Seventeen Widows of Sans Souci

by Charlotte Armstrong

  “Oh, late forties—or fifties,” he said. “All right.” There were some things, he had learned, he could not say to Rose. He could not now say, “This one puzzles me. She’s in pieces!” Rose would only stare. And he could be wrong. He had no confidence in his own insights.

  Rose said now contemptuously, “Can she pay her rent? That’s the point, isn’t it?”

  “I would think she could,” he answered smoothly.

  “Felice Paull wants her kitchen painted,” said Rose with a moue.

  “Yes, I know,” he groaned, trying to catch her eye with a companionable glance of despair.

  “I told her,” said Rose haughtily, “that I never had anything to do with these things.”

  He had come through the flap and stood beside her in the cramped space. “I’ll deal with her,” he said gently. “Thanks, hon.” He knew that his unshakable courtesy sometimes maddened her. So he asked quickly, to divert her mind, “Winnie’s home, is she?”

  “She’s washing her hair,” said Rose sulkily. “By the way, Mrs. Rogan is talking long-distance.” She gestured at the switchboard.

  “Thanks.”

  “Por nada,” said Rose, unpleasantly.

  Morgan Lake let his haunches down upon the stool with a small gusty sigh.

  Rose Lake went through the nearby door of her own apartment and immediately to the open door of the bathroom where Winifred Lake stood pinning up her dark wet hair.

  “Did you get all the soap out?” her mother asked suspiciously. “I could have rinsed it for you.”

  “I think I got it out, Mom,” said Winnie pleasantly.

  Rose came in and sat on the rim of the bathtub. Winifred worked away, with her young arms high, the young bosom lifted. The dark eyes, tilted a trifle saucily in her creamy face, communicated with themselves in the glass.

  “What are you doing tonight, sweetheart?” Rose asked. “Much homework?”

  “Oh, not much at all,” said Winifred, whisking a tiny wet strand around and around in her fingertips and then reaching for a clip. She actually had three chapters of pretty tough reading to do and she ought to work on her theme. But she did not tell her mother so. No sense to that. If her mother thought she had a lot of homework, her mother would nag and nag. And Winnie wouldn’t even get it done. There was this, too. If Len should call and if Winnie needed to ask if she could go to the early show, she’d never get out. So Winifred lied to her mother, with long ease. Just in case.

  “I’m going to make chicken à la king for dinner,” her mother said. “You like that, don’t you, love?”

  “Ooooh, goooody!” said Winifred.

  Her mother’s face changed and looked satisfied. “Well,” Rose said. “Well, I suppose I could fuss around in the kitchen.”

  She touched Winnie’s neck with cold fingers. She left her.

  Winnie smiled to her image. She didn’t give an absolute damn whether they had chicken à la king or whatever. It didn’t matter. She began to think about what did matter. She knew what signified. Winifred Lake, age seventeen, knew the secret of life. But she kept it to herself. She would not tell her mother. Winnie wouldn’t have put it in the proverbial form but she knew very well that there was no use casting pearls before swine. Or the secret of life before a woman whose life was over.

  Rose Lake went into her living room and saw by the clock that there was nothing to do in the kitchen yet. She looked about her, restlessly, but the room, all done in maple and colonial, windowed to the south upon the narrow strip of lawn, the wall, the tree, was in perfect order. She sat down on the yellow-and-brown love seat and picked up a House Beautiful. Her mind wasn’t on it. Her mind was searching for something Winnie ought to have. The time was coming when Winnie ought to have a car, she thought daringly. Morgan must manage somehow. Her expression settled into pleasurable yearning.

  Upstairs, Nona Henry unclenched her hands. She’d had self-pity. She had wallowed in it, on that train. One more wave of woe to meet; it would subside. She could make it subside. A bulldog streak knew how to build up phrases against the woe. “I must hang up my dresses. I must bathe, change. I must find that restaurant and dine. I must go to the market.”

  At the same time, a separate part of her—neither the word-forming part nor the part that was drowning in sorrow’s tide, but some other Nona that had connection with the feet and the arms—this wanted to kick out in a jig. This wanted to do something crazy. This would have thrown her purse, money, identification cards and all, up to the ceiling and let it crash where it would. She tightened her will to beat away the devil in the heart—this insane loose joyful feeling that was traitor to all the rest. “I must make a list,” brain said. “Breakfast things, at least. Tomorrow, I must find a bank. So much to do.”

  Chapter 2

  Felice Paull, in all her black-clad mass, stood at the office counter; her large nearsighted brown eyes were moistly shining.

