by Jean Stone
No one except Miss Taylor. And the girls of Larchwood Hall.
She stroked Maura’s hair once again. No. No one was going to put her daughter through what she had gone through. No one was going to take her daughter’s baby away.
There was a soft knock on the doorway. Chuck and Travis stood in rumpled pajamas. “Mom?” Chuck asked. “What’s going on? We heard Dad screaming.”
Jess looked at her two sons: Chuck, seventeen; Travis thirteen. Chuck was so like his father, fair and tall and so serious. But it was Travis who kept the family together with his humor, his red curls and freckles, and a smile that lit up any room he entered. But now Travis wasn’t smiling. His face was as grim as Chuck’s.
“It’s okay, boys. Go back to bed. Daddy is angry with Maura, that’s all.”
“What’d she do?” Travis asked.
“We’ll talk about it later,” Jess said. “There’s nothing to worry about. Now go back to bed.”
“But what’d she do?” Travis persisted.
“Shut up,” Chuck said, and cuffed the red curls. “You heard Mom. Let’s go back to bed.”
The boys disappeared, and Jess was overcome with weariness. This had been, she feared, the first of many angry nights to come.
“We might as well tell them,” Maura said. “They’ll know soon enough.”
Jess slowly shook her head. “Not now, honey,” she said. “Not when everyone’s so upset.”
Maura kissed her mother on the cheek. “Thanks, Mom. I love you.”
“I love you too, honey. Now why don’t you try and get some sleep.”
She kissed her daughter back and got up from the bed.
“Mom?”
“What, honey?”
“Are you going to talk to Daddy some more?”
Jess sighed. She hoped Charles had decided not to speak to her. She hated the thought of facing him again tonight.
“I think tomorrow might be better.”
“Good night, Mom.”
“Good night, honey.” She snapped off the light and went into the hall, then walked with hesitant steps toward the master bedroom.
* * *
He stood in front of the bathroom vanity, blow-drying his hair. He was dressed.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Jess asked.
“To the club.” He snapped off the switch and dropped the dryer onto the counter.
“At eleven-thirty on a Wednesday night?”
“The bar stays open until two.”
He stomped out without looking at her.
“Charles …”
But he was gone.
Jess stood by the edge of the bed. She listened to the sound of Charles’s BMW as it backed out of the garage, heard him jam it into first gear, then saw the headlights splash onto the flocked-silk wallpaper as he turned the car and squealed down the long circular driveway. In all the years they had been together, Charles had never left her. Not that they hadn’t had their disagreements. But, Jess realized now, Charles had always won. Jess had always let him. It had been easier than arguing.
But this time, she promised herself, he wasn’t going to win. She was going to win, and so was Maura. There would be no father ruining his daughter’s life the way hers once had. She had been forced to give up her baby. Father had forced her. Society had forced her.
She changed out of her damp robe and slipped into a warm fleece lounger that hung thickly on her slight frame.
When had the world changed? When had it become “acceptable” for an unwed girl to raise her baby?
She turned and walked toward the one place Jess always sought refuge—her sewing room. As she stood inside the tiny space, her nerves calmed, her exhaustion diminished. This was her place, her haven. It was comfortable. It was safe.
She looked around, feeling the silence. It was in this room where Jess created one-of-a-kind fashions, slipcovers, and draperies—all from elegant fabrics that Charles said cost so much, she’d save a lot of money if she bought the items ready-made. “Your little hobby costs us a fortune,” he’d said on more than one occasion. But it was not a “little hobby” to Jess: It was a way to express herself, a way to feel productive. But lately, more often than not, she’d found herself coming in here not to sew, but to think. To try to sort out her life, to try to figure out what had happened to her marriage.
She closed the door behind her now. The room smelled faintly of tailor’s chalk and elastic. Jess sat in the lounge chair and began to weep. She could not get Maura out of her mind, any more than time had erased the questions of her own baby—her first.
