Garden of Lies

by Eileen Goudge

  Gerald walked over to the French windows, and stood looking out over the garden. It was late October, and the apple tree was nearly barren except for a few ragged leaves and one or two wizened apples clinging to the branches like small fists.

  “Oh, by the way, I’ve decided to let Nikos go.” He spoke softly, but each word hit her like a hammer against an iron anvil.

  Sylvie felt the air squeeze from her lungs, as if the anvil were sitting on her chest, pressing down on her, yet she feigned only mild surprise. “Oh, why?”

  “Remember my missing cigarette lighter? Bridget found it in his room. Stupid of him. It wasn’t even valuable.” He slipped a hand into his pocket and took out the silver lighter, turning it over in his palm—how oddly delicate, those hands, their fingers white and tapering, with small flat seashell-pink nails, like the hands of the Meissen shepherdess on the mantel. Then very calmly, he lit one of his long thin cigars.

  He was lying, the bastard. And he didn’t care that she knew it. Bridget never went near Nikos’s room. Sylvie was positive, too, that the lighter had never left Gerald’s pocket. This was just an excuse for Gerald to get rid of him.

  Dear God, had she been so obvious? But what if she hadn’t been? Perhaps he only suspected.

  Yes, if Gerald knew for sure, had proof, he would toss her out like Nikos. Not so quickly maybe, but in the end wouldn’t it be just the same?

  Sylvie reached across the iron rail for the glass of water beside her hospital bed, thinking and now he’ll have the proof. And, she alone, with a baby to care for, no home, perhaps penniless, she’d end up back here on Eastern Boulevard, standing in line at Home Relief.

  A burst of crackling noise shattered Sylvie’s forebodings. More firecrackers, only this time they sounded as if they were right outside, in the alley below her window.

  Despair pressed down on her. Sylvie yearned with all her heart to fly away from here, to rub out everything that had happened and to start all over again. She glanced over at Angie, peacefully asleep. Oh, what I would give to trade places with you.

  [26] But her body’s needs overpowered her intense longing, and Sylvie closed her eyes, and slept.

  She dreamed of her wedding day.

  She and Gerald standing under the silk-embroidered huppah that had been in his family for generations. He and Estelle, his first wife, had been married under it ... but she wouldn’t let even that thought spoil this wonderful moment. Gerald could not have loved Estelle as he loved her. He hadn’t exactly told her so, but he’d shown it in so many ways.

  Sylvie, trembling with happiness, looked over at him. Gerald stood tall in his dark tuxedo, his face filled with love as he gazed at her.

  She could hear the cantor chanting, crooning, even wailing a little. And the ancient melodies soothed her, bringing her back to the little shul on Intervale Avenue where she went with Mama on Rosh Hashanah. Gerald raised her veil, bringing a cup of wine to her lips. It was thick and sweet, so sweet it burned her throat, making her gag.

  Suddenly she couldn’t breathe.

  A horrible thickness clogged her throat, her nostrils, each breath sending a spurt of pain into her lungs.

  It was hot. Suffocating. Why was it so hot?

  Then she saw.

  The huppah was on fire! Orange flames licked up the gilded support poles. Sparks rained from the canopy. Desperate, she reached to throw her arms around Gerald, but he’d evaporated into the smoke.

  Time stopped. She couldn’t move. She tried to scream, but when she opened her mouth no sound would come out.

  Sylvie awoke with a start. Her tongue felt as if it were made of flannel. Her eyes and nose stung. The air was thick and dirty. There was a horrible smell, like burning rubber, or one of those awful chemical factories.

  She pulled herself up with effort, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The warped linoleum beneath felt warm under her feet. The air seemed to grow thicker. She coughed, lungs burning.

  Air. She had to get some air. She lurched to the window, ignoring the pain between her legs, and tugged to raise it up as far as it would go. But it was stuck, wouldn’t budge. The thing was ancient as the rest of the building, fossilized beneath layers of paint.

  [27] Then she saw—black smoke billowing from the floor below, a finger of orange flame shooting up. Fire! No dream, this was really happening.

  Sylvie, stunned, knew she had to move, run. Had to wake the others. And get out.

