Sins of Innocence

by Jean Stone

  “If he was coming to New York, he’d have been here by now. Unless, of course, something happened to him on the way.”

  Thank you, you short, fat, balding bastard, she thought. I really needed to hear that.

  “Look, Lawrence,” she hissed, “Mark’s probably at one of his friends’. Or at the mall. On second thought I doubt he would have gone to your house.”

  Lawrence didn’t reply.

  “Sorry I bothered you,” she said, and slammed down the receiver.

  Susan remained on the couch, not moving, not caring, weighted by a crushing loneliness she had never before known. She thought of calling Mark’s friends, then she realized she didn’t even know their last names. Mark had been half-right. She didn’t hate his friends; she just wasn’t interested enough to know who they were.

  The light from the floor lamp grew dimmer as the night grew darker. At one point she thought of phoning Bert but decided she couldn’t handle his philosophizing tonight.

  Mark will come home, she told herself over and over. Mark will come home soon. And as the hours dragged on, Susan also knew what she would tell him when he came home. She would tell him that he was the only son she cared about, that she had decided not to go to the reunion.

  A cramp in her back awakened her. Susan opened her eyes and blinked them quickly. She was disoriented, confused. Then she realized that sometime during the night she had fallen asleep on the couch. The light still burned behind her, muted by the morning sunlight that strained through the lace curtains. She straightened up, as a flash of memory jolted through her. Mark.

  She got up from the couch and ran, light-headed and wobbly, up the stairs.

  “Mark!” Susan called. “Mark! Are you home?”

  She turned into his room. It was still empty.

  Susan looked at her watch. Seven-thirty. She labored through a shower, put on a denim skirt and old cotton blouse, then wandered back downstairs. Her head had the dull ache of too much worry and not enough sleep. She tossed down two aspirin and made a cup of tea. What she really wanted to do was sit down and cry. She was damned if she was going to call Lawrence again.

  The phone rang. Susan jumped. She raced into the living room and grabbed the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “You’re out of breath. Did I wake you?”

  Bert. Bert, not Mark. Her heart deflated.

  “No.”

  “It’s going to be a great day. How about driving to the Berkshires?”

  She started to tell him what had happened, then stopped herself. “No, thanks, Bert. I’ve got to get ready for tomorrow. First day of classes.”

  He paused, as though he knew she was lying. “Sure. Well, I may go without you.”

  “Enjoy.”

  “Sure,” he answered. “Have a good one.”

  She hung up the phone. Hurting Bert Hayden’s feelings was the last thing she cared about right now.

  She stared at the black receiver and knew what she had to do. But first, the hell with it, she’d call Lawrence. Maybe, just maybe, the bastard would show a little concern.

  Thank God, Lawrence answered the phone.

  “He’s been gone almost twenty-four hours,” Susan said sharply. “I wanted you to know I’m calling the police.”

  There was a slight pause, then Lawrence spoke slowly. “You needn’t bother,” he said. “Mark is here.”

  It took a couple of seconds to sink in. Then Susan screamed, “What?”

  “I said he’s here.”

  “He’s there and you never called me?”

  Silence.

  “Let me talk to him.”

  “No. He doesn’t want to.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “He’s fine. Under the circumstances.”

  Susan’s mind was spinning. “What circumstances?” She felt a pressure surge through her entire body.

  “He told me, Susan.”

  She felt as though she were going to explode. “Told you what?”

  “You know damn well. About your little plan.”

  Susan slumped onto the couch. She couldn’t speak.

  “I cannot believe you’re doing this to him.”

  “I’m not doing anything to Mark.”

  “Are you really that stupid to believe that?”

  She stared at the coffee table. Sticking out from under her papers was Mark’s copy of Billboard magazine. Mark belonged here, not there.

  “You’ve already screwed things up with one son. Why you want to go off and find another one is beyond me.”

  Her words were slow but deliberate. “I want you to send him home.”

  Lawrence laughed.

  “I will call the police. I will have him picked up. I have custody of Mark, not you.”

