Innocents & Demons
Holly Jahangiri
Copyright 2003-2011 by Holly Jahangiri
Smashwords Edition
INNOCENCE DENIED
Sunlight filtered through the yellowing sheers, too soft to chase the shadows from the corners of the room, but bright enough to disturb Amanda's dreams. She tried pulling the covers over her head but the smell of bacon sizzling in the kitchen reached down and poked at her sleepy, dream-soaked brain, prodding her into wakefulness, and hunger.
Amanda stretched lazily. With a reluctant sigh, she threw off the covers, pulled on an old terrycloth bathrobe, and headed for the kitchen. Her eyes were gritty with sleep-sand, and her long, blonde hair was tousled from a restless night. Even interesting dreams weren't always pleasant.
Gramma turned the bacon, and smiled as Amanda bent to kiss her good morning. “Sleep well last night, dear?”
Amanda murmured something and nodded. “Can I help?” she asked, with a lack of enthusiasm she hoped was more subtle than it sounded to her as she said it.
“You could set the table and put the milk out.”
The girl headed for the large refrigerator in the pantry. She pulled out the milk carton and glanced at the date. Inwardly, she groaned. She smelled the milk. Iffy, at best, but she knew it would do no good to mention that. There was at least a cup and a half--plenty for the breakfast cereal and coffee--and Amanda's grandparents, having lived through the depression, weren't about to waste a drop, as long as it didn't have obvious lumps. Nothing to do but put it on the table, and skip cereal.
Amanda set the table for three, using the good silver and the fine, antique china. Each of the cups was marred with tiny cracks, and the dishes were chipped, but Amanda loved them, for they were delicate, and beautifully hand-painted, a throwback to finer days. Like Gramma and Grampa, thought Amanda, with a small, rueful smile.
The stomp-stomp-stomp of Grampa's feet upon the steep, wooden stairs leading up from the cellar jarred Amanda from her reverie. “What's that you've got there?” Gramma's voice was demanding, tinged with annoyance.
“The peaches, Mama,” sighed Grampa. “You said you wanted peaches with breakfast.”
“So set them down, already.” Gramma disappeared into the pantry and Grampa shrugged at Amanda. He began fiddling with the lid, his hands shaking.
Amanda grabbed the jar of peaches and peered at them dubiously through the pinkish-yellow liquid. She tested the seal--it gave a nice POP! as she opened the lid. The peaches were lovely. Amanda spooned them into a serving bowl and carried them into the dining room. Grampa brought the bacon, Gramma carried in boxes of cereal and unceremoniously plunked them down on the table. One last gurgle from the coffeepot, and breakfast was ready. The three of them sat at the table and began filling their plates--bacon, peaches, cereal (which Amanda avoided), and scrambled eggs. Amanda poured the hot coffee, which Gramma had percolated in an ancient coffeepot. It was strong and fragrant.
After breakfast, Amanda cleared the dishes, setting them on the kitchen table. Gramma filled the sink with hot, soapy water and began washing, while Grampa dried each dish carefully with a soft towel. It was a mealtime ritual that pretty much occupied the spaces between breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Amanda sighed.
“I think I'd like to read a bit before lunch,” Gramma announced as she turned away from the sink, wiping her hands on her housecoat. “Amanda, do you think you can manage to entertain yourself, or would you rather get the cards? We could play a hand or two of Hearts--”
“No, Gramma, that's fine. I've got a good book in my room. Sounds like a plan to me.”
“Good. Pops?” Gramma looked at Grampa, who was already engrossed in the morning paper. “Guess he's got a head start on us, Mandi.”
Amanda nodded and headed for her room. The book was an excuse. She'd finished it last night. But she was in no mood to bicker over a game of Hearts. As soon as she heard the door to her grandparents' room close, she slipped out, and headed down the stairs to the cellar.
Down here among the boxes and the junk, Amanda felt strangely close to her grandparents. When she was with them, she felt herself closing up, pulling back, getting irritated at them for no apparent reason. Here, amidst the junk, the remnants of 60 years of marriage, Amanda caught glimpses of her grandparents as they really were--not the stodgy facades they showed to her, their teenaged granddaughter.
