Sins of Omission (57 page)

Bebe was absent for long periods of time now—weeks, sometimes months. She called from time to time to inquire about her son's health and the well-being of her husband. In time, Reuben came to welcome her absences and hated it when she was home, upsetting the routine he tried to establish. She took great pleasure in swooping into the nursery at dawn, just home from a party, dressed in glittery sequins and gleaming jewels, her face thick with makeup, high on liquor and marijuana. At such times Reuben could see the confusion in Simon's face. Once, as he was leaving the room, he heard her croon, “Ah, John Paul, you thought I forgot about you. Mama never forgets.” When she saw Reuben stop in midstride she stiffened momentarily, then hugged the child and told him the words were actually lyrics for a new song she'd heard recently. Her eyes were sad but defiant when she kissed the boy and fumbled her way out of the room.

Thus life stumbled on for Reuben and his little family. As his wealth and power soared, his marriage crumbled. There were times when he didn't know where his wife was until he read about her in the social pages of the paper. But he no longer cared; it was that simple.

 

Spring came early to Massachusetts and Reuben thanked God for the brisk, warm day. If he'd wished for trees in full leaf, flowers in bloom, and a light breeze, not to mention the golden sunshine, he couldn't have done a better job of it than Mother Nature. It was the kind of day to remember.

Daniel's graduation from Harvard Law School and his being here, along with Max and Jane, was a surprise. The moment he read the letter from the dean informing him Daniel was graduating summa cum laude, he'd wangled and finagled for front-row seats. Now they were in the coffee shop having breakfast, a hearty meal that Reuben only pushed around on his plate. “I swear,” Jane said through mouthfuls of food, “you are going to bust at the seams, Reuben.”

Reuben beamed. “I'm just so damn proud of him. He told me from the beginning he'd be a straight-A student and that he'd make me proud of him. There has to be a better word than proud, but I don't know what it is. Jesus Christ, summa cum laude! Where else could that happen but here in America? And Hollywood,” he muttered under his breath. Jane was right, he felt as though he were going to burst any second.

“The kid is going to be real surprised to see you, Reuben,” Max said, dabbing at his mouth. “But I don't know how he's going to feel about seeing me here. I know he thinks I'm a bad influence on you. You keep saying it's all right, and I hope it is. I don't want to embarrass him on a day like this.”

“He's past all that, Max. Daniel's all grown up now. I want you here and that'll be good enough for Daniel. Trust me.”

“What's he going to do—I mean, where is he going to practice?” Jane asked.

“I hope in Hollywood, but that's up to him. I just want him to be happy and successful. Jesus, I can't believe this!” Reuben said for the umpteenth time.

Max grinned. “The kid must have been real disappointed when you told him you couldn't make it. You just wanted to surprise him, right?”

“Yeah, he was, but he said he understood. I would be here even if he wasn't summa cum laude and if I had to crawl all the way on my hands and knees. I love that guy!” Reuben exclaimed happily.

“I can't wait to see his face when he sees us sitting in the front row.” Jane smiled. “Just like a real family. I guess we are Daniel's family, sort of. I can be his sister, Max can be his uncle, and you, Reuben, you are Daniel's everything—brother, father, above all, his friend.”

Forty minutes later they were in their seats, dead center with the stage where Daniel would give his speech. Reuben wondered what Daniel would say if he knew he'd sent a cable to Mickey. Whatever there was between Mickey and himself had nothing to do with Daniel, and she deserved to know about this wonderful day. By now he knew the words to the cable by heart because he'd ripped up twenty-three of them before he'd finally settled on just the right words and the right tone.

How had she reacted to the cable, he wondered wistfully. Proud, certainly—unless, of course, she'd forgotten about him, which he didn't think likely.
Mickey, Mickey, where are you? Are you well? Have you really forsaken us?
With a sigh, he forced his mind back to the present. This was Daniel's day, and nothing was going to spoil it.

Within moments they called Daniel's name, and there he was, making his way to the podium. No papers, his speech would be in his head. The crazy urge to stand up and shout was so strong, Reuben felt light-headed. Daniel looked nervous. Poor bastard, it must be tough standing up there facing all these people. Look at me, Daniel! I'm here! Daniel, look down. Do it, Daniel, before I bust a gut.

