Sins of Omission (7 page)

“Is there a stable? I've always liked horses. Actually, I like all animals. Someday I'm going to get myself a dog. Not one of those squeaky little things, either. I want one that howls and barks and craps where it shouldn't. I want it to beg for food and lick my face and come when I call it. Someday,” Daniel mused softly. So many somedays. Would they ever come?

“You got a name for this mutt, too?” Reuben laughed. “Male or female?”

Daniel snorted. “A boy dog, of course. I'll call him Jake, after my best friend at the orphanage. Well, he was my best friend before someone took him to work in their factory. I really missed him. I think about him a lot and wonder if he signed up when I did.”

Something pricked at Reuben, something he couldn't identify at first. And then he had a name for it: jealousy. Daniel had never mentioned Jake until now. Here he was going to name his dog after this fellow. Well, he'd go Daniel one better: he'd get the dog for him. It would be his flesh-and-blood gift, more important than a silly name.

When he began to describe the exterior of the château to Daniel, he forced a lightness he didn't feel into his voice. “It looks smaller than it really is from the road because the major part of the house is in the back. Reminds me of a fairy-tale house; you'd almost expect gnomes and elves to come running out. The roof is tiled, real clay tiles, those half-round gray ones. And most of the windows are stained glass, the top of them anyway. That's another thing—when the sun shines through them there's a rainbow in the room. And some of the windows have designs on them. We couldn't see them last night when we drove up, but the entrance leading to the house has huge stone columns that have frescoes on them. See, I know that word because Mickey uses it. They're kind of weathered and the paint is peeling, but they're still elegant-looking. In the spring, flowers and rosebushes must surround the house. I didn't look in the greenhouses yet. Well, that's it, Daniel. Someday I'm going to have a house like this. I'll call it my summer home, just like the Vanderbilts and Rockefellers I read about in the newspapers back home. I'll pattern the house after this one. I can smell money here, pal. And when you have money, you have power. I think that's what I want more than the money, but they go hand in hand. Power! I even like the sound of the word.”

Daniel flinched under his compresses. The reaction rose from a combination of things. First was the intensity in Reuben's voice. Daniel believed that Reuben would indeed be powerful someday. Wealthy and powerful, an awesome combination. But the second reason was personal: his life was in Reuben's hands, and his friend's words served to bring everything he had been thinking about right out into the open.

The truth was, Daniel had never before slept in a room such as the one he had slept in last night. Large, luxurious, and, best of all, private—the fact that it was all his made him want to run back upstairs and look at it and touch it to make sure it was real. He was overwhelmed by the sumptuous environment Reuben had just described. Mickey was a dream come true for both of them, but to Daniel she was truly the angel he had heard about, more nurturing and generous and bountiful than he could ever have imagined.

It was a miracle being in this house, and when his eyes were closed he was desperate to open them again and feast on his surroundings. With all his heart and soul, he hoped that Reuben knew what he was doing.

The road back to where he came from rose eerily in his mind. It was studded with places like his spare cot in the barrackslike dormitory of the orphanage, the deathly lonesome, seemingly eternal holidays he had endured there, in the place where he had felt utterly lost from God's eyes. From there he'd moved even further, into the black hole of the war…. The thoughts began to paralyze him with sadness, especially now that he was finally experiencing the real thing: a home.

Mickey returned home after the shroud of evening had fallen. She came in like a whirlwind, chattering easily about her day. “Beastly, darlings, the trip was beastly, but I had to do it. Now my time is yours for the next few days. More rest for you today, but tomorrow I will begin your French lessons. We will play chess and bridge, and if you don't know how to play, I am here to teach you. You, in turn, will teach me to play poker and roll the dice. I have always wanted to learn. Now I wish to get out of these heavy clothes and into something more comfortable. I will be back almost before I am gone and we'll have a spicy drink before the fire. You will tell me what you did today and I will tell you what I did.” Seconds later she was out of the room, her perfume lingering behind her as always.

For nine days, each evening was the same as the one before. On the tenth, Reuben decided he was annoyed. Not by so much as a look or touch did Mickey let her intentions be known. Somehow he couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't measuring up, that somewhere along the way he'd become a disappointment to his benefactress. He wished he knew when and where she had decided that she didn't want him after all so he could go back and try to analyze it. Madame Mickey was a beautiful, sensuous woman, generous of heart and sweet of nature. And he wanted her.

Mickey watched the expression in Reuben's eyes shift from anger to annoyance and knew the time was almost right. She had paid close attention to his every gesture. After all, she was an expert in the art of seduction. But he still wasn't ready. Soon, though. Now the game was really on.

 

Although the nights proved torturous for Reuben, the days following Mickey's return from Marseilles were comfortable and filled with contentment. Both Reuben and Daniel were on the road to recovery—Mickey saw to that. Because Daniel's eyes were very much improved, she allowed him to read while it was fully daylight. At night, knowing the lamplight would strain his eyes, she forbade him even to think of burying his nose in a book. For his part, Reuben followed all the rules of her ministrations as an example to Daniel. To fill their free time, Mickey provided other forms of entertainment: word games, music, even a lesson in French cooking.

