Sins of the Flesh (32 page)

It was cold and dark, with little piles of snow scattered on the floor near the blown-out windows. He could find his way in the dark to the place where the candles were kept. He knew where everything was in this house. When he found the candles he lighted them with care, his hand cupped around the dancing flame.

Then he began a tour of the house, walking through the rooms one by one, touching an object, staring at another, remembering, always remembering. In the library his eyes widened in horror when he saw that the painting of the Three Musketeers was no longer over the mantle. He held the candle higher, hoping it had been moved to another wall, but bookshelves lined every other wall in the room. Then he saw it, leaning crookedly against the chair Daniel used to sit in. The heavy gilt frame was broken and cracked in several places, but the painting was intact. Angrily, Reuben ripped at the old wood and yanked the painting free. Its border of slatted wood remained intact, so he propped it up on the mantel and then stepped back to absorb its beauty. His heart pounded as he stared at Mickey's likeness.

“My God, you're more beautiful than I remember,” he murmured. “I loved you so much. More than life. More than…than Daniel. And you loved me so much, you let me walk away. All those years, the days, the hours. Gone. I was so young, so greedy, so power hungry, and all it did for me was bring me here now. And now you're gone,” he said brokenly. “You took my son when no one else wanted him, you raised him, and then you sent him to me, your greatest treasure. You thought I would come back, I know you did, but I was young and afraid of what I would see in your eyes, what I see in my son's eyes now. I failed you, darling Mickey. You had such hope for me, such confidence that I would become rich and famous as well as powerful, and I am those things and they mean nothing. All these years I thought I was doing it for you, but I was doing it for myself, to prove to myself that your faith in me was justified. I lied to myself, I did it all for me. I'm glad you can't hear me say these things. I am so ashamed. I should have come back; I should have listened to my heart.” Reuben dropped his head into his hands and wept then for his memories and for the man he had become.

Upstairs on the second floor he fared no better as memories attacked him like fierce warriors assaulting his every sense. In Mickey's room his eyes flew to the mantel and the jar of flower petals. He'd known it would be there. She'd saved it. Dizzy with relief, he removed the lid. After all these years the scent was still discernible. He wept again as he sank down on the bed, the petals sprinkled on his open hand. “I'm so sorry, so very sorry,” he said over and over.

At last he slept out of sheer exhaustion, in Mickey's bed with the crushed flower petals in his hand, his apology on his lips.

The winter sun shone through the dirty mullioned windows of the château, warming Reuben beneath the dusty bedding. His eyes were open now, scanning the once-familiar room. Although he had no memory of it, he must have awakened during the night and crawled beneath the covers. He stretched in his bulky clothes, his dark head pressing into the pillow, which smelled ever so faintly of Mickey's perfume.

Here in this familiar place where he'd been so happy, Reuben gave in to his grief. At last he'd come home, but too late. Where in the name of God was she? He closed his eyes, wishing he never had to leave the cocoon of safety he'd created for himself. In frustration he threw the covers to the side and immediately felt the cold, crisp air wash over him. In the old days there was always a fire going in the grate during the winter months. It had always been warm and toasty here in this splendid room, which received the sun on three sides.

He knew he had to fight his memories before he set out on what he thought of as the last leg of his journey. And after the memories he had to write in his journal, so it would be ready to give to one of the members of the new network he would be joining.

Thus resolved, he started on the ground level and worked his way back upstairs, storming and thundering his way from room to room, cries of anguish escaping him as he made his way through twenty long years of memories. In Mickey's room again, he made the bed and caressed everything that belonged to her. He cleaned the grate and laid firewood for when she returned. From time to time he wiped his eyes. “No man should have to go through this,” he muttered to himself. Once Mickey had told him that happiness and sadness belonged together like a shoe and a sock. One could not know happiness if one had no knowledge of pain. How wise she'd been, how warm and caring. His sense of loss was so unbearable, he wanted to lie down and die.

Suddenly his other self rose to the fore, demanding to be heard.
I thought you said you were in love with Bebe. Which is it? What kind of man are you that you can't make up your mind?
“I love them both,” Reuben said defensively.
That's impossible
, argued his inner self. “They're both in my heart and I can't carve them away. That's been my problem all these years, I love both of them in different ways. That's it!” he roared as he slammed the door behind him.

He pounded his way down the hall to his son's room, the one Bebe had used when she'd visited. This door had been closed while the others had been open. Had Philippe closed it against him deliberately, knowing he would come someday?

Inside, Reuben's eyes devoured the sight of his son's young life. This was nothing like Bebe's frilly, feminine room. Was Mickey aware of the irony of having Philippe use this particular room?