Amanda reached into an old, cardboard steamer trunk and pulled out a heavy, leather-bound volume. Blowing dust from the cover, she opened it. She pored through old photographs, yellowing with age. Her father was there, sitting on Grampa's shoulders. Grampa was young, tall; it shocked Amanda to realize that her grandfather had once been a handsome man, the sort of young man she, herself, might be attracted to. And there was funny, freckle-faced Aunt Julia, now a middle-aged wife and mother of three.
Gramma stood, smiling, dressed in a sumptuous ball gown, her make-up perfect, her silken, brown hair swept back and up in a chignon. God, she was beautiful. She couldn't have been more than thirty when the photograph was taken. Three children stood at her feet, Aunt Julia, Dad, and a tiny blonde girl, much younger than Julia. They clung to Gramma's skirts, smiling up at her in adoration.
Amanda turned the page. There she was again, the little girl with wide, innocent eyes and blonde hair. Curiosity prickled at the back of Amanda's neck. Who was she? Amanda flipped through the remaining pages, and there she was, over and over again. Several pages were damaged by water and mold, marring the faces beyond recognition. Amanda flipped over these quickly, wrinkling her nose in distaste. A damp, Northern cellar was no place to store family treasures.
She did not see the little girl's face again, but the image haunted her. She thought of her as she browsed the prom pictures--Aunt Julia in taffeta and lace, Dad in a rented tux, a carnation tucked into his lapel. Aunt Julia's date was a long, lanky, pimply-faced teenager, well into that awkward stage; Dad's date had bright little squirrel eyes and was stuffed into a frilly dress three sizes too small for her. Amanda laughed until tears streamed down her face.
She laid the album aside. Digging into the steamer trunk, her fingers touched the dried and crumbling flowers of a bouquet, it's ribbons faded and crackling now. There was a dress, a pink satin dress with white lace overlays at the collar and on the sleeves. Aunt Julia's? Amanda wondered. Why, this must have been Julia's trunk, forgotten after all these years.
At the bottom of the trunk Amanda found a small book, a little cloth-covered notebook with the name “Claire” embroidered on it. Claire? Amanda took it over to the little makeshift desk she'd set up for herself down in the cellar.
An old, defunct, deep-freeze unit covered with a threadbare quilt, and an inexpensive student's lamp screwed into the wall overhead provided Amanda with a quiet place to read, draw, and write her stories during visits to Gramma's and Grampa's house. She hadn't exactly gotten their permission to do this little bit of “remodeling,” but they'd never mentioned it, so she assumed they didn't mind. She sat upon a broken card-table chair, opened the little cloth-bound book, and began to read.
“Amanda!” her grandmother called from the top of the stairs. “Lunchtime!”
Reluctantly, Amanda closed the book and headed up the steep, dark, wooden stairs to the kitchen. She supposed the book could wait. “Set the table, will you, dear?” Amanda nodded and went to work. The mealtime ritual began again.
The three of them ate in silence. What could they talk about? A fifteen-year-old girl was an alien being in this environment. Amanda poured coffee and cleared the empty dishes. Still holding her grandmother's coffee cup, she asked abruptly, “Who's Claire?”
Gramma turned pale and choked on a bit of buttered bread. “Claire?” she rasped, taking a sip of the scalding coffee. “What on earth made you ask about Claire?”
“Who is she, Gramma? I found a diary--”
“Oh, leave it alone, Amanda. You won't find anything interesting in a moldy old diary. You really shouldn't be snooping around down there. It's unhealthy.” Gramma muttered something Amanda didn't quite catch. “Get out in the sunshine. Why don't you take a nice walk this afternoon?”
This only piqued Amanda's curiosity further, but she decided not to push the issue. She kissed her grandmother lightly on the forehead, and smiled at Grampa. He seemed lost in thought, and deeply troubled. Later that afternoon, he came to Amanda on the back porch.
“I know you're curious, Mandi, but some things are better off left to the past. Some day you'll understand.” He sighed. “Your Gramma is napping. Hearing you say Claire's name again was hard on her. That's why I'm going to tell you about her, so you don't mention her again.”
Amanda reached out and touched her grandfather's hand. Her eyes were full of concern, but she still burned with curiosity. “Mandi, Claire was our daughter. She was the youngest.” He paused. “She died. A long, long time ago. Before you were born.”
