Sins of Innocence

by Jean Stone

  “I don’t understand why you don’t move to a smaller place.”

  “How on earth can you wash crystal without the proper cloths?”

  “Don’t you think it’s a little extravagant to send all your clothes out to be laundered?”

  And on and on.

  Even yesterday, when P.J. returned from the hospital, Flora had jabbered on about how hard it was to clean “these new fiberglass bathtubs.” There had been, of course, no mention of the reunion. P.J. suspected it would never again be brought up. Her mother would simply chatter on about senseless things, as though their discussion had never happened, as though the reunion wasn’t going to happen.

  But the worst times for putting up with her mother were when P.J. was sick, weak from throwing up. At those times her mother was incessantly quiet, and while P.J. lay in her bed, willing the time to pass until the nausea subsided, she was constantly aware that her mother was bustling in the other room, every so often letting out a heavy sigh that P.J. knew was one of helplessness, of hopelessness.

  The vacuum moved closer to the living room now. P.J. brushed back her hair with a hand; a clump of auburn strands remained twined between her fingers.

  “Damn,” she said aloud.

  The vacuum stopped. “What did you say?” her mother asked.

  P.J. stood up. “Nothing. I’m going for a walk.” She went to the closet and took out one of Bob’s flannel shirts, which she slipped on over her T-shirt.

  “That’s not a good idea. What if you get sick?”

  “I won’t get sick, Mother. I feel fine today.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the park.”

  “Central Park?”

  “Yes. Just for some air.”

  “You can’t go to Central Park.”

  “Mother, I’ve lived here over twenty years. I can go to Central Park. For godsake, it’s one o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “Why don’t you wait until I’m finished here? I’ll go with you.”

  “No. I’ll be fine. I won’t be long.”

  P.J. stepped out the front door, conscious, once again, of her mother’s heavy sigh. She pushed the call button for the elevator, wondering how much longer her mother would stay, wondering how much longer this could go on. Next week there would be another bone scan, and probably more tests. These past few weeks P.J. had worked at not anticipating the doctor’s next move. At first she’d wanted to know about every test, every result. Somewhere along the line, it had ceased to matter. All that mattered now was getting through each day, each hour.

  It was a perfect day. P.J. stepped into the sunlight and took a deep breath of the crisp air. She walked to the light, and it instantly read WALK, as though it had been expecting her all along. The traffic halted. P.J. smiled and crossed Fifth Avenue.

  She stopped at a sidewalk vendor and bought a soft pretzel, then turned into the park. As she ambled leisurely, munching the pretzel, nannies passed her pushing Neiman-Marcus strollers, runners skimmed by leaving a wake of softly scented sweat, helmeted children whizzed along on ten-speed bikes. It seemed to P.J. that even the pigeons were happy today, as they clustered around the old men on benches, greedily sucking up popcorn and crusts of bread. She took the last bit of her pretzel and tossed it toward the scavengers, laughing as they fluttered en masse to feast on the morsel. P.J. kept walking, soaking in the sunshine, smiling to herself. Since the cancer, walking was something she’d found she enjoyed doing. Before, she’d never taken the time. And she’d never done it herself, not without a man.

  She found an empty bench and sat down, her body weary from the walk. She watched a young couple holding hands go by. It was such a simple gesture, holding hands, and yet it was so much more intimate than even sex could often be. These last few weeks had proved that to P.J.: The gentle touch as Bob smoothed her hair, the tender feelings of his fingers on her cheek—these had come to mean more to P.J. than anything he, or anyone, had ever done.

  She looked at her watch. One-thirty. A sudden thought jolted her: Next week at this time the others would be en route to Larchwood: Jess, Susan, Ginny. She crossed her hands on her lap and studied the ground. Go away, she commanded her thoughts. Go away. It’s a beautiful day. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.

  “Your mother is convinced you’ll be mugged.”

  P.J. looked up and shielded her eyes from the sun. Bob stood in front of her.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “Be my guest.” P.J. laughed. “Unless, of course, you plan to mug me yourself.”

