Sins of the Flesh (8 page)

Mickey shivered. Yvette was correct in her assumptions, she knew, yet she wanted to stop, to gather food for…Philippe. When she looked toward him in the darkness, he nodded his head to show he agreed with Yvette. With a sigh Mickey moved forward, keeping to the shadows of the village street. “We'll find food tomorrow, perhaps something left behind in someone's abandoned root cellar. Perhaps a fat frog or two as we get closer to the water.”

“How much farther to the château,
Maman?
” Philippe whispered.

“Another day and a half if we haven't lost our way,” Mickey whispered back. “Possibly sooner if we can travel by daylight. It is difficult to see familiar landmarks in the darkness. Are you tiring, Philippe?”

“No, of course not. It is you and Tante Yvette I am worried about. She showed me her blisters last evening. I don't know how she can walk.”

“She's walking because she has to. One does what one must do, Philippe. Always remember that. Neither I nor Yvette have any desire to be sliced to pieces by some dirty German's cursed bayonet. Nor do I want to see you marched off to some camp. We walk,” she said briskly.

They moved on steadily after that, so Mickey did not see the expression on Philippe's face at her last statement. At last he had a clue to his mother's innermost fears for him, he mused—she didn't want him to be marched off to some camp. There had been rumors, ugly, disquieting rumors, of some type of labor camps believed to be located inside Germany, established for the imprisonment of enemies to their country's ideals.

Suddenly, from nowhere, a thought surfaced that made his skin crawl. It was no secret that the Germans considered Jews a threat to their basic ideals—and he was a Jew. He stumbled and almost fell, then reassured Yvette with a wave of his hand as she looked back at him. In that instant he understood his mother's concern, if not her actions. He hoped she knew what she was doing.

 

They continued on for the next two days, stopping to rest, greedily picking at the sparse berries that lined the roadside. When they reached the crest of their village, Mickey held her hand up to slow Philippe and Yvette.

The town was strangely quiet, the streets empty of people. From her position at the top of the hill Mickey could see no sign of activity, French or German. Where were the people, the neighbors she knew by name and had shared meals with, sat next to in the village church? Had they left or were they hiding? The church—she looked to the end of the small town square where the old white church loomed, alone and solemn, its spire stretching upward as though in supplication. Where was the curé? Where were the children, the laughter, the dogs and cats that roamed? The silence was eerie and so total that she felt as though she could reach out to it. Philippe and Yvette joined her, looking down at the village.

“We're home, but I fear our friends and neighbors are gone. Listen to the stillness. Even the birds are quiet today.”

“A bad omen,” Yvette said tartly. “When the birds and small animals leave, it is a bad omen. Pay attention, Michelene.”

“I am, old friend. We have seen no Germans for three days. I think we are safe for the moment. Come,” she said, “we are going home.”

Mickey looked neither to the right nor to the left as she led her son and friend through the small main street. The sight of the boarded-up shops made her want to weep. She could smell the fear, probably because it was her own. Suddenly she turned, startled, when she heard her name called. She backed up a few steps to the
boulangerie
when she saw Monsieur LeForge waving to her. She walked over and embraced him. “It is good to see you again, old friend,” she said warmly. “Tell me, what has happened here? Where is everyone?”

“The men and the boys…most of them are gone. I was too old to…join the fight with them…. The others, they stay in their houses waiting for the sound of boots to come marching in. They said the soldiers will be here in another week or ten days. How did you get here, madame?”

“With the help of our countrymen. Thank you for being brave enough to greet us. You remember my friend Yvette and my son, Philippe?”

LeForge tipped his cap and smiled at Yvette. He looked long and silently at Philippe. “The boy is a man now.”

And he should be fighting with his countrymen, Mickey added silently, reading the old man's thoughts. Philippe began to speak, but Mickey stopped him. “We will wait…for word…. He will do what he can, as I will,” she said sharply. “We are patriots the same as every Frenchman.”

“Not all are patriots,” the old man snarled. “There are those among us who…Never mind, go. Go to your château and don't talk to anyone, that is the best advice I can give you.”

“And I will take it, old friend. Au revoir.”

 

It was less than a mile to the château. No word had been spoken as they approached their destination. Mickey felt the tension emanating from her son and was torn between the wonderful sight of her beloved estate, nestled in its ancient foliage and welcoming her home, and Philippe's obvious torment.