Amanda sat in stunned silence. Another aunt, then. One she would never know, except through a few old photographs and a diary--and her grandparents. “Tell me about her. How did she die?”
Grampa looked sad. “Mandi, leave well-enough alone.” He looked long and hard at Amanda. “She was very much like you. Young, and pretty, and smart--” he broke off and looked at the sky for a moment.
“Anyway, it's hard on your Gramma and me to talk about her. Can you understand that?”
Amanda couldn't. If it had been her daughter, she thought, she'd have wanted to talk about her to anyone who'd listen--not shuffle the memories off to the cellar. She sighed. It was stranger still that Dad and Aunt Julia had never mentioned Claire. Amanda was troubled, and dying of curiosity, but she didn't persist. Instead, she threw her arms around her grandfather, and kissed his bristly cheek. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you.”
Grampa laid a hand on Amanda's shoulder and smiled sadly. He looked as if he were about to say something, but the words died on his lips. He turned and went inside.
A moment later, Amanda heard a piercing scream. She leaped to her feet and ran inside. There, in the hallway, her grandmother lay sprawled upon the floor, Grampa huddled over her, calling her name, desperation and fear making his voice raspy. Amanda grabbed the phone and dialed 911. Her grandfather reached out, his hand lightning quick. “No,” he commanded, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Call Dr. Franks. Not the hospital. She wouldn't--”
Amanda was already dialing. An ambulance would have been wiser, but her grandmother was terrified of hospitals, and Amanda wasn't going to argue about it now. “Dr. Franks's office.”
“Get me Dr. Franks, please. It's an emergency.” Amanda was surprised at how calm she sounded. Her grandmother lay helpless on the floor, and her grandfather was quickly going to pieces. Amanda took control. It was a strength, and a curse.
“Dr. Franks here.” He had the voice of a young man, strong, clear, and vibrant. Yet Dr. Franks had to be in his 70's.
“This is Amanda Richards. My grandmother seems to have had an attack of some kind--she's unconscious. Please--”
“I'll be right there. Relax--I'm just around the corner. Have you called an ambulance?”
“No, I, she--” Amanda faltered.
“I know, hon, they're stubborn old coots. Is she breathing?” Amanda checked. Gramma seemed to be breathing normally, in fact, she might simply have been asleep, except that she didn't usually nap in the hallway.
“I'm on my way.” Dr. Franks hung up.
Amanda knelt beside Gramma, her eyes wide with fear. She reached out and touched her grandfather's arm. “It'll be okay, Grampa,” she said, trying to sound more certain than she felt.
He bit his lip and nodded, tears welling in his eyes, little worry lines deepening the creases in his forehead. Amanda remembered the wedding pictures she'd found in the cellar, the way they'd smiled at each other, radiantly, triumphantly in love. Through all the years of bickering, the love remained, buried beneath the daily irritations and ordinariness of life. It was there, in her grandfather's eyes.
The doorbell rang. Amanda jumped to her feet and ran to open it. For a moment she blocked the entrance, staring open-mouthed at the man with the black bag. “Where's Dr. Franks?”
“I am Dr. Franks. Where is she?”
Amanda stepped aside, giving the doctor a clear view of his patient, lying motionless on the carpet. “Dr.--” Amanda's grandfather looked up, his mouth frozen in mid-sentence. “Who the hell--” he gasped. “Paul?”
“Yes.”
“Where's your father?” Grampa's voice was raised, angry- sounding, as if he were accusing the younger man of impersonating a doctor.
Dr. Franks bent down and began examining Amanda's grandmother. “Ill. For some time now. I've taken over his practice.” He checked the old woman's pupils for reaction to light, felt her pulse, listened to her heart, checked her breathing. “Mr. Richards, she's had another stroke. It's a mild one again, I think, but she really should go to the hospital. I need to run tests to learn the extent of the damage.”
“No.” Grampa's voice was adamant. “She won't be going to the hospital.”
