The 1st Deadly Sin

“What is my name?”

“Celia.”

“What?”

“Gilda.”

“What?”

“Mommy.”

“That’s better. Isn’t that better?”

He slept, finally. It seemed to him he was awake a moment later.

“What?” he said. “What is it?”

“You were having a nightmare. You screamed. What was it?”

“A dream,” he said, snuggling into her. “I had a bad dream.”

“What did you dream?”

“All confused.”

He moved closer to her, his hands on cotton batting and sponge rubber.

“Do you want me to do it again?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” he said thankfully. “Please.”

In the morning when he awoke, she was lying beside him, sleeping naked, having sometime during the night taken off her wig, robe, costume. But she still wore the pearls. He touched them. Then he moved stealthily down beneath the blanket until he was crouched, completely covered, and smelled her sweet warmth. He spread her gently. Then he drank from her, gulping from the fountain, greedy he, until he felt her come awake. Still he persisted, and she moved, reaching down under the blanket to press the back of his head. He groaned, almost swooning, fevered with the covered heat. He could not stop. Afterwards she licked his mouth.

And still later, when they were dressed and at the kitchen table, she said, “You’ll do it again?”-more of a statement than a question.

He nodded wordlessly, knowing what she meant, and beginning to comprehend the danger she represented.

“From the front?” she asked. “Will you? And look into his eyes, and tell me?”

“Difficult,” he said.

“You can do it,” she said. “I know you can.”

“Well…” He glowed. “It needs planning. And luck, of course.”

“You make your own luck.”

“Do I? Well. I’ll think about it. It’s an interesting problem.”

“Will you do something for me?”

“Of course. What?”

“Come to me immediately afterwards.”

He thought a moment.

“Perhaps not immediately afterwards. But soon. That night. Will that do?”

“I may not be home.”

He was instantly suspicious. “Do you want to know the night? I don’t know that myself. And won’t.”

“No, I don’t want to know the night, or the place. Just the week. Then I’ll stay home every night, waiting for you. Can you tell me the week?”

“Yes. I’ll tell you that. When I’m ready.”

“My love,” she said. “The eyes,” she said.

6

Bernard Gilbert took life seriously-and he had a right to be mournful. Orphaned at an early age he had been schlepped around from uncle to aunt, cousin to cousin, six months at each, and always assured that the food he was eating, his bed, his clothes-all this came from the labor of his benefactors, at their expense.

At the age of eight he was shining shoes on the street, then delivering for a delly, then waiting on table, then selling little pieces of cloth, then bookkeeper in a third-rate novelty store.

And all the time going to school, studying, reading books. All joylessly. Sometimes, when he had saved enough money, he went to a woman. That, too, was joyless. What could he do?

Through high school, two miserable years in the army, City College, always working, sleeping four or five hours a night, studying, reading, making loans and paying them back, not really thinking of why? but obeying an instinct he could not deny. And suddenly, there he was, Bernard Gilbert, C.P.A., in a new black suit, a hard worker who was good with numbers. This was a life?

There was a spine in him. Hard work didn’t daunt him, and when he had to, he grovelled and shrugged it away. Much man. Not a swaggering, hairy-chested conqueror, but a survivor. A special kind of bravery; hope never died.

It came in his 32nd year when a distant cousin unexpectedly invited him for dinner. And there was Monica. “Monica, I’d like you to make the acquaintance of Bernard Gilbert. He’s a C.P.A.”

And so they were married, and his life began. Happy? You wouldn’t believe! God said, “Bernie, I’ve been shitting on you for 32 years. You can take it, and it’s time you deserve a break. Enjoy, kid, enjoy!”

First of all, there was Monica. Not beautiful, but handsome and strong. Another hard worker. They laughed in bed. Then came the two children, Mary and Sylvia. Beautiful girls! And healthy, thank God. The apartment wasn’t much, but it was home. Home! His home, with wife and children. They all laughed.

The bad memories faded. It all went away: the cruelties, the hand-me-down clothes, the insults and crawling. He began, just began, to understand joy. It was a gift, and he cherished it. Bernard Gilbert: a melancholy man with sunken cheeks always in need of a shave, stooped shoulders, puzzled eyes, thinning hair, a scrawny frame: a man who, if he had his life to live over again, would have been a violinist. Well…

He had a good job with a large firm of accountants where his worth was recognized. In the last few years he had started to moon-light, doing the tax returns of self-employed people like doctors, dentists, architects, artists, writers. He made certain his employers knew about it; they didn’t object, since he was doing it on his own time and it didn’t conflict with their own commercial accounts.

His private business grew. It was hard, putting in an eight-hour day and then coming home for another two- to four-hours’ work. But he talked it over with Monica-he talked everything over with Monica-and they agreed that if he stuck to it, maybe within five to ten years he might be able to cut loose and start his own business. It was possible. So Monica took a course in accounting, studied at home, and after awhile she could help him at night, in addition to cooking and cleaning and taking care of Mary and Sylvia. They were both hard workers, but they never thought of it, would have been surprised if someone had told them they worked hard. What else?

So there they were in a third-floor walk-up on East 84th Street. It wasn’t a fancy apartment, but Monica had painted it nice, and there were two bedrooms and a big kitchen where Monica made matzoh brie like he couldn’t believe, it was so good, and a record player with all of Isaac Stern’s recordings, and a card table where he could work. It wasn’t luxury, he acknowledged, but he wasn’t ashamed of it, and sometimes they had friends or neighbors in and laughed. Sometimes they even went out to eat, with the children, at an expensive restaurant, and were very solemn, giggling inside.

But the best times were when he and Monica would finish their night’s work, and would sit on the couch, after midnight, the children asleep, and they just were there, listening to Vivaldi turned down low, just together. He would have worked his ass off for the rest of his life for moments like that. And when Monica brushed her lips across his sunken cheek…Oh!

He was thinking of moments like that when he got off the First Avenue bus. It wasn’t even midnight. Well, maybe a little later. He had been downtown, working on the books of a medical clinic. It was a possible new account, a good one and a big one. The meeting with the doctors had taken longer than he had expected. Patiently he explained to them what the tax laws said they could do and what they could not do. He felt he had impressed