Sins of Omission

by Fern Michaels

  If he felt fear beyond the possibility of Daniel’s blindness, it was of his obligation to Madame Mickey. Reuben had never slept with a woman. He’d done all the touching and feeling that was allowed, but that was as far as he’d ever gotten. Back in New York he had few opportunities to meet girls, girls who would bother with him, at any rate. Empty pockets and hard times weren’t attractive assets as far as women were concerned. And he would never pay for the pleasure, not like some guys who saved their pennies for a roll between dirty sheets. Not Reuben Tarz. Not when having shoes with decent soles and a new shirt every so often were more lasting pleasures. It was only since joining the army that the opportunity for women had presented itself. Now, as a respectable doughboy, clean shaven and adequately clothed, he’d blended into the ranks with hundreds of thousands of other faceless men. The army, the great equalizer. But so far, every time he’d been presented with an opportunity to be with a woman, he’d either been shipped out prematurely or the old familiar empty-pocket problem had dead-ended him.

  This was the reason he’d listened to George, even while pretending his advice was old news to him. And if it was true that Madame Mickey thought of herself as a teacher, then she would just have to show him what she wanted. He was very good at following orders and keeping his mouth shut. The sharp rap of nurses’ heels clicking down the corridors echoed off the well-scrubbed bare wooden floors of the hospital. The familiar odor of pine tar cleaner, bloody bandages, and human sweat assaulted Reuben’s nostrils. It was a stink he never wanted to experience again once he left this place. Hushed sounds, the low whispers, the rattling of trays and rolling of wheels almost distracted one from the smell. Starched white aprons, sunlight streaming through the tall windows lining the gallery, the officious steps of the doctors, all were underlined by the insidious presence of suffering. Suffering and pain were the masters here, vying for the weak human flesh that was dragged in from the battlefields. Suffering and pain.

  Reuben shook his head to clear his thoughts when the nurse instructed him to lie flat on the gurney while drops were put into his eyes. Today his eyes felt rough and scratchy, and he found himself worrying. But instead of voicing his concerns to the doctor, he kept quiet. He was never one to look for trouble. If it found him, that was a different matter.

  “You know the routine, Private. Lie still so you don’t disturb the compresses,” the American staff doctor reminded him. “One of the nurses will be checking on you every so often.”

  Stretched out fully on his back, his head slightly lower than his shoulders, Reuben was inundated with sounds and impressions. Quick steps, the movements of a cart in the hallway, voices that were too far away to recognize, and words that were too hushed to decipher.

  Even before she entered the doorway to the confined treatment room, he was aware of her perfume. It was a heady, intoxicating scent, completely feminine, and it did strange things to him.

  Her voice was low, close to a whisper, filled with a thrilling warmth. “Ah, chéri. The doctors told me you were here.” She bent to kiss him lightly on the cheek. Reuben smiled, pleased with her throaty laugh. Remembering George’s advice, he attempted a casual tone. Instead, his voice came out as uninterested and bored. “You’re early, aren’t you?”

  “But of course, chéri, but only because I am so eager to move you and your friend to my château. I have a wonderful dinner planned for the three of us. Special wine from my vineyard, roast duckling, new potatoes, and fresh vegetables. Dessert will be apple tart with heavy rich cream from my dairy…for you. Tell me, what do you prefer?” There was a girlish eagerness to her voice when she sought his approval.

  The best Reuben could manage was a weak “That sounds fine.” How was it that this woman managed to make him feel as if he were twelve years old and had just caught sight of a girl’s bloomers for the first time? He was grateful for the heavy blanket the nurse had thrown over him, even though it barely hid his growing erection. Madame Mickey seemed to fill the small cubicle—not her size, but her presence. Although she was standing beside his gurney, not touching him except for that brief kiss, his every pore was aware of her, all of his senses seemed to be filled with her. It was a sensation he had had before when she had come to visit him, asking after his health in that strangely husky, sensuous voice of hers. Early on he’d discovered how it had the amazing ability to sound maternal and whorish at the same time.

