Sins of the Flesh (12 page)

“Of course, Mickey, whatever you want. As for the diamonds, fortune or not, you will need them before this is all over. Now, m'lady, I think I'll have that bath,” Daniel said, striving for a light tone.

“Like old times, eh?” Mickey said, smiling. “Oh, Daniel, I prayed you would come. I almost wore out my rosary. Seeing you like this has wiped the years away. If only the circumstances were…Daniel, I…”

“Shhh.” Daniel took her in his arms. “Everything is going to be fine.” On this end, anyway, he thought. As he cradled her dark head, he crooned softly, rocking sideways on his heels. “When we first got back to America I would play a game with myself if I couldn't fall asleep. I'd picture this château and try to imagine where everything was. I had it down so pat, I knew every nook and cranny. It was so wonderful walking in here and seeing that memory come alive again. We were all so happy here. I never wanted it to end. I've never felt that same kind of happiness since then.”

“Until Bebe came,” Mickey said sadly.

“Until Bebe came,” Daniel agreed. “Come with me and talk while I have my bath, for once I'm asleep I will be dead and then it will be time to leave. I want to hear everything, every little detail of what went on since I left here. Jake, I have to know what happened to Jake. God, so many times…”

While Daniel soaped himself over and over, Mickey sat on a stool, her eyes averted discreetly. She talked nonstop until she was hoarse, leaving her story of Jake till last. “Our little Jake was a hero, Daniel. He saved Philippe's life, what do you think of that!”

“The hell, you say! Everything, don't leave out one piddle, one paw print,” Daniel cried excitedly.

“In the beginning he missed you terribly when I sent him to Yvette's farm. There were many girl dogs that he made happy, and he finally settled into a blissful routine. Philippe was almost a year old when he came down with pneumonia. We sat up around the clock, taking turns, Yvette, Henri, and myself, and, of course, the doctor. The doctor had just about given up hope. It was my turn to sit up with Philippe, and I'd gone almost a week without sleep. Several days before, Yvette had brought Jake over for company. He stayed by the door, never venturing anywhere near my chair or the baby's bed. I guess I dozed off and Philippe started to choke. I didn't hear him. Jake jumped all over me, woke me up, and, as they say in America, I got to Philippe in the nick of time. Jake was a hero. He'd sat so long, guarding us both that no one thought to let the poor thing out to do his business. Once he saw the baby was safe, he peed on the rocking chair. We gave him some sugar cookies for his bravery beyond the call of duty. He and Philippe were inseparable after that. He was fourteen when he died and Yvette, Henri, and myself gave him a warrior's funeral. Henri said a blessing. No human's passing was more grieved. Philippe wasn't himself for months afterward, none of us were. He did leave a legacy, however, a pup named Dolly, but she died having her first litter. Philippe wouldn't take one, though. Even now I cry when I think about it. He…he…Jake, I mean…used to go to your room and…and sniff about, picking up your scent. When he did he would…he would just lay there…his eyes so big and sad…I'd talk to him about you…but I don't know if he understood, and then one day I was cleaning the room you had while you stayed here and I found a sweater that you left behind. I made a bed for Jake and put it in as a blanket. It…it's still in the closet….” Mickey howled her grief then, and Daniel joined her.

Alone in his old room, Daniel shed his towel and dressed in the clothes Yvette had placed on his bed, his eyes centered on the closet door all the while he dressed. Unable to bear it another second, he pulled open the door and stared down at the wicker basket that held his old gray wool sweater. He dropped to his knees. He reached for the sweater, bringing it to his cheeks. His touch was reverent as he plucked several dog hairs from the collar. “Oh, Jake, Jesus…Oh, God, Jake, I didn't want to leave you…Oh, Jesus,” he blubbered, hunkering down…the sweater a lifeline to his past. He slept then, on the floor, his sweater with Jake's scent, after all these years, against his cheek.

 

“It's time to wake Daniel,” Yvette said quietly. “It's almost dark, Mickey. Do you have everything ready?” Mickey nodded. “This is wrong, Michelene,” Yvette continued. She used Mickey's Christian name only when she wanted to make a point. “You should have told Philippe before…. This is…it's wrong. Now there's no time for fancy words. You'll have to blurt it all out and send him away in an eye's wink. This is not going to be pleasant,” she said ominously.