Jess rose from the lounge and walked toward the closet, knowing what she needed to do. She opened the door and slowly began taking things out: carefully folded stacks of fabric—sleek black wool for Maura’s riding habit; crinkly green cotton from Travis’s junior high school play; peach-colored faille from the cocktail dress she’d made for their trip to Madrid last spring. From beneath the fabrics she pulled out the neatly labeled boxes of threads, zippers, and fancy trims. Jess had a passion for being well organized, so she knew what she was looking for would be there, tucked way in the back, out of sight from snooping eyes.
It was there: a small brown shoe box, its lid sealed. She crouched down and pulled the box toward her. She sat on the floor and placed it on her lap. Then Jess did not move.
The box had not been opened in nearly twenty-five years, yet its contents were things she could never bring herself to discard. Perhaps now the time had come to look at them once again. To throw them out, or …
She set the box on the floor and got up to get her shears. She held the long silver scissors in her hand a moment, remembering a time when she’d held a pair of shears, when what she’d done with them had changed the lives of so many. And suddenly Jess knew that opening the box would mean more than a quick journey back in time; it would mean reopening wounds, setting the shadows free.
She walked back and sat down, the shears poised over the box. She started to slit the yellowed packing tape, then stopped. She thought of Charles. He would never forgive her for this. She thought of Maura, and of her sons. Would they hate her? Jess shook her head. For once it was time to think of herself.
Then she thought of her. And with a swift twist of her wrist, Jess broke the seal and unlocked the past.
A wave of must rose up from the inside. Jess felt her stomach churn, her head grow tight. She ran her hand across the top of the contents, feeling the memories. Then, slowly, one by one, Jess removed the contents.
A calendar. 1968. With the dates from April to November crossed off with deliberate black Magic Marker strokes. The last date marked was November 27.
A square box of stationery, half-empty. The sheets, Jess remembered, had once been scented.
A pink rhinestone collar, its leather new, uncracked.
A ticket stub. The New York-New Haven Railroad. Round trip. Fairfield to New York City.
A Bible. She touched the rippled cover, then opened it and stared at the tissue-thin flyleaf. “Property of Richard Bryant.” Of all the things she’d had to remind her of Richard—old photos, cards, letters—for some reason she’d not been able to destroy his Bible.
A brittle, browned newspaper clipping. An obituary. Leonard Stevens. Prominent contractor of Boston. Leaves his wife, Esther, and a stepdaughter.
Jess quickly put down the clipping and took out a ball of tissue. She unwrapped the paper and held up a round Styrofoam Christmas ornament: a red satin Santa’s head, with a white marabou beard and a green velvet hat. She studied the ornament, and tears spilled onto her silk robe. She set it down beside her and took out the last remaining item.
A plastic wristband. Jessica Bates. 11-28-68. Room 203. Maternity. She held it gently, and outlined each letter with the tip of her finger, remembering the loneliness, remembering the shame. And in her mind Jess heard the haunting sound of a tiny infant’s cry, calling for a mother who could not come.
With a trembling hand she set down t
he wristband, then looked at the pieces around her. They didn’t seem like much, and yet they could change her world. She placed everything back into the box—everything but the red satin ornament. That, she could keep out. No one would suspect where it had come from.
Jess replaced the shoe box in the back of the closet, then returned the fabrics and sewing things. She needed to think about what she was going to do.
With the ornament in hand she went downstairs to the kitchen. The house was dark, but tonight the darkness didn’t frighten her. She plunked a tea bag into a mug, then opened the tap of the hot-water dispenser. While the strong pekoe steeped, Jess went to the refrigerator for milk. She reached inside toward the half-gallon carton. Her hand froze in midair. Have you seen this child? read the ad on the side of the carton. The ornament fell to the floor. She stared at the blurred photo of a little girl. No, Jess thought, I’ve never seen that child. Just as I’ve never seen my first, my little girl, who is today a woman. Jess stared at the picture, and began wondering once again. Was her daughter tiny like Jess? Did she have Jess’s small oval face? Pale blue eyes? Or did she look like Richard? But Jess couldn’t even see Richard in her mind. And what of her daughter’s life? Was she happy? Was she loved? Did she love?