  “Poor darling,” Madame Mickey said softly, “does it hurt?” Her tone was solicitous and personal, but he wasn’t certain she was asking about the compresses on his eyes or the erection, full-fledged beneath the blanket.

  “I dressed especially for you and for Daniel,” she said lightly. “When your compresses are removed you will see the lovely colors I am wearing.” She hesitated a moment, as if she were changing her mind, then whispered close to his head, “For you. chéri.” He felt her fingers stroking his cheek. Reuben thought he would explode.

  “What are the colors?” he croaked.

  “My cape is a delicious apple red and my dress is one shade lighter. My hat is ermine and so is my muff. Here, darling, feel how nice.” She moved her muff over his cheek, his hand. He could imagine her breasts only inches away from his face. If he were to turn, just a bit…

  The fur was soft and cool against his hand. Reuben’s erection began to die. The fur felt as if it might have cost a lot of money. And the food she was promising made him suddenly want to gag. He had friends at the front who would kill for a slice of roast meat and a fresh potato; he himself had been one of those men just weeks before. He tried for a smile and wondered if it looked as sickly as he felt.

  “You are going to love my château,” Madame Mickey continued to babble, obviously unaware that anything was amiss. “There you will find everything to make you comfortable. All will be at your disposal, of course. You have only to ask for what you want. Le monde is yours, Reuben. Do you know what that means in English?” Reuben shook his head. “It means the world, darling. I can give you the world, and I will. My late husband, dear Jacques, left me a fortune, as you already know. When he knew he was dying it was his last wish that I not want for anything in this life, despite the war, despite everything. I’ve done my best to live up to his wish.”

  Reuben was silent, reflective. Madame Mickey seemed to sense his uneasiness. “I must be on my way, chéri. I have many more flowers to deliver and baskets of sweet rolls and jam. My cook was busy for two days. I must do my part for the wonderful men who are helping to make France safe once again. Vive La France!”

  “Long live America!” Reuben blurted out.

  Madame Mickey chuckled. “I like your spirit, Reuben. Yes, we all do our part, each in his own way. I must be off.” Lightly touching his compresses, she added, “Soon you will be under my own special care.” Her last words seemed to carry heavy meaning as she leaned over and kissed Reuben square on the cleft of his chin. Her fingers traced the deep dimple. Reuben shivered and felt the beginnings of another erection. “I will see you and your friend at one o’clock. Au revoir, chéri.”

  Chapter Two

  It was just past noon when Reuben walked stiff-legged down the hall to Daniel’s section of the hospital clinic. His hands were in his trouser pockets and his fingers were crossed. He felt both relieved and anxious. Relieved because his eyes felt less gritty and he could see much better; objects were sharper and his eyes were watering less. But he was anxious for Daniel. Ignoring the pain of his leg wound, he hurried through the wards and was brought up short when he saw the doctor and a nurse with a basin in her hand standing beside Daniel.

  I’m here, Daniel. The thought was so intense that for a moment he believed he’d spoken aloud. Reuben didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until he noticed Daniel’s shoulders jerk and heard the doctor warn his patient not to open his eyes yet. Thick gauze-pad dressings beneath the swath of bandages were being unrolled, layer by layer. Reuben also hadn’t realized that his benefactress was watching from the far end o
f the corridor. When the heady scent of her perfume wafted toward him, he turned to face her. Even at this distance the apple red of her cape and the pure white of her hat stood out sharply against the gray-green of the clinic’s walls. He wanted to see her face, to see her eyes. Would they mirror that soft, solicitous tone of voice? Or would they be calculating and hard, waiting to see if Daniel was blind and judging what that would mean to her plans? Reuben turned again to Daniel, refusing to think about anything but this important moment. Everything depended upon what happened now; the outcome would govern the rest of their lives. He drew in his breath and waited.

  Daniel’s moment of truth had arrived. The doctor moved so his back was to Reuben, blocking Daniel from his sight. There were no more offered prayers. The one he’d said the night before was of the miracle category. In the dark hours of the night God had either made things right or He hadn’t.