“Philippe knows he's going. He's pretending he doesn't know….” Mickey called him then and he came to her, his face cold and frightening. “It's time to…Do you have everything ready?”

“I'm not leaving,” the boy said defiantly, tears shimmering in his eyes.

“We've been through this a hundred times. You must leave. I am not giving you a choice; I'm telling you you must go with Daniel. I don't wish an argument, Philippe, this is hard enough as it is. I don't want to carry your angry face with me to Spain. I must know you are safe and sound in America with your father.”

“You seem to forget,
Maman,
that I am no longer a child. You may ask me to leave, but you cannot order me to do so. I'm an adult now, and I don't want to see my father. I begged you not to call Daniel Bishop. I'm too big to spank, so what will you do?”

For the first time since leaving Paris, Mickey felt the cold prickle of true fear. “So, this is what I raised you for, to defy me to my face. Is this the son I raised? You are not of age, Philippe, and you will do as I say when I say it, and I say you are going with Daniel. Not one more word!” she shrilled.

“I mean no disrespect,” Philippe blurted out. “But I can't leave you. Who will look after you and Yvette?”

“We've been looking after ourselves for a very long time, and we can continue to do so. I love you more than life, and I wouldn't send you away like this if I…It's for your own good. It's time I turned you over to your father.”

“I'm not going, and I hate him. Why isn't he here instead of that man upstairs?” Philippe said.

Yvette stepped forward purposefully. “Enough, Michelene, it grows late. Tell him now and be done with it!”

“Tell me what?” the boy blustered, his eyes fearful.

“The truth,” Yvette answered for Mickey. “You should have been told years ago, but your mother loved you too much. Too much, eh, Michelene? Now either you tell him or I will. We have no time for this!”

Philippe sat down. “Somebody better tell me or it will take what's left of the French Army to move me from this room,” he said belligerently.

“Why don't I tell him,” Daniel said quietly from the doorway.

“No, I will,” Mickey replied. She held her son's eyes with her own and spoke softly, haltingly. “I'm not your mother, Philippe, your real mother…I…it's true that I raised you from birth and I…loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you. For reasons…”

“Bah, tell him! He's a man, he says; he can stand to hear the truth,” Yvette stormed. “Your mother…Bebe Rosen was young when she gave birth to you. She told us to throw you out with the garbage; she wanted no part of you. She gave birth to you and walked away. Mickey took you and raised you. Your real mother is married to your father, and as far as we know, he knows nothing of your existence. That's the beginning and end of it. There is no place for you here; you're Jewish and you belong in America with your parents.”

Mickey looked helplessly from her friend to Philippe and back again. “Yvette, surely there was a better way of…Philippe, I am so sorry; I've wanted to tell you so many times. As Yvette says, this is the beginning and the end of it. There's no place here for you now. You must leave. Your parents will see to you once you reach America.”

Seeing Philippe struggling for words to lash out at his mother, Yvette stepped into the foray again. “There is no time for recriminations. Daniel must leave in fifteen minutes. They won't wait for you. Kiss your mother, Philippe, and bite your tongue if you are thinking harsh thoughts.”

Philippe struggled with his emotions. He'd heard all the words, had watched his mother's face, felt her pain on top of his own. And it was true: he had no choice; he had to go with the American. A sob caught in his throat when he took his mother in his arms. “I'll be back,” he whispered. She clung to him, and it was Philippe who gently removed her arms.

He embraced Yvette and again whispered, “Take care of her. And that tongue of yours is the devil's own.”

Then he was at the door, watching as Daniel wrapped both Yvette and Mickey in his arms. Mickey handed him a thick packet, which he stuffed inside his shirt. “How will we know if you are safe?” she asked.

“Your Red Cross. If we can, we'll get word to them.”

“Take care of my son, Daniel, he's all I have left. Tell Reuben I entrust him to his good care. Au revoir, my friend.”

“There is no more time, Mr. Bishop,” Philippe called from the doorway.

When the door closed behind them, Mickey fell into Yvette's arms. “Why can't I cry?” she asked brokenly.

“Because you did the right thing, and Philippe knows it, too. He was never yours to keep, Mickey. You had him…on loan. Come, we must get ready ourselves.”