“Ladies and gentlemen, members of—” And then he saw him, sitting in the middle of the row with all the proud parents…and he did something then, something so out of character for him that the audience smiled. “Reuben, you came!…And faculty,” he continued, grinning from ear to ear. Reuben smiled past the lump in his throat. His eyes burned and he didn't care if the whole world saw the tears trickling down his cheeks. He made a circle with his thumb and index finger—Right on, buddy.

The moment the ceremony ended, Reuben was off his chair. Once again Daniel lost his composure and leapt off the stage, his diploma clutched in his hand. “Son of a gun! God, I can't believe you're here! Talk about a surprise! Jane, Max! Jesus, it's good to see you. This guy dragged you all the way here. Some friend, huh?”

“I'm so very proud of you, Daniel,” Jane said, hugging him.

“I'm kind of proud of me, too. It was a hell of a three years, I can tell you that, but I had to make this guy proud of me.” He poked Reuben affectionately on the arm. “I still can't believe you're all here.”

“Mr. Bishop,” interjected a strange voice. Startled, Daniel turned and nodded at a tall man wearing a dark three-piece suit. “I've been instructed to give you this,” he said, holding out a white envelope. “May I offer my congratulations, Mr. Bishop? Marcus Welstar, Morgan Guaranty Bank.” He held out his hand, and Daniel gripped it in surprise.

“Thank you,” Daniel said, puzzled.

“What is it?” Reuben demanded as the man walked back into the crowd.

“Never heard of him. Maybe they want to hire me. Wouldn't that be something!” he said, ripping at the white envelope. A moment later, as his eyes scanned the paper he was holding, he gasped. “It's from Mickey. Listen to this”:

“It's a deed to a building,” Daniel said in awe. “I don't believe this! Reuben, do you see what she's done!”

Reuben nodded. “I…I cabled her, Daniel. I thought she had a right to know.”

“I take it that means you haven't really been in touch or…I wish I knew why…Never mind, that's water under the bridge.” But of course it wasn't. Obviously Reuben still loved Mickey, and in his heart Daniel knew Mickey loved Reuben. “I thought I was going to set up practice in California so I could be near you. I thought that was one of the reasons I went to law school…. Hey! I want to hear all about Simon. Daddy Reuben. Now, that does have a ring to it, pal.”

Reuben smiled. “Well, he likes presents.” No need to tell Daniel the boy preferred rag dolls and picture books to the exclusion of other toys. “And listen, Daniel, Hollywood is no place for you to practice law. They call it Sin City these days. Hays is leaving us alone and working behind the scenes, thanks to you.”

Daniel laughed. “I thought he had cleaned it all up.”

“Only in print. You would not believe what goes on behind the scenes. You're clean, pal, and you're going to stay that way. Things at the studio…Hollywood…sometimes we cut here and there, skirt the edges…that kind of thing. It's best for you in Washington. I want to hear you tell me you understand.”

“Of course I understand,” Daniel said. “If Washington is where you think I should be, then that's where I'll be. But first I have to pass the bar exams.”

Reuben grinned. “I don't think that'll be too much of a problem for you…. Now then,” he said, linking arms with Daniel on one side and Jane on the other, Max following behind, “what do you say to a little luncheon celebration. I think you've earned it—and besides, I'm starved!”

 

Sol Rosen's spit-and-polish office, where very little business was conducted these days, irritated the portly man. His head felt as empty as his desk looked. In his hand he held what he referred to as his downfall, a letter from Mickey Fonsard's Paris attorneys. For two goddamn years he'd been writing both Mickey and the lawyers, offering to buy an additional 25 percent of Fairmont, and only now was there a response. He wanted to howl his outrage, and found himself mimicking the prissy-sounding words on the crackly paper. “Madame Fonsard thanks you for your up-to-date payments. Unfortunately at this time she cannot offer any further percentage in the company. Madame Fonsard wishes you to be informed that her 51 percent of Fairmont Studios is now being held by Philippe Bouchet.”

