Sins of Omission. Fern Michaels
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…
She’d never waited like this with any other lover. Always she’d brought them to her bed upon their arrival.