Sins of Omission (52 page)

At twelve o'clock her nervousness gave way to irritability. At two, irritability progressed to hostility, and by three-thirty hostility had intensified to a venomous anger. A marriage in name only. A way to lock the studio to him. Tears spilled from her eyes, hot and scalding.

At four o'clock she ripped off the virginal white lacy gown and tossed it in the hamper. Breasts heaving with frustrated rage, she threw on her old flannel robe and ran down the stairs. Her eyes spilled over a second time when she saw her husband sprawled out on the sofa, an empty whiskey bottle on the table. Her mind flashed to an image of him that was almost a duplicate of what her eyes were registering now. Reuben…the library at the château. She felt her skin begin to crawl.

“You bastard! You dirty rotten bastard! You'd rather sit down here and drink that rotgut than make love to me. This time it's our wedding night, Reuben! Do you hear me, our wedding night! I ought to kill you! I should have killed you that night in the barn. Damn you to hell!”

“Wha—” Reuben elbowed his way to a sitting position. He looked at Bebe in her ratty robe, trying to comprehend what she was doing in his house, and then he remembered.

“You don't love me. You never loved me. Why did you marry me? Answer me, goddamn you! I want to know.”

“I never said I loved you. I…asked you to marry me because…because…it seemed like the thing to do at the time. The tenth of April was my deadline…. I shouldn't have married you, Bebe. I'm sorry.”

“You're
sorry!
” Bebe screeched. “I love you. You've known I've loved you since I first met you. What does the tenth of April have to do with anything! What deadline? You're a bastard, Reuben, a real fucking bastard!” Wildly she looked around for something to throw at him. Nothing was heavy enough…nothing sharp enough.

At the old familiar look on her face, Reuben became fully awake. “But you love this fucking bastard,” he drawled, triumphant and guilty at the same time. With an immediate gut reaction, he realized that it was a nauseating combination.

Bebe's anger seemed to drain from her. “Yes, I do.” She wept now, tears running freely down her grieving face.

“Don't, Bebe. Just don't love me.” He turned his back to her and pretended he was asleep again. There was nothing more he could say.

Bebe climbed the stairs to the newly decorated master bedroom she had dreamed of sharing with her husband. With a muffled sob she threw herself onto the bed and buried her head in the creamy satin-covered pillows. Her tears were bitter and savage. “Bastard!”

When the lacy soft lavender dawn crept up and out of the canyon, she was on the terrace, still dressed in her ratty robe. A stack of writing paper and a steaming cup of coffee awaited her on the table. On this, her first day as Mrs. Reuben Tarz, she was going to write to Mickey. Did Reuben think her a fool? Of course he did. With Mickey out of the way she could make Reuben love her. She always got what she wanted, sometimes it just took a while. Certainly she could wait this time; she had her whole life ahead of her.

The letter was short, sweet, and to the point.

When she'd finished she signed her name with all the appropriate flourishes and then read the letter over, smiling grimly as she fingered the shiny new plain gold wedding band on her ring finger.

The profusion of living color at the château was like a rainbow gone wild after Paree. Every spring flower was in full bloom, some of the heavier blooms bowing their heads as if in welcome. Mickey watched indulgently as fragrant cherry blossom petals settled around the toddling baby. He reached for them with plump fingers. “Watch,” Mickey whispered to Yvette. “Watch what he does.” The little boy sniffed a petal, looked at it, and then stuffed it into his mouth. Mickey rushed to remove it. “He is a handful. Yvette, isn't he the most gorgeous child you have ever seen?”

“So gorgeous I am envious that you have this beauty with you twenty-four hours a day. He is a sturdy little boy, his legs so straight. A long torso for one so small.”

“Like his father,” Mickey said quietly. “These past months he has grown more and more to look like his father. What do you think?”

“A miniature of him, Mickey. It must break your heart.”

Mickey ignored her friend's words. “One day he got up on his feet and the next thing he was walking, exploring, touching. He is the inquisitive one. I love him so.”

“I see that,” Yvette said. “Come, I had the house opened and aired. Everything is ready for you and this angel. I fetched your mail several days ago. There isn't much, but there are letters from America.”