As he walked around the room, he imagined Philippe's evolution from infancy to boyhood to manhood. It was a wonderful room for a child. Stiff-legged wooden soldiers resplendent in their coats of red paint stood at attention on a shelf above the bed. A rocking horse full of nicks and gouges attested to many hours of play, as did the basket of brightly colored blocks. A red wagon with one rickety wheel stood next to the rocking horse; it, too, had seen years of hardy use. A vision of Mickey pulling his son in the wagon made his heart constrict. A tricycle with fat rubber wheels and rusty handlebars and one missing pedal had been pushed into the farthest corner.

The small-boy corner gave way to a section of the room designated for boyhood. The remains of an ant farm stood on a shelf along with dozens of books. Colorful miniature cars and a variety of balls took up a second shelf. Puzzles of every description were stacked neatly alongside roller skates. A scooter and a larger bicycle with chipped blue paint leaned against the wall under the eaves next to a magnificent castle fashioned from stone and wood. Reuben dropped to his knees to peer into the tiny windows that held little people and scaled-down furniture. A king sat on a gilt throne, his crown tarnished, his robes faded to a dusty pink. Reuben leaned closer, his eyes straining to see into the dim interior of the castle. A tiny piece of paper was pasted to the king's crown. He knew if he reached in to touch the crown, the paper would disintegrate at his touch. He could barely make out the word: Papa.

His eyes misty with unshed tears, Reuben made his way to the area that represented Philippe's adolescence. It held a desk, a comfortable chair, more bookshelves, and a bulletin board. Tacked to the board was the winemaker's calendar, almost as yellow and brittle as his own; Reuben stared at it, finding it difficult to swallow past the lump in his throat. The desk held the usual assortment of pens, pencils, tablets, books, and rulers. A number of language books were piled next to notebooks full of written assignments, all bearing a large red A in the top corner. Clippings from newspapers, yellowed and dry, were all quotes from Teddy Roosevelt. A packet of photographs, most of Mickey, Yvette, and Henri, stared up at him.

The cupboard that held Philippe's clothes was slightly ajar. Reuben smelled a mixture of orange and spice, something Mickey placed in all the closets to ward off moths. Everything was neat and clean, and the clothes had all been hung close together. The shelves held more books, folded sweaters, and heavy jackets. Shoes were lined up like soldiers next to several pairs of galoshes. There was a sled in the corner with a pair of boxing gloves hanging from the steering rudder. Four pairs of ice skates of different sizes rested in a wooden box, their blades dull and rusty. Tucked away in one corner, as though meant to be concealed from all other eyes, was a wooden toy chest. On his knees, Reuben tugged and pulled until he had it in front of him. Then he rocked back on his haunches, knowing somehow that what was inside was going to upset him, change him somehow. Twice he reached out to lift the heavy brass fastener. The lid groaned, the hinges sending out splatters of rust. Inside were stacks and stacks of letters, twenty or so to a packet, each parcel tied with stout string. Some were written in crayon, some in colored chalk, others in pencil, and a few in ink. Hundreds of letters addressed simply to “Papa.”

Reuben sat down on the cold floor with a thump, his eyes glued to the contents of the trunk. He fought the tears in his eyes, struggled against the desire to read the letters. True, they were written to him, but they had never been mailed. Philippe had kept them in his closet for years and years, which could only mean they were for the boy's eyes only. Reluctantly, Reuben closed the lid of the small chest and replaced it in the dark corner of the closet, exactly where he'd found it.

His thoughts and motions frenzied, he made his way back to the room he'd slept in. Grabbing his journal from his knapsack, he raced back to Philippe's room and sat down at the desk. His pencil moved freely as thoughts and emotions tumbled from his mind. He ached with feeling, his heart bruised and battered; in those moments he truly believed a person had a soul and truly believed his intangible soul left him the moment he laid aside his pencil and journal.

By the time he'd finished writing in the journal, it was close to noon; he'd used up the valuable early morning hours, and traveling would be dangerous. His sentimental memories were cast aside in an instant. He had to find Mickey, had to ask her about the letters in the chest. Did she know of them, had she read them, or were they Philippe's secret?

Reuben's steps were sure and confident when he struck out from the château without a backward glance. First he'd head north to Avignon and then west to Nîmes, where he would rendezvous with partisans willing to take him to Montpellier and Béziers; from there he'd board one of the ancient buses that trundled by once every two or three days on its way to Carcassonne. He hadn't allowed himself to think beyond Carcassonne because he wasn't sure that Mickey would be in Spain. His heart told him she would head for safety via the Pyrenees, regardless of what she'd told Daniel, but logic told him she belonged to one of the networks he was hoping to encounter. Wishing and hoping she was safe simply wasn't good enough. What he'd seen and heard since coming to Europe had convinced him that as a loyal Frenchwoman, Mickey would do whatever she could for her country.

