me locked up in.”

“And then what? They’ll let you go home?”

“Shit, Susan, I don’t know.” P.J. rolled onto her stomach and pushed the auburn mane from her face. Her hair was getting long, longer than she usually wore it. But hairdressers weren’t exactly plentiful at Larchwood. “I haven’t called Peter, you know. I feel like I’d only be using him to stop thinking about Frank.”

“And you can’t stop thinking about Frank because there’s nothing else to do.”

“I can’t because I still love him.”

“He’s a bum, P.J. The guy dumped you. Let it go.”

But P.J. couldn’t. It seemed that when she wasn’t fantasizing about Peter, she was thinking about Frank. Thinking that he’d realize what he’d done, that he’d come and find her. Tell her he was sorry. Ask her to marry him.
“I keep thinking it was all a mistake. That he didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“He made a mistake, all right.”

“Sometimes I think he’ll come back to me,” P.J. wanted to say, but she didn’t want to share these feelings with anyone, even Susan. It was too humiliating. She was beginning to feel more and more like little immature Jess.

“Maybe you should stop thinking about all the great times you two had together and start remembering what a shit he was the night you told him,” Susan reasoned. “I mean, didn’t you tell me you got out of the car and walked home? He must’ve really pissed you off.”

“Yeah, he pissed me off.”

“Enough so you didn’t do anything like try to get him back.”

“How could I do that? The guy obviously didn’t want me. I wasn’t going to beg.”

“I rest my case. You were too intelligent to beg. And now you’re too bored to see that.”

But P.J. knew Susan was wrong. She knew the only reason she didn’t try to get Frank back was because she couldn’t face the rejection again. And she knew he would reject her. Peter, however, wouldn’t reject her. Would he? Would he still stare at her in the same longing way if he knew about the baby? She didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to think about it. She looked at Susan’s bulge. “If you decide to keep the baby, what are you going to do?”

“Don’t know yet,” Susan replied. “I still have a few months to figure that out, I guess.”

“But will they … let you?”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.” P.J. thought a moment. “Miss Taylor? I mean, aren’t there any rules about that here?”

“At Larchwood? Honey, this place is only a holding tank. They don’t give a shit what we do with our babies, as long as our parents pay the exorbitant fees to stay here during our … indisposition.”

“You don’t think they get a cut of the adoption fee?”

“Oh, wow! That’s really funny. Never thought about it.”

“Well, it is private adoption, isn’t it?”

“Who told you that?”

“The good Reverend Blacksmith.”

“Oh, him. Yeah, well I guess it is. I don’t know. Ask your parents when you see them Saturday.”

P.J. groaned.

“Does it freak you out that your parents are coming?” Susan asked.

P.J. nodded. “Surprisingly, the hard part isn’t my mother. Well, not really. She’s always expected me to be perfect, and I’ve always proved to her I’m not. She’ll get a few nasty digs in now and then. It’s not the greatest, but I’m used to it. I can tune it out. No, the hard part now is my father. Every time I think of my father, I feel so guilty. He’s such a good guy, such a gentle man. He doesn’t deserve this.” Her voice dropped, tears coming to her eyes. “I’ve really let him down.”

“Is he angry with you?”

“Angry? No. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my father angry. He’s hurt. Really hurt.”

“Establishment guilts,” Susan replied.

“What?”

“Parents have a way of laying these incredible guilt trips on us. I wonder if their parents did the same to them. Man, if I do decide to keep this baby, that’s one thing I’ll work at not doing. I mean, what about
your
rights? This is your body, your baby, and your mistake. I think our parents are so hung up on feeling sorry for themselves, they’ve forgotten to care about what we’re going through.”

“Does your father make you feel guilty too?”

“My mother.”

“Oh. Well, it is hard on them. It isn’t fair. It seems like all I’ve ever done is screw things up. My mother wanted me to be a teacher; my father went to bat for me because I wanted to become a commercial artist. My mother wanted me to live at home and commute to college; my father backed my decision to go to B.U. ‘Kids who stay at
home and go to school never amount to anything,’ he told my mother. ‘They’re townies, they never have the opportunities or chances kids who go away do.’ Anyway, my mother finally agreed, not without making it hard on him. In fact, I’d bet she’s blaming him for what has happened now.”

“Sounds like a classic case of Daddy’s little girl with the guilts.”