Sol frowned. Just who the hell was Philippe Bouchet? The date on the legal transfer was 1921, the year Reuben Tarz had come to the studio. That meant he must have known about this guy Bouchet when he'd arrived with Mickey's letter requesting a job. He'd probably been instructed by them to inch his way in and then take over, bit by bit, which was exactly what he had done. It was all a plan, a rotten game, and only Reuben knew the rules. What had they offered Reuben in the way of a reward, he wondered. The presidency of Fairmont, probably, along with power and glory. Bastard!

Sol scooped up all the legal papers and left for his personal attorney's office. Forty-nine percent still gave him a loud voice, and Bouchet was on the other side of the world.

The Paris garden was alive with noise, birds chirping and the gleeful shouts of Philippe Bouchet as he raced after a fat puppy named Dolly, a frisky kitten named Molly fast on their heels. Jake was already at the finish line, his pink tongue ready to lick at Philippe the minute he sat down. All of them were after a red ball that eluded plump fingers and frisky paws.

Watching them, Mickey laughed. The exquisitely groomed garden would be a shambles before long, not that she cared. “I do believe you are the Three Musketeers,” she said fondly to the boy.

“Yes,” the boy said, grinning mischievously. “Not Molly. Only dogs and me. One, two, three.” He pointed to Jake and Dolly and himself with his pudgy finger. “Like the picture of my papa and Uncle Daniel and you.
Maman.
”

Mickey smiled. The legend lived on. Philippe loved the stories of the happy threesome represented in the portrait that hung in a position of honor over the mantel at Château Fonsard. This year when they started out for Paris for the preschool term, Philippe had insisted they bring the painting with them. He'd also insisted they bring Jake, Molly, and Dolly. Mickey had grumbled a bit but happily stuffed the car like a sausage.

“When are we going back to the chateau?” the little boy asked.

“When school is finished. You must learn, Philippe, that it is important to have a proper education.”

“So my papa will be proud of me. I speak three languages and I'm six. Will that make my papa proud?”

“Very proud. I am very proud of you, too,” Mickey said softly.

“When will I meet him,
Maman?
”

Mickey hated the question and always responded in the same way. “When it is time.” So far the child hadn't pinned her down to any specific time; he was still content with her response. That would not always be the case, she knew, but she would deal with it at the proper time.

“What came in the post,
Maman?
More business leiters?”

“Of course. It is always the business letters.” Mickey laughed.

“Open it and tell me about it,” Philippe said in the grown-up voice he affected when he wanted to sound serious.

“You remind me of a precocious squirrel,
chéri,
” Mickey said as she obediently opened the packet from America and quickly scanned the contents. “Now, what is it you wish to know?” she asked, smiling.

Philippe's head went up as he stuffed his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. The little boy looked so much like Reuben with his mannerisms that Mickey's heart fluttered. “Everything.”

“Very well.” Mickey made a pretense of reading the papers again. “This paper says your brother Simon's grandfather is perturbed about…certain matters.”

“Why do you just call him Simon's grandfather? If he is my brother's grandfather, then he is mine, too. I should have a grandfather if Simon has one,” the boy grumbled.

Mickey's voice grew stern. “We have gone over this several times, Philippe, and I have no wish to do it yet another time. It is unfortunate that you do not have a grandfather. There is nothing I can do about it.” She hated herself for the lie, but she had no other recourse. Perhaps at some point in the future she could tell him the truth. “It will do you no good to glare at me, Philippe. If you persist, I will not tell you what else is in these letters.”

The boy dropped to the grass and hugged his knees, the dogs and cat at his side. “I will listen…respectfully.” He smiled, and Mickey's heart melted.

“Now, listen to me very carefully,
chéri.
This paper,” she said, holding up the stiff, folded document, “says you, Philippe Bouchet own…Are you ready to hear what you own?” Mickey teased.

“Yes, yes, yes…. What do I own,
Maman?
” the little boy squealed. Surely it was a pony cart or a sailboat—something grand, at least. His heart pounded in anticipation.

“You own 51 percent of Fairmont Studios in America. Isn't that wonderful?”

Tears gathered in the little boy's eyes. “But I cannot play with a studio,
Maman.
”

“Big boys do not cry when they are disappointed,
chéri….
Now, do you wish me to continue?”