“Let's get her onto the bed, then, at least. We can try to make her more comfortable.” The two men lifted Gramma as if she weighed no more than a child. Their eyes met for a moment, and a shiver ran down Amanda's spine. A current of pure hatred ran between them, unspoken, yet tangible. It was more than a disagreement over hospitals, Amanda was sure of that much.
“Amanda?” Dr. Franks called the girl aside quietly.
“Yes?”
“Amanda, has anything upset your grandmother lately? Can you think of any reason for this attack?”
“No.” Amanda thought for a moment. “Wait--”
“Yes?”
“This afternoon, just after lunch, I mentioned a book I'd found down in the cellar. I asked her who 'Claire' was--”
Dr. Franks went pale. “Claire.” It was a statement, not a question. He just stared off into space. “God, Amanda. That was a long, long time ago.”
“I didn't know. Grampa came to me afterwards and explained,” Amanda sighed. “I didn't know. Nobody's ever mentioned her.”
“No, they wouldn't. The old prudes. Propriety at all costs.” Dr. Frank’s eyes welled with tears. “Damn them to hell.” Amanda was beginning to regret her foray into old steamer trunks and photo albums, but it was too late to turn back.
“Tell me about her!” she urged.
“Amanda.” The doctor's eyes pleaded with her.
Amanda clenched her fists in frustration. “Not you, too,” she cried. “You know about her, but you won't tell me, either. Why?”
Her grandfather came into the room just then. Dr. Franks wrote out a prescription and rose to leave. “Call me when she wakes,” he said.
Amanda bit her lip and plucked the prescription from her grandfather's hand. She had to get out, get some fresh air; she might as well make herself useful. “I'll go.” He handed her a twenty-dollar bill and watched after her as she left the dreary, somber house, her blonde hair gleaming in the sunshine.
“Claire,” he murmured, and slowly, sadly, shut the door.
Amanda dozed lightly in the old oak rocker by her grandmother's bed. Sometime during the night, Gramma's eyes fluttered open. She cried out, muttering unintelligible sentence fragments, clawing at the blanket in terror. She awoke instantly, and dialed the doctor's number. “Gramma,” she whispered, “he's on his way. You're going to be okay.” Amanda prayed that was true. She woke her grandfather, and went to make coffee.
It wasn't true. Just before dawn, Amanda's grandmother looked up, wide-eyed, into the face of young Dr. Franks. “Paul,” she gasped, clutching his hand.
“Don't try to talk, Mrs. Richards.”
“Paul, you understand, don't you? There was no other way--” her lips stopped moving. Her heart--stopped. Dr. Franks smoothed the lines from her brow, and closed her eyes. He prayed silently that Claire would be more merciful than he felt at that moment.
A few hours later, Aunt Julia arrived. “Oh, Mandi, doll, how awful for you that you had to be here and see this.” She hugged the girl tightly, and managed a warm smile. “Your dad's on his way, right?” Amanda nodded.
Grampa just sat there on the couch. They'd taken Gramma to the funeral home hours ago, and he hadn't moved or spoken a word since. Dr. Franks had agreed to stay with Amanda until Aunt Julia arrived, and now he greeted her with formality. “Mrs. Cutter.”
“Paul.”
He nodded politely, and headed quickly for the front door. “Paul, wait--”
“Yes?”
“What happened?”
“Amanda,” he said, taking the girl's arm gently. “You tell her. Maybe, just maybe, you can help each other understand. I sure as hell don't.” With that, he threw open the door and walked out.
“Christ,” muttered Julia. “What was that all about? Amanda?” She sat on the divan, reached into her purse, and drew out a Virginia Slims. “I really ought to quit. Don't remind me.” She flicked her lighter, twice, and sucked hard on her cigarette. The end of it glowing bright, dimmed, glowed bright, and dimmed again. “All right, Amanda. What the hell was that all about?”
“I think it was about Claire.”
“Claire?” Aunt Julia's eyes narrowed as they studied Amanda's face. “Jesus. Claire. After all this time. Why?”
“I found a trunk in the cellar. Some old photographs. A diary, I think--”
Julia sighed. “How much do you know about her, Mandi?”
“I know she was your sister. I know that she died. Grampa said I was a lot like her.”
“No.” Julia puffed quickly on her cigarette, but it didn't stop her hands from shaking. “You're not like her, Mandi.”