“Yvette, I…I will go with you to the…But I'm not going to cross over. I'm staying here. I spoke to the curé yesterday, and there are people waiting for me two kilometers south of here. I'm—”

“Joining the Resistance. Yes, I know. I said I would join you. What would I do in Spain by myself? I'm too old to fight bulls. They will take us, these Resistance leaders? What can we do? We're old women.”

“
Chérie,
we're not
that
old,” Mickey said with a touch of her old sparkle. “We made it here on our own from Paris; that says a lot about our stamina and our will to live. We'll be an asset to the Resistance. Come, my friend, we must start our new life so that someday we can come back here in peace.”

Yvette's eyes darkened. In her heart she knew she'd never see this château again or the farm where she'd been so happy. “Yes, peace. I'm ready if you are, Michelene.”

Mickey smiled. Together they walked away from the château into the waiting arms of the Resistance.

Reuben sat alone in his empty hotel suite, a pot of coffee at his elbow and the morning newspaper, compliments of the hotel, spread out before him. The news from Europe was horrifying, and it wasn't getting better; if anything, the war was accelerating. Who in the goddamn hell was this paperhanger marching all over Europe? And because of this son of a bitch Mickey's life was in danger; he could sense it in every pore of his body. Reading the paper first thing in the morning rendered him helpless, and if there was one thing Reuben detested, it was being locked in a situation over which he had no control.

Angrily he spread the paper across the small round table, searching for the comics. But today even Li'l Abner and Dick Tracy couldn't make him smile. So he finished the coffee in the pot and chain-smoked until his cigarettes were gone, which meant he had to leave the suite and walk about Washington as he'd been doing for the past three weeks. By now he loathed the city. At one point, when his anger was at its peak, he'd stood outside the White House shaking his fist at the massive white building. That was when he'd decided that the country was being run by a bunch of ineffectual assholes. He'd also made the mental commitment to produce a film depicting Washington politics.

Now, as he walked along the streets of Washington, Reuben tested the anger he was holding in check by forcing himself to nod or smile at total strangers. Christ, he felt so goddamn useless! Like a tourist, he'd seen everything the city had to offer, some parts of it twice. And he hated it all—the Washington Monument, and the Lincoln Memorial with all its stone steps.

Colonial America, only six miles from Washington on the west bank of the Potomac in Alexandria, had taken up another few hours. He'd had no interest in the town's history; the trek was simply a way to kill time, as was the tour of the White House.

It was cool here in the park, but he was too jittery to appreciate it. There should be news of Daniel by now. Abruptly he rose and ran out of the park, rounding the corner onto Kilbourne Place and on up to Mt. Pleasant Avenue, where he hopped on the trolley that would take him downtown to Daniel's office.

Rocky's face showed the same signs of stress as his own. Without a word he shook his head wearily. Reuben turned on his heel and left the office, Irene's sniffling loud in his ears.

Ten more days passed before the phone rang in Reuben's suite of rooms. Daniel, Rocky said, was back safe and sound, and, no, he himself hadn't seen him, but he was at his house in Georgetown and Reuben was to go there at nine o'clock.

It was twenty minutes to five when Reuben replaced the phone in its cradle. Daniel was safe and sound. Closing his eyes, he offered up a prayer that Mickey was with him. After all these years…What would she think of him? Would she be as beautiful? Of course she would; hers was a timeless beauty. Daniel, you son of a gun, you made it there and back in the middle of a war. It had to be Mickey. Who else could it be?

Reuben stepped into the shower, whistling as he soaped himself from top to bottom. Mickey, Mickey, Mickey…The new Brooks Brothers suit he'd purchased several days earlier would be perfect for this first meeting. The crisp white shirt and new tie made him look distinguished. The light suntan he affected complemented the whole of him, as did his favorite after-shave. He was ready.

 

Daniel was bone weary and in need of a bath and shave when he escorted Philippe into his Georgetown house. It was cool indoors; the front rooms were shaded by a mighty elm outside the front door.

It was an unattractive house, long and narrow with thin windows, an impossible house to decorate, but Rajean had wanted it, insisted they buy it because so many of the “right people” lived in the area. There was nothing comfortable about it, but then, that could be Rajean's fault as well. The drapes, the carpeting, the furniture, all were in various shades of Wedgwood blue, a color he found depressing. Long ago he'd given up hope of finding sun, comfort, and warmth in this house. He'd also given up on his marriage.