Both Reuben and Daniel found themselves falling into Mickey's routine, yet always upon rising, Reuben would go to the long, mullioned windows of his bedroom and stare out at the countryside, finding it difficult to believe that not very far to the north the Germans were preparing for the great offensive against the American forces. Through his window, even on the dreariest days of fall, the land was sweetly undisturbed, the air crisp and clear and waiting for the promise of sunshine. At the front, he knew, the land was disemboweled by artillery, the air thick with the smell of gunfire and powder and the stench of the trenches. Though the same sun would shine on the battle zone, it would lack the golden warmth and would hold no promise.

The threesome made it a point to breakfast together, munching their way through crisp toast made from homemade bread fresh from the ovens and heartily spread with luscious jams and jellies put up from fruits grown on the estate, and lightening their coffee with fresh dairy cream. Coffee, almost impossible to get, was brewed with chicory and one of Mickey's secret ingredients. If coffee was unavailable, they would drink chocolate from the generous supply Mickey had set aside for herself when she knew war in her homeland was imminent.

After breakfast they would carry their cups into the paneled library. There, Reuben and Mickey would take turns reading aloud to Daniel, who soaked up each work like a sponge. “He is insatiable,” Mickey grumbled good-naturedly on several occasions. “He will need proper tutoring soon.” When the room grew thick with smoke they moved to the parlor for their French lessons.

This was Reuben's favorite room, despite the feminine furnishings and spindly-legged tables. Here Mickey was reflected in each object that had been chosen to grace the mantel or armoires and etageres. Seashells from the French Riviera, a coin collection under glass, her precious Monet and Renoir. And on the far wall, where the fall sun found itself rivaled for brilliance, was a Van Gogh. A field of sunflowers, yellow and orange and deep green shadows for contrast. Little crystal dishes, vast vases of flowers, thick peach-colored carpeting bordered with a pattern of grape leaves and dark purple fruit. The mantelpiece was Italian marble, the hearth wide and deep, holding logs thicker than Reuben's leg and almost as long. Gilt-edged mirrors, venetian blinds slanted to catch the last ray of sunshine, and satin draperies trimmed with golden fringe. And always the colors were soft, muted, each pattern cleverly chosen to blend into the next.

Madame Mickey's wardrobe seemed to be endless. Unlike the sleek, tailored clothing she had always worn on her trips to the clinics and hospitals, here Reuben noticed that she preferred simpler dresses in soft, elegant colors that brought out the tawny freshness of her unadorned skin and the golden lights in her chestnut hair. Chanel was a young designer with whom Mickey was acquainted in Paris. The styles were revolutionary, and Mickey wore them to perfection.

 

“Her name is Gabrielle, but everyone knows her as Coco,” Mickey explained about her friend, “and one day she will be famous, I promise you. She is what the fashion world awaits. This is a world in which women will take their place, Reuben. There will be little room for snug hobbled skins and painful boned corsets. Ease of dress, that is the secret of Coco's designs. Away with corsets, away with them forever. Long, simple lines; supple, easy fabrics and knits. Trousers that have slim legs and flare at the bottoms, somewhat like the ones sailors wear. Bell bottoms, I believe they're called. Short jackets, jersey knits, and I have seen her wear a coat that she patterned after General Black Jack Pershing's. A trench coat, it is called. Horrible name, wonderful coat. Many elements of her designs are borrowed from a man's haberdashery.”

During their French lessons, Reuben and Daniel found Mickey to be a hard taskmaster. Often she would tap their knuckles like an old schoolmarm. “Someday you will thank me for this,” she kept saying over and over. Reuben doubted it; Daniel just smiled.

It was obvious from the beginning that Daniel had a greater aptitude for learning a foreign language then Reuben. Daniel worked diligently on the verbs and syntax, and late at night, after Mickey retired, he would quiz Reuben so he, too, could have his lesson prepared for the following morning. Somewhere along the way he'd become attuned to Reuben's feelings, and he knew Reuben hated to be mocked or made to appear foolish. Mickey's gentle gibing was embarrassing to him. Twice he'd blustered that he didn't want to learn a stupid, damn flowery language and stomped out of the room in frustration. Unperturbed, Mickey had kept on with the lesson. She never referred to Reuben's outburst and had smiled warmly, when, after his temper had cooled, he had returned.

After an hour in their respective rooms, where Reuben and Daniel would dose their eyes and apply compresses, lunch would be served, usually a meal of thick, hearty sandwiches and robust soup. If weather allowed, they would then embark on their daily walk, which covered several miles and always ended at the stables, where Mickey would treat her horses with sugar lumps and green apples stored from the autumn before.

“All gentlemen ride,” Mickey declared. “It is an art, and I will teach you when your health returns. One must be fit to control an animal.” Then she'd looked at Reuben and said, “One day, when you are rich and powerful, you will have a country estate and invite others who are rich and powerful. They will all know how to ride. It will be expected of you. Do you understand,
chéri?
” Reuben nodded. Then she fixed her gaze on Daniel. “And you, my learned friend, will be one of those rich and powerful people who visit Reuben. You will be the most famous lawyer. I feel this,” she said dramatically, crossing her arms over her chest.