  She snatched the pillow from her bed and held it over her face to filter some of the choking smoke. She staggered over and shook Angie. Angie moaned groggily, but wouldn’t open her eyes.

  “Wake up!” Sylvie screamed. “Fire!”

  The other women were awakened by her shouts, were scrambling out of bed, hurrying as best they could into the hallway.

  Sylvie gripped Angie’s shoulders and shook her with as much strength as she could muster. But her roommate only uttered a deep moan and rolled back onto the pillow. Sylvie struggled to lift her and drag her out of the bed, but Angie felt like a granite block. Someone else would have to come and help.

  Sylvie, half-choking, terrified, aching all over, made herself rush from the room. There was something she had to do.

  The corridor was a nightmarish scene all its own. Patients in gowns pushing each other, screaming, others screaming from their beds, making Sylvie think of Picasso’s Guernica or some mad surrealist painting. A gurney shot past, wheeled by a white-faced nurse. Smoke clotted the air, tearing at her lungs. A fit of coughing doubled her, sent tears streaming from her stinging eyes.

  She heard the faint pulsing wail of a fire engine. It sounded far away. Too far.

  The nursery, she must get to the nursery.

  Sylvie thought only of her baby as she staggered down the corridor, following the arrow pointing the way to the nursery. She must let nothing happen to her, no matter what.

  She stumbled, a hard smacking pain in her wrists, knees, but she picked herself up, and forced her legs to move. She seemed to be moving in slow motion. So weak. And between her legs it hurt so.

  There, up ahead, a glimmer through the haze of smoke. The long window looking into the nursery. She sobbed with relief. But something was wrong. It looked deserted, the rows of bassinets empty. Sylvie blinked to clear her streaming eyes. No, there was still someone. A young nun she recognized from the delivery room.

  Sylvie pushed her way through the door.

  [28] The young nurse glanced up briefly, her face pinched, a mask of terror. She was frantically wrapping a squalling infant in a wet sheet. Sylvie saw the name on the bassinet: SANTINI. Angie’s baby. Nearby, hers, the one marked rosen.

  Empty. Her heart froze.

  She clutched at the sister’s arm. “My baby ...”

  “The babies are safe,” the nurse rasped, coughing. “They’ve all been taken down. This is the last one.”

  Relief crashed through Sylvie, leaving her trembling. Then she remembered about Angie. “Mrs. Santini,” she gasped. “I couldn’t wake her. Please. You have to help her. I’ll take the baby.”

  “Wait.” The nurse snatched up a pair of scissors and snipped off the beaded ID bracelet about the infant’s tiny ivory wrist. Beads scattered, pinging off the linoleum floor. “Porcelain,” she choked. “Absorbs heat ... might burn ...”

  Sylvie saw there were other beads from other bracelets scattered about the floor, the counter. One, a tiny pink cube imprinted with a black “R,” winked up at her from a starched fold in the young sister’s sleeve.

  Sylvie reached out, took the damp bundle in her arms. Feeling her strength surge back with the warm weight of the infant against her breast, her palm supporting the tiny wobbly head.

  Relentlessly, Sylvie fought her way back through the thickening haze, past the deserted nurse’s station, toward the stairwell.

  Turn the corner. There. Just ahead. She wrenched open the door marked EXIT. And threw herself back.

  The stairwell was engulfed in flames. She hear
d a high shrill scream and realized it was hers.

  Dear God, where now?

  She remembered the windows. They opened out onto fire escape platforms, the old-fashioned kind with stairs that zigzagged down the side of the building.

  Sylvie hurried into the nearest room, gently lowering the baby onto a bed. She struggled to raise the window. But it wasn’t budging. Then she heard a crack—a sound like a gunshot—and the window jerked up. Sylvie, weak with relief, snatched the baby up. She pulled a chair to the sill and carefully, slowly stepped up onto it.

  [29] And looked down.

  Five stories below, the street swam dizzily into view. Strange, how light it seemed, more like day than night. Insect-sized people scurrying about. Fire engines angled like toy trucks along the curb. The sidewalk a snake pit of hoses.

  Everything seemed to tilt sharply, and she felt as if she were going to fall. Sylvie closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  No. Don’t look down. Just move.