“Yes,
Maman.
”

“All right, now, listen to me. When you own 51 percent of something, that makes you the major stockholder. In other words, you are the boss. Your papa works at Fairmont Studios. He is a very important man. More important than Simon's grandfather. Are you following me, Philippe?” The little boy nodded, his head buzzing with questions. “Someday, when you are old enough, you will go to America and take over your studio. You will be your papa's boss.”

“How can that be,
Maman?
Papas are grown-up people. I am only six years old. That will not be for a very long time.” He sounded so dejected and forlorn. Mickey took him into her arms.

“Right now it seems like a very long time, but time moves very swiftly, sometimes too swiftly. You will be president and chairman of the board. It will be a tremendous responsibility, Philippe, and that is why you must study hard so you will be able to operate the studio.”

Philippe wiggled in Mickey's arms. He was getting too big to sit on his mother's lap, but he didn't want to hurt her feelings by jumping off. “Will I share the studio with my papa and Simon?”

Mickey's throat constricted. “Only if you wish to do so,” she said quietly.

“Yes, I will do that. I will share. Is my father
ever
going to come and see me? Will Simon ever come and see me?” the boy asked wistfully.

“No, Philippe. We've gone over this many times. When you are of age you will go to America. Now, shoo, into the house with you.” The little boy raced off, Jake three laps ahead of him, Dolly and Molly doing their best to keep up. Mickey knew where he was going, where she would find him when she entered the house.

“Now everyone has to be quiet while I look at my papa,” Philippe said, wagging his finger at the animals squatting by his heels. “Shhhhh.”

How he loved this picture of his papa and his uncle Daniel! They looked like the heroes in his picture books. Surely they did all kinds of wonderful things. “If you were here, you'd build me a tree house, wouldn't you, Papa?” he asked sadly. “I wish you'd come just once. I would be good and you would like me. I would be a very good boy. Jake and Dolly will behave. Dolly is Jake's…” He struggled for the proper word. “May be baby…a girl,” he said, laughing. “When I say my god-blesses at night, I do one for you and one for Uncle Daniel.
Maman
says that is right.” Tears began to trickle down his cheeks. Jake whined at his feet and Dolly tried to snag his socks with her puppy teeth. Philippe dropped down and cuddled the dogs to his chest. “If he liked me just a little bit, he'd come to see me. Just a little bit…”

 

Bebe Tarz woke one morning in the summer of 1929 with a fierce headache. She lay still, trying to remember what she'd done the previous evening to warrant such vicious throbbing. But the harder she struggled to remember, the worse her head pounded. It frightened her, this inability to remember details that were only hours old. Then her fear turned to panic when she thought she might be losing her mind. Alcohol and drugs ate at your brain, Reuben had told her once.

The timid knock on her door sounded like a thunderclap to her ears. The maid entered with a silver tray containing her coffee and the morning paper. Thank God, maybe the coffee would help her headache. Impatiently she waved the maid away when she started to open the curtains. What she really needed was a drink. Maybe if she could get through the morning without tapping a bottle, she could think a little better. With an ease born of practice, she tumbled eight aspirin into her hand and swallowed them down with a deep gulp of coffee. But this time her tried-and-true home remedy failed; five minutes later she was in the bathroom throwing up, and when she returned to her bed it was all she could do to climb in. If Reuben could see her now, he'd be nasty and contemptuous toward her, and she wouldn't blame him.

My God, why couldn't she remember where she'd been and what she'd done last evening? Again, she tried to think. Yes, she recalled dressing to meet Adam James, Fox's answer to Miguel Paola, the Latin lover. Adam was a wonderful lover, always telling her how beautiful she was, how glamourous she looked, and how thrilled he was that she wanted him, not her handsome husband, the head of Fairmont Studios.

Bebe massaged her throbbing temples. They'd driven up the coast highway and had dinner, after which they'd gone to a hotel and made love. Then they'd smoked a reefer each, snorted a line of cocaine, and had a few drinks from Adam's flask. It was around midnight when they'd left…. Adam had dropped her off where she'd left her car. And that was it, all she could remember. How and when had she gotten home? God, why couldn't she remember? Maybe if she put it out of her mind for a little while and read the paper, the evening's events would come back to her.

The coffee cup slid unnoticed from her hand when she opened the newspaper to the front page. The headline glared at her:
STAR'S WIFE COMMITS SUICIDE OVER OTHER WOMAN
. Bebe ran for the bathroom a second time as the finale to her evening surfaced at last. The wrath of God was going to come tumbling down on her head now.