At the door Philippe uttered his first words through clenched teeth. “How long will we stay,
Maman?
”

“We shall see,” Mickey whispered.

The heavy doors creaked as Philippe shouldered them open. To Mickey's ears it was the loveliest sound in the world. She was home, safe at last to wait for Daniel. Surely God was on her side now, making sure they all stayed alive until her American friend came. And he would come. He had to come. Then and only then could she deal with Philippe.

Everything in the château was miraculously intact. Obviously no German had crossed this threshold.

“Philippe, see to the beds for us while Yvette and I find out if we have anything to eat. Come and join us in the kitchen as soon as you have done so.”

In the root cellar Mickey and Yvette gathered turnips and potatoes and boiled them with a large bunch of onions into a hearty, nourishing soup. As the fire warmed the kitchen, the two women bustled about chatting amiably. Ten minutes later Philippe joined them, carrying a second armful of fresh wood for the fire. There was no bread, but a vintage wine from the wine cellar accompanied the hasty meal and brought a sigh of contentment to their lips.

Mickey reached across the table and enclosed her son's hand with her own. “Philippe, you look exhausted, why don't you try to get some rest now. We can all think more clearly with food and rest. Go.”

“All right,
Maman
. Do you need anything else?”

“No. Yvette and I will be fine.”

“Bonsoir, Maman,
Tante.” Philippe rose heavily to his feet. The two women watched as he left the warmth of the kitchen. They looked at each other, eyes full of unspoken words when he was gone.

 

They sat side by side, soaking their blistered feet in a smelly concoction of water, oil, and herbs. An equally vile-smelling ointment would be applied once their feet were dried. “I don't know which is worse, the pain or the remedy,” Mickey said flatly.

Yvette grimaced. “What will we do if Philippe refuses to leave with Daniel? You must decide what will be said at that time, my friend.”

Yvette's words bolstered Mickey momentarily. Her friend was speaking positively about Daniel's arrival. “We'll deal with that if and when it happens,” she said quietly.

Yvette watched her friend's eyes fill with tears. “Do you see how he looks like his father?” Mickey murmured. “We've not been here for two years, and in just that amount of time the resemblance has settled onto him as if carved in granite.”

Yvette knew exactly what Mickey was saying. When they had all filed into the great room dominated by the portrait that had hung over the mantel for so many years, the fact was unmistakable. Philippe had stood in front of the painting, presented to his mother by his father and Uncle Daniel on Christmas Day 1918, and the likeness was uncanny.

“Yes, but did you see the way he turned his back on it? He won't leave you now. He believes you are his mother. That boy will never…Mickey, you will have to tell him the truth. Only then will he go.” Yvette's voice broke. “Then we will have only each other.”

Mickey swallowed past the lump in her throat. “It will be enough. What more can I ask than a loyal, lifelong friend? Together you and I will see France free again. I believe this, and so must you.

“Have you noticed something, Yvette?” Mickey continued thoughtfully. “Philippe has not been questioning us. I find that strange. He's always been obedient, but he does have a mind of his own. Do you suppose in some way he knows what is happening?”

“No, I don't think so. I think it was seeing Henri killed that made him so withdrawn. He's never seen death—and to witness his godfather slaughtered…” Yvette could barely speak as the tears flowed from her eyes. “Oh, Mickey, I saw his knees begin to give way under him. They…just kept shooting and shooting…for no reason. He was already gone.”

Mickey comforted her friend. “He walked in front of the commandant…he didn't know…they smashed his glasses and he couldn't see without them…He's in heaven, Yvette. He is watching over us with God. I think you're right about Philippe. I wanted to hide his eyes, to take him to my bosom, but he had to see what these animals are capable of.

“Yvette, I must make a confession. I know I said we would head south and try to cross the border to Spain, but once Philippe is gone…I cannot. I will head north again and join the underground. I'll go as far as the border with you and then I will go back.
Chérie
…tell me you understand.”

Yvette's eyes shone through her tears. “What I understand is that you are not going without me. How could you think, after what happened to Henri…and did you think for one moment that I believed your sorry story! I will fight as you fight. France will rise again and so will we.
Vive La France!
” she cried passionately, embracing Mickey.