  “The thought has crossed my mind,” he said, as he leaned over and kissed her forehead.

  “How long do you think she’ll insist on staying?” P.J. asked.

  Bob shrugged. “Who knows? She’s doing her motherly duty.”

  “I wish she’d do it somewhere else.”

  “Maybe she will.”

  “Fat chance.”

  “She’d probably take off like a bat out of hell if you go to the reunion next week.”

  P.J. was silent.

  “Are you going, Peej?”

  She looked down at her Reeboks, once used solely in a fast-paced aerobics class, now used for once-in-a-while strolls when she wasn’t throwing up. Apparently she had not beaten the aging factor after all.

  “No,” she answered. Yesterday she had found her answer. And yet now the emotion tried to well up again.

  Bob leaned back and stretched his arms across the back of the bench.

  “I’ll go with you, you know. If you want me. If it would make it any easier.”

  She stared at the laces on her sneakers. They were white, not neon—the colors of the young. “I thought you were against it.”

  He picked up a crust of bread from the ground and tossed it toward the pigeons. “It’s been a long few weeks for me, too, you know. I’ve come to reassess what’s really important in life.”

  She looked across the sidewalk. The two young lovers were sitting on the ground, their heads close together, their smiling mouths whispering secrets.

  “I have my kids,” he continued. “Hell, I have grandkids. I wouldn’t trade any of them for anything. Least of all for a job. There’s no reason you shouldn’t have that choice too.”

  “Well, it would be one way of getting rid of my mother, wouldn’t it?”

  “P.J., it’s your life, not hers.”

  P.J. shook her head. “I know. Believe me, if I wanted to go, my mother’s anger would hardly stop me. Not anymore. But it’s different now. Maybe if I didn’t have cancer …”

  “All the more reason. Life can be too short, Peej.”

  Her throat tightened. “Maybe it’s not important enough to me. Maybe my career is more important than I thought.”

  “You’re lying.”

  She snapped her head toward him. “You’re the one who told me to think about my future! That’s exactly what I’m doing. It’s time to forget about the past.”

  “Even if the past could help you have a better future?”

  “It wouldn’t.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Damn him, she thought. Damn him. Just when I think I’m on the right track, he throws me one of his curves. I hate him for that, for acting like he knows me better than I know myself. She brushed back her hair and aimlessly tossed a clump of auburn to the ground, her beautiful day clouded again by reality.

  “I have chemo again next week. I’ll probably be sick.”

  “You’re not sick today.”

  “Just lucky.”

  “Try again.”

  The tightness around her throat grew stronger. “Bob, why can’t you understand? Don’t you see that it wouldn’t be fair? Not now. Six months ago, maybe, but not now. He’d be better off not having met me, in case …”

  “Don’t say it, P.J. Don’t even think it. Besides, that’s not a good enough reason.”

  “It works for me.”

  “Well, not for me. Christ, you could meet him on Satur
day and get run over by a bus crossing Fifth Avenue on Sunday.” He shook his head. “He’d deal with it, P.J. Life has no guarantees.”

  She stood up. “I think I’d better go home. I’m getting tired.”

  He grabbed her wrist. “No. I want you to face this.”

  Tears formed in her eyes. “I did face it, Bob. I listened to what you said. You were right. I’ve worked hard to get to where I’ve gotten. I’m not going to let a whim—I believe that was your word—ruin it for me.”

  He released his grasp and stroked her hand. “Honey, I’m sorry I ever said those things. I was wrong. The thought of losing you—the thought of losing you and having you be unhappy—has just about killed me these past few weeks. If you really want to see him, I think you should.”

  Her head was beginning to ache.

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  “Why don’t you admit it?”

  “Admit what?”

  “You’re afraid.”

  She slipped her hand from under his.

  “Jesus, P.J., hasn’t what you’ve been going through taught you anything?” He grabbed her hand again.