  Sylvie stepped out onto the platform, the iron slats warm and rough beneath her bare soles, and began inching her way down the stairs, gripping the iron handrail with one hand while she braced the baby with the other. The stairs seemed perilously steep, making her legs and arms go rubbery with terror.

  How would she ever make it down five stories? What if she were to fall, or drop the baby?

  No. No, she couldn’t think that. She mustn’t.

  Coughing, her eyes stinging, Sylvie groped her way down, scraping and bruising her feet as she scrabbled for purchase.

  She had just reached the fourth-floor platform when the air rocked with a deafening explosion, and the fire escape shook violently. Sylvie froze. She darted a glance upward and saw flames shoot from the window above her. Shattered glass rained down, pinging off the fire escape. Something glanced her shoulder with a hard, stinging blow.

  Sylvie screamed, terrified and in pain. Something warm trickled down her shoulder blade. She felt her muscles go slack, her insides turn to water. Numbness crept through her. She willed herself to move, but found she couldn’t. She absolutely couldn’t.

  Time seemed to stop, and the heat grew stronger, seeming to sear her through her nightgown. Oh dear God, was this the end, would they both die while she stood frozen like Lot’s wife?

  Then the baby stirred against her. A tiny hand thrust free of the blanket, seemed to search the air until it found her cheek. Featherlike fingers fluttered against her mouth.

  Tears gathered in Sylvie’s throat. Oh, stupid body. Move, dammit. For this baby if not for yourself. MOVE!

  Somehow she forced her limbs to unlock; she forced herself to go on.

  [30] Sylvie wasn’t aware she’d reached the bottom until strong hands grasped her about the waist, lifting her free. Her feet touched pavement. It felt so blessedly solid. Voices came in a rush. Hands everywhere. Guiding her. Supporting her.

  Pulsing red dome lights stabbed at her eyes. Loud voices bellowing orders through megaphones seemed to follow her as she and the men helping her wove their way past the tangle of canvas hoses and fire-fighting equipment.

  She felt disconnected, unreal. Stretchers floated past, ghostlike. Firemen in grimy yellow turnouts bellowed at one another above the roar of the hydrants, their blackened faces contorted, like gargoyles’.

  “... some damn kids playing with firecrackers ... ,” she heard one of them say.

  Sylvie, alone now with the baby, made her way through the crowd. In spite of her dazed feeling, one thought stood clear. She must find her baby. But first Angie, to let her know her baby was safe. My God, the poor woman must be out of her mind!

  She spotted a familiar figure, shepherding two patients in wheelchairs. “Sister! Wait!”

  Sister Ignatious turned. Her white habit was torn in a dozen places, streaked with black. And there was something oddly naked about her. Then Sylvie realized it was because she wasn’t wearing her wimple, and no eyeglasses. They must have fallen off in the confusion.

  Sylvie, desperate to know if her child was all right, clutched at the nun’s filthy sleeve. “Sister, please, the other babies ...”

  “Safe, all safe, praise be to God.” Sister crossed herself.

  Then Sylvie remembered the baby in her arms, Angie’s baby.

  “Where can I find Mrs. Santini?” Sylvie asked.

  She was about to explain, but Sister Ignatious’s naked eyes clouded with tears. “Mrs. Santini is with God now.” She crossed herself again. “The explosion. It was too late. By the time they got to the fifth floor she ... our poor Sister Paul, too. She died trying to save Mrs. Santini.”

  Thinking of the warm, tough-talking woman who had occupied the bed next to hers, Sylvie felt sorrow seep through her. How Angie’s brown eyes had lit up at the mention of her baby, despite [31] her disappointment over its being a girl. Poor Angie! Sylvie felt tears well up.

  Then Sylvie, for the first time, peeled back the sheet covering the tiny form asleep in her arms.

  Peering up from the filthy folds was a face as exquisite as an ivory cameo. Sylvie drew her breath in. Round blue doll’s eyes, a sweet little rosebud of a mouth. Light-brown hair like the fuzz on a baby duck. Not all dark and crumpled like her tiny girl’s. She brushed a silken cheek with her finger, and the baby turned her head toward it, mouth working.