“What happened to her, Aunt Julia? Why won't anybody tell me?” “Amanda, it's not a very pleasant story. I'm sure nobody really wants to go into it. You really shouldn't pry, darling. It's ancient history, and not all that interesting, really.” Julia stood up and headed for the room at the end of the hall, her old room. “Try to cheer up and think of something else. For Grampa's sake.”
“Aunt Julia!” Amanda cried. “Dammit!” Tears welled in her eyes. If Gramma was dead because she had mentioned Claire, she damn well wanted an explanation. The guilt was growing dark tendrils within her, breaking her apart, tearing at her insides like acid.
Julia sighed. “Claire was sixteen. Your father and I were away at college. She got herself knocked up. In those days, you didn't talk about it, you went away and had the baby, gave it up for adoption, and came back. The official story being that you were off at summer camp, or in Europe, or visiting distant relatives.” Aunt Julia plopped back down onto the sofa. “Only Claire wouldn't go. She insisted on staying here--” Aunt Julia bit her lip. “I suppose she had some romantic notion about being near the father of her child.”
“He didn't want to marry her?”
“Marry her?” Aunt Julia laughed bitterly. “Oh, I suppose he would have, but what kind of a life would that have been? Claire was a mere child, not terribly bright, and Paul--” Aunt Julia stopped.
Amanda's mouth dropped open. “Paul?”
“The doctor's son. Such a bright future ahead of him--already accepted at Yale--” Julia laughed bitterly. “Old Doc Franks shuffled him off fast enough. He and Mother and Dad took care of things here, while the Boy Wonder went off to make a life for himself.”
“But he loved her, didn't he?”
“Oh, who knows. I think maybe he thought he did, but no one twisted his arm to get him on that train.”
“And Claire?”
“Claire stayed behind. Sometime in her fifth month, she began to show, and Mother insisted that she have the decency at least to stay indoors. It was a difficult pregnancy, and toward the end of the eighth month, she went into labor.” Aunt Julia took a deep drag off her cigarette. “Mother refused to let her be taken to a hospital. Doc Franks delivered the baby here, at home.”
Amanda waited. She knew what was coming. Aunt Julia stared at the far wall for several moments, took a deep breath, and said, “she died in childbirth, Amanda. Two days before her seventeenth birthday.”
“And the baby?”
“I don't know, Mandi.” Amanda sat in stunned silence as her aunt's words slowly sank in. “Amanda, they never mentioned the baby, and none of us dared to ask. Can't you imagine how painful it was for them? The shame they must've felt?”
Shame? thought Amanda. Shame that their daughter had had a child out of wedlock, or shame that they'd botched everything, and probably killed their youngest child? Amanda knew the answer. She shuddered.
You hypocrite, she wanted to scream at her aunt. You, who've had four husbands in the space of a dozen years? Why, her own father had lived with her mother for a year before they married. And yet Claire had been forced to go through pregnancy, a premature labor, and a difficult birth, in shameful secrecy, without proper medical attention, and it was okay? Where was Claire's child now? Was its birth such a scandal that her grandparents could turn their backs on their infant grandchild--all that remained of their youngest daughter? Amanda suddenly felt ill, and excused herself.
Amanda slipped out the back door and ran down the alley. She didn't plan where she was about to go, but she wasn't too surprised to find herself upon the steps to Dr. Franks's office. It was Wednesday, and he'd been up much of the night. The door was locked. She rang the bell. The sun was bright, and warm. The chill in the old house had given her goosebumps. It was good to escape for a bit.
There was no answer. She rang again. Just as she turned to leave, the door swung open. Paul Franks stood at the door, unshaven, hair disheveled, eyes red-rimmed and painful-looking. “Amanda,” he said, the tone of his voice flat, dull-edged. “Come in.” He held the door open for her. Not that he was enthusiastic about it, but he didn't turn her away, either.
“Dr. Franks--”
“Call me Paul. Sit.” He motioned towards a leather chair in the sitting room that doubled as a waiting room. “She told you everything, didn't she?”
“Did she?” Amanda wasn't sure where to begin. Finally, she just blurted “Paul--the baby. What happened to the baby?”