  “You’d do that to him? On top of what you’re already trying to pull?”

  “Your wife certainly doesn’t want him.”

  “My wife is my business,” Lawrence sneered.

  “And my son is mine.”

  Lawrence paused. “Which son? The one you’ve pretended to raise, or the one you’ve fantasized about?”

  Susan power-gripped the receiver. “You’ve always resented it, haven’t you?”

  “Resented what?”

  “The fact that I loved David. The fact that I never loved you.”

  “Don’t make me laugh, Susan. The day you left was the best day of my life.”

  “You’re a liar,” she said. “Now send my son home.”

  “I assume this means you’re not going to go through with your little plan?”

  “That’s no concern of yours.”

  “And your attitude only serves to confirm something I’ve known for quite a while.”

  “And just what might that be?”

  “I should have taken him away from you years ago.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Sunday, September 19

  P.J.

  Look, Auntie P.J.! I can swim!” The towheaded three-and-a-half-year-old splashed around the big pool, buoyed by an inflatable plastic ring.

  “That’s wonderful, Brent!” P.J. called back.

  Bob and P.J. sat at the patio table, watching the little boy perform. Brent was Bob’s older daughter Mary’s little boy; Mary sat by the edge of the pool supervising, while her husband, Dan, pushed the baby carriage around the grounds. It was a lovely spot: Bob had found it shortly after his divorce, “just before real estate prices went wacky,” he liked to say. The house itself was old and airy and slightly run-down, but it was set on what seemed like a remote piece of lush green property, edged by Long Island Sound. P.J. enjoyed sitting on the patio and watching the sailboats slip slowly by. The city and its madness were far behind: There was peace to be found here, outer and inner.

  P.J. smiled as Brent maneuvered his way toward a beach ball that bobbed on the water. It had been a good idea to come. After Jess had left Friday night, P.J. had tried to sort out all that had happened: She was about to see her career dream fulfilled; she might have the chance to meet her son; and, oh, yes, she might have cancer. It was all so absurd. And it seemed impossible that so much could have happened to one person in one day.

  She had remembered Bob standing in her office, smiling. “I think you’ve got it,” he’d said.

  She had pictured Jess sitting beside her. “Wouldn’t you like to see him?”

  She had envisioned Dr. St. Germain peering at her over his glasses. “Nonpalpable lumps can be just as malignant as those you can feel.”

  After an hour of elation mixed with self-pity and downright fear, P.J. could no longer take the confusion. She had gone to the phone and called Bob and suggested they go out to the Island after all.

  Saturday had been rainy and gray, and they’d spent the day antiquing in little hole-in-the-wall shops. She had planned to tell Bob that night about the biopsy, about her son. But when the darkness had come, P.J. kept her secrets within, shaded by disbelief and shrouded with insecurity.

  From where they sa
t now, P.J. could see Bob’s other daughter, Sandy, nestled on the wood swing love seat with her husband, Mike. Sandy was pregnant, expecting their first child in November. Seeing women pregnant, seeing babies, had never triggered sentiment in P.J.—sentiment or longing. It was as though she had succeeded in separating herself from the past. Until now. She had not let herself be vulnerable to emotion; she had avoided thinking of life. Or death.

  “How about some lemonade?” P.J. asked anyone in hearing distance. The afternoon had grown hot.

  “Me! Me!” came a squeal from the pool.

  “Sounds good,” Mary added.

  “You buying?” Bob joked.

  “Sure.”

  “Then make mine a gin and tonic.”

  P.J. strolled into the kitchen. Yes, it had been a good idea to come. She took a canister of powdered drink and a big pitcher from the cabinet. She turned on the faucet: It coughed and choked and finally spit out a steady stream of water. P.J. looked out the window while she stirred the liquid. Bob had his eyes closed, his head tipped back to catch a final tan of summer. She knew she would have to tell him tonight, after the kids had gone back to the city.

