Sins of the Flesh (50 page)

“You wait, I'm going to sic my Great Dane on you.” Lizzie laughed as she drove away. It was true, she hadn't asked Philip to call her Beth instead of Lizzie. When he said her name, it was as though music played in the background. Lizzie sounded like Lee-zay.

Yes, she liked Philip Reuben. Very much.

 

The following days were wonderful for Philippe. He slept late, as did Mike. Mrs. Almeda cooked up enormous breakfasts of waffles and eggs and ham and kissed both of them good-bye at the door when they drove off to the clinic to help Lizzie. They laughed and kidded, kibitzed and joked, and enjoyed each other's company. They sat on the lawn out by the dog runs, and ate the picnic lunches Mrs. Almeda packed in a wicker hamper. It wasn't until the fifth day that Mike tactfully absented himself, but only after Philippe threatened to throttle him if he didn't make himself scarce.

“I heard that!” Lizzie laughed as she taped a splint on a dog's leg. Philippe faced her across the stainless-steel table, holding on to the dog in a firm grip.

“I was hoping you did,” he said. “I wanted to be alone with you.”

“We're hardly alone.” Lizzie gestured to the long, double-tiered row of animal cages.

“They don't count,” Philippe said huskily.

Lizzie's cheeks flushed, and she lifted her head to meet Philippe's eyes. She knew where this was going. “Would you like to go to the movies this evening? Mike said he'd stay here. He's not much for the pictures, but I love them.”

Philippe sighed. “I thought you would never ask.”

“I'm asking, but you're doing the paying,” she teased.

“Fair enough.” A vision of Nellie flashed before his eyes as he recalled the number of times he'd taken her to the movies. Resolutely he pushed her far back into his mind, but he knew she wouldn't stay there.

“The early show, okay. I want to get to bed before eleven. I've scheduled some surgery tomorrow morning. There's this wonderful movie that's playing,” she continued, focusing now on her work. “Everyone is talking about it. My parents saw it, and Mom said she cried all the way through. Dad said it was so real, he couldn't believe it. The papers say it's going to win all the awards on Oscar night.”

Instantly Philippe grew alert and oddly apprehensive. “Who made it?”

“What?” Lizzie asked, glancing up.

“Which studio filmed the movie? Do you know?”

She shrugged. “I have no idea. Is it important? Mom might know since she already saw it. Wait a minute—yes, I do know, I read about it in the paper last week. A new company…Global Pictures. Yes, I'm sure that's the one. It's the story of one of the big guys in Hollywood. I think he owned one of the studios and left to go to Europe in the middle of the war to find his old love. Anyway, the paper said they closed his studio down, something to do with the courts, so this man's wife and someone else made the film at Global Pictures. For very little money, apparently, and all the actors and actresses are unknowns, which is supposed to make it all the more believable. It's called
The Sands of Time
. If you'd rather see something else, I don't mind,” she said uneasily, watching Philippe struggle to conceal his agitation.

“No, no, that's fine,” he said, his voice strained. “Listen, do you mind if I skip on out of here and head back to the house? I'll see you for supper.”

“Sure…Philip, is anything wrong?” she asked.

Philippe walked around the stainless-steel table. “I'm not sure,” he said quietly. He leaned over and kissed her, a gentle, sweet kiss full of longing. Lizzie clung to him, wanting the kiss to go on, but he drew away, his eyes clouded with worry he couldn't disguise. “I think I love you, Lizzie,” he said.

“I know I love you,” Lizzie whispered. “I fell in love with you through Mike's letters.”

“When I saw your picture…I fell in love. Seeing you and getting to know you…my whole world has changed. I wasn't prepared to fall in love. Loving a picture is one thing…Look, I don't know what I'm trying to say. Later, we'll talk later, all right?” Without waiting for her reply, he kissed her again and ran from the clinic.

 

Philippe ran, the hounds of hell at his heels, to the movie house in Lizzie's neighborhood. His eyes drank in the big letters on the marquee and the huge poster next to the cashier's cage. His trembling finger traced the line of credits. Filmed by Global Pictures, produced by Barbara Rosen Tarz and Jane Perkins. They'd done it! What had been only a possibility was now a reality; the proof was in front of him.

