Sins of Innocence (23 page)

“Sure is hot,” her father said as he wiped his brow with a neatly pressed handkerchief.

“Mmm,” P.J. answered.

“Is it too hot for you in …” Her father couldn’t seem to figure out how to say it. “In the … house?”

“No, Daddy,” she lied. “It’s fine.”

“But then, we’re not here to talk about the weather,” her mother interjected.

P.J. looked at her father. He said nothing.

“I’ve decided the boy’s parents must be told,” her mother announced.

P.J. sat in shock.

“Flora,” her father warned.

“No, Harold, P.J. must know.”

“Mother, what are you talking about?” She didn’t like the way this conversation was starting.

“The boy. The baby’s father. I am going to let his parents—at least his mother—know about this.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. Why should I be the one mother to have to go through this humiliation? He is responsible for this. His parents should be suffering the way we are.”

P.J. stared down at the shards of litter around the table. An empty, rusted can of charcoal-lighter fluid. A crumpled potato-chip bag. An odd plastic piece from a child’s game.

“Mother, don’t do this to me.”

“Who knows? If his parents find out, maybe the boy will marry you!”

“Mom, he won’t.”

“Do you know that for sure?”

“Mom, he dumped me. If Frank wants to come back to me, he’ll do it on his own.” Please come back to me, Frank, she prayed.

“Nevertheless, I’ve thought a lot about this.”

I’ll bet you have, P.J. thought.

“It will be so easy,” her mother continued. “You can go to Boston now, where no one would even know. You could get married, and we could tell everyone you eloped last year and never told us because you didn’t want to interrupt your education. It makes perfect sense, and no one would ever find out.…”

“Find out what? The truth?” Susan’s words flashed hot in her mind. P.J. shouted, “Why do you really want him to marry me, Mother? For me? Or for you?”

“For
us
, young lady! For
all
of us!”

P.J. turned to her father. “Daddy?” she cried.

“No!” her mother nearly shouted. “This is one time your father isn’t going to come to your rescue. I am your mother, and this is my decision.”

P.J. jumped from the bench and stormed off into the wooded area.

“P.J.!” her mother called after her.

She heard her father mutter something, but she was too intent on getting the hell away from them. She tramped through the woods, uncaring of the rough branches that ripped at the flesh of her hands and arms, of the undergrowth that scratched at her ankles. Tears streaked her face. After a few hundred yards P.J. came upon a small stream. She flopped onto a rock, pulled off her loafers, and sank her feet into the water.

“Damn!” she cried. “Damn.” It was just as Susan had said. What about
her
rights? Didn’t they count at all?

“Punkin.”

P.J. looked up into her father’s face. “Punkin, are you okay?”

“Oh, Daddy.” She began to sob. “Daddy, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’ve done this to you.”

He squatted beside her and put his arm around her. “It’s okay, punkin. It’s okay. We’re going to be okay. All of us.”

“Don’t, don’t let her do it, Daddy.”

“Okay, punkin, I won’t. Don’t worry. I won’t.”

She sobbed uncontrollably, leaning against his strong chest, feeling the protection of his love, needing to make this go away. How could she have done this to them? How could she have done this to him?

They stayed like that for a long time, father and daughter, without speaking.

Later that evening, after P.J.’s father had driven off, her mother cold as steel beside him in the Cadillac, P.J. went up to her room and took the crumpled paper from her nightstand. Then she went back downstairs to the library and phoned Peter.

* * *

She stood outside the hardware store, waiting for it to close. P.J. had told Susan she was going out and asked her to cover for her if anyone noticed she was gone. P.J. didn’t know what Susan would say, but she trusted her to come up with something. Susan hadn’t asked any questions. She’d just said, “If that’s what you want, go for it.”

P.J. glanced at her watch. Nine o’clock. Peter would come out soon. She didn’t have any idea what she was going to say to him; it didn’t matter. P.J. knew only that she needed something to feel happy about, and she suspected seeing Peter would provide that.

The bell on the door tinkled. P.J. turned and saw him walk toward her.

“What a day,” he sighed.

“Busy?” she asked.

“Saturdays. They’re always a madhouse. Folks coming up from the city to do their weekend chores at their country homes.”

He faced her, and their eyes locked.
Oh, Peter
, P.J. wanted to say,
it does feel good to have a man look at me that way
.

“I’m glad you called,” he finally said. “Want to go for a drink?”

P.J. smiled. “I’m really not much of a drinker, Peter. Besides, we’re both too young.”

“Not at the Dew-Drop. I’ve been served there since I was sixteen. But it’s okay, if you don’t want to. We can do something else. Whatever you want.”

It was music to her ears. “Whatever you want.” P.J. smiled. “I’d love some coffee. And I’d love to talk.”

Peter thought for a moment. “How ’bout if I get us a thermos of coffee at the doughnut shop. Then we can take it out to the lake and have ourselves a real long talk.” He winked at her, and P.J. felt a warm rush between her legs.

This could be dangerous, she thought, but she heard herself say, “Sure. Sounds great.”

It was peaceful out at the lake. The moon glowed white over the water, the peepers chirped their low, melodic
sounds. Peter poured hot coffee into paper cups, then popped an eight-track tape into the tape player of the truck. It was Johnny Cash, singing about his Folsom Prison blues.

“I’m glad you finally called,” Peter said. “I’d about given up on you.”

P.J. smiled and sipped the coffee.

“How’s your aunt?” he asked.