Mickey's heart pounded at Yvette's words. Her voice, though, was calm when she spoke. “I'll look at them later, when my sweetheart sleeps.”

“I brought a present for the child,” Yvette said shyly. “Henri made the blocks and I painted them. Is he too young, do you think?”

“Not at all,” Mickey assured her friend. “He loves to play with anything that is brightly colored. His curiosity is amazing.” Both women watched the little boy with the basket of blocks. “See, he will stack them, look at me for approval, and then topple them. He will do it over and over until he tires, an event that usually doesn't happen for a long time. The energy he has,
Mon Dieu!
”

“Now that the angel is settled, tell me, have you written to Reuben?”

Mickey shook her head. “It is pointless. Why can't you see that? He is in America and I am here. He is young and I am getting old. You must understand, it is not meant to be. I have accepted it; you must, too. If you can't, then you must share Henri with me.”

“He's yours!” Yvette cried dramatically. “You say these words, but your eyes say something else, old friend.”

“I try, Yvette. I will always love Reuben. I don't deny it to you, but, alas, my love wasn't strong enough for that spirited young man.”

“Michelene,” Yvette admonished her friend softly. “You should have written. Who can blame the young man? You are a worldly woman and wise in the ways of love. He is still a puppy. Your sad eyes break my heart.”

“Then you must not look at me, or I will have to hide my eyes.”

“That's not what I want.” Yvette's frustration was growing by the second. Always when she had these conversations with Mickey, at the end her head would ache as her heart did. “I want you to write to Reuben. Now, tonight. I will come by tomorrow and post the letter for you. I want your promise, Michelene!”

“Pretty words on a page…phrases…Bah!”

“Your promise, Michelene,” Yvette said mercilessly.

“Very well. Tonight when the baby sleeps I will write a letter. You have my promise.”

“Very good. I am satisfied.” Yvette smiled. ‘“I always miss you when you go to Paris, Mickey. I will bring Henri by tomorrow to see this gorgeous child. He will be delighted. Already he plans a red wagon. Who knows, by tomorrow it may be finished…. Mickey?”

“Yes?”

“Just say what is in your heart.”

“That would take many pages. I will say the necessary things.”

It was late, the moon riding high in the heavens, when Mickey finally settled Reuben's son in his bed. Of course, he didn't understand a word she said, but she read him stories anyway, first in French and then in English. Eyes wide with curiosity and wonder, he sucked his thumb contentedly as he listened to her crooning voice. Usually he was asleep in ten minutes, but tonight it was less, probably because of the trip from Paris and his new surroundings.

Mickey sighed as she glanced about her. She needed a housekeeper, and she needed her soon. One day home and already she had a pile of laundry.

 

A cup of coffee in hand, Mickey settled herself on the rocking chair before the empty fireplace and sorted through the mail. There were four letters from America—two from Daniel, one from Reuben, and one from Bebe. Carefully she arranged them by the dates and opened Daniel's first, smiling as she refolded the pages and slipped them and the crisp American bills into their envelopes. “I miss you, Daniel,” she murmured.

Should she open Reuben's next or the letter from Bebe? Bebe's, of course. Reuben's she would save till last. Maybe she would be able to sleep tonight after all.

She was dry-eyed when she finished Bebe's lilting letter. A long time later she got out of the rocking chair awkwardly and leaned over the yawning fireplace. Her hands trembled as she laid the letters on the grate. They flamed instantly, sparks shooting upward, the green edges of the American money turning orange and then black.

She'd made a promise to Yvette, and her friend would never forgive her if there wasn't a letter for her to post. What would Yvette say when she noticed whom the letter was addressed to?

A note, that was all that was required. To both of them, of course.

She rocked then, her feet planted firmly on the floor, the chair going backward and then forward. This was what it was like when you were dead, she decided. A tear spilled from her eye. “Good-bye, my darling,” she whispered.