  Kids! P.J. laughed and went to the refrigerator for lemons and ice. Bob’s daughters were married with families of their own; one could hardly call them kids. In fact, Bob was a grandfather of two, almost three. She sliced a lemon and dropped it into the pitcher. Where had the years gone?

  Suddenly Bob was behind her, trying to undo the knot in her terry robe. “Maybe it would be better if we got out of the sun,” he said.

  P.J. froze. Beneath her robe she had on her bathing suit—a one-piece, low-necked, high-cut-legged suit that left little to the imagination, yet deftly covered the purple-turned-silver stretch marks of long ago. But now it wasn’t her scars that concerned her: it was her breasts, which, in the suit, showed full and round.

  She pushed his hand away. “Not now.”

  Bob jumped back as though he’d touched a hot stove. “Sorry. I was only teasing.”

  P.J. forced a smile. “We’re surrounded by your kids! Let’s try and show a little decorum.”

  He self-consciously wiped his hands together, as though he’d been rejected by someone whose hand he’d wanted to shake. He cleared his throat and walked to the bar for the gin bottle. “Speaking of kids …” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “They want to know when we’re getting married.”

  P.J. laughed but felt the muscles in her neck tighten. “Did you mention something about hell freezing over?”

  Bob plunked ice cubes in a glass and poured an inch of gin. “It might not be such a bad idea, you know. God knows, we know each other well enough. There wouldn’t be any surprises.”

  Only that I may have cancer, and that I have a twenty-five-year-old son, P.J. wanted to say. Oh, did I fail to mention that? Her neck grew stiffer as she stared into the pitcher and kept stirring the lemonade.

  “I thought things were going pretty well the way we were,” she managed to say. “Why spoil it?” She could hear Bob filling his glass with tonic.

  He stood behind her again, but this time he didn’t touch her. He reached for her hand and removed the spoon. “I think that’s pretty well mixed by now,” he said quietly.

  P.J. gripped the edge of the sink and stared out the window. Mary was unfastening the life preserver from Brent; Dan and the baby had come to join them. Mary laughed at something Dan said.

  P.J. and Bob had talked about caring; they had talked about chemistry. They had talked about what a dynamite team they made in the office. They had never talked of marriage.

  Outside, Mary reached into the pool, scooped out a handful of water, and splashed it on Dan. He reached down and splashed her back. Brent giggled, “More, Mommy! Do it again!”

  P.J. watched the young people and wondered if they knew to grasp their youth, to hold on to it for dear life, and to relish every moment. She kept her eyes out the window and said to Bob, “You aren’t serious, are you?”

  He pulled back her hair and held it in a mock ponytail. “There’s always a chance we’d make it better.”

  She laughed. “There’s probably a better chance that we’d screw things up.” She went to the freezer and pulled out a tray of ice cubes. She cracked them, then dumped the cubes into the pitcher. Drops of lemonade splashed on the counter.

  Bob leaned his back against the counter, set down his drink, and folded his arms. “Why?”

  P.J. shrugged. “Why not? Look at the statistics.”

  He slowly examined a fingernail. “Is that what you’re afraid of?”

  P.J. grabbed a cloth and vigorously mopped up the spills. “Afraid? I’m not afraid, Bob. I’m realistic.” She opened a drawer, took out a sharp knife, and sliced a lemon, aware that Bob’s eyes were watching every move she was making. Why was he bringing this up now, for godsake, after three years? She held on to the knife firmly, trying to stop her hand from shaking. “Besides,” P.J. added, “I didn’t think you wanted to get married again.”

  He picked up his glass, swished the ice cubes, and took a long drink. “Christ, Peej, I said that two years ago. It was self-protection.”

  “From me?”

  He laughed. “More like from me. I wasn’t ready for the big commitment again.”

  She slid the lemon slices into the pitcher. And I’ve never wanted it, she wanted to say.

  He chomped on an ice cube. “Should I tell my kids you just don’t like me well enough?”