“It's settled, then,” Mickey said. “As soon as…as soon as Philippe leaves…we'll go north. I have a map with a number of safe houses marked which contain wireless equipment.”

“How soon do you…when do you expect Daniel?”

“If he can get here, any day now. I had hoped he would be here waiting for us. He won't go to Paris, he'll find his way here…I know he will. I feel this in my heart.”

“We will wait for your friend.”

“Yes. It is all we can do.”

Reuben stepped off the plane at Dulles Airport, his eyes behind dark glasses, searching out a redcap. When he spotted one some twenty feet away, his long-legged stride picked up momentum. Two young men, bent on securing the same porter, came to a grinding halt when they noticed the grim set of Reuben's jaw as he peeled off two twenty-dollar bills and handed them to the redcap along with his baggage ticket. “See that my bags are taken to the Ambassador. The name is Tarz.” Without a second look at the porter or the hapless young men, he turned on his heel and commandeered a taxi, shouldering a businessman and a middle-aged woman out of the way as he did so. On most occasions Reuben was courteous, but today wasn't a normal occasion; today was the day he was going to find out where Daniel was and what was going on. He barked out Daniel's address on K Street to the driver before settling back against the worn seat cushions.

During the long trip from California Reuben had rehearsed what he would say when he opened the door to Daniel's offices. Each introduction had been rejected as he sought for just the right words to say in front of Daniel's two friends. When they were over Missouri he'd decided to say whatever he damn well felt like saying; Daniel's snooty friends could either take it or lump it. If he had to, he would camp in the goddamn office until word came from Daniel. He was angry, angrier than he'd ever been in his life, and most of the anger, he knew, was misdirected. Instead of venting his frustration on Daniel's friends, he should be taking it out on Daniel.

Reuben felt a wave of self-pity wash over him. Daniel wouldn't be where he was today if it weren't for him, and who did his friend turn to when he found himself in trouble? His rich Harvard buddies, that's who.
He'd
made sure Daniel got to Harvard, footed the bills, saved his life during the war, made sure he recovered at the château. Daniel had studied at the Sorbonne because of him, regained his health and eyesight because of him, lived off
his
bounty, and by God, the first time he stepped his foot into something sticky he called on other friends!

It was these “other friends,” the ones keeping Daniel's affairs a secret, that rankled more than anything. He hadn't much liked Rocky and Jerry, but he would have cut out his tongue before he admitted it to Daniel. Upper crust, born with a silver spoon in their mouths, money handed to them on gold platters. Rich spoiled brats who had turned into rich arrogant businessmen who traded on their families' golden social-register names. The only thing the three of them had in common was business, their professions, whereas he and Daniel were brothers, joined at the hip through the experiences of a lifetime. There was a world of difference.

Reuben knew he was jealous; it was a fact he accepted and hated at the same time.

“This is it, mister,” the driver said, sliding his cab to the curb.

Reuben stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the building that housed Daniel's offices, a building Daniel owned, thanks again to Mickey. The deed had been presented to him the day he'd graduated from Harvard Law School by a pompous attorney from the Morgan Guaranty Bank, Mickey's American bankers in New York.

Reuben had been here only once, for the guided tour, as Daniel put it. The suite of offices that belonged to Daniel's firm suited him as no other could. The wainscoted walls; the polished oak floors; the smell of rich leather; soft, comfortable furnishings; assorted academic certificates on the walls—all were indicative of Daniel Bishop. It was a lucrative building that housed other professionals: doctors, accountants, other lawyers, and several consulting firms, all paying rent to Daniel.

Reuben thrashed his way to the second floor and marched into Daniel's outer office, stormed past Irene, and barreled on through to Daniel's private offices. Irene gave a startled gasp and was half on and half off her chair about to protest until she got a good look at who was doing the storming.

Rocky was on his feet the moment Reuben entered the room. Both men eyeballed each other for a full five seconds. Then Reuben extended his hand; Rocky reached for it. Perspiration beaded Rocky's brow, but he would have died before he relaxed the bone-crushing grip Reuben was forcing on him. He wished he was wearing dark glasses like Reuben's. The man was intimidating as hell; he hadn't remembered that. Maybe it was the dark glasses that were giving him an alien, predatory look. When Reuben finally removed the dark glasses, Rocky realized he was still intimidated. This guy didn't like him, and never had. Obviously he didn't approve of his heritage and all the crap that went with blue-blood families. “I still haven't heard anything. Sit down, Mr. Tarz,” he said evenly.

