Sins and Needles

by Monica Ferris

  “Aunt Edyth was a peculiar woman all her life. She took me in and was kindness walking—except when I’d do something foolish or incorrectly, and she’d be so angry, it would set her off on a tirade. She’d berate me for a promiscuous fool and ask how I could be such a ninny as to believe love talk from a man. She was kind of a moody person, I decided. But now, looking back at the incredibly ignorant and opinionated idiot I was, I wonder if she wasn’t justified in her disappointment in me. Either that, or she was suffering from cabin fever at least as bad as mine.”

  Susan chuckled, looking up at the ceiling but seeing scenes from more than fifty years ago. “She must have hated having to pretend all summer that she was housebound with a bad back—she sure loved getting out and going places! She loved to ride that motorcycle on fine afternoons, and she loved to break speed limits in her automobile. She never kept a car more than two years, and she insisted on the biggest engine they came with. But of course that summer—” Her smile abruptly vanished. “God, I hated being a disappointment to her. She was so proud of me, of my abilities in school. She said it was like seeing herself in a better time, with more opportunities for women than she had. I loved her so much…” A tear formed and fell, then another, but she lifted her chin and blinked to stop them.

  “She had told me that in my ninth month, she’d call one of those homes, and I’d go there the last couple of weeks and have the baby and sign the papers to give it up. At first, I was all right with that, but as my tummy filled and the baby kicked and moved, I started to fall in love with it. I asked her about keeping it, and she said no, positively no. I said she was a rebel, maybe I could be another kind of rebel, the kind that keeps her babies, even without a husband. That’s when I found out that in certain respects she was extremely old-fashioned. She wouldn’t hear such nonsense. My parents had high expectations of me, expectations that would be destroyed if I came home with a baby and no husband. What would people think? Alice and John would be held up to ridicule, trying to lie to the neighborhood about where I’d been. How could I think of doing such a wicked thing to them—and destroying my own future in the process?

  “But I still thought about it. I couldn’t let go of the notion that it could be worked out somehow, and I think she knew it, though we didn’t talk about it anymore.

  “And then, eight weeks from my due date, I got this terrific pain. My water broke, and I felt such pain as never in my life before. Aunt Edyth got me up to bed and after about twenty minutes of screaming, I had the baby. She wrapped it in a towel and took it out of the room. It didn’t cry. I remember being very worried about that, because I knew newborns were supposed to cry right away.

  “Aunt Edyth came back a few minutes later to see how I was doing, and I asked her about the baby, and she said she wasn’t sure, but it was resting. I said I wanted to see it, and she said, ‘In a little while.’ She brought clean towels and made me comfortable, gave me something to drink, and went away again. And I fell asleep. I couldn’t believe it. Even while I was falling asleep, I remember thinking how silly it was—I was frantic about the baby and I was still in a lot of pain, and I was falling asleep.”

  Jan and Betsy exchanged significant looks.

  Susan, oblivious, continued, “When I woke up, it was dark out, and she was sitting beside me. She talked so softly and looked so comforting. She was in her nightgown, and her hair was in her long nighttime braid. And she told me the baby was dead. It was a boy, she said, but not completely formed, and it never took a breath.

  “I thought I would never stop crying.” She wiped her eyes with the fingers of both hands. “But I did when she said we had to figure out right away what we were going to do.

  “We hadn’t told anybody about the baby, of course, so no one would come looking for it. On the other hand, it wasn’t a dead puppy, so I was totally against burying it on the grounds like one, which was her first suggestion. I wanted to look at him, hold it in my arms just once, but she said it was ‘funny looking’ and it would disturb me to see it. We talked some more, and I guess she was the one who remarked that the Big Island used to have many Indian mounds marking Indian graves, and that it was considered sacred ground even to the present time by the Indians. And we worked ourselves into deciding it would be a fine and natural burial place for the baby.