  Reuben saw the round eyepads drop to the floor. He remembered his own agony at just this moment, and his innards twisted with fear. Daniel’s tortured cry of “I can’t see!” ripped through to Reuben’s soul. He tore across the space that separated them and was at Daniel’s side when the doctor issued his cautions not to panic and to give his eyes time to adjust to the dim light. Reuben placed a firm hand on his friend’s shoulder, calming him. “Another minute or so and then again—but slowly—open your eyes,” the doctor instructed.

  The seconds ticking by were small, separate eternities. Reuben remembered his own tortured unveiling, and his thoughts then that no one was there to comfort him. Madame Mickey, he’d discovered later, had been standing exactly where she was now.

  “Now, Daniel, open your eyes slowly. Your vision will be clouded and it will remain that way for some time. You’ll be able to see things, but not in detail and certainly not clearly unless you’re quite close to them. Open your eyes, Daniel,” the doctor urged.

  Daniel’s head was turned now so that Reuben was directly in his line of vision. His eyes flickered behind reddened lids, then he squinted and blinked gently in his first efforts to make out what was in front of him. Daniel’s first thought was that Reuben looked beautiful, although sharp creases of concern tightened the line of his mouth and narrowed his heavy dark brows. He smiled at the blurry shapes before him and closed his eyes again. The sigh he breathed sounded like an explosion in the quiet. “I prayed, you know, for days and sometimes all through the night when I couldn’t sleep.” He opened his eyes cautiously a second time to confirm his sight. This time he smiled.

  “Mazel tov!” Reuben shouted, squeezing Daniel’s shoulder. He looked down at his white knuckles and eased his grip. Wasn’t there something more he should do or say? Perhaps not. He’d prayed to Daniel’s God, and He had listened. Maybe there was a trick to all that praying after all. Pray for someone else and maybe then you had a chance of having your own prayers answered. His thoughts were interrupted by the doctor’s weary voice.

  “I’ve decided you should keep the cast on for at least another week, Daniel. You can leave the hospital if you think you can manage. Madame Mickey is waiting to take you to her château. Most of the paperwork is done, so all you have to do is dress and leave. Good health, son.” He patted Daniel on the head and shook Reuben’s hand. All the rest of the day, as the doctor walked through the wards, he remembered the grateful look in Reuben’s eyes. He’d seen bonds form between men who’d soldiered side by side before. Often it was the most unlikely of pairings, like this one—Tarz, urbane, streetwise, and slick; and Daniel, innocent and trusting.

  Daniel rolled back on his bunk, sweat glistening on his face. “I thought for sure…I’d hoped…prayed…but Jesus, I’m glad to see you. Did you pray before they took your bandages off?”

  “Me? Pray?” Reuben asked in mock outrage. “It was the luck of the draw, kid. We were either going to be all right or we weren’t. The damage was done out in the field weeks ago. Praying would have been kind of silly.” He hoped his words of bravado were loud enough for Madame Mickey to hear, but when he turned to look at her, she was gone.

  Reuben was annoyed. Why hadn’t he been able to tell Daniel that he’d prayed for him last night? The words had stuck in his throat, as if such an admission were impossible for him. Not for the world or all the Madame Mickeys in France would he admit that he’d been too afraid to pray for himself when he lay with his eyes burned by the gas and his head swathed in bandages. Something in Reuben made him feel undeserving of God’s intervention.

  A smug expression washed over Reuben’s handsome face; his silver-gray eyes were made brighter by the drops. “It’s time to go, Daniel, so let’s put this place behind us and get on with our lives. Madame Mickey is waiting.”

  Marchioness Michelene Fonsard could barely contain her excitement. She considered herself a lusty good woman who made amends for her sexual liaisons by doing good deeds for the parish curé. The curé prayed for her each Sunday because of her healthy donations to the church and for her generosity with her husband’s renowned Bordeaux wines. A true patriot to the very core of her French heart, she considered it an honor as well as a duty to minister in any way she could to the casualties of the terrible war that had been decimating her country. The soldiers she visited at several hospitals and clinics were the recipients of her generosity in many ways. She spent her days in her Citroën, covering distances along sometimes treacherous roads to deliver her cook’s homemade goods and preserves, to read to some of the men and talk with others, always ready to soothe with her gentle woman’s touch. Flowers picked fresh from her greenhouse were always welcomed by the convalescents. She brought cheer; she brought hope.