When Yvette and Henri arrived the following morning with the red wagon in tow, Mickey was still in the rocking chair. Yvette took one look at her friend and then at the cold grate. Without a word she picked up the letter in Mickey's lap and saw that it was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Reuben Tarz.
“Mon Dieu!”
she exploded. “I will not mail this…this thing!” Anger laced her strained voice. “Who is Mrs. Tarz?” she demanded.

“Mrs. Tarz,” Mickey said, getting to her feet, “is Bebe. I must go to the child, he is crying for me.”

“Do they want…the little one?” Yvette asked quietly.

Mickey took a deep breath. “They have said nothing about the child…thank God…nothing.”

Yvette watched her old friend leave to tend her precious baby. The sound of the child's whimpering caught her ear. “And I will cry for you, too. It is a gift from the devil to have so much pride. What kind of people are we dealing with here?” she asked, her eyes directed toward the heavens. “Come, Henri, leave the damn wagon, we'll come back another day. We must mail this…this…letter to Mr. and Mrs. Tarz. Maybe…maybe we won't mail it—I must think on the matter.”

Little did Yvette know the old postmaster would bang his dated stamp on the envelope and near-sightedly throw it into the wrong mail sack where it stayed for almost a year, at which point he blessed himself and forwarded the letter to America.

Daniel Bishop's new home beckoned him invitingly. It was a comfortable double room with two desks, beds, and dressers. The two straggly green plants he'd added to the windowsills were thriving now with his care, bright green and healthy-looking—as healthy as he was these days, thanks to Reuben's generosity. With a critical eye, he inspected his side of the room, the neatly made bed, shoes lined up underneath, the dresser bare except for necessities, traveling kit, and his personal grooming supplies. His desk was full of neatly stacked books and pads of paper. Pencils were sharpened, their points sticking out of a cup. His closet held neatly pressed trousers and jackets, all stylish and fashionable, again thanks to Reuben.

The other side of the room, however, was a disaster. Daniel itched to take a broom to it, but he didn't. Gerald, better known as Rocky Rockefeller, had issued a statement the day he moved into the room: “I don't plan to clean this room till the day I move out.” Dust balls skittered to Daniel's side of the room. Clothes hung over the end of the bed, and sitting on Rocky's chair was a month's worth of dirty laundry.

“What we need is a maid,” Rocky said boisterously, slamming the door behind him. “Or,” he had said another time with a conspiratorial wink, “we could sneak a girl in here and have her do it. It'd be a real pleasure to put on an ironed shirt.”

Daniel had had an answer to that statement. “Do it yourself, it builds character,” he'd said.

“I picked up your mail, Daniel. It's on your desk. Must be allowance time,” Rocky said good-naturedly. “I guess that means we can party this weekend.”

Daniel laughed. “That means you party on my money and I stay here and study. How could you have spent all your allowance so quickly?”

Rocky tried to draw himself up to Daniel's full height but failed. “Women,” he announced, leering, “are expensive. Listen, Daniel, I've been meaning to speak to you about something. Do you have any money stashed away—you know, a bundle of some kind? Don't look so panicky. I don't want to borrow it. When my father came to see me on Sunday he was talking about a commodities stock that's going to take off. You could make a fortune, really rack up. My father is never wrong.” Rocky's round face beamed.

“What does ‘rack up' mean, exactly?” Daniel queried, liking the sound of Rocky's words.

“Hundreds, thousands. millions. Depends on what you go with.”

“Jesus!”

“Yeah, but keep a lid on it. My old man sort of let it slip, if you know what I mean. I'm off to the library, but I need to change my socks. You got any clean ones? How about some underwear, mine's kind of gamey.”

Daniel grinned and jerked his head in the direction of his dresser drawer, where stacks of underwear and socks, all formerly belonging to Rudolph Valentino, were folded neatly.

“I wish you'd get bigger underwear,” Rocky grumbled as he struggled into a pair of shorts. “A guy could die of strangulation wearing these. See you later, and remember, zip up about what I told you.”

When Rocky left, Daniel sighed with relief and reached for the top letter on his mail stack. It was from Reuben—he'd seen that much while Rocky was changing—and for once he could enjoy a visit from his friend in private. He ripped open the letter and scanned it for length. Reuben never said three words when one would do.