  “She’d gotten an antique vase from an auction house a few days before, and she said we could use the walnut storage chest it came in. She wrapped the little body in a soft blue flannel baby blanket, and I named him David after the father. I got just a little glimpse of the face—it was such a wee, little thing, and I remember it had no eyelashes—as she put it into the box and took it downstairs. She nailed the top down…” Susan had to stop for a few moments.

  “I have never, ever forgotten the sound of those nails being driven in. She never hesitated, just drove them in, one after the other, as if she were building a table or a gate…” Susan did stop then, to weep, and Jan moved to sit on one arm of the chair again and wrap her arms around her mother.

  “Oh, my dear, my dear, darling Mother, how awful, how awful,” she murmured. She began to stroke her mother’s hair, as if she were a cat, repeating the gesture over and over while she murmured words of comfort.

  “Oh, but this is silly. It was such a long time ago!” cried Susan, striving to stop crying. Then, suddenly, she grew very still. After a few moments, her still-streaming eyes came up to meet Betsy’s. “And now you have the audacity to come here and tell me I did not lose that baby?” she asked in a low voice. “You’re telling me Aunt Edyth lied to me?”

  “Yes,” said Betsy striving for a calm tone. Her own emotions were on a rave; she couldn’t decide which was stronger—pity for Susan or anger at Edyth. “Where did you get the stone?”

  Susan seemed about to refuse to answer, but finally said, still in that low voice, “It was something I’d found when I was eleven, part of a crazy-paving walk. Aunt Edyth had taken up the stones and piled them against the fence. The one I found had a kind of pink color to it, and it was shaped almost like a heart. I got a hammer and very carefully chipped away at it until it really did resemble a heart. I put it in the shed out back, thinking the next time we buried an animal, I would use it to mark the spot. I never did, but now I remembered it and insisted we bring it along.

  “Aunt Edyth wanted me to stay behind, but I was absolutely positive I had to see where he was buried. She was so worried about that, sure I would get sick and die, and how would she explain what happened? But I said I didn’t care if I died, I was coming.

  “It was late July when we took the Edali out, a Thursday night—well, Friday morning, really. We went around the Big Island and found a place where the land ran down low into the water, and there was just this one cabin up a ways, with no lights showing.

  “Aunt Edyth had a big battery flashlight and set it on the shore so she could see what she was doing, then got me ashore and made me sit beside it while she unloaded the spade, the coffin and the stone. There was a road along the shore then, just a lane, really, and I got up and walked a little way up it and saw three bridal wreath bushes in a row that I liked, though of course they were all through blooming by then, and I said that was the place. She took off the top layer of grass and weeds in front of the bushes and dug the grave.” Susan paused.

  “I think she was angry. I remember her pushing the spade in deep with her foot; and the way her head bent and arms moved said angry, angry. I sat on the ground and tried not to cry, because she scared me, and because she was taking care of me, and because of the enormity of what we were doing.

  “I think she dug until she wasn’t angry anymore. She put the coffin in. There was a little water in the bottom, it made a splash, and I said the Lord’s Prayer and prayed for David’s soul to go to heaven and wait for me, then we covered it up. She already said she wouldn’t let me put the heart on top, for fear someone would see it and realize that something was buried under it, so I put the heart down when the hole
was nearly full, and she finished and put the sod back and went and got the bait bucket and filled it a bunch of times to water it well. I was worried about that, but it rained the next afternoon, so I guess no one came along the lane before the rain and noticed that the ground was soaked in that one place.

  “We came back home, and she put me to bed and made me stay there for seven days. When she wasn’t looking, I stitched the map, and later I put it inside the pillow I’d been working on while I was waiting for David to be born. When I was ready to go home, we couldn’t find the pillow.” Susan fell silent then.

  After nearly a minute, Jan said, “Is it possible that when Aunt Edyth brought you something to drink after the birth, there was something in it to make you fall asleep; and that while you slept, she took your baby to St. Paul, to the children’s hospital there, and left it?”

  “Why the children’s hospital in St. Paul?”

  “Because that’s where Lucille was left.”

  Betsy asked, “What did you tell your parents?”