He ran his fingers through his tousled hair. It was starting to turn gray at the temples, giving him a “distinguished” look that was not at all unattractive. He looked up at Amanda, searching her face for some clue as to how he should proceed.
“I don't know,” he said softly. “Dad hustled me off to school, said it was all for the best. The Richards' refused to consider the thought of my marrying their daughter. They called her a child, and kept her under lock and key in that dismal place they called a home--” his voice broke, he struggled to control it.
“She died giving birth to your child.”
“I know, with my father in attendance.” Paul sighed. “Amanda, I begged them to tell me where the child was. My father said it died, but I don't believe that to this day. There was no death certificate, no burial record. Claire's out there in Floral Haven Memorial, under the shade of an old oak--I've seen her grave--” he looked into Amanda's eyes. “I loved her, you know.”
“I know.”
“But there's no sign of the child. Our child.” Paul finally broke down and sobbed. He'd been drinking, Amanda could tell that now. She rose and left; he never looked up.
“Dad, what happened to Claire's baby?”
Amanda's father looked at her strangely. “I don't know, babe. I imagine it died with her. All I know is that it was a difficult birth, almost a month early, with only old Doc Franks in attendance.” He sighed heavily. “My guess is that the child died, too.”
“Gramma and Grampa never talked about it to you?”
He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Mandi, it was hard enough on them having to tell us the bare facts. They didn't go into details, and your Aunt Julia and I didn't push. They were in shock over what Claire had done--then, to have to deal with her death--” “In shock? They didn't care about Claire at all, did they, Dad? Let's be honest here,” Amanda was shaking with rage. She still felt responsible, somehow, but she was angry, too. Full of Claire's wrath, she thought, inexplicably. “They were terrified someone would find out. Dad--” Amanda gasped, “there's not even a death certificate, or a grave, or anything for that child.”
“Oh, honey, I know you think Gramma and Grampa were cold, and heartless, but back then it was a terrible scandal to be an unwed mother. Whatever they did, they did to protect Claire. You must believe they had only the best intentions.”
“No. I think they did it to protect themselves. From gossip. From the ladies at Gramma's bridge club. From Grampa's cronies at the lodge. Claire loved Paul, and he loved her.”
“Amanda, don't judge them too harshly. They've suffered enough— ”
“The hell they have!” Amanda shouted. Her fingers flew to her
mouth. She was as surprised as her father at her sudden outburst. She began to cry. It had been a long day.
“Honey, please, try to forget it. You'll help your Grampa get through these next few days if you try and be cheerful. Mandi, you never even knew about Claire until yesterday. Why does it suddenly matter so much?”
How could she explain? How could she explain to her father the sudden certainty that she could just disappear off the face of the earth tomorrow, and her entire family would make excuses, pick up, and go on with their lives? She rubbed her eyes. God, she was tired.
“Amanda, if it makes you feel any better, they cared. I came home from college for the funeral. Grampa was down in the cellar, hauling the old deep freeze down there. The compressor'd gone out or something, and he was going to tinker with it a bit. Mandi, it was the first time I ever saw my father cry. He didn't see me at first, and he just stood there, leaning over the deep freeze, sobbing.” Amanda's father stopped, looked at Amanda, and smiled sadly. “Real men don't cry, remember? You know, I'm not sure he's ever forgiven me for catching him at it.” Amanda smiled, but her heart really wasn't in it. “I found a trunk full of Claire's things, down in the cellar,” she said. As soon as the words left her lips, she wondered why she'd said it.
“Will you show me, Mandi?” asked her father. “It's been a long time.” They smiled at each other. Her father reached out and took her hand.
They descended the steep, wooden, cellar stairs together. The stomp-stomp-stomp of their feet on the old wood echoed off the cool stone walls. It was dark and damp down here. Amanda quickly went over to her desk and switched on the light. Her father lifted up the little cloth-bound book and flipped through the pages. He sat down on the broken card-table chair, and began to read, tears welling in his eyes.
“Amanda.” He put the book down softly on the quilt-covered, deep- freeze desk. “Jesus. Didn't anyone ever teach you not to snoop around in old trunks and attics and things?” He reached over and touched her cheek, brushing a stray hair out of her face. “Some things are packed away for a reason.”