Sins of Innocence

by Jean Stone

  “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.

  Around lunchtime Ben reappeared with piles of limp hot dogs. Walking beside him was a young girl carrying a baby. Susan winced.

  “Susan, thought you might like to meet Kathy.” Ben winked. “You two have a lot in common.”

  Kathy sat down beside Susan. “Hey, man, groovy. Ben tells me you’re gonna have a kid too.”

  Susan shifted on the ground. She felt uncomfortable, physically and emotionally. “Yeah.”

  The girl lifted her T-shirt, exposing a full breast. She adjusted the baby’s mouth onto her nipple and rubbed the baby’s head while it suckled hungrily. “My little Moonstar is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “Moonstar?” Susan asked. She tried not to stare at the feeding infant.

  “Yeah. Groovy, huh? He was born at night in MacArthur Park.”

  “San Francisco?”

  “Yeah.” She raised up her breast to change the baby’s position. “I lived in the Haight for a while. Anyway, he was born in the park on a groovy night when the moon and stars were shining down. So I called him Moonstar. Groovy, huh?”

  “Sure,” Susan answered, but she was not at all sure. She placed a hand on her belly. “Didn’t it … didn’t it hurt? I mean, delivering a baby … on the ground?”

  Kathy laughed. “No way, man. It was like—wow—it was groovy. I was shit stoned.” She shrugged. “Didn’t feel a thing.”

  A strong sense of nausea overcame Susan. She grabbed her bag and stood up. “I’ll be back,” she said quickly. She laced her way through the prone students and headed toward the trees behind the building.

  This isn’t right, she thought, over and over. This isn’t the same. These kids don’t want peace. They want escape from reality. They don’t give a shit about the war. All they care about is drugs, and flowers, and—God—having babies in a park! She leaned against the back of the building and took a deep breath. The nausea subsided. The baby kicked.

  She spotted a van in the parking lot. It was old and rusted and painted in bright psychedelic colors with flowers and peace signs. She walked to the van and looked in the back window. A thin mattress was spread across the floor. Clothes were piled in a corner; rumpled paper bags and empty beer cans were strewn about. Susan was overcome by sadness. Something had changed. The movement had changed. When had it happened? Was it after Bobby Kennedy’s assassination? Had all the dreams gone up in pot smoke? She took a last look inside the van. Some things were for certain: This was not April; this was not Columbia. And Ben was not David. Susan turned toward the building to find a pay phone. It was time for Pop to come and get her.

  P.J.

  It had been three weeks since Susan had gone to New Haven. When P.J. asked how the rally was, Susan had been evasive. “It was different,” she’d said, “The feeling is gone.” Though P.J. had tried to get Susan to tell her more, she simply wouldn’t. But there had been a change in Susan—a positive change. Rather than avoiding the other girls, Susan seemed determined to help them. Right after her return from New Haven, Susan announced she was going to help tutor the younger girls so they could keep up with their schoolwork. P.J. didn’t understand the sudden shift in Susan’s interest, but it was making life at Larchwood a little more congenial. It was also, however, making P.J. bored, for each morning and afternoon Susan worked with Jess and Ginny, when Ginny was in the mood.

  It was September 23, Rosh Hashanah, but Susan had elected to teach the girls on that morning, saying she wasn’t in the mood to think religion. P.J. sat in the dining room, aimlessly leafing through the remains of the local Sunday paper. Autumn was a busy time in New England—flea markets, auctions, and craft shows saturated the area, and the paper was filled with competing ads and human-interest articles about long-lost objects and their exorbitant values. P.J.’s eye caught the best ads, those that were most creative and designed for obvious impact. She studied the amateurish ads as well, those that were the most cluttered, those without white space. Though two businesses might have the same message to relate, P.J. knew the professional-looking ad was much more appealing. She hungered to get back to school and to learn everything possible to become a great graphic designer, one whose concepts and layouts could actually influence the buying decisions of consumers.

  When P.J. turned the page, one ad quickly came to her attention. It wasn’t huge—only one column wide—but it ran the height of the paper and was cleverly bordered by illustrations of pumpkins, Ferris wheels, blue ribbons, livestock, and canning jars. SOUTHFIELD COUNTY FAIR, the headline read. 4-H to admire, rides to enjoy, games to win, and cotton candy to stick to your fingers. P.J. smiled. An old-fashioned county fair, just like the ones back home that she’d always loved as a kid. She checked the dates: The fair was to be held Friday through Sunday of the upcoming weekend.

  “What fun!” she said aloud, then wondered if she could talk the other girls into going. God, it would be great to get out of here and have a few laughs.

  P.J. scooped the newspaper off the table, then suddenly stopped. What about Peter? Would he be at the fair? P.J. stared down at the ad. What would she do if she saw him? It had been nearly a month since she’d told him she was pregnant, since she’d turned down his marriage proposal. She thought of him only when she was lonely, which was becoming more often than she wished. Thus far, P.J. had managed to hold back from calling him: She knew she didn’t love him; she knew it was wrong.