  “I told them—and David—that the baby was a boy and had been given up for adoption.”

  Another silence. Then Susan asked, “You promise you found the box under a stone heart and this is the doll that was in that box?”

  “Absolutely,” said Jan. “The police officer said the tannin in the swamp water preserved it, like those ‘bog bodies’ they keep finding in England and the Scandinavian countries. Did you ever see a doll with a wax head in Aunt Edyth’s house?”

  Susan thought. “No. But that doesn’t meant it wasn’t there. The wax-headed dolls in the antique shop were very expensive—and Aunt Edyth was a collector with a fondness for expensive things. She might not have shown it to me for fear I’d play with it and damage it. Those wax faces must be fragile.” She thought a bit longer, then said, “Remember that doll-size silk christening gown we found?”

  “Yes,” said Jan with a nod. “I am pretty sure that gown would fit this doll.”

  Susan heaved a lengthy sigh. “Why did she do that to me?” she asked.

  “Because you were talking about keeping the baby,” said Betsy. “She wanted to protect you and your parents from the consequences of your doing that.”

  “Yes, that would make sense to her. So, you believe this woman from Texas, Lucille Jones, really is my daughter, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do.”

  “But Aunt Edyth told me it was a boy.”

  “Because if something went wrong and you came to suspect your baby hadn’t died and went looking for it, you’d be looking for a boy infant, not a girl.”

  “How very curious,” said Susan. “I think I believe you, but I don’t feel the least connection. You’d think I would, wouldn’t you? I mean, now that you’ve halfway convinced me I didn’t bury a son, but only mislaid a daughter? It doesn’t seem real—it doesn’t seem possible.”

  “I think that’s shock, darling,” said Jan. “I think in a little while, when it’s all begun to sink in, then you’ll suddenly want very much to meet her.”

  There was another long pause, then at last Susan spoke. “Who would want to shoot her?” she asked, in a strange, thin voice. She touched her forehead. “Oh, dear, I’m feeling very odd again. Not the floor this time; help me to the couch, Jan, please.”

  Betsy and Jan half carried her from the chair to the couch, where she lay down. Jan put the crewel pillow under her feet again. She was very pale. “I haven’t told that story to anyone, not anyone, for nearly fifty years,” she said, and tears began to spill. “It’s hard to tell it at last and even think it was all a lie.”

  “But it wasn’t a lie, not your part in it,” said Betsy gently. “You had a baby, you took part in a burial of what you thought was your baby. Edyth Hanraty lied to you. It’s not your fault that you believed her.”

  “Yes, that’s true. So the natural question would be, if I buried a doll, what happened to my real baby? And you come to me with the answer already in hand. Is it possible that she grew up to be a laboratory technician from Texas named Lucille Jones?”

  “I think we have good reason to investigate that possibility.”

  Susan closed her eyes. “What if she dies?”

  “She’s not going to die.” Betsy said it fiercely, forcing belief on herself as well as Susan. It was too dreadful even to imagine, especially at the moment of reunion.

  “But what if she does? What if she is my baby grown up, and she dies before I can talk to her? I don’t know anything about her! Is she married? Are there children?”

  Jan smiled. “Yes, she’s married to an RN named Bobby Lee, and they have two grown children, an aircraft mechanic and a veterinarian. She herself is a medical lab technician.”

  “That’s nice, that’s nice. And now maybe I have two more grandchildren—and one’s a girl. Yes, I want to meet her! I want to meet them all! Edyth wouldn’t let me hold my baby. It wouldn’t be fair not to get to hold her before she dies!” She began to cry again.

  Jan said, “Hush, hush. Betsy’s right, she is not going to die. Everything is going to be all right, don’t get all fussed about it. Close your eyes and rest.” When Susan obeyed, Jan said quietly to Betsy, “Come out to the kitchen. I want to talk to you.”

  “All right.”

  In the kitchen, Jan took Betsy by the arm and said, “Would you mind if I sent you away? I think Mother is working herself into hysterics, and she’d be embarrassed to death if you were here to see it.”