Five days later he made contact with a man named Didier who told him there was every possibility the woman he was searching for was one of two female partisans who had joined up with a network to the west. Reuben's blood ran cold when Didier told him that Chapeau and Maman, the code names these women used, were waiting for clear weather to guide a group of orphaned children over the Pyrenees to safety. “Hopefully,” Didier had added gruffly. “The two women did it once before in the autumn, when it wasn't cold and treacherous as it is now.”

“Draw me a map and tell me what you can about the network they belong to,” Reuben said harshly, his heart thumping in his chest.

“In the snow I will draw you a map,” Didier said. “Nothing is put on paper, even one's mother's name. You must trust your memory.” Reuben nodded.

At that moment he was twelve days behind Mickey. If he and Didier could reach Carcassonne by rail instead of by bus, he could save an extra four days. If he slept only a few hours a day and traveled by daylight, which Didier refused to do, he could make up another four days. If he reached Carcassonne alive, he would go it alone and not involve the man, who was needed elsewhere. He made up his mind to say nothing to the young Frenchman until the right moment.

He felt close to Mickey now, so close that his heart started to hammer in his chest. Possibly only four days from seeing her again.

“Monsieur, Merry Christmas,” Didier said quietly.

Startled, Reuben could only gape at the man standing next to him. “Today is Christmas?”

“Tomorrow is Christmas, this is Christmas Eve. We must pray that our luck holds and the Germans will let us travel on this religious day. I truly think they will not be too critical of their passengers. They control every train and bus in France. Did you know that?” Again Reuben nodded.

Four days. Four days…Christmas Eve. Was Bebe celebrating the holiday, or he wondered was she attending a party somewhere? Jane always had an open house for the entire studio on Christmas Eve. Lord, the number of Christmases he'd shared with Jane simply because he'd had nowhere else to go. His feet picked up a cadence he'd marched to once before when he'd been a soldier. Four days. Four days…

“Merry Christmas,” Reuben whispered.

The scene below Philippe's window was one of intense activity. The studio was filming what he called a shoot-'em-up-bang Wild West movie. The lot was filled with covered wagons, cowboys, and rangy-looking cattle. A saloon, complete with swinging doors and ladies of the evening, beckoned to weary cowboys in search of a twenty-five-cent bath and shave. Fake gunshots echoed in his ears. Sometime during the next fifteen minutes there would be a shoot-out on the main street, and one of the black-clad figures would die. The remaining cowboy would holster his smoking gun and either ride off into the make-believe sunset or carry off the good girl, victim of a vicious land baron trying to steal her family homestead. Philippe shook his head wearily as he returned to his desk.

He didn't like it here, didn't like making movies or watching movies being made. The past months he'd tried to convince himself he could do what his father had done, but he realized now that he didn't want to walk in his father's shoes. No, he wanted out, wanted to make his own way in the world without interference, particularly of the parental kind.

A scream rent the air—the familiar “damsel in distress” cry for help—and Philippe shuddered. He had to get out of there, get some fresh air, anything, just so he was away from that place.

In his car with the engine running, he knew he didn't want just “anything”—he wanted a certain something. Once again he pulled the wrinkled piece of paper he'd been carrying around with him for weeks and looked at it, not that he needed to. The address of Al Sugar, the recently retired prop department head, was burned in his brain. He was taking a chance driving out to the Valley without calling ahead, but he didn't care. If he had to, he'd wait all night. Besides, it was a nice day for a drive.

Twice Philippe managed to get lost, but the city map on the seat helped him out, and at best he wasted only twenty-five minutes.

Al Sugar was spraying his fruit trees, a bucket of whitewash at his feet, when Philippe pulled his car to the curb. The elderly man had the neatest house on the street and the prettiest trees and flowers. His retirement, Philippe thought. This was how he occupied
his
time. Was he happy puttering with his fruit trees and flowers?

A young boy whizzed past him on a bicycle, laughing as his friend tried to catch up. School must be out for the day, Philippe mused. Sounds of laughter and play echoed from up and down the street. Memories of his old blue bicycle and other boyhood treasures assailed him, and he hungered for the sight of them. He kept his eyes on the pedaling boys until they rounded the corner.

Carefully Philippe stepped over a hedge, pausing to admire a tidy little border of yellow flowers with bees buzzing at the blooms. “Mr. Sugar?” he called. The old man turned, his glasses speckled with whitewash. “Mr. Sugar, I'm—”

“Lord love a duck! I know who you are, boy. You're the spittin' image of your father. Fine man, real fine man. All this,” he said, waving his hand about, “is because of him. He made sure I retired with dignity. He gave me a generous bonus that paid off this house. Fine man, real fine man. He still calls once in a while to see how I'm doing.”