What should she do? Should she tell him the truth? P.J. looked down at her lap. The mound might be hidden beneath her tent dress, but it was there. It was real.

“Peter?” she asked. “Peter, would you kiss me?”

“Oh, God,” he groaned. He set his cup on the dash. He took P.J.’s from her and placed it beside his. Then he slid a muscular, T-shirted arm around the back of her neck. With his hand he cupped her chin. “God, I’ve been dreamin’ about this,” he said, and gently touched his lips to hers.

P.J. kissed him back, a long, sweet kiss filled with the promise of things to come. She couldn’t think about the baby now. She couldn’t think about her mother or her father. She couldn’t think about Frank. There was only Peter. The moon, the peepers, and Peter.

Jess

On Sunday evenings Miss Taylor went out. She was always picked up in the same dark car, though it was impossible to see who was inside. Jess wondered if their housemother had a boyfriend, but she was afraid if she mentioned it to the others, they would laugh at her and call her a little kid.

She sat on the veranda after supper. The sun had gone down, and she looked across the wide lawn through the dim light. It was almost the first of August, nearly six weeks since she’d come close to losing the baby. She couldn’t have borne that, not after losing her mother. But Jess was more than a little afraid of her life after
Larchwood; she hadn’t, of course, heard from Richard. But that was Father’s fault, she reassured herself.

The large front door closed, and Jess turned to see Miss Taylor walking toward her.

“A lovely evening,” the housemother said, and sat in the wicker chair beside Jess.

“Yes,” Jess replied. “Did you have a nice time tonight?”

“Actually I didn’t go out,” the woman said. “My friend had a change of plans.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” Jess looked at her, judging the woman to be in her late forties. Despite that, Jess was amazed at how attractive she was. Her yellow hair was always perfectly in place, her dresses fresh and crisp, and her thinning lips always stained with that bright red lipstick. Jess wondered why Miss Taylor had never married.

The woman interrupted her thoughts. “How are you feeling, dear?”

“Oh, fine, Miss Taylor. I’m fine now. I haven’t even had morning sickness for a couple of weeks.”

Miss Taylor patted the arm of Jess’s chair. “Good. That’s good. Tell me, dear. Have you talked with your father?”

Jess stiffened.

“Ah.” The woman nodded and quietly clicked her fingernails. “I thought not. He’s very upset with you, isn’t he, dear?”

Jess felt her anger grow.
It’s his own fault
, she wanted to scream.
If he hadn’t made my mother kill herself, none of this would have happened
. “Yes. Yes, he’s very upset.”

“If he’s like most men, he’s only upset because he’s frustrated. He’s probably not angry with you at all, but more with the baby’s father. I’ve often found that in these situations, parents blame the boy involved, not their daughters.”

Jess twisted her ring.

“What about you, dear? Do you blame the boy?”

Tears filled Jess’s eyes. Her small body suddenly seemed even smaller in the large wicker chair. She pulled
her feet up onto the seat and hugged her knees, coiling her body into a tiny ball.

She felt Miss Taylor’s arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I love Richard,” Jess said. “But I never meant for this to happen. I’d never done anything like that before.” Her words came tumbling out.

Miss Taylor hugged Jess more tightly, and Jess wept in her arms, warmed by the woman’s soft bosom.

“Well, nonetheless,” the housemother said, “I’m certain it’s not you who your father is upset with. No parent could ever be upset with you, my dear. You’re too sweet a child.”

They stayed on the porch until long after dark, and for the first time in a long, long time, Jess felt as though she had a friend.

The next morning Jess awoke to a knock on her door. “Miss Jessica,” a coarse voice whispered. It was Mrs. Hines. “Miss Jessica, get yourself downstairs.”

Jess rubbed her eyes and pulled herself out of a dream. She and Richard had been kissing. She and Richard …

The knock came again.

Mrs. Hines. Oh, no, she wondered. Have I done something wrong?

“Mrs. Hines?” she asked.

“Downstairs. Make it snappy.”

Jess rolled out of bed and slid into her long silk robe and quickly brushed her wispy hair. She stepped into slippers, then darted out of the room. What could be so important for Mrs. Hines to wake her? Was Father here? Was Richard? Her heart fluttered with excitement.

Downstairs, she heard the chatter of voices in the kitchen. She pushed open the big door and saw Miss Taylor and Mrs. Hines standing at the oak table. On the table was a large straw basket. The two women looked at Jess and smiled.

Well, it wasn’t Father, and it wasn’t Richard. She held back her disappointment.

“Good morning,” Jess said.

“Good morning, dear,” Miss Taylor said. She was, as usual, dressed impeccably, even in this early hour. “Jess, something arrived here this morning which you might be interested in.”

“What?”

Miss Taylor smiled again, picked up the straw basket, and held it out toward Jess. “Take a look.”

Jess reached for the basket and plucked back the red quilted fabric on top. There, looking up at her, was a pair of tiny blue eyes surrounded by fluffy white fur. The creature yawned and stretched out its little pink tongue.

“A kitten!” Jess squealed. “Whose is it?”

“It’s yours, my dear,” Miss Taylor said. “At least, it will be yours to take care of while you’re at Larchwood, if you like.”

“Mine?” Jess couldn’t believe it. It was the prettiest kitten she’d ever seen. “Oh, yes, yes! I’ll take care of it! But where did it come from?”

“The sheriff. Mr. Wilson,” Mrs. Hines said. “He found a litter behind the post office. He’s the postmaster, too, you know.”

Jess remembered the scraggly man with the bulbous nose.