Sins of Omission

by Fern Michaels

  Michelene Fonsard’s long, tapered fingers tapped the steering wheel impatiently. Her thighs tingled and tightened when she saw Reuben, accompanied by Daniel, approach the Citroën. Her smile embraced them, warmed them like a cloak as she settled them into the backseat. On the way home she kept up a running commentary on the conditions of the war whenever they asked specifics; otherwise she kept the conversation light and vivacious, telling them funny little tales of the villagers near her château and the eccentric ways of her friend, the curé.

  Daniel loved listening to her and complimented her on her exquisite English, but while they both were amused by her little stories, it was news of the war and the German advance that occupied their thoughts. The frequent German raids and intensified activity all along the front in the north of France indicated that a great German offensive was close at hand. The French thought the Allies would be able to hold without difficulty until the Americans could gain position and provisions. Provisions…That was the key word in this chaos. With all of America’s wealth, manpower, and ability, there was still the inescapable fact that the great country had been totally unprepared for war. American forces had been confronted by the mighty German military offense and compelled to stand by almost helpless and see the Allies suffer unspeakable losses. Provisions, the lack of them, the inability to move them across France to where they were needed most, could be their undoing.

  “Mon Dieu! I am sorry!” Madame Mickey’s apology broke into the worried thoughts of her two passengers. “This road is abominable, so rutted and bumpy. It is beyond repair, I am afraid. All the young men are gone from the village; there is no one to repair it. Hold tight to the straps, it gets worse before it gets better.” Her voice in melodious apology held a chuckle.

  A flock of scrawny winter birds took flight, seeking refuge in the bare branches of the trees as the Citroën chugged along. Overhead the sky was heavy with angry clouds. Daylight was fading, bleeding into night. Reuben sat beside Daniel, bundled in thick lap robes. Mickey had the headlamps on now, their eerie light casting long shadows onto the road. The drive from the clinic was longer than he’d expected. For some reason, he’d thought the château was no more than a few miles away. Already they’d been driving for almost two hours. Now, more than before, he appreciated the woman’s generosity and dedication in visiting the hospital.

  “Here we are,” Mickey announced as she turned the car and continued driving down a side road that was bumpier than the last. “We’re on my property now and the château is still quite a few minutes from here. Tomorrow, in the light, I will show you the boundaries from the top floor. The view is magnifique and one can see for miles.”

  Both Reuben and Daniel craned to get a good look as they caught sight of the impressive estate Mickey was fast approaching. Daniel’s thoughts turned inward. Just another short while and he could rest. In the trenches, at the front, he’d been bone tired, but it couldn’t compare with the exhaustion he was feeling now. The concern for his eyesight, the pain of his broken shoulder, the grim uncertainty of the future, and the possibility of having to return to the front—all had taken their toll on him. Such exquisite relief he felt, to know he wouldn’t be blind; he felt as though he could sleep for a week. Surely his company would not be missed this evening if he asked to retire early. Reuben would entertain Madame Mickey. A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. When would Reuben have time for French lessons?

  Reuben’s thoughts turned inward: What would be expected of him?

  “We have arrived, my darlings,” Madame Mickey announced gaily as she brought the Citroën to a stop. “When you are fully recovered, Reuben, we will begin the driving lessons.”

  Reuben felt a moment of sheer panic, the same immobilizing fear he’d experienced when at eight years old he was caught stealing apples from the neighborhood greengrocer in Brooklyn.

  “Come, come, I want to show you my home. Reuben, help Daniel. He appears tired, pauvre petit. We must get both of you indoors and into warm, dry clothing.” Her eyes were on Reuben the entire time she spoke. “Chéri, you are limping. It is the cold,” she advised. “A warm bath, warm clothes, dinner, and a nice fire and you will be fixed. No? We will have soft music—Brahms, I think. I will play the pianoforte for you. If you beg, I might even sing.”

  “I’d like that,” Daniel said wearily.

  Reuben smiled. “So would I.”

  “It is settled, then. Come, come, I, too, have the chill.”