Philippe stared at the friendly old man with curious blue eyes. He could see why his father liked him. He liked him, too. “Philip Tarz,” he said, holding out his hand. The bone-crushing grip startled him. He grinned, realizing it was the first time he'd referred to himself as Philip Tarz, either in his mind or aloud. “I need your help, Mr. Sugar. On my way over here from France Mr. Bishop told me how you…created credentials for him to go to Harvard Law School. I need the same kind of credentials now to get into the military.”

“Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, I think this calls for a glass of lemonade. Come along, youngster, we'll wet our whistles and talk about this,” Al said excitedly.

Inside, Philippe looked around the bright, cheerful kitchen with its yellow and green wallpaper and braided rugs by the stove and sink. The room sparkled. Al set out a pitcher of frosty lemonade with two glasses and a plate of cookies. “Store-bought,” he said, winking. “I never did master the oven on this stove. Hell, the truth is I can't bake worth a darn.”

Philippe bit into the soft, gingery cookie and nodded his approval. The lemonade was tangy, not too sweet and not too sour. The old man beamed his pleasure when Philippe asked for a second glass.

“It's like this, Mr. Sugar…. Jesus, I don't know where to begin,” Philippe said miserably.

“Try at the beginning, son, that's always a good place. I have all day and night, too, if it takes that long.”

Philippe cleared his throat. “You see, Mr. Sugar,” he said carefully, “I'm not exactly planning on defrauding the navy. I do have an education equivalent to four years of college. Actually, I was three-quarters of the way through graduate school when we had to leave Paris. Our schooling in France is far more advanced than it is here. All I need is a set of papers saying I finished college, and a new name. All my other papers are in order. I spoke to several recruiters to find out exactly what I need to go to Officer's Training School. I want to fly planes, Mr. Sugar,” Philippe said forcefully. “I want to go back and bomb the hell out of Germany. I know I can do it. I can be the best damn pilot the navy has ever seen.”

“You know, young man, your father came here to say good-bye before he left. He talked a little about you, not a whole lot, mind you. I know all about your mother in France, and I've known Miss Bebe for years. So…I'll do it!” he blurted out happily. “Now, hold on a minute,” he said as Philippe reached out to grasp his hand. “That last handshake almost did me in.” He grinned. “Now, just how soon do you need this done?”

“A few days.”

Al Sugar laughed and smacked his knee. “That's exactly what your father said the first time. Son, I will never forget the day Mr. Bishop drove off the studio lot with a car from the prop department, a suitcase full of Rudolph Valentino's clothes, and my…creative endeavors. He was driving cross-country with only four or five driving lessons under his belt. I was never sorry I did that. When I saw that boy's law degree I was as proud as your father was. I want your promise that you'll be the best goddamn pilot the navy turns out.”

“You have it, Mr. Sugar,” Philippe replied solemnly.

“That's good enough for me. You bomb hell out of those Krauts, you hear.”

Philippe nodded. “I hear. I only hope my word is as good as my father's.”

“It is. You know, son, when you first came up to me in the yard, I couldn't believe how much you look like your father. Just seeing you makes me feel young again.” Al got up from the kitchen table and carried the empty pitcher to the sink. “Well, I think we chewed the fat long enough. I'll call over to the prop department and have my son—he's working there now—bring everything we need out here to the Valley. We'll start on it tonight. You're welcome to stay for supper—pork chops, apple sauce, and bulldog gravy. Apple pie…store-bought, but I make my own ice cream. Am I tempting you, son?”

Philippe laughed. “If the apple pie is as good as these cookies, you have a deal. Mr. Sugar, can we talk about my father? I'd like to know what he was like when he first came back after the war….”

 

Four days later, Al Sugar handed Philippe his diploma from the University of Southern California. His college transcripts were impeccable, as were those from graduate school. In addition to his academic credentials, there was a letter on crackly white paper with the navy seal at the top, signed by William F. Halsey himself, recommending Philip Reuben as an exceptional candidate for Officer's Training School. It was signed “Bull.” Halsey's nickname. Philippe's eyes popped.

“Son, that paper is the real thing, and so is the seal.” Al said proudly. “Hollywood typed it. It'll pass muster. The rest is up to you. Make me proud and your father, too.”

“I will, Mr. Sugar, you can count on it,” Philippe said in a choked voice. This time their handshake was a little less bone-crushing.

Al Sugar watched until Philippe's car was out of sight. “You come back, boy, you hear me?” he whispered.

Sighing, the old man picked up his fresh bucket of whitewash and proceeded to spray the rest of his fruit trees. He looked up once and muttered, “You watch out for him, You hear?” The sun dimmed for a second, and Al smiled. “Yeah, I thought You'd see it my way. He's a good kid, he just has to find himself, and with You looking out for him he'll be okay. Amen.”