  “Oh, forget it,” she said. “He probably won’t even be there. H
e’ll be working,” she reasoned to herself. But as P.J. picked up the paper and went out into the hall, part of her hoped maybe, just maybe, she’d run into him there. She walked toward the living room, then stopped and listened at the closed doors, not wanting to interrupt the “classroom.”

  “Geography is more than maps and learning the capitals,” Susan was saying. “Geography also has to do with people, the reasons they live in the places they do, and the socioeconomic influences of regions which form a society.”

  “I don’t get it,” P.J. heard Jess say.

  Susan sighed. “Maybe we should take a little break.”

  Great, P.J. thought, and ripped open the door.

  “Hey, girls,” she called into the living room. “Who wants to go to the county fair Friday night?”

  On Friday evening the girls piled into the station wagon: Ginny, Jess, and Susan got in back; P.J. got in front with Pop. On the ride over, she couldn’t stop thinking about the prospect of seeing Peter. Although she was now six months’ pregnant, she’d worn a large denim shirt over elastic-waist jeans to help hide the fact. Her hair was tied loosely in a ponytail to accentuate her clear-skinned face and shining eyes—eyes that had once again begun to sparkle with the hope of seeing Peter, with the thought that maybe there was still a chance to change her mind.…

  “Meet you back here at midnight,” Pop said as he dropped them off at the gate. “Stay away from the games. They’ll just take your quarters, and you won’t even win a Kewpie doll.”

  The four girls marched into the entrance. Jess and Ginny led the way, their seven months of maternity visibly projecting the situation of the group. So what? P.J. thought. So we’re pregnant. So what? I’m still going to turn the head of any guy who sees me.

  They walked through the agricultural exhibits first, where Jess politely commented on the canned vegetables and enormous pumpkins. “Don’t get too close,” Susan warned. “They’ll think you stole a pumpkin.”

  “Enough of this shit,” Ginny said. “Let’s get some fried dough.”

  “I could use some ice cream,” Susan said. “Do you suppose they have any?”

  “How the fuck do I know? I don’t exactly hang out in shit-kicking places like this.”

  Susan groaned. “You are such a freak.”

  “You guys go ahead,” Jess said, “I’d like to look at the crafts.”

  “I’m not hungry,” P.J. said, “I’ll go with you. Why don’t we meet at the Ferris wheel in an hour?”

  “The Ferris wheel,” Susan moaned, “This excitement’s going to kill me.”

  “Come on, Big Mama,” Ginny said. “Let’s go chow down. I’m finally free from house arrest, and it’s time to party!”

  “Whoopee,” Susan responded, without enthusiasm.

  “The Ferris Wheel in one hour!” Jess called after them.

  Ginny waved and said “Yeah, yeah.” Then the large, lumbering figure of Susan and the swinging, miniskirted Ginny disappeared into the crowd.

  Jess sighed. “Do you think it’s okay for Susan and Ginny to go off together?”

  “Sure,” P.J. answered. “Believe me, they can each take care of themselves.” She and Jess both laughed. “Where are the crafts, anyway?”

  “I saw a sign pointing straight ahead.”

  They passed by booths of sizzling sausage and peppers, caramel popcorn, and pens of 4-H rabbits and sheep. P.J. tried not to gag on the smells. People shuffled around them, and to P.J. it seemed they all had on flannel shirts and jeans, and were all eating something either greasy or sticky. She scanned the crowds as they walked, not really caring what the people were eating or doing, because she was too intent on searching for Peter. Any second now, she thought, I’ll see him. Any second now, he’ll look at me with those gorgeous turquoise eyes, and I will melt at his feet. He will take me by the arm and tell me he can’t live without me. He will tell me that this time he won’t take no for an answer.

  “Here it is,” Jess said.

  P.J. followed her into the makeshift wooden building. Rows of tables had been set up, and they were covered with colorful quilts and hand-knit sweaters. And baby things. Lots of baby things. P.J. watched as Jess was drawn to a pale pink blanket. She held it up, touched the softness, and a wistful look came across her face.

  “Not a good idea,” P.J. said.

  Jess looked up at her, then set the blanket down. “I know,” she said.

  A small green Christmas tree caught P.J.’s eye. “Come on,” she said gently. “Let’s look at the Christmas stuff.”

  A plump elderly woman dressed up as Mrs. Claus stood behind the table. “Evening, girls,” she said with a jolly smile. “We’ve got some perfect ornaments for ‘baby’s first Christmas.’ ”

  Jess grabbed P.J.’s elbow, but P.J. grinned at the woman.