His wife and daughter were back from Fire Island. Always sensitive to sounds and smells, he knew Nellie was outside in the small walled courtyard and he knew Rajean was probably upstairs in their crazy-shaped bedroom. He turned to look at Philippe, who was staring at a painting of Nellie over the mantel. “That's my stepdaughter, Nellie,” Daniel said in a tired voice. “She was only thirteen when it was done.”

“She's very beautiful,” Philippe said carefully.

“Yes, she is, and she's beautiful inside as well, much like
your
mother. In fact, she reminds me of Mickey in a lot of ways. Come along, she's probably in the garden; it's her favorite spot.”

Philippe followed Daniel, wondering how it was possible to live in such finite rooms. The echo their footsteps created startled him. Later he would have to figure out what caused the echo.

“Nellie, are you out there?” Daniel called.

“Oh, Daddy, you're home. How wonderful! We just got here today ourselves.” Noticing Philippe for the first time, Nellie smiled what Daniel always called her holiday smile. “You've been gone so long I was going to send the state troopers out to look for you.” She nudged her father, which meant he should hurry and introduce her to the handsome young man standing next to him. “Nellie, this is Philippe Bouchet. Philippe, my daughter, Nellie.”

“I'm pleased to meet you,” Philippe said in his perfect English, his eyes never leaving her face.

“I'm just as pleased. Daddy never brings home anyone but stuffy lawyers,” Nellie said, giggling. She winked at her father.

“Do me a favor, honey, show Philippe to his room; he's going to be staying with us a day or so. I have some things to take care of in my office. Is your mother home?” he asked.

“She was, but she went back to the station; the car wouldn't start so she's having it towed, and she said she wanted to stop by the market since there's nothing to eat in the house. She should be home soon.”

Nellie led the way up to the second floor, the staircase as skinny and narrow as the rest of the house. Philippe liked the flash of her long, tanned legs and the skimpy pink playsuit she wore. She had to be around his age, he decided. Pretty. No, he corrected himself, she was beautiful, with eyes the color of a spring meadow and ripe golden hair, the kind he'd like to run his hands through. He forgot then about the girl he'd kissed so often at the Sorbonne.

“This is your room, and you can share the bath with me, it's next door. It has a lock,” she added hastily. “Towels are on a shelf and soap is under the sink. Where are you from, Philippe?”

“France,” Philippe replied, looking around the cramped room. Surely even a prison cell was bigger.

“If you're as tired as Daddy looks, I guess you want a bath and a nap. I'm sure we're going to have dinner, but knowing Mother, it might just be sandwiches or something. We've been on Fire Island for the past few weeks. The larder is bare.”

“I'm not hungry, but yes, I would like a bath and…A bath would be fine.”

Nellie prided herself on correctly reading people's emotions, a trait she'd picked up at an early age, mainly due to her mother. “You look tired, but you also look…angry. Is something wrong?”

Philippe smiled and Nellie blinked. She stepped backward. “Sorry, you…you reminded me of someone just now when you smiled.”

“And here I thought I was an individual in my own right. Whom do I remind you of?” Philippe asked lightly.

“My uncle Reuben. He's not my uncle, but he and Daddy have been friends all their lives, or almost. I call him ‘uncle' out of respect. It's uncanny how much you look like him. You have a nice smile,” she said coolly.

Philippe Bouchet, alias Philip Tarz, felt his heart melt and knew he was going to fall in love with the green-eyed, golden-haired girl. “Reuben Tarz is my father,” he said quietly, so quietly Nellie had to step forward to hear him.

“Oh, how wonderful!” No, it wasn't wonderful at all, she decided when she saw the scowl on Philippe's face. “Uncle Reuben is giving me a job in the production offices at the studio in Hollywood. My parents agreed to let me put off college for a year to see if this is something I really am suited for. Will you be working there, too?”

The scowl left Philippe's face and he laughed, a deep, rich sound that sent goose bumps up and down Nellie's arms. “I guess so, I own half the studio.”