  Sylvie’s dry, burning eyes flooded with tears. In all this nightmare, a thing of wonder. She touched a miniature hand, felt it tighten about her finger with surprising strength. She marveled at the tiny fingernails, no bigger than seed pearls.

  She felt Sister Ignatious’s hand against her shoulder. “God was with you. And your baby too. It’s a miracle neither of you was hurt, climbing down all that way.”

  Sylvie stiffened in astonishment. Sister had mistaken Angie’s baby for her child! But, then, it was a natural mistake. She had come through hell on earth to save this infant. And who but a mother?

  Splintered images spun in her mind. Nikos. The dark, briefly glimpsed face of her own baby. Gerald’s pale blue eyes, watching her as she undressed.

  And then her brain cleared suddenly, like a shaft of light breaking through the clouds in a medieval painting or an illuminated manuscript.

  No one would ever have to know. If she kept this child as her own, who was there to dispute her? Not Angie. Or Sister Paul.

  Only perhaps Sister Ignatious, who was half out of her mind, and she’d already unknowingly bestowed her blessing. There’d be no records either. The obstetrics floors had been destroyed by the explosion.

  Overwhelmed, Sylvie began to tremble. It was monstrous, how could she even think such a thing? Give up her own child ... to whom? There were such crazy people in this world. But Angie’s family—they had to be nice people, like her—and they would no doubt assume the baby to be theirs.

  [32] Could she do this? Could she? Never to see her own daughter again. Never to see her grow up. ...

  Then Sylvie thought of what her life, her baby’s life, would be if Gerald were to divorce her. Strip her of his love, his protection. Send her off to raise her baby in shame, alone.

  Alone. Without Mama. Without Gerald.

  No, worse than alone. She would have a baby to take care of. A baby no one would welcome, not even Nikos.

  She remembered how sick she’d been after Mama died. What if she got sick now? Or died? Who would take care of her baby? Who would love it?

  Still, she could not believe she was thinking what she was thinking. To give up her very own child, take another baby in its place. Why, it was beyond hateful, it was ...

  The only thing to do. The only thing that makes sense.

  No, no, NO, I mustn’t. I mustn’t even think ...

  And Angie’s husband won’t suspect a thing. Remember, he hasn’t seen the baby yet. He will accept it as his own, love it unconditionally. And didn’t Angie say something about other children? Yes, that’s right. Two other girls. Your baby will have sisters, a family.

  ... such a terrible thing, a s
in against God ...

  You will have Gerald. And a baby he will love, cherish, raise as his own.

  Sylvie stared down at the beautiful cameo face asleep in her arms. Tears filled her eyes, and dropped onto the dirty blanket, running into its folds. Her chest felt as if it were full of broken glass, sharp cold splinters digging into her heart.

  Yes, perhaps it would be better. ...

  But how can I forget her, my own baby? Dear God, never to hold her, watch her grow up, love her ...

  The choice was hers. With terrible consequences either way, she turned. And she had no time. Sister Ignatious was staring at her, waiting for her to say something. She must decide now.

  Blinking back her tears, Sylvie raised her head to meet Sister’s squinting gaze.

  She had decided.

  “Yes,” she said. “It is a miracle, isn’t it?”

  Part I

  I heartily detest all my sins, because of Thy just punishment, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who an all good and deserving of my love.

  Act of Contrition, a Catholic prayer

  I have been consumed by fire, but never so much as the heat of my desire.

  Jewish prayer for Yom Kippur

  Chapter 1

  BROOKLYN, 1959

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  Sixteen-year-old Rose Santini, huddled inside the dark confessional, felt her kneecaps shift painfully against the hard wooden kneeler. Familiar things, the mingled scents of beeswax and incense, the faint singsong murmur of evening vespers drifting from the sanctuary, yet she felt like she had her very first time, scared to death. Her heart thundered in her ears so loudly she was sure Father could hear it even without his hearing aid.

  She thought: I know what you’re expecting, Father. The usual stuff kids tell you—I lied about finishing my homework, I ate a hot dog on Friday, I cursed my sister. Oh, if only that were all ...