Sins of Innocence

by Jean Stone

  Jess sighed. “Oh, darn, I’ll look for it later,” she muttered, then closed the lid on the box. The music ended. The ballerina stopped dancing. Ginny breathed again.

  Jess went back to her bed and sat down. “There’s not much to tell,” she said. “I don’t feel like I really know him. But I have to admit, his paying off Richard’s family doesn’t exactly surprise me.”

  And I don’t really give a shit anyway, Ginny wanted to say, but instead she sat in the desk chair and feigned interest. As she sat, the ring dug into her thigh. She quickly put her hand over it to hide the lump.

  “Men are assholes,” she said.

  “Fathers aren’t supposed to be.”

  “Ha! You’ve never met my stepfather.”

  “What’s he like?” Jess asked.

  Time to leave. “Look, Jess,” she said. “I’m real sorry about you and your father, and about Richard and everything. But the fact is, I don’t feel too well right now. Maybe it’s morning sickness or something.”

  “Ginny! No one gets morning sickness when they’re five months pregnant! Besides, didn’t you say you haven’t been sick at all?”

  “Yeah, well, maybe I’m just a late bloomer. Or maybe it’s the smell of lemon oil in here. Christ, is that all you do, clean your room? I gotta go lie down.”

  “Well, okay. Thanks for talking, anyway.”

  “Sure, kid. Anytime.” Ginny stood up and got the hell out of there as fast as she could.

  It wasn’t until after she was safely in her own room that Ginny relaxed. Christ, that was close. Better be more careful next time. She took the ring from her pocket and looked at it closely. Wow. It was huge. Must be worth a bundle. Maybe she should just take off now. The ring would get her enough money to get her mother and get out to L.A. But shit. What about this stupid baby? Anyway, with her luck, that asshole sheriff would be hot on her tail. Might as well stick it out here. She’d just have to be more careful. Ginny hid the ring in an empty pack of cigarettes next to the hundred dollars and the twenty-dollar bill she’d plucked off the kitchen counter the other night.

  Suddenly there was a knock on her door. Ginny jumped and tossed the cigarette pack under her bed. “What?” she barked.

  “Ginny, it’s me, Jess. Could I see you a minute?”

  Oh, fuck. The kid had figured out about the ring. No. It wasn’t possible. Cool. Play it cool, Ginny. “Sure, kid,” Ginny said, and got up and unlocked the door.

  Jess stepped past her into the room. She still looked pretty shook up. It was either because of her father or the ring. Shit.

  “Could you close the door?” Jess asked. “I need to ask you something.”

  Ginny closed the door and kept her back to Jess. Shit. Think fast, asshole. What are you going to tell her? Deny it. That’s all. This rich bitch has no proof. Shit. Maybe glamour girl told her about the bobby pin, and Jess figured out the rest. Cocksucker. No, she had to deny it. For Chrissake, she was an actress. She could pull it off. Just look at Jess like she was the asshole and say, “What are you, fucking crazy? Why the hell would I want your ring?” That’s all. Just deny it. Ginny turned and leaned against the door. She watched as Jess wrung her hands together.

  “So what d’ya want to ask me?” Ginny held her chin up and looked squarely into Jess’s eyes.

  “I was wondering if you—” Jess paused, and Ginny felt sure her heart missed a beat. “… if you—” she paused again, then continued—“had anything left in that bottle of whiskey.”

  A quarter of a pint later Ginny finally got Jess to go back to her own room. Man, that was one emergency she hadn’t expected the booze would save her from. She’d listened to Jess talk about Richard, about her mother, then bore her with stories about her rich father and how he didn’t give a shit about her. But it was worth it. Now Jess thought Ginny was her friend, and she’d never suspect a friend of stealing from her. This could only work to Ginny’s cashflow advantage in the long run.

  Renewed by her success, Ginny decided to call her mother. She glanced at her watch. It should be safe; the asshole shouldn’t be home from work yet. She went downstairs and was happy to see Miss Taylor’s office—the library, as the snotty rich bitches called it—was empty.

  She picked up the receiver and dialed the operator, then logged in the number on the pad beside the phone. When the bill came in, each girl had to pay her own long-distance calls. Piece of cake, Ginny thought. I’m going to be loaded.

  “Hull-o.” Her mother’s voice was slurred. What did Ginny expect when she called so late in the day?

  “Mom. Hi, it’s me.”

  “Ginny?”

  “Yes, Mom.” You don’t have any other kids who call you Mom, do you?

  “Ginny?” her mother repeated.

  “Yes, Mom. How are you?”

  “Oh, dear,” her mother sighed. “I’m fine.” Ginny heard the resignation in her mother’s voice.

  “It won’t be long, Mom. Only a few more months. Just hang in for a few more months, then I’m taking you out of there.”

  “What?” Her mother was vague. “Where?”

  “I told you, Mom. We’re going to California. You and me. You’re getting away from that creep.”

  Her mother sighed. That, she understood. “Oh, honey, it’s not so bad. He’s not so bad.”

  Ginny felt an ice-cold chill go through her body. “Mom, I’ve got it all figured out. You’ll see. You’ll be glad.”

  “What?” Her mother’s voice was drifting. Ginny could almost smell the booze through the line.

  “Never mind, Mom. I’ll call you again.”

  “Okay, honey. Bye.” Her mother hung up.

  Fuck. Dumb fuck. She was doing all this for her mother, and her mother didn’t give a shit. Well, fuck her, she was doing it anyway. Ginny felt her throat start to close, the strangling sensation tightening as her heart started to pound. The room went out of focus. She shut her eyes. No, no. Please. Not again. Go away. But her heart kept pounding, louder, faster. Dry tears squeezed against her eyelids.

  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.

  NEW HAVEN UNIVERSITY STUDENTS PLAN SIT-IN

  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 s
pent 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.

  STOP THE DRAFT.

  WAR KILLS CHILDREN AND OTHER LIVING THINGS.

  OLD ENOUGH TO KILL. OLD ENOUGH TO VOTE.

  COED DORMS.

  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 h
er 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?”