“How nice…what I mean is…we might…work together. I don't know a thing about producing films, but I'm eager to learn. I…I'll see you…later.”

“Yes, later.” Philippe smiled.

At the top of the narrow staircase Nellie smacked her hands gleefully. They would be working at the same studio, which meant they would see each other…often, if she had anything to say about it. Lord, he was a handsome devil…rich…and nice…rich…and charming…and…rich…Uncle Reuben's son…richer still. She decided she wasn't even going to speculate on what
that
meant.

Nellie headed for the kitchen. It would be up to her to fix something for dinner if they were going to eat. Her mother was absolutely worthless when it came to cooking, not that she was much better, but at least she knew how to make tuna and egg salad.

The cupboards were bare of the essentials she needed to whip something together. There was a can of tuna fish, but there was no mayonnaise, celery, onions, or bread, and no vegetables for a salad. Even though her mother was stopping by the market, she knew none of those ingredients would be on her list. Her mother bought things like canned artichokes, plums in brandy sauce, and jarred wieners in some kind of brine.

Five minutes later Nellie was on her old bicycle, pedaling her way to the market. In thirty minutes she returned to find Philippe sitting in the kitchen sipping Coca-Cola from a bottle. Her cheeks grew warm as she set about removing the groceries from the bag.

Philippe watched her quick, sure movements. “You have no servants here?” he asked. Surely Daniel Bishop earned enough money as an attorney to provide at least a cook, and the mother, why wasn't she in the kitchen instead of this young girl?

“Not really,” Nellie replied. “We used to have a day person, but my mother…I don't know, they come and go. My mother is…she doesn't…”

“She doesn't cook.” Philippe smiled.

“Not very well,” Nellie said truthfully.

While they talked then of everything and nothing, Daniel sat in the library and pored over the packet of papers Mickey had entrusted to his care. The papers smelled musty and old, and, of course, some of them were old, like Philippe's two birth certificates, his two passports, and the stock certificate from Fairmont Studios. Bemused, he moved them aside to concentrate on the letter addressed to him in Mickey's neat handwriting. The letter to Reuben he placed well out of reach. Inside his envelope were two pieces of paper. When he realized what he held in his hand, he felt light-headed. Quickly he read the short note.

“Son of a bitch!” Daniel exploded, then turned at the sound of heels on the terra-cotta floor. “Oh, Rajean. I didn't hear you come in,” he said. “We have a guest. Do you think you could stir yourself sufficiently to make something for dinner?”

“I believe Nellie has it under control,” Rajean replied indifferently. “She's making tuna salad. I'm not hungry, so, if you don't mind, I won't be joining you.”

“I don't mind at all,” Daniel snapped. “I can't remember the last time you cooked or sat down at the table with your family.” This wasn't the time to argue, Daniel reminded himself, not with the boy downstairs and Reuben due to arrive in a few hours. Confrontations with Rajean always unnerved him, so much so that he had difficulty concentrating. And today he was just too damn tired to put up with her crap.

“Is it my fault I can't find competent help?” Rajean countered plaintively. “Surely you don't expect me to clean and cook. I didn't get married to be a slave to you, Daniel. And for God's sake, where did you get those clothes you're wearing? You are smelling up this bedroom.” She held her nose with two long, painted nails to make her point.

“Then leave,” Daniel said succinctly. “The only reason you can't find competent help is because you steal half their wages. I personally called Alice, and do you know what the woman's daughter told me? That her mother couldn't work for ‘coolie wages.' Coolie wages, Rajean! You didn't fire her, she quit. And where is the money? Half, you stole half of Alice's money. You helped yourself to Nellie's bank account, and still it wasn't enough. Tomorrow your charge accounts are getting cut off. I will hire a housekeeper and I will pay her. You will get an allowance, and that is all you will get. I'm having an accountant go over the house bills, and when I have the totals, you damn well better have some answers, so if anyone is moving out of this room because of my smelly clothes, it will be you.”

“You can't do that!” Rajean snapped. “How will that look? I have to keep up appearances.”

“For whom?
I
never see you in anything but your slippers and robe. Who are all those fancy clothes for? I'm warning you, I'm going over the bills with a fine-tooth comb, and you damn well better have answers.” With that he stalked into the adjoining bathroom, slamming the door behind him.