Suddenly his face filled with dismay. Frowning, he read the short letter a second and then a third time. When he returned it to the envelope, he muttered, “Reuben, this is the biggest mistake of your life.”

The pad of notepaper stared up at him. What should he say? What did Reuben expect him to say? Congratulations and good luck! Well, he was going to need some luck, of that Daniel was certain. When it came right down to it, there really wasn't much else to say when someone got married. With a sigh of resignation, he dipped his pen in the ink.

The moment Reuben received Daniel's letter at the studio, he read it and then headed for Sol's office. Silently he showed him the letter and waited for him to digest the contents.

“Do you have the guts, Sol?” he said when the older man was through. “We can head for the bank right now if you do.”

Dollar signs danced before Sol's eyes. “We're already in over our heads. What bank would be fool enough to loan us more?”

“I've learned something extremely valuable, and that is the more money you owe a bank, the more they'll lend you. Let's test the waters and see what we come up with.”

It was fifteen minutes before noon when they walked into the bank. At four-thirty the bank's president called Sol and approved the mortgage on the studio, promising to advance one million dollars at nine o'clock the following morning. Sol's face drained of color and he rushed to Reuben's office. “We got it, kid,” he said. “One million at noon tomorrow. How…how much…what if…” The thought was so horrible, he couldn't finish.

Reuben smiled grimly.

“There are no what-ifs. We stand to clear around seven, possibly eight and a half million. It goes without saying that I get half. Before you squawk, I'll take my half from the net, after we pay back the bank—which'll leave you maybe a million ahead of me. We can sign an agreement right now.”

Sol reached for his pen; he'd hitched his wagon to Tarz, and it looked like the ride was just beginning.

“Bebe is going to love this. I'm glad she's your responsibility now, kid. That girl can spend money faster than you can make it. You better have your friend cut you in on a few more deals. You know I won't sleep a minute until this…until we have the money in our hands. For a young guy you have nerves of steel,” Sol grumbled. “When I was your age I didn't have nerves, but I was a gambler. If we go belly-up, we lose it all, you know.”

“We won't. No guarantees in this life, Sol, none at all. You either take a chance when opportunity knocks or you slam the door. I can feel the money in my pocket.” Reuben smiled. He was still smiling when he left the office, earlier than usual.

He didn't go home, even though he knew Bebe would have dinner waiting. Instead, he stopped at the Mimosa Club. “I have something to talk to you about, Max,” he said quietly.

“In my office,” Max said.

With the door closed behind him, Reuben told the little man about Daniel's tip. “…as much money as you can lay your hands on, Max. And when it's time to get out, you squirrel it all away.”

“How come you're telling me all this? I thought you didn't…How come?” Max blustered.

“You gave me a job when I needed it, even if it was for just a little while. You're not a back stabber; you know how to keep your lip zipped, and you did me a favor that time with Jane. If you want the real reason, it's because I like your mother's noodle pudding. Besides, this squares us.”

Max looked puzzled. “I thought we were square when you gave me the film distribution.”

“No. We're square now. All the money you can get your hands on,” Reuben repeated. “Be at the broker's first thing in the morning. Don't drag your feet on this one.”

“Jesus, I'll wear skates if it'll make you happy. By the way, I heard about your marriage. This ain't none of my business, but you don't look like the marrying kind.”

“We all have our weak moments,” Reuben said sourly.

“Jesus, there's lots of free pussy out there, Tarz. Weak moments can cost you in the end. Sorry, sorry,” Max apologized at the look on Reuben's face, “this is none of my business. You want something to eat or drink? I can have it brought here to the office.”

“No, I think I'm going to take a walk, a long walk.”

Max watched Reuben from the window. He knew a lot of people, but none as unhappy as Reuben Tarz. If only there were something he could do, something to make the kid happy so he smiled when he got out of bed in the morning. With a sigh, he reached for a pencil. With what his mother kept in the pillowcase under her bed and in the toes of her bedroom slippers and what he had stashed, he should be able to come up with close to eight hundred thousand dollars. Jesus, he should have asked Tarz what this kind of investment would earn. If he was lucky, he'd probably come out with seventy-five thousand dollars profit. Not bad for a hot tip.

