Sins of Innocence (29 page)

Susan

Labor Day. How appropriate. Susan could think of no better place to be on Labor Day than with a bunch of pregnant girls. She sat in the living room, waiting for her parents to come to visit. The Democratic Convention was over, leaving in its wake a trail of violent demonstrations and protests. She shuddered. Would she have been there with David? Hubert Humphrey emerged the party’s candidate for president. God. What was the world coming to? Humphrey didn’t have enough guts to get this country out of the mess it was in.

She thumbed through the local newspaper. A small article caught her eye.

Susan scanned the copy. NHU students were going to have a sit-in at the administration building the following weekend to protest the draft and the war, to have the voting age changed from twenty-one to eighteen, and to have the dorms made coed. She felt charged. Surely they could use her experience from Columbia? NHU was a small school. They probably could use all the help they could get. Susan’s SDS card was still in her wallet, but she had been so out of touch with the rest of the world these past couple of months. This was the perfect opportunity to get back on track.

“Come in. How nice to see you. She’s in the living room.” Susan heard Miss Taylor’s voice, but with her mission for next weekend now decided, she felt she was even ready to face her parents. Susan rolled off the sofa and stood up full height, full front. In a few days she would be six months’ pregnant, and she looked every bit of it.

Her mother stepped in first. “Darling,” she cooed, then hugged her, giving false kisses into the air.

“Hello, Mother.” She looked over her mother’s shoulder. “Dad.”

“Hi, Susan,” her father answered.

“Well, I can’t believe we made it. Whew, this heat,” her mother gasped. “Even our month in the mountains was brutal.” Susan knew “the mountains” meant the Catskills in upstate New York, where she and her family had spent every August for every summer she could remember. “Isn’t there somewhere cooler we can sit?”

“Sure, Mom. It’s cooler in the dining room.”

Susan’s parents followed her into the dark mahogany room.

“Good. I’d much rather sit at a table to talk anyway. Do you think we could have some iced tea?”

“I’ll check with Mrs. Hines. Have a seat.”

Susan went into the kitchen. Mrs. Hines wasn’t there, so Susan mixed three glasses herself. When she returned to the dining room, Susan’s mother was checking out the items on the sideboard. She turned when her daughter came in.

“Nice. Waterford bowls. Silver candlesticks. You seem to be dining in luxury, anyway.”

“It’s okay here, Mother.” She set the glasses on the table. “So you had a good time in the mountains?”

“Adequate,” Freida Levin said.

“Very good,” Joseph said.

Susan swirled the ice in her glass. The heat hung heavily in the room.

“It’s a shame you won’t be home for the holidays. If you’d had the abortion, you’d be home.”

“Freida,” Susan’s father cautioned. “We agreed not to mention that.”

“It’s too late anyway. Look at her. Look at that huge stomach,” her mother clucked. “There’s no need. Just no need.”

“How are you feeling, honey?” Susan’s father asked, trying to change the subject.

“Fine, Dad. Really. But there is something I’d like to talk with you both about.”

Her mother glared at her. “The last time you said that …”

“Freida. Let her speak.”

Susan wavered a little. Maybe she shouldn’t say anything. Oh, hell, might as well get it over with. “I’m thinking of keeping my baby,” she said.

There was silence for a moment. Then Susan’s father pounded a fist on the table. His face reddened, and the muscles around his jawline quivered. But, as usual, it was her mother who exploded.

“First she tells us she’s pregnant! Then she won’t have an abortion. Now she wants to keep it! She’s going to give me a heart attack, that’s what she’s going to do!”

“Susan, you can’t be serious,” her father said.

Susan stood up and went to the sideboard. She touched the silver candlesticks. “I won’t involve you, don’t worry.”

“Involve us? Involve us?” her mother screamed. “It seems to me we already
are
involved!”

“I’ve been thinking about getting a job. Supporting the baby and myself.”

“Get a job?” her father barked, snapping the invisible wire around his jaw, around his emotions. “What about graduate school? What kind of job do you expect to get with an English degree? And where do you propose to live? Certainly not with us!”

Susan was startled. The only time her father had gotten angry with her was when Susan had refused to sit
shivah
after her grandfather died. Susan had been sixteen and testing the waters of free-spiritedness, turning against the bonds of family and tradition. Back then, her father’s anger had frightened her, but it was her grandmother’s words that had the most impact.

