Chapter 342: Danny XXXIII—“Promesse”

Well he couldn’t understand French, only the curse words, and he could hear them both alternating use of the word for shit, “merde”. Yes he understood that. The other word “Chee-enne” was it? That was bitch wasn’t it? They both used that. Was Patrick calling Michele a bitch? Was she calling him a bitch? He could tell by the tone of their voices, that they weren’t being affectionate.

He swallowed and stood there with his coat in hand. Of course, he could open the door, announce his presence and then maybe whatever tiff built between them would stop. He felt his cheeks redden with embarrassed heat, he shouldn’t be witnessing this, but for whatever reason, he was. He could hear Michele trying her best to be lively, and Patrick had that irritated snip in his voice that Dan knew so well from the locker room, between periods when no one performed to his finely tuned standards whether it be the defense or the offense or himself, and today in his kitchen, it was his wife.

What Dan really wanted to do was fling the basement door open, rattle it to its very hinges to make sure he had Patrick’s attention, and then pin him down and ram down his throat the knowledge that his wife is precious, and not meant to be battered mentally or physically. But that would be overreacting. The kitchen would be a mess, God knows how Michele would react, she would scream and then he would look up to see the faces of Patrick’s children, and Cecile, wondering at the violence he had just inflicted on his teammate.

Oh yes, that was the romantic version. Dan knew the truth that prickled inside. On a sheet of scraped ice, with people screaming in orgiastic ecstasy, he could pound his fists into a man’s face, scrape his knuckles on his helmet, feel the cut of his teeth on his fingers, and he could bleed. Consequences didn’t exist there, not the dissolution of a family’s security or anything else. Even Cecile seemed to understand this, and she never got after him for fighting anymore.

But here, in a kitchen, in a house, Dan knew he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t attack the man those children adored and the Michele saw fit to defend no matter how boorish his behavior. His throat tingled, the skin of it in warm circles that were the memory of fingers closing in, and the hot breath, the slurred voice and droplets of spit between clenched teeth, and this for something so trivial as ringing a puck off the face of his helmet. No. Dan knew the real reason why he didn’t kick down that door and go after Patrick, was simple.

Patrick scared the ever living shit out of him.

And Dan knew that made him a shit as well.

Or merde as they said it, merde.

Dan closed his eyes and squeezed the coat. The sound of Cecile unzipping it rang loud in his ears, she hadn’t finished removing it, and he hadn’t let her. As he listened to Michele’s voice beginning to dominate, speaking sweetly, slowly, carefully, doing everything not to incite him, the musical tones of it, soothing, quiet, quiet, sensual, Dan felt himself becoming increasingly heated and uncomfortable. Patrick said briskly in English, he would go out, he would be back later. He left as Michele said something in French.

Dan swallowed and pushed the door open. He saw Michele standing with her hands pressed into her thin hips. Pink splotched her cheeks, her throat tight and sinewy. She ran her slim fingers, wedding ring glinting, through her honey colored hair. A smile lit on her face, and that surprised Danny. What would she have to smile about unless it was a smile of disbelief? Maybe he was wrong and they weren’t fighting at all, but he doubted that. Only one way to find out.

“Is everything okay?”

Michele looked at him, slowly she looked at him, and slowly she blinked as if she were a lazy cat. Maybe everything was okay. No. In an instant he saw her eyes well with tears and she blinked rapidly to fight them off. The lines in her throat tightened and loosened, distress trembled all over her body. He saw her so vulnerable and strong. A woman tired and valiant. “Why would you say that, Daniel?”

Danny opened his mouth and closed it. What could he say now? Yes I was eavesdropping, yes I heard everything, and I heard how he treats you and God Dammit he shouldn’t be like that to you when you slave and do your best to provide him with the perfect home and family there could ever be. But he didn’t say any of that to her. The last thing he wanted her to do was cry. “I mean, well I don’t mean anything.”

Michele’s tears seemed to vanish, no doubt evidence of her resolve and fortitude, her unwillingness to allow anyone to see her weak. “Of course you don’t,” she said, and was there a snip to it? Well he couldn’t expect her to take too kindly to someone eavesdropping on her affairs and then lie about it. “You’re not much of a man… of action, are you Daniel?”

Danny blinked, he felt slapped, and in fact his cheek tingled. “What?” It’s true, he thought, if I were anymore of a man, I would have done something, a long time ago. I wouldn’t just abide, I wouldn’t just allow. I would have done! “Why do you say that?”

Michele sighed and looked towards the kitchen doorway, and for a moment she looked so tired and haggard that he could see what sort of old woman she would be. Lines of worry and sadness etched on her face. And then the flash gone, she blinked rapidly, she looked at him and her mouth, her pink painted mouth pulled into a smile and her eyes sparkled in an expression he knew so well. “You ask so many questions, yes? Always you are confused.”

“Well you run so fast,” Dan said feeling sheepish and he scratched his scalp. He knew Michele was directing him from the point, the original subject. How craftily she deflected attention from the important things, obfuscating the obvious all in the name of preserving an image. “I can’t really keep up with you.” And dammit he was playing along again because he was too much of a chicken shit to just confront her again.

Michele nodded. “Would you like some coffee?”

Danny shook his head.

Michele sat down at the kitchen table and yawned, resting her cheek on her forearm. She closed her eyes and Danny thought of the rest she wouldn’t have when Patrick returned home. Cecile would never have to harbor fears like that in her bosom. Never would he allow that to happen between them. How strange it was that Michele lived a thousand fears Cecile could never dream of? Why couldn’t Mrs. Roy have that chance and opportunity to share that happiness? Where did she turn, what choice did she make in her girlhood that triggered the creation of the tired creature she was today?

Why do I want to help her so much?

Michele’s story was one told a thousand times over by more women, most less fortunate than she was. Why did he care so much? Was it because he knew there wasn’t a thing he could do for her?

“Yes, not a man of action,” Michele murmured.

Danny sat down at the table; he looked at her small hand, thin and slightly gnarled with soft veins and age. One vein in particular, blue, pale, he want to touch it with his finger, press it down and let it whiten, release it and watch the blood flow return. “I think I am,” he said.

“What about that poem you promised Cecile?” she asked. “Have you given it to her?”

“I thought I promised you?” Danny asked feeling uncertain.

Michele opened her eyes, they seemed to widen and the narrow and then close. Her mouth pulled up at the corner, a small smile. “You promised me for Cecile. It is the same as making the promise to her, yes? So have you written it?”

“Well no you said…” And then the hurt memory rang in Danny’s breast. “You said I couldn’t see you ever again. So I didn’t try.”

Michele’s eyes opened, pretty pale, and sedate. “And again you obeyed so easily, oh, how disappointing. I said I did not think we should be alone in certain… “situations” anymore. That is wise nes pas? But alone is key word. Daniel you could have still written the damn thing and give to me to read eh… at a party, or at a gathering or here, when the children play upstairs with your fiancée. There is no harm in that, you melodramatic puppy.” She sat up with such a glowing face, a face so satisfied at her own cleverness that Danny’s heart soared.

“I didn’t think about that,” he said.

“Ovion…obviously,” Michele replied. “So will you come through on your promise?” but the way she said it, “promesse” made Danny’s blood crackle.

“Of course,” Danny whispered. “Of course.”