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. Of course, they’d been experienced lovers, eager to please. Again and again.
In the dark comfort of his bed Reuben refused to admit that he couldn’t fall asleep—refused to accept that he was waiting with anticipation for his door to open, waiting for the invitation to go to Mickey’s bed.
In his first restless sleep he dreamed he was running around the room in his skivvies. Mickey was laughing, mocking him, calling him a boy, a little boy. The dream passed. A little before dawn he reached out and grasped the deep restful sleep his body desperately needed.
Reuben woke at noon, crawled from beneath the covers, and noticed that a fire had been started in the fireplace at the foot of his bed, that the room was warm and cozy as well as luxurious. A ewer of hot water had been prepared and left for him to wash and shave. Ready to face the day, he assumed an attitude of nonchalance when he descended the stairs to search for Daniel. Both his friend and Madame Mickey were seated in a small alcove off the dining hall, talking quietly over coffee. A breakfast setting had been put out for him, he noticed, but the others were finished eating.
“Did you sleep well. Reuben?” Mickey asked, concern in her voice.
He smiled. “I think I had the best night’s sleep I’ve had since leaving the States. How did you sleep, Daniel?”
“Very well, and I think I’ve just put a big dent in Mickey’s larder. Wonderful breakfast. Don’t look so disapproving. Mickey asked me to call her by her first name. We’re not being formal.”
“But, of course, you must also call me Mickey. All my good friends ignore my title. It is