  P.J. reached into the cabinet, took out glasses, and set them on a tray. The glasses were clear, hand-painted with lime-green fish and rimmed in cerulean blue. She’d found them last year at a curio shop in SoHo, and had known they’d be perfect for “the Island.” Somehow, without realizing it, P.J. had made this home hers. She turned and faced Bob.

  “Let’s talk about this later,” she said.

  “Let’s talk about it now.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t. Not now.”

  He touched her arm. “You can’t talk about it now, or you can’t marry me now?”

  She set the pitcher on the tray of glasses. “I’d better get this out to the kids,” she said.

  * * *

  The aroma of charcoal still lingered in the twilight. The crickets chirped more loudly than a month ago: “They’re moving closer to the house,” P.J.’s father used to say. “Always happens in the fall.”

  P.J. and Bob were, at last, alone. The kids had left, and this was their time. They usually stayed over until Monday, but this time they would have to leave tonight. As soon as P.J. told Bob. As soon as she told him why.

  She sat in the lounge on the patio, her stomach overfilled with steak and salad and corn on the cob. She knew that in the morning she’d have to run two miles. Then she laughed out loud at the bitter irony of the hours she’d spent keeping in shape.

  “Share the joke,” Bob said from the lounge beside her. He reached across and took her hand.

  The crickets continued their symphony. P.J. stared out into the night. She knew the time had come to tell him. It would be easier, she thought, if only she knew where to start.

  “You don’t want to marry me,” she said.

  Bob turned on his side and looked at her. In the flickering light of the citronella candle, the lines on his face were soft, the grit of Manhattan and all its turmoil erased. He waited for her to continue.

  I am so lucky to have found this man, P.J. thought. And now I am going to lose him.

  “You said if we got married, there wouldn’t be any surprises. Well.” She turned her face away from his. She couldn’t bear to look him in the eyes. “You were wrong.” There. She’d said it.

  “P.J.…”

  P.J. waved her hand. “No. Believe me, it’s better if we keep going on the way we have been.” With what little time we may have left, she thought, but didn’t say.

  He slipped his hand from hers and turned on his back. “Maybe that’s what you want. Maybe that’s n
ot what I want.”

  “Maybe you don’t know enough about me.”

  “What’s not to know?” He sat up and swung his legs over the side facing P.J. “I’ve worked with you for five years. We’ve been lovers for three. What kind of secrets can you possibly have from me? You’re certainly not gay.” He waved his hands, the tone of his voice rising. “And I doubt if you already have a husband lurking in the wings.”

  P.J. couldn’t help but smile. “No.”

  “Then what’s the big secret? I’ve even met your mother. She’s”—he hesitated, the corners of his lips turning upward—“she’s a little uptight maybe, but I don’t think her daughter’s a serial killer or anything.”

  “Bob, I’m serious.”

  “So am I. I want to marry you.”

  She closed her eyes and let the night air envelop her. “If I were going to marry anyone, believe me, it would be you,” she said quietly, and knew it was the truth, though she didn’t know why. What made Bob different from all the others? His age? Maybe. But P.J. sensed it was more the sense of stability she felt with him. When she was with Bob, P.J. still wanted to be “on”; she still wanted to achieve. But for some reason she felt Bob didn’t demand that she do so. She felt he would love her no matter what she was or did or became. She’d felt that way, until now. This was different.

  She had never told him about her son. Out of her own selfish need to forget, P.J. had never shared that secret with any man. But, she thought now, keeping it a secret had never really enabled her to forget, had never stopped the gnawing memories. She opened her eyes and looked over at him. Bob would understand about her son, but she could never stand to have him touch her, pretend to still want her, if she was disfigured. And she could never allow him to marry her if she was going to die.

  Finally Bob spoke. “I don’t understand you.”

  She leaned back against the lounge. “I have a son,” she said.

  “What?”

  She sat up and swung her legs around, facing Bob. “I have a son,” she repeated. “He’s almost twenty-five years old.”

  He sat still, staring at her. “Jesus. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Quite.”

  He dropped his gaze to the concrete slab. The sound of the crickets grew louder.