“I decided California was too far away to wait for news. News that I know you have and aren't sharing with me,” Reuben said icily. “I'll just camp out here and…wait.”

Rocky swallowed as he tried to clear his throat. “Suit yourself, but it's boring as hell sitting around a lawyer's office. If you want, I can give you a book on torts that's kind of lively.” He jammed his hands into his trouser pockets as Reuben put the dark glasses back on. Suddenly Rocky couldn't help himself: “Do…ah…do you wear those”—he pointed to the glasses—“all the time?”

“Only when I don't like what I'm forced to look at,” Reuben snapped.

“Why don't we just cut all this crap and get to the heart of the matter,” Rocky said, finally exploding with indignation. “You don't like it and I don't like it. I'm here because Daniel asked me. You're here because you and Daniel go way back. That's good, I understand that. What
you
don't understand is I can't tell you anything. Jesus Christ, if I could, I would. I closed my own office to come here; Jerry did the same. We're waiting just like you.”

“For what?” Reuben bellowed.

“For Daniel to call,” Rocky bellowed back. “Look, if you want me to come up with some cockamamie story, I can do that; we lawyers are real good at cockamamie stories because we get them from clients all the time.”

“I'll settle for the truth; try that on for size,” Reuben grated.

“Why don't we try this on for size,” Rocky said. “You don't like me and you don't like what I come from; ditto for Jerry. You and Daniel came up the hard way, and anyone who isn't cut from the same bolt of cloth is no damn good. Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Fairmont. Jerry and I graduated in the top 3 percent of our class right along with Daniel. Believe it or not, we do have brains and we use them from time to time. I consider Daniel a friend, as you do. I know, I accepted a long time ago that you're first with Daniel. Jerry and I are poor seconds compared to you. All through law school all Daniel did was talk about you and what a great guy you were. He would have died for you, did you know that? He would have goddamned died for you if you asked it of him. Do you remember all that money you used to send him; did he ever tell you what he did with it? No, I bet he didn't. He loaned it to us, me and Jerry. Of course, we always paid it back, but the bulk of it was given to other students who had piss to live on. He used to say he felt guilty taking so much from you. I'll bet you five hundred dollars you didn't know he waited on tables for his own spending money. Did you ever see the…the fucking ledger he kept for you? Ah, even behind those dark shades I see you don't know about it. Well, here, Mr. Hollywood, take a look at this!” Rocky said, pulling an accountant's ledger from one of the desk drawers. “All the money you sent him, the spending money, the tuition, the gifts; they're all recorded, and do you see the next column? Those numbers represent what he paid out to, let's say, lesser fortunates because he knew you wouldn't take a penny in paybacks. That third column is the money he earned waiting tables. That big red zero at the bottom of the third page means the debt is paid in full. Here's the book on torts. Sit on it, read it, chew it up, I don't give a shit, but I gave my word to Daniel I would handle this office, and I can't do it with you sitting here glaring at me from behind those damn glasses. The waiting room is all yours!”

“That was a wonderful testimonial, and I thank you for it. Now tell me where the hell Daniel is or I'm going to punch your fucking lights out right now!” Reuben said, standing up, towering over Rocky.

“Try it,” Rocky almost shouted, “and I'll have your ass in jail in five minutes.”

“Is that any way to talk to a client?” Reuben drawled, trying to keep his temper in check.

“You aren't my client!”

“Sure I am. Irene,” he bellowed, “come in here! Take this hundred dollars and enter it in the books. I've just hired Mr. Rockefeller to handle some business for me. And when you record it, mark down the time.” Reuben looked at his watch. “I gave it to him twenty minutes ago. I want a receipt, too.” Three minutes later Reuben pocketed his receipt.

“Where were we? Oh, yes, I was going to punch your lights out and you were going to land my ass in jail. Now, where's Daniel?”

“Okay, okay, but you damn well better tell Daniel you beat it out of me. Get comfortable, because you aren't going to like any of it. And before you start threatening me, just remember that this is the way Daniel wanted it…. You want a drink or something?”

“No, I don't want a drink. I want to know where Daniel is.”