  “Let go,” she said, and jumped up from the bench.

  “Are you hiding behind that mask again? The one you’ve been hiding behind for the past twenty-five years?”

  “I’m sick!” she cried. “Can’t you accept that?”

  “I can accept that. What I can’t accept is that you’re using your sickness as a convenient excuse for not meeting your son.”

  “He’s not mine!” she screamed, and winced as people around them turned their heads. She lowered her voice. “If I do survive, I belong behind a desk, not wiping somebody’s nose.”

  “I think he’s old enough to wipe his own nose.”

  “And what about Hansen and Hobart? You were so all-fired sure they would dump me if I did this.”

  “Screw them. We’ll open our own agency. You and me.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “No, P.J. You’re the asshole, How long do you think you can go through life with blinders on?” Bob’s voice grew louder, more intense. “Blinders to your feelings? You want to meet him, I know you do. So do it! Take the chance.”

  P.J. blinked quickly. The tears spilled down her cheeks, and she turned and marched away.

  CHAPTER 18

  Thursday, October 14

  Ginny

  Rio wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Ginny rolled onto her side and stared at another topless, dark-haired beauty who strolled down the beach, tits wagging, ass rubbing against the T-strap jammed between the cheeks. She adjusted the shoulder of her oversized T-shirt and sighed. Sex. Was it the most important thing in the world? It was no different than material shit. All it ever seemed to do was fuck up everybody’s lives. She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the noise of the brassy, jibbering Spanish music that screamed from every boom box on every other blanket. She only stayed in Rio because she didn’t know where else to go. Christ, if it hadn’t been for that green-card Consuelo, she’d probably have gone up in flames, along with Jake’s prized canyon house. But, as usual, Ginny’s timing had sucked.

  A group of little kids raced by, squealing and spraying Ginny’s legs with sand. A woman shouted something at them—Christ, why the hell was everybody always shouting?

  Ginny could still hear Consuelo’s screams. “Señora! Señora!” followed by a string of nonsense words and rapid-fire shouts of “¡Vamonos!” as the woman pulled Ginny by the arm away from the burning closet. The fire alarm had not sounded—Brad’s little cutting of the security-system wires had also disconnected the fire alarm. But the alarm hadn’t been needed: After depositing Ginny on the patio, Consuelo had rushed back into the bedroom, her ample body shaking and jiggling. Coughing from the shit-black smoke, Ginny had watched from the doorway as the housekeeper ripped the blanket from the bed and slammed at the flames in the closet with fury, shouting in Spanish and, Ginny suspected, cursing the flames, commanding them to go out. In a few moments they did.

  Sweating and frazzled, her graying black hair hanging in disarray from her bun, Consuelo had turned to Ginny

  “Are you all right, señora?”

  It was the only time Ginny had seen concern on the woman’s face about her.

  “Yes.”

  “Holy Mother Maria. I cannot believe this happened. I warn you not to smoke. Always I warn you.” Then the woman began to cry. “But you never listen to Consuelo.”

  Ginny had stood by the doorway, not sure what to do. She wasn’t even sure why she’d done it.

  “Don’t worry about it, Consuelo,” she’d finally said. “It’s no big deal.”

  “But Señor Jake. His house could have burned to the ground.

  Yeah, that was it. That made sense. All along she’d only been worried about Señor Jake’s precious house.

  The woman slapped at the carpet with a few more strokes.

  “I should call señor. Let him know what has happened.”

  “No, Consuelo, that’s not a good idea. There’s no reason to call him. He’s on a shoot, and you know how he hates to be disturbed.”

  The woman had nodded.

  “Just call a cleaning company, and get a new rug in here too.”

  Consuelo looked around the mess.

  “But, señora, your beautiful clothes …”

  “Fuck it,” Ginny had said. “I’ll buy more.”