He couldn't go to this movie with Lizzie. He had to go alone. Even worse, he had no right to go
anywhere
with Lizzie, no right to tell her he loved her. He had no damn rights at all! Once again Nellie's face flashed before his eyes, and like a sleepwalker he shook his head to clear it.

What had happened to Fairmont? He had to know. Stopping a nearby pedestrian, Philippe asked where the town newspaper had its office. Then, his hands jammed into his pockets, he ran all the way to the brick building the man had indicated.

Inside the office he demanded several back issues of the newspaper from a startled receptionist. An hour and a half later he left the building, disturbed and sick at heart. He walked aimlessly, up one street and down another. When he saw children playing in a park, he stopped and lit a cigarette. He didn't want to think about what he'd just read. Think only about the moment, he told himself, not the past, not the future, just the moment.

The beginning, the middle, the end. Think about the moment, the present, not the beginning, not the end, and don't ever think about Nellie. Think about how good you felt when you kissed Lizzie Almeda. Think about all the hurt and helpless animals she's assisted. Think about how gentle her hands are. Think about Mike and the grin that's always plastered all over his face. Not Nellie, not Bebe, not Jane. Her lips were so pink and soft, and she smelled like sunshine and apples. Be glad you're alive and don't worry about anyone else.

Fairmont Studios…closed on the court's order. Had been closed for over three years, ever since he'd left. Oh, Jesus, all because of me. He groaned. Her hair was like cornsilk, soft and curly, wispy bangs on her forehead. Kind eyes, warm eyes, gentle eyes. Was his father dead? The end meant the end. His mother, Mickey Fonsard…was she dead, too? His fist pounded down on the park bench. He had to leave, return to Los Angeles. He couldn't go back to the Almeda house, couldn't let them love him the way he wanted to be loved. He didn't deserve them, didn't deserve Lizzie. He hadn't been honest with any of them, not even Mike.

Come on,
argued an inner voice,
you didn't deceive any of them, you simply didn't confide in them. There's a big difference. It's not written anywhere that you have to confide in people.

Again Philippe pounded the bench. “You are as bad as you said your old man was. You gotta make this right, and soon.” Hands shaking, he lit another cigarette from the one in his mouth, and started to walk again, to retrace his steps to the movie house. Standing in line waiting to buy his ticket, he was oblivious to those around and behind him. Otherwise he would have seen Mike staring at the back of his head.

Inside the cool, musty-smelling theater, Mike waited until Philippe was seated and then sat down two rows behind him. Finally, he thought grimly, he was going to find out who Philip Reuben was.

Mike watched the movie, mesmerized, almost forgetting why he was sitting alone with Philip's head in clear view. It wasn't until he saw a tall, dark-haired young man step out of a Red Cross plane that he put two and two together. When the film rolled to a close, he was fighting tears; navy aviators didn't cry, at least not this one. But the one in front of him was so choked with emotion, he
couldn't
cry.

He waited for the last stragglers to leave the theater before he made his way down the center aisle to where Philippe was still sitting. For a moment he thought his friend was in a trance. Touching his shoulder lightly he said, “It's time to go, Phil. I'll ask Pop to loan me his car and drive you to L.A. Up and at 'em, guy, they're going to close the theater.”

Philippe bit down on his lower lip, his eyes still on the now-blank screen. “She's dead and I didn't even know. I should have felt something, known somehow. It's not right.”

“No, it isn't, but there's nothing you can do now,” Mike said sympathetically.

“Man, did I fuck up,” he murmured, shaking his head. “No wonder it's coming down around me now.”

“A temporary condition. You can fix a lot of this if you make the effort. To do nothing…then I'm going to have to take a second look at you, pal.”

“I have to go back.”

“I know. I'm ready right now. We could go home and pack some duds, but if you're in a hurry, I can sprint home and get Pop's car. It's up to you.”

“I never touched her; that kid isn't mine,” Philippe said miserably.

“Hell, I know that,” Mike said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I know you, buddy, I went through a war with you.”