“Let my Susan do as she wishes,” Bubby had said.

Susan had given in and sat the full seven days. But now things were different. She was an adult. This was her life, her child, her responsibility.

Susan tossed back her hair and pulled together her courage. “There are a lot of things I could do,” she said. “I
could get a job at a publishing house. Or as a teacher. I could live in the Village.”

“
Greenwich
Village?” Her mother looked as though she were going to faint.

“You do this and you never are welcome in our home again,” her father said. He stood up. “Come on, Freida, I’m leaving.”

Susan turned back to the sideboard. She heard her parents leave, heard her mother mumble something in Yiddish. Well, she thought, that went over big. But God, she’d be twenty-two in March. Wasn’t it time to get out from under her parents’ clutches? To make a statement about her life and her freedom? The world was changing, and Susan needed to be a part of it. She needed to scrub Westchester and all it stood for from her map. Why was it so hard to do?

She looked out the window and thought of David. Where was he now? Was he somewhere in that godforsaken jungle? Was he thinking about her? Would he want her to keep their baby? Suddenly her father’s anger flashed into her mind; his words clawed at her heart. “You do that, and you are never welcome in our house again.” How could she do this to her parents? Susan rubbed her stomach, hating herself for picking up guilt like lint.

Pop agreed to drive her to New Haven, after Susan explained to Miss Taylor that she wanted to check out the graduate school at NHU. At four-thirty on Friday the station wagon pulled into the campus. Susan spotted a group of students in front of an ivy-covered building.

“Over there, Pop,” she directed. “That must be Administration.”

He wheeled the car in the direction of the building. “Looks like an awful lot of kids hanging around. You sure you don’t want me to wait somewhere and take you back tonight?”

“No, Pop,” she lied. “It’s all set. I’m staying on campus until tomorrow. I have a meeting in the morning.”

“Okay, Miss Susan. But you be sure to call if you need me.” He pulled over to the curb and stopped the car.

“Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to get a ride back and save you the trip. Thanks.” She hoisted her tapestry bag over her shoulder and got out of the car. Pop tooted the horn, waved, and drove off.

Susan stood on the sidewalk and soaked up the atmosphere around her. Early fall on a college campus. The air was clean, filled with learning, filled with hope. She watched students walk by, their arms loaded with crisp new books. She heard the sounds of conversation, a sharing of emotions, a communication of spirits. It was all so familiar, so peaceful. Susan knew this was where she belonged. Not in the social falseness of Westchester; not hidden away in a home with a group of ignorant, displaced girls.

She walked toward the huge crowd gathered in front of the administration building. Students were sprawled on the grass and steps, making cardboard signs with thick black markers.

Susan smiled. The
COED DORMS
seemed incongruous with the rest of the movement. But, what the hell, this was as good a place as any to make as many demands as they could.

“Grab a marker, join the cause!” Susan turned toward the male voice. It came from a boy whose long hair was tied around his forehead with a red bandanna. He wore granny glasses—like David’s—faded jeans, and a T-shirt. From his neck hung beads and a large silver peace sign.

“Well, that’s what I’m here for!” she replied. She dropped to the ground and picked up a piece of cardboard and a marker. “What time does the sit-in start?” she asked.

“Whenever we’re ready,” he said. “You a student here?”

“No. But I saw an article in the paper. I wanted to help.”

“Oh, wow, that’s groovy,” he answered. “You done this before?”

“Columbia. Last April.”

“Holy shit, you were at Columbia?”

“It was great.”

“SDS?”

“Card-carrying member.”

“Super. Hey, thanks for coming. Name’s Ben.”

“Susan. Pleased to meet you, Ben. Who organized this?”

“Well, now, I guess that would be me.” He smiled. “We’re going to crash outside tonight. I’ve got an extra sleeping bag in my van if you want.”

“Great. I hadn’t thought of that.” Susan felt as though she had come home.

By six-thirty over two hundred kids had convened. There was only about an hour left of daylight.

“We’re chipping in for a pizza run. Got any bread?” Ben asked Susan.

“Sure.” She dug into her bag and handed him five dollars.