She thought of Larchwood Hall. She thought of the others: Susan, P.J., Ginny. What had become of them? How had their lives turned out? Did they ever think of their babies?
She focused on the photo of the missing child, and somewhere deep inside her the yearning began—the need to find the baby who, over the years, had had a thousand faces in her mind.
She stayed in bed until she was sure the kids were all out of the house. Thank God, Jess thought, they are back in school. She had heard Charles rumble into the house after three o’clock this morning; she had heard him shower and leave for work at seven. She had pretended she was sleeping both times. Jess needed silence now; she needed time. There was a new priority on her agenda. She pulled herself out of bed.
After showing, she had a quick cup of coffee and half a glass of juice. She dressed in toffee-colored linen pants and a silk shirt, and slipped on the low snakeskin pumps she’d bought on their trip to Rio. She’d never enjoyed those “business” trips she took with Charles, but she always went: the dutiful wife. She would much rather have stayed home, helping the kids with their school projects or cutting out a new outfit for Maura. Maura. As Jess snapped the clasp on her Movado watch, she wondered if Charles would divorce her over Maura. Over Maura, and, perhaps more realistically, over what Jess was about to do. Would his humiliation be greater than his feelings for his family, or—she paused—the need for her money? She squeezed her eyes shut, then quickly opened them and pulled her wispy blond curls into a topknot. No time to think of that now.
Downstairs in the study Jess scanned the shelves for a phone directory that would include Westwood. Bridgeport. Norwalk. Stamford. Damn. She picked up the phone and dialed Information. A crackly, disinterested voice answered.
“What city please?”
“Westwood. The number for Larchwood Hall.” Jess was a little surprised that her words sounded so clear, that her voice wasn’t shaky. It was as though she’d asked for the number of an old friend.
“I don’t have anything for a Larchwood Hall,” the voice replied.
She began to waver. “What?”
“No Larchwood Hall. I have a Larchwood, Arnold. And a Larchwood, George H. But that’s in Fairfield.”
“No …” The enthusiasm drained from Jess. Maybe this wasn’t going to work, after all.
“Wait. I have a Larchwood Retreat in Westwood. Is that it?”
Larchwood Retreat. Worth a try. “I’ll take that number, Operator.”
The woman switched Jess over to a digitized voice that read off the number in a bland staccato. Jess jotted down the number, hung up the receiver, and dialed again quickly, before she could change her mind.
“Larchwood.” It was a man’s voice. Jess suddenly realized she hadn’t planned what to say.
“Larchwood,” he repeated. “Anybody there?”
She grasped the coiled cord. “Yes, yes,” she sputtered. “Yes, I’m here.”
The man paused, as though waiting for Jess to continue. When she didn’t, he asked, “Can I help you?”
Jess took a deep breath. “Yes. Could you tell me if I’ve reached what used to be called Larchwood Hall?”
“No idea, lady. Only been working here six months.”
“Oh.” The disappointment burrowed beneath her voice.
“You looking for somebody in particular?”
“Yes,” Jess said. “Someone who used to work there. A long time ago.”
“Maybe Pop can help you. He’s been here a while.”
Pop. Jess couldn’t believe it. “Do you mean Pop Hines?”
“That’s him.”
Jess drew in a breath. “I can’t believe he’s still there.”
“Yeah. Funny old geezer. Hold on, I’ll get him.”
She heard the receiver thunk down—was it on the desk of what had been Miss Taylor’s office? Her heart began to pound. She pictured the room in its 1968 decor—wall-lined bookcases, mahogany, leather, and the tainted aroma of Miss Taylor’s English lavender, as it filtered through the stale smell of nicotine. She thought of Pop Hines, the black caretaker, and of his wife—the woman who could terrify Jess just by looking at her.
“ ’lo?”
God, it was him. “Pop?” Jess squeaked.
“That’s me.”
She pictured his sparkling teeth, glowing against his copper skin. She pictured his huge overalls, sagging around the cuffs as he bent to tend the gardens. She remembered his warmth. She remembered his kindness.