  That had been three weeks ago. It had taken Ginny two frenzied days to drain Rodeo Drive, close out the checking and savings accounts Jake had her name on, and charge a one-way ticket to Rio on her gold card. First class, of course. If she couldn’t get rid of her material shit, she might as well make the most of it. Besides, anything was better than having Jake find out about the kid and being shoved out on the street again. At least now she’d be doing it her way. She was the one in control: not Jake or his puke-face son.

  The flight down had been exhilarating; Ginny hadn’t felt so free in years. Out from under the clutches of an old man, free to do what she wanted, to go where she wanted—free to do … what? At the time that hadn’t mattered. But now she was growing tired of the smell of cocoa butter on her skin and the taste of margarita salt on her lips.

  She left the beach and went toward the hotel. In the lobby were two young women, obviously Americans. They were giggling over their traveler’s checks, trying to figure out how to cash them. Ginny watched wordlessly. They looked to be about twenty-four or twenty-five. The same age as her daughter. Christ, she thought, one of them could be my daughter. I’d never know. She took a firm grasp of her towel and walked toward the elevator, ignoring the catcall from a shirtless stud who leaned against a post. She hadn’t bothered to pick up a man, not even a boy, since she’d come to Rio. It was as though while flying over the Azores, Ginny had realized she’d almost killed herself. The fun had stopped, and she was scared. Scared in a way she’d only remembered being once in her life: the night her baby had been born.

  From the balcony of her room Ginny looked down at the nameless bodies crawling over the beach. She knew no one; no one knew her. There was a time when that would have seemed like paradise to her. Now it only made her feel more alone. She walked back inside and sat on the edge of the bed. She looked at her watch, the gold Rolex Jake had bought for her birthday, “for sport,” he’d proudly told her, echoing what must have been the clerk’s sales pitch. Today was the fourteenth. Jake would be home today. And the reunion was in two days.

  “I hope they have a fucking great time,” she said aloud, wishing she had thought to send a postcard. Having a wonderful time, she could have written. So glad you’re not here. She laughed, then tried to take a deep breath. But the air got caught in the squeeze of her throat tightening.

  She quickly grabbed a cigarette and studied the telephone. She picked up the receiver, dialed room service, and ordered a pitcher of margaritas. Then she stripped her clothes off and headed for the shower. With any luck the room-service wa
iter would be a bronzed hunk looking for a hot lay.

  But when Ginny emerged from the shower, glistening all over and ready for action, the pitcher of booze and a single glass stood discreetly by the bedside—alone.

  “Fuck it,” she said, and slipped into a bright yellow sundress with a V neck to the waist, no back, and very little skirt.

  The guy behind the bar had a little too much gel in his hair, and he was missing a front tooth, but he zoned in on her tits right away. Ginny crossed her legs and flashed him a shot. Then she ordered a double vodka on the rocks and hoped he’d get better-looking as the night wore on. They usually did.

  “Hey, barkeep!” The slurry voice came from beside her. Ginny turned to see an older woman dressed in a flowered trapeze dress and a huge straw sun hat, which was tied under her chin with a matching flowered scarf. “I’ll take another while you’re pourin’.”

  “Sure thing, Mrs. Flynn,” the bartender replied, and threw a wink at Ginny.

  The woman leaned toward Ginny and whispered with thick, boozy breath, “I think he wants to get laid.”

  Ginny half smiled. She’d never cared what other women thought about her blatant attire, or the signals she sent out. She figured they were only jealous. She looked at the pathetic gray face, partially covered by dyed red hair, and at the sunken, dark-circled eyes.

  “Rio is definitely the place for it,” she answered.

  The woman nodded and sucked down the last of her drink. “Wonder how much he wants.”

  “What?” Ginny asked.

  “How much d’ya think I’ll have to pay him?”

  Ginny laughed. The woman was too drunk to have noticed that it was Ginny he wanted, not some dried-up prune who looked like she’d gotten caught in a flower garden.

  “How much would he be worth?”

  The woman shrugged again. “Who knows? Depends on how big his dick is. They used to say you could tell by the size of their hands, but”—she shook her head—“that’s bullshit.”