  Reuben wished he could see better in the dim light as they climbed the stone steps to the great carved doors. Well, tomorrow was another day. Perhaps he wouldn’t be so busy entertaining Madame Mickey and could go off for a walk to acquaint himself with his surroundings. His eyes widened at the splendor of the château as he looked over his hostess’s shoulders. An old woman with a white cap and apron stood holding open one of the two fan-lighted doors. Inside, the entry foyer was warm and well lit. A spectacular chandelier—the likes of which Reuben had glimpsed only in the lobbies of New York’s grand hotels—hung from a frescoed ceiling across which paced horses and hounds against a woodland background. A graceful curving stairway led off to the left, while a patterned Persian carpet ran its full length to the upper floor. His sensitive nose picked up the aroma of something delicious baking in the kitchens. Against the side of the staircase nestled a divan the same bottle green as the carpet, its watered-silk fabric inviting to touch. Dark wood tables held vases of flowers from Mickey’s famed greenhouses. Reuben wanted to know it all, see it all, but he was being whisked down the corridor that was concealed behind the stairs to a makeshift bathing room. Later he would examine his surroundings. Someday it might be helpful when he made his own selections in furnishings and style.

  Two old women and a boy of about twelve stood ready when Reuben and Daniel arrived for their bath. In the middle of the room stood two huge wooden tubs, half-filled with steaming water.

  Reuben stripped down to his bare skin, and his cast-off uniform and boots were immediately removed by the boy. Boldly he stepped in front of the old servants, who eyed his naked body admiringly. The older one pointed at the tubs, urging him to pick one and get in. He settled himself luxuriously as pail after pail of hot water was poured over him. The woman handed him three cakes of soap and gestured. One was for his hair, one for his face, and the other was for—Jesus! She’d grabbed herself in the crotch to make sure he understood. Weakly he smiled his understanding and nodded. She cocked her head to the side, sharp eyes questioning like a crafty New York pigeon.

  “I’ll do it!” Reuben said loudly. Misunderstanding him, the old woman reached for the washcloth. “No!” he cried; and immediately began to lather himself. He knew he’d used the wrong soap on his genitals when she and the others began to laugh. The sound was so genuine and good-natured that Reuben could only join in, sharing the ridiculousness of the moment.

  Cackling to herself, the old woman joined her companions to help remove Daniel’s clothing. Reuben watched out of the corner of his eye as the trio stripped Daniel down and helped him into the second tub. He grinned, observing as he had so often in close quarters his friend’s generous endowments. Madame Mickey had chosen the wrong man. While he himself was standard issue, Daniel was gigantically hung. Someday he was going to make some lady very happy.

  An hour later Reuben emerged from the tub, the skin on his hands and feet puckered but squeaky clean. Someone had laid out clothes for him—soft wool trousers in a gentle shade of tan, slippers that looked like shoes and fit perfectly, soft white underwear, and a crushable sweater the color of the sky on a summer day. None of the items were new, which he supposed accounted for their comfortable softness. After slicking back his dark curly hair and shaving, he examined himself in the mirror. “Reuben Tarz, you are a handsome devil. Daniel, I can truthfully say I feel like a freshwater eel. How are you doing?”

  His face scarlet, Daniel mumbled something that sounded obscene. Both women had the third bar of soap and were scrubbi
ng him industriously as the young boy stood ready with the towels. Daniel, his bad arm draped over the tub so as not to wet the cast, was holding on with the other so he wouldn’t slide beneath the surface.

  Reuben turned his head so Daniel wouldn’t see him laughing. “That’s enough, ladies,” he ordered. “Out! Enough! Help him out!” He waved his hands, making scooping motions. Both old women cackled gleefully.

  “You son of a bitch!” Daniel cried. “I saw you laughing! Do you know what they did to me? Should I tell you?”

  “Only if it felt good.” Reuben grinned. “Well, did it?”

  “Dammit! Now they’re going to dry me. Reuben, get them off me!”

  “I can’t. They have their orders. You wouldn’t want Madame Mickey to be displeased with them, would you? They’re old, like grandmothers. Let them have their fun. They’re remembering what it was like. How can you deprive them of a little enjoyment?”