  Some called her saintly and beatific, like the parish curé. Others insisted she had the classic features of an aristocrat from a long line of handsome royalty, which always amused her. The soldiers thought of her as a beautiful angel, larger than life, and it was said that a lover or two revealed that her hair reached almost to her ankles and always smelled delightfully of her perfume. She owned fabulous diamonds and emeralds but preferred to wear the least ostentatious. Although refined in her taste, she always kept up with the latest style and fashion; and as sedate and meticulously groomed as she was through her years with her famous and doting husband, at night, alone, Mickey Fonsard gazed into the mirror and saw the plain face of a peasant, open and honest.

  She had been only fifteen when she married Jacques Fonsard, who was three times her age. True to his word, he’d given her wealth beyond her dreams, all from his famous wineries. She, in turn, had given him the best years of his life. In the end she held his naked body against her full breasts the way a mother would hold a suckling babe and watched his erection die for the last time. The smile on his face made her grieving bearable. He’d died exactly as he’d always hoped he would.

  Each time Michelene spent a franc, each time she took a new lover or performed a good deed, she knew that Jacques, wherever he was, approved. Marchioness Michelene Fonsard never looked back, nor did she look ahead. And she lived each day fully, as though it could very well be her last. If nothing else, she considered herself a happy woman.

  Soon she would be happier. There would be a young, hard body in her bed. She was happy that Daniel could be ministered to in a warm, loving atmosphere. Naturally she’d realized the way to get to Reuben was through his protectiveness for his friend. Such attention would win his gratitude, but humility…Ah, that was a different matter entirely. With her experience, she knew Reuben, young though he was, was not like all the others. This one, she mused, was a cut above the rest.

  Madame Mickey had never been in love. She’d cared deeply for Jacques, of that she had no doubt. But so often of late, with death and suffering all around her, she wondered if she would ever truly experience that much talked and written about euphoria of being in love. Sometimes she ached for that warmth when her passions were spent and her lover rolled over to drift off to sleep.

  In so many ways Reuben Tarz was a boy. Yet when those boys came out of the war the
y were men—men in the world of men, but boys in the ways of a woman and the boudoir. Her mission—and she accepted it gladly—was to make a man of Reuben. When they went their separate ways, Reuben would be a man to be reckoned with. She would instill in him a sense of confidence, integrity, loyalty, and motivation. And—equally important—she would teach him that whatever he wanted was within his grasp. All these qualities she admired in men, knowing she possessed each of them herself. As for social polish, Reuben had much to learn, of course, but she knew he would be a quick study. The proper haircut, the right tailor, exposure to correct etiquette, and he would be magnificent.

  In the early days of her marriage, while they waited for the grapes to ripen, Jacques had taught Mickey languages and geography; she had a natural ear for one and a thirst for the other. Now she could converse easily in seven languages, and her favorite, after her own native tongue, was English.

  What wonderful plans she had for Reuben! She’d motor to Paris with him and show him her beautiful house, where Jacques liked to play after the first planting of the young vines. Reuben would love Paris, especially when this damn war was over and things returned to normal. General Pershing had confided to her personally that they were only weeks away from an armistice, but she needed no confirmation that the Germans would be suppressed. From the beginning, Michelene had every faith in her countrymen and the Allied forces, and that life would always go on as it had: wonderful, beautiful, and pleasurable.

  Her mind, agile as always, devised a series of divertissements to please the senses and delight the soul. The Loire River, the only true French river, would be of interest to Reuben. The Mer de Glace would be a must. She’d introduce him to the Matterhorn and Mont Blanc. A two-or three-hour drive with picnic baskets to Rouen to see the quaint, gabled houses and the crooked streets would be another treat. The cave at Peche-Merle on the Sange River—now a chapel—would add to Reuben’s French education. And she must not forget the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Her second favorite spot was the site of Grosse Horloge, the big clock whose single hand had told time for more than four hundred years.