“I should have been bombing the hell out of Europe, and where the hell was I? In the fucking Pacific, that's where,” Philippe said bitterly. “I could have made a difference. I put in for a transfer fifty times, and all fifty times they said I was needed in the Pacific. I should have joined the army. Oh, Jesus, how am I ever going to fix all this?”

“Cmon, pal, they're closing up, and I don't want to get thrown out on my ear.”

Philippe turned to his friend with pleading eyes. “I can't go back to your house. I can't face your parents…and Lizzie.”

“It would be kind of tough, I guess,” Mike murmured thoughtfully. “But, my family…especially Lizzie, we believe in people. My parents…they aren't real, you know, book smart. That's why they made sure Lizzie and I went to college. But they do have what we call street smarts, good old common sense. They reflect, Phil, they don't react or overreact. Look, old buddy, we both know you cut out, ran out when things got tough. You can do that again if you want, but that isn't going to solve anything. I kind of thought you and Lizzie…I thought…something is…was developing. I'd hate to see that cut off just as it was getting off the ground. Another thing—I'd hate like hell to see you go back with your tail between your legs. No sir, you're going to step into your spiffy dress whites, the ones that girls drool all over, and march in there, wherever
there
is, and be the conquering hero, and if you're bashful about your record, I'll run it up the flagpole.”

After a moment Philippe gave a short, decisive nod of his head and stood up. “You're right, let's go. You sure you want to do this, Mike? I'll be glad of the company, but who's going to help Lizzie?”

“The same person who helped her before we got here: my mom,” Mike said, rising. “It'll work out, don't worry.”

But he did worry. His face clouded with shame when he sat down at the Almedas' kitchen table. But they didn't condemn his actions or pass judgment upon him. There was not one word of reproach. Instead, the elder Almeda put a callused hand around Philippe's shoulder and said, “It's never too late to fix things if you want to.” Mrs. Almeda hugged him, tears in her eyes as she cut him a huge slice of her apple pie and set down a glass of milk, her answer to all life's problems. “Be proud of your family, son,” she said. “No one is perfect, not you, not me, not anyone. Your mother is going to be very happy to see you. I'm a mother, and I know this, so take my word for it.”

Eyes glistening, Lizzie leaned across the table and spoke softly. “I liked you when you just had your navy pay and were Mike's friend. Nothing is changed. So what if you come from big bucks? We come from little bucks, or no bucks, right, Dad? As for Nellie and the baby…go back and fix it, make things right for yourself. I'll be here when it's all settled.”

Philippe felt so light-headed with her words, he started to tremble. Mike's steady hand on his shoulder quieted him almost immediately. She hadn't said, if what you say is true about Nellie and the baby…she believed him, they all believed him. His eyes burned with their belief in him. It was too much; he didn't deserve it. Pushing back his chair, he addressed Mike in a croaky voice: “Dress whites, you said.”

“I took them to the dry cleaners,” Mrs. Almeda said briskly. “They're hanging in the hall closet. Go on, both of you. Make your mother proud of you, Philip, and you, Mike, be a good boy and see that things don't get fouled up.”

“Mom, I'm twenty-seven years old. Don't you think I'm a little old for you to be telling me to be a good boy?” he grumbled good-naturedly.

“If your mother says be a good boy, she means be a good boy,” the elder Almeda interjected in a stern voice, his eyes twinkling.

“Okay, Pop.” Mike grinned as he took a playful swipe at his father's broad shoulder.

Thirty minutes later both young men stood in the open doorway resplendent in navy whites. Mrs. Almeda kissed them both and Mr. Almeda looked straight into Philippe's eyes and said, “Son, you do whatever you have to do, and don't be shy about it. I know you can handle it. Mike, don't you go driving my car the way you fly them airplanes.”

“You call and let us know how things are. Do you have enough money?” Mrs. Almeda asked worriedly.

Philippe felt his throat constrict as he heard echoes of his mother's voice calling after him on his way to school. Impulsively, he hugged her ample frame.

“I'll walk you to the car,” Lizzie said, and gave her brother a meaningful glance. Tactfully Mike hurried on ahead, leaving Philippe and Lizzie to linger on the porch steps.

“I hope everything works out the way you want it to, Philip,” she said when the front door had closed behind them.