  “I don’t like it,” Daniel muttered, his face flaming.

  “Yes, you do. Don’t ever lie about things like that. It feels good, let it feel good. They aren’t taking anything away from you. Come on now, get dressed and let’s find our hostess.”

  Dinner was a wonderful experience visually, and exquisitely gratifying to their taste buds. The dining table had to be at least eighteen feet long according to Reuben’s calculations. Six candelabras gleamed in the reflected surface of the polished mahogany. High ceilings, tapestried walls, crystal, china, and a fine silver service complemented the sumptuous meal. Reuben’s attention wandered constantly from his meal to the room, then to Madame Mickey. In this soft lighting her features gave off a warm radiance, and her eyelashes appeared to be soft shadows outlining her sparkling eyes. The gown she had chosen to wear was a simple black sheath that swung to the floor, skimming her hips and rising to a deep scoop revealing her generous bosom and the unexpectedly graceful arch of her throat.

  Reuben sighed with contentment at the meal’s end. Noticing Daniel’s discomfort, Madame Mickey took charge. “Come, my darlings, we will have coffee in the drawing room and then it is bed for both of you. Tomorrow, if you like, I will show you around.” The slim black ribbon at Mickey’s throat held a modest gem. A diamond, Reuben guessed, and probably quite valuable.

  There had been pictures in magazines of rooms like this, and once or twice he’d gone to the nickelodeon and seen lavish movie sets on the silver screen. Unlike the heavy Victorian furniture he was used to in the States, Mickey’s furniture seemed to Reuben the essence of lightness and space. The richness came not from bulk, but from style and fabric. This room was decorated in faded gold and pale blue, so different from the red and Oriental patterns back home. Flowered chair cushions, long, luxurious curtains in that same faded gold, all conveyed a feeling of age and permanence and comfort. Security. That’s what this represented, he decided. Nothing seemed new or was deliberately ostentatious. These furnishings gave the impression that they’d been collected over hundreds of years. Tomorrow, when he wasn’t so tired, he’d come into this room and dig his bare toes into the lush carpeting.

  A log snapped in the fireplace, shooting sparks upward, Mickey smiled, reflections of the flames dancing in her eyes. “This, Reuben, is my favorite part of the day. More so now that I have two charming companions with whom to share it.”

  Reuben’s stomach churned. The evening was almost over. The languid, inviting expression in Mickey’s eyes was doing strange things to him. Suddenly he realized she’d mentioned bed for both of them, but she hadn’t specified where they were to sleep.

  “Now isn’t this better than the hospital at Soissons? Ah, how forgetful of me. Cigarettes. I have American cigarettes. Lucky Strike, I believe. Please, help yourself. Americans like and expect a cigarette after dinner, isn’t that so?”

  “Allow me,” Reuben said gallantly as he struck a match to the heel of his shoe.

  “There is an easier way to do that, chéri. See, on this little table beside the cigarette box is a tinderbox. Strike it on the side. Gentlemen do not use their shoes in polite company.”

  Reuben’s neck grew warm, and Daniel sniggered. He had blundered—a gaffe, Mickey would have called it. “Sorry,” he mumbled. He turned to light Daniel’s cigarette only to hear Mickey admonish him a second time.

  “Never three on a match, chéri. What is the warning in the battlefield about lighting a match? Ah, yes…it gives just enough time an enemy needs to put you within his sights and shoot. Ah, I see by your faces that you believe women do not know about such things. I frequent the dressing stations and hospitals, remember? As a matter of fact, the very first time I learned about the danger of lighting a match on the battlefield was in a poem written by a young Canadian who was attached to the Red Cross. I became so enamored with his work that I helped him find a New York publisher. I have a copy of his work, if it interests you.”

  “Canadian, you say?” Daniel asked, his curiosity piqued.

  “Oui, chéri. You know, they have been here even before you Americans. Would you like me to read something?”

  “Please. Don’t you want to hear something, Reuben?” Daniel asked hopefully.