One month and two days after getting into the commodities market Reuben received a telegram from Daniel. It contained two words: Sell immediately. Reuben called Mort Stiner and told him to sell. He called Max, but the gangster was out for the day, so he called the broker back and told him to sell for Max.

“I can't do that, Mr. Tarz,” the broker protested.

“I'm his partner, and I'm telling you to sell. If you don't, you won't have any arms or legs left. Sell, goddammit!” Reuben snarled. “You want the studio's business in the future, you do what I tell you.”

At noon Reuben left the office. At five he returned with three checks: one for Sol in the amount of $5,500,000; one for Max in the amount of $2,000,000; and one for himself for $3,000,000. He was elated. Three million dollars. Jesus! Wait till he told Daniel. “I love you, Daniel!” he cried happily.

On his way to Sol's office he stopped at his secretary's desk and peeled three hundred dollars out of his billfold. “Here, Margaret, buy yourself a new dress, get your mother one, and take her out to dinner to the fanciest restaurant in town. Now!”

“But I…I still have work…This is too much…. Oh, thank you, Mr. Tarz, thank you so much.” All the way home on the bus she kept saying over and over, “He's the nicest man in Hollywood.”

 

Sol looked at the check as though it were a snake. One plump finger counted the zeros, ticking them off one by one. “Jesus, you pulled this off! You really pulled it off! Put them together here on the desk so I can see what 8.5 million looks like at one time. My God! This must be all the money in the world, and it's right here. We have to put these checks in the safe till tomorrow morning. The goddamn banks are closed now. Shit, I'm going to sit here all night holding it for safekeeping.” When Reuben left, Sol was staring into space, a truly happy man.

At six o'clock he called Bebe to tell her he wouldn't be home for dinner. In fact, he said, “I'll be rather late, so don't wait up for me.” He winced at the sound of tears in his wife's voice. You are a bastard, Tarz, he berated himself

It was almost nine when Reuben cleared his desk. He headed straight for the Mimosa Club. The joint was jumping when he pushed his way inside. Max was leaning on the bar, his eyes glued to the door. The minute he saw Reuben he headed straight over.

“I hear you been calling me all day. I took my mother to the zoo, and then stayed for dinner. She's my mother, what can I tell you?”

“That it's nice to care about your mother. Don't apologize for that, Max.”

“Tarz”—Max stopped in his tracks—“I wasn't apologizing. I was explaining. Let's go in the office.”

“When I couldn't reach you,” Reuben said, sitting opposite Max in his office. “I took the liberty of selling the stock for you. I picked up your check this afternoon. A little unorthodox, but they came across. Here it is.”

Max stared at the piece of paper in his hands. “Holy Jesus Christ! This is millions. Is it a mistake? How much of this is your cut?”

“When are you going to learn, Max? This is yours. I do not get a cut. I do not want a cut. You better put it someplace safe till the banks open in the morning. How about something to eat?”

“Eat! You want to eat at a time like this? We should be celebrating.”

“Wrong. I want to eat. By the way, keep this to yourself. I'm serious. Sometimes—and this is one of those times—it's best to keep things like this…private.”

“Yeah, I guess you're right. I don't really have too many people to share this with, anyway. It takes away part of the thrill, if you know what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean. About that food…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Listen, I'll get it for you myself.”

It was after one in the morning when Reuben let himself into the house in Laurel Canyon. Bebe rushed from the living room and threw her arms around him, kissing his nose, his cheeks, his mouth. “I'm so glad you're home, Reuben. I waited up. I didn't think you'd want to come into a dark, quiet house. Do you want some dinner? I told the cook to keep it warm.”

Reuben shook his head. “I ate, Bebe. I told you not to wait up. You should go to sleep now. I want to write to Daniel and l have some papers to go over.”

Bebe stood there, her hands on her hips. “Why are you avoiding me? We're married. What am I supposed to do—pretend we're brother and sister? Tell me what it is you expect from me. I won't force myself on you. Do you want me to move back to my father's house, or what?”