  “Can you handle her yourself?”

  “Yes, we’ll be fine. There are some pills in her medicine cabinet. I’ll give her one in a little while, and she’ll sleep.”

  “All right, I understand.”

  Betsy came back into the living room and said, “Susan, I have to go now. I have some things to do.”

  “Are you going to try to find out who shot Lucille?” That was as much a demand as a question.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good, that’s good. Are you here, Jan?”

  “Right here, Mother.”

  “Hold my hand, dear, please.”

  Betsy slipped out the front door and got into her car. But she had to sit for a minute or two before she could pull herself together enough to start the engine.

  SERGEANT Rice went to the Intensive Care Unit of Hennepin County Medical Center. The nurse’s station was the hub of a wheel of rooms, a circular counter fitted inside with television monitors and computer screens as well as the usual medical detritus.

  He walked up to the counter and said, “I’m back. How’s she doing?”

  A tall, handsome doctor with dark hair and eyes smiled at him. “Better. She’s young, and her heart is strong.”

  “Is she conscious?”

  “No, and she won’t be for a while, which is fine. We’re monitoring her carefully right now. If there’s brain swelling, we may have to induce a coma to protect it.”

  “And if there isn’t, when might I talk to her?”

  “Possibly late this evening. But I’m sure you’re aware that when there’s concussion there’s pretty generally amnesia surrounding events before and after the injury.”

  “Yes, I know that, but maybe she can still tell me who hated her enough to do this.”

  Rice slouched away to a small office he had borrowed. Its tiny desk was covered with a computer, books, files and paper; a metal bookshelf screwed to the wall was jammed with file folders bulging with paper. How could someone work in such disorder? Never mind, the slob wasn’t here right now. Sitting on a black-painted metal chair with a soft gray seat and back was Bobby Lee Jones, looking miserable and scared, which was appropriate whether he was responsible for his wife’s condition—what if she woke up and told on him?—or not. He wore bright blue shorts and a non-matching blue shirt printed with palm trees and hibiscus flowers and faded red flip-flops.

  Rice edged past him, leaning forward so as not to scrape his back on the shelf as he went past the desk, and sat down on the office armchair
.

  “When can I see her again?” asked Bobby Lee.

  “In a while,” Rice said. The truth was that he could go right now, but Rice wanted to talk to him some more first. “She’s still unconscious but maybe improved a little, at least holding her own. The doc says her heart is strong, and they’re satisfied she’s doing all right.”

  “She cain’t dah, she jest cain’t dah,” he said, his misery somehow strengthening his accent.

  “I don’t think she’s going to die,” Rice said.

  “Are you lying to me?” Bobby Lee asked, hope and pain in his eyes.

  “No, sir, it’s not good policy for the police to lie to someone.”

  “Then that’s good, that’s good,” said Bobby Lee. “I don’t know what I’d do if she was to die.”

  “I want to talk to you while we’re sitting here waiting,” Rice said. “All right if I ask you some questions?”

  “Yessir, go right ahead.”

  “First of all, about this business of your wife being the daughter of Susan McConnell. Do you think that’s actually possible?”

  “Well, sure it is! I would never’ve agreed to come up here if I didn’t think there was a good chance it was true.”

  “Where were you before you came home and found—”

  There was a shouted “Stop, stop!” from out in the hall, and Rice nearly knocked Bobby Lee over getting past him and out the door. He got the merest glimpse of someone in hospital scrubs disappearing into the stairwell at the other end of the hall, then turned to see one nurse bending over Lucille Jones while another was making some quick adjustment to the machinery at her bedside.

  He ran to the circular nurses’ station. “Call downstairs,” he told the nurse there. “Maybe they’ll catch her.”

  “Yessir, I’m doing that right now.”

  Next stop, Lucille’s room. “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  “Someone was in here pulling out her IVs and resetting the equipment. I shouted, and she ran.”

  “Is Ms. Jones all right?”