  “Then it will be my pleasure.” Madame Mickey searched the bookshelf beside the fireplace for the thin volume bound in leather and autographed especially for her. She spoke briefly of the author as she scanned the volumes. “His name is Robert Service, a Canadian attached to the Red Cross. Being part of a mobile unit, I met him several times at different dressing stations and hospitals when he brought in the wounded.” She rifled through the pages, searching for a topic that would be of interest to them. “Ah, I think here we have it. It is something he wrote and titled ‘My Mate.’” When she read, it was in a rather adept Cockney accent.

  I’ve been sittin’ starin’ at ’is muddy pair of boots,

  And tryin’ to convince meself it’s ’im.

  (Look out there, lad! That sniper ’e’s a dysey when ’e shoots;

  ’E’ll be layin’ of you out the same as Jim.)

  Jim as lies there in the dugout wiv ’is blanket round ’is ’ead,

  To keep ’is brains from mixin’ wiv the mud;

  And ’is face as white as putty, and ’is overcoat all red,

  Like ’e’s spilt a bloomin’ paintpot but it’s blood.

  Daniel and Reuben listened intently, both of them moved by the pathos in the poem. But it was the next stanza that choked them.

  Now wot I wants to know is, why it wasn’t me was took?

  I’ve only got meself, ’e stands for three.

  I’m plainer than a louse, while ’e was ’and some as a dook;

  ’E always was a better man than me.

  ’E was goin’ ’ome next Toosday; ’e was ’appy as a lark,

  And ’e’d just received a letter from ’is kid;

  And ’e struck a match to show me, as we stood there in the dark,

  When…that bleedin’ bullet got ’im on the lid.

  Reuben and Daniel were silent, too moved even to look at each other. They understood the kind of friendship Robert Service wrote about. They had seen it, and they had experienced it.

  Mickey crushed her half-finished cigarette in a crystal dish. “I must say good night, my darlings. I’ve had a busy day and I’m tired. I feel the headache coming on. My servants will see to both of you. You have only to ring this little bell. They have all your medications, your nightclothes, and will turn down your beds.” She glided from her chair to theirs and kissed both of them lightly on both cheeks. “Sleep well, my brave warriors. And sleep as long as you like. I think you’ll find my beds quite comfortable.”

  Reuben was flustered, uncertain of himself. Was he supposed to follow her? Was it possible he’d misinterpreted what he thought was to happen? Would she come to him later when Daniel was asleep? Was he supposed to go to her? Damn, why hadn’t some rules been set down? Did she think he was accustomed to these circumstances and knew what to do? He found it difficult to look at Daniel, who was
busy arranging the cigarettes into neat rows in the little enamel box.

  Best to pretend indifference, he decided, to behave as though he knew the score. Simply yawn, get up, and stretch, and somehow convey to Daniel that something would transpire later. If nothing else, he wanted to appear worldly, but how? The hell with it, he thought, angered by his own insufficiencies. He’d made a deal to come here and do—what? The exact conditions of his stay had never been explained. It was his bunkmates in the barracks who said he’d be “servicing” the legendary Madame Mickey.

  A strange sensation descended upon him, something akin to fear. Perhaps there was something wrong with him. Perhaps he didn’t measure up. Screw it, he decided. I’ll take the R and R.

  “I’m ready to turn in, Daniel. Who’s going to ring the bell?”

  Daniel grinned. “You’re the man around here, you ring it.”

  “I don’t like that smirk on your face,” Reuben said coolly.

  “Smirk? Sorry, my friend, that’s a grimace of pain. My eyes are aching and burning. Aren’t yours? And my shoulder itches. All I want is a bed and sleep. Ring the damn bell and let’s hit the sack.”

  In her room directly above the drawing room, Mickey heard the tinkle of the bell. Footsteps followed, muffled on the carpeting. They’d be undressing now. The beds were already turned down. The hot chocolate would be placed on the little bedside tables in exquisite porcelain cups. Then the eyedrops, the ointment, the little pills with a swallow of water. Minutes ticked by. The chocolate would be finished, the lights would go off, the covers pulled up. Ah, in seconds Daniel would be asleep, and Reuben would…