“Daniel's in France. At least we hope he is. That woman you both knew in Paris, Mickey, she called Daniel on the Fourth of July and asked him to go over there and help her bring someone here to the States. Jerry and I tried to talk him out of it, but you know Daniel. He said he owed her part of his life and he had to go. We told him to call you, but he said this…this trip had something to do with you and he couldn't tell you. We got him over there on one of our planes, at least as far as England, and from there he was taking a Red Cross plane to someplace close; hell, I don't know where, it was sort of a momentary thing, whatever would be best when he set down. We haven't heard a word since. We gave him all the cash we could scrape up, and Jerry gave him a bag of diamonds. Look, you would have done the same thing we did if he'd asked you. We offered to go along, but he said it was something he had to do himself. Now, that's all I know.”

Reuben digested the information, his heart thundering in his chest. “There's a war going on. How could you let him go?” he asked in a sick voice.

“Mr. Tarz,” Rocky said, sounding equally disturbed, “a team of Clydesdales couldn't have prevented him from going. We tried to talk him out of it, begged him to call you, but he was determined. If we hadn't helped him, he would have found someone else. For the first time in our lives, Jerry and I took advantage of our families and got him the plane and made the connections for him. At least we had a little control. I wish to God he hadn't gone. We should have heard something by now,” he finished uneasily.

“I don't believe he…what if…” Reuben's voice trembled with shock at Daniel's behavior and the possible ramifications. God!

“Is it Mickey he's bringing back?” he asked in a whisper. It would make sense for Daniel to go to Mickey's aid; anything else was sheer folly on his part.

“I don't think so. Jerry and I tried to figure it out after Daniel left, but we couldn't come up with anything. None of us knows who he's supposed to be bringing here. Someone this Mickey wants kept safe and someone you obviously know.”

Rocky rose from his position behind the desk. “Tarz, I know the sun isn't over the yardarm yet, but I feel like a drink, and you look like you could use one. What say we bury the hatchet, at least for now, and drink our lunch. There's a pub three doors away.”

“I'll buy,” Reuben said, getting to his feet.

Rocky knew it was the closest he would get to an apology, and he accepted the offer good-naturedly. “Irene, we'll be at the pub,” he called out. “You come running if there's word from England or Daniel. Call Jerry and tell him to join us. The hell with business. By the way, Tarz, do you want your hundred dollars back?”

Reuben shook his head. “Hell no. I still might decide to flatten your keister, and if I do, it'll look better if I'm your client.”

“Then you're paying for
all
the drinks,” Rocky grumbled.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Reuben mumbled as they made their way out of the office.

It was 11:35 when they walked into Stella's Pub. Jerry joined them at 12:05. By one o'clock the three men had finished off their third pitcher of beer, to Stella's dismay, at which point Jerry opened his briefcase, took out a quart flask, and set it on the table. “This, gentlemen, is the finest of fine liquors. It's in this flask because it eats through glass. My daddy got it from a grateful client moons ago. Kentucky moonshine with the kick of a mule. Two hundred proof, maybe more. Stella, we need some ice water over here!”

Their first toast was to Daniel, their second to the Kentucky moonshiner, their third to Stella, and the fourth and fifth were for the Washington Monument and the White House.

“If anyone lights a match, the three of them will blow up,” Stella hissed to the bartender.

“It's empty,” Jerry said, peering into the flask.

“You're rich, buy another one.” Reuben guffawed.

“Champagne, Stella, your finest!” Rocky demanded.

“Two bottles,” Jerry echoed.

“Three!” Reuben yelled, not to be outdone by the Harvard boys.

Rocky hiccoughed. “What we need are three virgins. Stella, we—”

“We don't have any,” Stella shot back. Reuben snorted drunkenly. It sounded like a good way to end an afternoon.

“On the count of three, gentlemen, uncork your bottles, and the first drink is for Daniel Bishop, a hell of a guy!” Jerry yelled, jumping up on the table, his shirt half out of his trousers and his tie askew.

At two o'clock they toasted Daniel's imminent arrival. At 2:15 they toasted his belated arrival. At 2:30 they uncorked fresh bottles of champagne and toasted the Three Musketeers, at which point Reuben upended the table, along with Rocky and Jerry. “Don't make that toast again.” He hiccoughed drunkenly. By 3:15 they had Daniel dead and ready to be buried, and all three were blubbering into their champagne as each offered his own version of a eulogy.