“Pop,” she repeated, as her heart began to swell, and her head began to lighten. “Pop, I’m sure you don’t remember me. I’m Jessica Bates. I stayed there when it was Larchwood Hall.…”
“Miss Jess! Of course I remember you! How are you doing? And what on earth you callin’ here for?”
Jess laughed. “Actually I’m trying to locate Miss Taylor.”
“Why, Miss Jess, she done retired. Moved to Cape Cod with her sister.”
“Cape Cod?”
“Yes’m. Town called Falmouth. I still gets a card from her every Christmas.”
“Pop,” Jess asked, “how is Mrs. Hines?”
The line was silent. “Done lost my missus ten, near eleven, years ago.”
“Oh, Pop, I’m sorry.” And she was sorry. For, as cantankerous and harsh as Mrs. Hines had been, there had been no doubt that Pop had adored her.
“Never did know what to do with myself after. So I stayed here. No place else to go. But I tell ya, Miss Jess, it just ain’t the same around here.”
“What is Larchwood now? A retreat?”
“Hrmph. Never had no trouble with you girls.” He paused, then added, “Well, almost none. Not like now. This here’s a halfway house for addicts now.”
She twisted the telephone cord and thought about Maura. “Well,” she answered, “I guess times change.”
“Sure do.”
“Pop, you wouldn’t happen to have a phone number or an address for Miss Taylor, would you?”
“Got her address in my book. If you want to hold on, I’ll go out to the apartment and get it.”
“Take your time, Pop. I’ll wait.” And Jess did wait, for what seemed an interminable length of time. She glanced at her watch: 9:10. How long would it take to drive out to the Cape? Three hours? Four? Could she go and be back before the kids came home from school? Her heart raced with excitement. It had been years since she’d been spontaneous. Years … years. But maybe this wasn’t spontaneous. Maybe this was something that had just taken her years to decide.
At last the old man returned. “Got it right here, Miss Jess. Say, you wouldn’t be plannin’ to come visitin’, now would you?”
Jess laughed. “Maybe I’ll do that.”
“I sure would like to see you. Now,”
he rasped, then cleared his throat, “got a pencil?”
On the long ride east on I-95 Jess made another decision. It could have been because, after talking with Pop, the memories of Larchwood Hall became as clear and strong as those of the child she’d given up for adoption; it could have been because part of her was just a little too frightened of what she was about to do. But somewhere between New Haven and Fall River, Jess decided not to do this alone. She decided she would get in touch with the others—the girls of Larchwood Hall. Susan, P.J., Ginny. Maybe they, too, had felt the changes in the world; maybe they, too, would want to find the babies they gave away. But first, Miss Taylor was the place to start.
It wasn’t difficult to find: a tiny shingled cottage off Route 28, bordered by a white wicker fence trimmed with end-of-the-season pink crawling beach roses. Jess parked her Jaguar in the narrow driveway and headed up the walk, her Louis Vuitton bag slung over one shoulder, her insides churning as if it were the first day of school. An elderly woman answered the door.
“I’m looking for Frances Taylor,” Jess said, her voice as businesslike as she could manage. The woman looked doubtful. “I’m an old friend,” Jess added.
The woman turned from the doorway. “Mary Frances!” she shouted. “Company!” Then the woman looked back at Jess and scowled through the screen. “Looks like the last of summer,” she grumbled. “Damn glad too.”
Jess didn’t know how to respond, so she smiled.
“Always better around here once the summer people leave,” the woman added.
Jess nodded, aware of footsteps approaching from inside the house. And then she was there: older, a little stooped in the shoulders, a little thicker around the middle. Her hair was white now, and folds of flesh covered her cheekbones, but a slash of red lipstick still glazed her thinning mouth. Jess thought if she moved closer, she’d be able to smell the English lavender, the nicotine.
“Miss Taylor,” Jess said. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Jessica Bates.”
The woman beside Miss Taylor still scowled. Miss Taylor blinked a few times. “Jessica Bates,” she said, with a clarity that belied her seventy-odd years. “Jessica Bates,” she repeated. “Larchwood Hall.”