“Five? One’s enough.”

“For the cause,” she said.

Ben disappeared with a wave and an “I’ll be back.”

They sat with their signs held over their heads. Some milled around, sharing stories and cigarettes. One straight-haired girl with hip-hugger pants drifted from student to student, drawing colorful flowers on arms, faces, and feet. As the sun went down and a chill came into the air, pizza was passed around. Over by the steps, the low singing of “We Shall Overcome” had begun.

Susan sat quietly, absorbed in the mood and thinking of David. Suddenly Ben was back at her side.

“Feel like a joint?” he asked.

“Super,” she replied.

“It’s good stuff. Hardly any seeds.” He took a small baggie and a pack of papers from the pocket of his jeans. Susan watched as he deftly shook a small amount of weed into a paper, rolled it, then slowly licked the edge to seal it. She took a book of matches from her bag.

He looked at the matchbook. “ ‘Learn to Drive Tractor Trailer in Three Weeks,’ ” he read. “Hey, groovy. Is that what you do for a living?”

Susan laughed. “Better save that. I may need it if I can’t get a job.”

Ben lit a joint and took a big drag, holding in the smoke while he spoke. “What do you do?”

Susan took it from him and sucked in the sweet smoke. It tasted so good, so familiar. “Nothing right now. I’ll probably go to grad school in January.”

“Groovy,” he said, and took the joint back.

With each drag Susan felt more and more relaxed. Even the baby inside her had quieted down. Peaceful. It was so peaceful.

“I feel like I’ve been out of touch for a while. Is any progress being made?” she asked Ben.

He frowned. “Progress? On what?”

Susan was confused. “The war. Is there any chance of our troops getting out?”

He took another drag and laughed. “Who knows? Who cares?” He reached into his pocket and took out an envelope. Inside were a few small sugar cubes. “Acid?” he asked Susan.

“No. No. I’d better not,” she said. Why didn’t he know about the war. Didn’t he really care? If he didn’t, what was the point of this sit-in? She decided to dig a little further. “So what do you think about Humphrey?”

“Politicians,” Ben said as he tossed a cube into his mouth. “They’re all assholes.” Obviously he didn’t have any intention of talking politics. But wasn’t that what they were here for? “You’re pretty cool, though,” he added. “You can stick around after the sit-in if you’d like. I’ll be movin’ on somewhere. Maybe head West. I’ve made
enough bread here to exist for a while. You’re welcome to join me.”

“Money?” she asked. “You’re getting paid for this?”

“Sure. Well, donations. From the kids. They figured this was a good way to get coed dorms. Like the administration will give in to them to get them to shut up about the war and go back to classes.”

Susan finished the joint and tried to dispel her confusion. Later, soothed and calm, she slid into the sleeping bag and slept under the stars, her tapestry bag for a pillow, her Make Love Not War poster at her side.

She was awakened in the morning by a fierce kick in her stomach. The ground was damp, and her back ached. She stood up slowly and tried to shake out the kinks. But it was as though the baby were angry with her for sleeping on the ground. He pressed a foot hard against her bladder, and Susan knew she’d better get to the rest room.

When she returned, Ben was there with cardboard coffee cups and bags of doughnuts. “Morning,” he said cheerfully.

“Good morning,” Susan replied. “Wow, that looks great, I’m starving.”

“There’s milk if you’d prefer,” he said.

“Milk? No, coffee’s fine.”

“Well, I just thought …” Ben’s words trailed off and he pointed to her stomach.

“You noticed,” Susan said.

“Yeah, man, I try not to miss much.”

“My love child,” Susan said, and patted her stomach.

“Where’s the father?” he asked.

Susan took a big gulp of coffee. “Believe me,” she said, “you don’t want to know.” Or maybe, she thought, you wouldn’t really care.

At nine the television cameras appeared. “Great,” Ben said. “Finally some publicity.” And he went off to do an interview.

She spent the morning talking with the students, telling them stories of Columbia. Everyone sat around smoking dope and half listening. Every so often someone said
“Groovy” or “Cool.” But Susan sensed they weren’t really paying attention. Columbia had been the model demonstration for college campuses across the country. Shouldn’t they be more interested? She tried to think what David would have done to raise their consciousness, to get them to care.