Guilt, P.J. thought. Oh, yeah, there was lots of that. Always. “But I do owe them something, Susan. After this is all over, I’m going to try to make it up to them.”

“To which one? Mommy or Daddy?”

“Both.”

“And who’s going to make it up to you?”

“Make what up to me?”

Susan stood up and threw up her arms. “Nine months of emotional turmoil! Forget about your parents for a minute. What about you? You’re going to have a lifetime of thinking about this baby who isn’t even born yet. You have to get prepared for that, P.J. It’s going to happen.”

P.J. heard Susan’s words, but she couldn’t allow them to register. “Yeah, well, maybe for you, but not for me. And anyway, first, I’ve got to get my parents through this.”

They arrived just before lunch on Saturday morning. P.J. looked down at them from her bedroom window. Her mother stood upright as she got out of the car, hesitated a moment, then took an all-too-familiar deep breath. She’s steeling herself to see me, P.J. knew. As they walked toward the stairs, P.J. noticed her mother’s limp. The cast was now off, but she still walked with a cane. It wasn’t until she heard the front door open that P.J. realized she hadn’t even looked at her father. Oh, God, she thought. Can I look at him?

“P.J.! Your parents are here!” She winced at Jess’s voice calling to her.

“Be right down,” she called back.

She looked in the mirror, wishing the weather weren’t so hot, wishing she could wear more clothes to cover her
belly. The sleeveless cotton tent dress she had bought on her trip into town with Susan almost seemed to accentuate the growing mound. This would be the first time her parents would see her noticeably pregnant. She didn’t want to go downstairs. She didn’t want to face them.

There was a knock on her door. “P.J., we’re here.” It was her mother’s voice. P.J. couldn’t believe her mother had climbed the stairs using a cane. But then, Mom was a martyr. Always a martyr.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself against the meeting. God, sometimes she was just like her mother. She hated that. She walked to the door, stared at the handle a moment, then opened the door.

“Hello, dear.” Her mother gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “You’re looking well.” But P.J. noticed her mother was scanning the room, the doorway, the floor. Everything but her.

“Hi, Mom.”
How would you know how I’m looking? You haven’t looked at me! Look at me, Mother. Look at my fat stomach. For godsake, look at me!

Her mother turned her back on P.J. and started toward the stairs. “Dad’s downstairs. We thought it might be nice if we went for a drive.”

“But, Mom, you just drove two hours to get here.”

Her mother waved off the comment with a light flip of her cane. “Your father enjoys driving, P.J., you know that. It relaxes him.”

He was standing at the foot of the stairs, looking out the front door. He turned when he heard her mother’s voice, and P.J. was shocked at the change in him over the past month. Sure, he had been aging before, but now he was downright old. God. Had she done this to her father?

“Hi, Daddy,” she whispered.

“Hi, punkin.” He reached out and kissed her cheek and, like her mother, didn’t look at her stomach, made no comment on her weighty appearance.

Jess walked into the foyer, clutching a pale blue envelope in her hand. “Did I hear you say you were going for a drive?”

P.J looked at her father. He nodded. “Yes, I guess.”

“Would you mind dropping this at the post office for me?

“Certainly,” P.J.’s father said quickly, and took the envelope from Jess. “P.J., I’m sure, knows where it is?” He looked questioningly at his daughter.

“Sure, Daddy. See you later, Jess.”

P.J., her father, and her limping mother went out the front door. Once in the car, her mother turned to P.J. “Such a young girl,” she commented about Jess, but P.J. knew that wasn’t what they wanted to discuss.

“Yes,” she answered, then directed her father toward the post office.

They stopped there, then drove silently, aimlessly, for several minutes. Finally her mother spoke. “This is such a lovely area.”

P.J. looked out the back window, across the wide trunk of the six-year-old Cadillac. “I cannot visit like this,” she said.

Her mother turned in the seat. “Like what?”

“Mother! I can’t visit with you two from the backseat of the car. Can’t we stop somewhere and sit face-to-face?”

“Of course. Harold?”

Her father was quiet for a moment. “There’s a small park up ahead. I noticed it on the way in. We can stop there.”

The picnic tables were rotted and speckled with bird droppings. But the tall trees cooled the area, and they quickly found a spot away from families cooking on the open brick fireplaces. P.J. purposely sat across from her parents.