It was all rushing back so fast, her head was spinning. Adam had brought his car to a stop beside hers. They'd both gotten out of his car, and he'd kissed her, a long, lingering kiss. Stupidly she'd professed her love for him in a clear voice, a voice that had carried to the figure crouching alongside her car. Adam had said something equally stupid about loving her, about getting a divorce and marrying her, but she'd been too drunk to do more than laugh at his words.

Suddenly he'd shouted, “Melissa! My God, what are you doing hiding in the bushes? Spying!”

Melissa was a timid little soul, or so Adam had said previously, so timid she believed anything he said. But the Melissa she'd seen last night was anything but timid. She'd pulled a gun out of her pocket and aimed it first at Bebe and then at Adam, calling them every name she could think of. Too shocked to do anything but stare at the gun, Bebe had listened to Melissa's tearful tirade. Then, when she'd tired of her verbal attack on Adam, she'd switched her attention to Bebe, the gun wavering in her fist.

“Tramp! Slut! Home wrecker!”

“Please, Mrs. James, it isn't what you think,” Bebe shouted, not knowing whether she was more afraid of the woman holding the gun or her father and Reuben.

“I'll see both of you smeared all over the papers! Slut! We just had a new baby,” Melissa shrieked. “Did he tell you
that?
You don't deserve to live, either of you!” Her voice was shaky, the hand holding the gun shakier.

“Please, I have a son,” Bebe pleaded, backing away. “Take your husband home and I swear I'll never see him again. I swear it!”

The handsome actor advanced on his wife. He smiled, hoping she would calm down and give him the gun. Instead, she backed up, the gun still shaking in her hand.

“Do something, Adam, she's crazed,” Bebe screamed. “We could die here!”

Adam lunged at his wife and they struggled. When the gun went off, Bebe buried her face in her hands.

“Please don't kill me, please don't,” she sobbed, too drunk and panicked to think clearly. “Please, please, please.”

“Shut up, Bebe!” Adam barked. “Melissa is dead; the gun went off when we were struggling. We have to get out of here. Oh, God, I don't even know how she got here. Listen, you and I didn't see each other tonight. No—wait a minute—the restaurant where we had dinner, someone will remember. Maybe we should say we met accidentally and had dinner. That won't prove Melissa knew or didn't know. Look, go home. I'll go home, too, and tomorrow I'll call the police and say she didn't come home this evening…. God, where in the hell did she get the gun?”

“I don't know and I don't care,” Bebe cried. “She was deranged and could have killed me. You're no hero, Adam, and I don't know what I ever saw in you. You killed your own wife!” She marched around to the driver's side of her car and got in. “Don't bring me into this. She's
your
wife! Well, she
was
your wife.” With that she drove off in a cloud of dust, leaving Adam and his dead wife in the bushes at the side of the road. Another performance worthy of Clovis Ames.

“Oh, God, oh, God,” Bebe bleated now as she hopped out of bed. Wild with fear, she started throwing clothes into suitcases. Where would she go, what would she do? Adam would incriminate her. If the situation were reversed, she'd sing so loud they'd hear her in Canada.

Reuben. She had to tell Reuben. He would know what to do. If this scandal were to explode in his face, he'd hate her. But anything was better than going to prison, she thought wildly…wasn't it?

She dressed as quickly as she could, throwing on pieces of clothing in a careless frenzy that left her looking no better than she had when Reuben had carted her off to Palm Springs. Oh, God, she'd been safe there, protected. Yes, Reuben could take her back to Palm Springs. Things could be all right again. Christ, right now she'd kill for a drink! “I didn't mean that,” she cried. “I'd never kill anyone.”

Barefoot, Bebe tottered into the dressing room, picked up the phone, and dialed Reuben's office number. “I want to speak to my husband, Margaret, right now. Right this minute. I don't care what he's doing, get him on this phone!” she cried hysterically. The second she heard Reuben's voice she relaxed. “You have to come home, Reuben! Now!”

“Did something happen to Simon?” he asked anxiously.

“Simon? No, of course not. Why would something happen to Simon? I want you to come home, Reuben. Immediately!”