Tea and cakes would be waiting in the library when they returned to the château. After that, they spent an hour on the finer points of bridge and chess. When both were over, after they'd discussed their strategies and errors, Mickey handed out paper and pens and gave a test on what they'd learned during the day. Reuben hated the tests, thinking them juvenile, but he complied. Daniel, on the other hand, loved playing school and always received a beaming smile from Mickey.

The ninety minutes before dinner were allotted to bathing and choosing the proper attire. Casual suits and dinner jackets had appeared in each of their rooms one day, along with shoes, ties, shirts, belts, socks, and underwear. An old man from the village arrived the day after the clothing did, equipped with tape measure and pins to tailor each article of clothing to perfection.

Dinner, which was always bountiful, was for eating but also for learning. Which fork, which knife, which glass for which wine; how to open a napkin and how to fold it when finished. They learned how to seat a lady and to help her from the table. Mickey educated their palates to the use of wines and spirits, a skill at which Reuben showed himself to be adept. Mickey said it was yet another indication that he would be a success. If there was anything Daniel disliked, it was lessons in breeding and etiquette, although at Mickey's rebukes he would merely flush. “I'll make gentlemen out of you if it's the last thing I ever do,” she declared with determination.

Coffee and brandy followed dinner, with talk of the war, what was happening in America, and books. Like Daniel, Mickey was a voracious reader. Their conversations were lively and spirited and usually lasted several hours.

Finally Mickey would peck each of them lightly on both cheeks, saying, “Well done,” then wave cheerily and retire upstairs to her rooms.

And always Reuben didn't know if he was relieved or angry at her sisterly show of affection. When he was alone he admitted that he wanted more. On the third day of his stay he'd decided that Mickey was beautiful. Only at night in his dreams did he allow himself to lust after her. When he woke, frustrated and puzzled, he would punch his fists into the pillows and groan angrily. Why was she torturing him like this? If it was a game, didn't she know he would be a willing player? But there couldn't be a game until both players were in agreement and rules set down. Rules…Who makes the first move? Certainly not him; he was a guest. Of course, she was a woman, and as a rule women wanted to be asked, or so he remembered old George saying, but then, most of everything George had said had turned out to be just so much manure.

Worst of all, he found himself staring at her all the time now, imagining all kinds of wonderful things: how her lips would feel on his, how silky her skin would be, how she'd look lying naked beside him, how she'd taste. It was almost beyond his imagination all the wonderful things an experienced woman like Mickey could do to him. Once when they were walking he thought his head would blow off in excitement when he pictured himself settling urgently between her legs. George had said it was a feeling that had no equal. Mickey had looked at him, looked at him as though she knew what he was thinking. Another time, while they were playing chess, he'd let her capture his knight because he was watching as her pink tongue moistened her lips in concentration on the game. She'd looked fully aware of his thoughts then, too.

It was a game, Reuben knew it in his gut. Who would weaken first? By God, he'd wait her out no matter how long it took. With that decision made, he set a precedent that he was to follow for the rest of his life: Never make the first move. Watch your adversary and then go in for the kill, but only after that adversary has made the first move. The only thing that confused Reuben was that Mickey wasn't exactly an adversary. He also decided it didn't really matter how long he'd have to wait—because although she had begun the game, when it ended, he'd be the winner. In all games there was a winner and a loser. He would never, no matter what he'd have to do, be a loser.

After that, Reuben felt better. Having sorted it all out in his mind, he became an active player. When he walked behind Mickey's chair, he'd let his fingers trail along the back of her neck. When sitting beside her at the bridge table, he'd let his knee touch hers ever so slightly, and he wasn't quick to draw away—nor was she. Over the candlelight dinners he'd stare at her bosom and give her the sensuous smile he'd practiced in front of the mirror in his room. He'd watch her draw in her breath before he turned away. Another time he'd alluded to his sexual prowess, with Daniel egging him on. He'd seen a spark of anger in her eyes and grinned.

Just last evening when she'd come to peck him on the cheek, he'd turned swiftly so her lips met his. Her eyes had widened and she was the first to turn away, but not before Reuben had seen her body shudder. Hold out the bait and then yank it back was one choice piece of advice from George that seemed to be working. Fine for George to say, but his old buddy hadn't given any advice on how to get her to actually bite. Probably because it was assumed by all of them that Mickey herself would initiate everything from the beginning. Jesus, how wrong they'd all been.

 

“Today I feel we are like the Three Musketeers. Do either of you feel like that?” Mickey asked. They had been out walking for most of the afternoon in the crisp November air.

“When you are truly well,” she continued, speaking to both her companions with a broad smile, “we will motor to Gascony. D'Artagnan and his brave musketeers, even Cyrano de Bergerac, came from Gascony. You see, every day we learn something.” She looked directly at Reuben when she spoke. Instead of answering her, he gave her his practiced smile. Her eyes closed sleepily, then she reached for a flower and placed it gently between her breasts.

Daniel was oblivious to the byplay as he windmilled his arms. His cast had recently been taken off; movement was no longer limited. Now he could bathe himself and wet his entire body. The world he was living in felt good.