  “They’re all lovely,” Jess said to Mrs. Claus. “Look, P.J.” She held up a red satin ball decorated with a green velvet hat, a white marabou beard, and black sequin eyes. “This is adorable.”

  “Oh, our Santa is Dot Madden’s pride and joy,” Mrs. Claus said. “They sell like hotcakes every year.”

  “I’ll take it,” Jess said.

  “You’re going to buy it?” P.J. asked.

  “For baby’s first Christmas.”

  Jess dug into her purse, and P.J. felt an ache of sympathy for her.

  Suddenly there was an arm on her shoulder.

  “Hi, P.J.,” said a male voice behind her. P.J. flinched. She knew it was Peter. “How are you?”

  For P.J., the rest of the world vanished. Gone were the sounds of the crowd, the smells of livestock and grease. She stared at the little Santa ornament in Jess’s hand as she felt the heat from Peter at her back. Slowly P.J. turned around and looked up into those turquoise eyes.

  “Hello, Peter,” she whispered.

  For a moment they stood there, just looking at each other. P.J.’s long, lonely days were gone; as were her thoughts of anyone, or anything, except for the warmth she felt in those eyes. He loved her. He really did. Wasn’t there some way she could love him back?

  “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine,” Peter said. He took his arm off P.J.’s shoulder and stepped to one side. Next to him stood a young, fresh-faced girl, dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans. “This is Betty Ann.”

  “Hi,” the girl said, and hooked an arm through Peter’s.

  P.J. couldn’t catch her breath. Betty Ann, she thought. Betty Ann.

  “Me and Betty Ann are on our way to get some cotton candy,” Peter said. “You take care of yourself, okay?” he said; then, with one last look, he turned and walked out the door with Betty Ann, arm in arm.

  P.J. watched them leave. A hollow, empty feeling invaded her body. Betty Ann, she thought. Peter and Betty Ann.

  Jess tapped her arm. “P.J.?” she asked.

  P.J. shrugged. “Just a guy from the hardware store,” she said. “A townie.” Her eyes darted around the building. Suddenly the noise and the people disgusted her. “Come on, Jess,” she said quickly, “let’s get a soda.”

  They moved to the door and stepped outside. From across the grounds came the sounds of bells ringing and men shouting into bullhorns. “Step right up! Take your chance at luck! Win your honey a giant teddy bear!”

  P.J. bit back her tears. That’s all he was. He was just a guy from the hardware store. A townie.

  The next morning P.J. lay in bed, fighting off depression Once again, a man had let her down. Peter had loved her, hadn’t he? No, he hadn’t. Briefly, maybe, but it wasn’t real love. He had probably only been infatuated with her looks. He hadn’t taken the time to see her sensitivity, to learn her needs. God! That was all P.J. wanted. Just some man to love her. She grabbed hold of her pillow and hugged it tightly. There was only one man who really cared about her. Only one man she could talk to. P.J. got out of bed and went downstairs to call her father.

  “Berkshire Outdoor Advertising,” a man’s voice said.

  P.J. smiled. She knew it w
as Smitty, her father’s loyal right-hand man, who never complained about working Saturdays.

  “Hi, Smitty,” she said. “It’s P.J.”

  “P.J.!” he responded. “Hey, how’s things at school? When you coming home from the big city?”

  P.J. swallowed. She hated lying to Smitty. “Soon, Smitty, soon,” she said. “Is my dad there?”

  “Sure thing, he’s out back. I’ll get him.”

  She heard Smitty lay the receiver on the desk. Berkshire Outdoor Advertising had yet to invest in a business telephone with a Hold button. P.J. smiled, picturing her father’s office. As a young girl, P.J. had spent many Saturday mornings there, at first stuffing envelopes, then “graduating” to help out with the filing. She loved the coziness of the office: the thick wooden desks piled with papers and overstuffed ashtrays, the metal wastebaskets that clattered on the tile floor, the giant wood ceiling fan that struggled to cool the room in summer and pushed down the heat in winter. One time P.J. had caught a glimpse of a girlie calendar on Smitty’s desk: Her father saw it, too, and promptly shoved it in a drawer. “That’s not for ladies to look at,” he’d said, as his cheeks turned pink.

  Through the receiver P.J. now heard what she knew was the shuffle of her father’s feet across the tile floor. A moment later he answered. “Hi, honey,” he said. As soon as she heard his voice, P.J. felt better.

  “Hi, Daddy. I’m glad you’re in the office. I was afraid it would be too early.”

  “Never too early,” he groaned. “How are you? You feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine, Daddy. But I’d really like to see you. It seems like a century since you and Mom were down here.”

  She felt her father hesitate. “I know, punkin.”

  “Can you come back soon?”

  “Honey,” he said, sounding as though he was carefully choosing his words, “you know, your mother is still pretty angry with you.…”

  “Because I won’t let her call Frank’s parents? Oh, Daddy.”