  “I will speak to the owner,” Morgan Lake was saying. “Of course.” He had embanked himself behind an almost supernatural courtesy.

  “It’s a disgrace,” she insisted in her deep voice. Her bushy brows were drawn fiercely horizontal. “I would like to speak to the owner personally.”

  “I’m afraid that’s imposs—”

  “I want to show him my kitchen.”

  “I am here,” said Morgan Lake, “to take these things under advisement.”

  “Where can I find the owner?”

  Morgan smiled faintly.

  “I can write him a letter, I suppose?” she said sarcastically.

  “Certainly, Mrs. Paull,” he replied, most courteously. “I will see that a letter reaches him.” He kept his voice cooing-smooth, himself detached. He had fought this battle with Felice Paull before. Neither she, nor any other tenant, knew what person or persons owned Sans Souci. There was a corporate name, abstract, unrevealing.

  “I have written a dozen letters,” she boomed. “I don’t believe they are read. I think the owner is liable.” Felice Paull was always talking about law and liability, as if she assumed that the law had been designed to extract anything she wanted from all the rest of the world. Yet for all the mass of the body, the beetling of the brows, the overbearing boom of her voice, her cow-eyes continued—somewhat to Morgan Lake’s dismay—to look hurt.

  So Morgan Lake detached himself and saw and heard from afar. The big woman insisting, demanding … and yet pleading. He refusing, but so carefully as to sound almost as if he were saying Yes instead of No. She thought he had the power to give her what she wanted. He knew he had no such power. He was a buffer, and he must buff, but so gracefully that he offended no one. It was a miserable position. The only way he could endure it was to detach himself and view the whole thing from afar.

  “Perhaps so,” he murmured now, agreeably, “but it is a question of time—” Then he saw his deliverance coming.

  It wiggled through the glass door, in the shape of Ida Milbank, who spied Felice, gave out a hoot of greeting, and scurried toward them. She was, he noticed with resigned interest, carrying a package.

  “Felice, are you busy? Come on up. I want to show Agnes …” She was a little woman in her middle sixties, with almost no chin, a prominent but somewhat shapeless nose, and frizzy gray hair. Her close-set pink-rimmed eyes showed watery blue behind her glasses. Her face fell in soft folds that seemed to have long left the bone. “I happened to be in Bullocks’ …”

  “What now?” said Felice Paull gloomily, turning her dour brows upon her friend. “How did you get into Bullocks’ alone?”

  “Ah, Felice, wait till you see! Only nine ninety-eight.”

  Like a fuzzy little tugboat, Ida Milbank seemed to be herding the steamship mass of Felice Paull so that it turned to move majestically away.

  Morgan Lake let his rear sink back upon his stool, grateful for present deliverance.

  The little elevator groaned them upward and Ida Milbank tapped upon the first door to the east of it.

  “Come in,”
said Agnes Vaughn.

  Agnes Vaughn inhabited this one-room apartment directly over the entrance to Sans Souci. She was sitting in her favorite chair which was placed so that she occupied the very angle of the building. Almost nothing could happen in the big patio below without being observed by Agnes Vaughn. She sat over the entrance like a nerve cell, a receptor.

  The room was large, serving as it did for bedroom and sitting room. The pull-down bed was permanently pulled down here. Agnes Vaughn claimed it was beyond her strength to push it up neatly into its alcove where it could be hidden by double doors. So it was never hidden, but stood messily in the middle of everything. Clutter, however, was natural and pleasant to Agnes Vaughn.

  She had a pug-dog face, bristling with chin hairs, and a brown-toothed grin. Her eyes were small and sly. She was seventy-four years old but her hair had not altogether turned white. She said cheerfully, “Greetings, greetings. You mailed your letters, Felice, eh?” This was to show Felice that she had not left the building and returned without Agnes having known all about it. “What have you got there, Ida? Oh, shame …”

  “Now, wait till you see!” Ida began to tear paper.

  Felice sat down and stared before her. “Mister Morgan Lake …”

  “It’s a hot pot,” cried Ida, like a child who can’t quite keep the secret long enough.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sakes.” Agnes waved her small plump, rather dirty hand.

  The ensuing dialogue was perfectly disjointed, yet perfectly comprehensible among the three of them.

  Ida said, “It’s electric. It boils water in less than three minutes.”

  Agnes said, “He won’t paint your kitchen, I suppose. Well, of course, he won’t.”

  Felice said, “What do you want to boil water for?”

  Ida said, “Your poor kitchen? That’s too bad.”

  Agnes said, “Make us a cup of tea, then. I think there are cookies.”

  Agnes always had cookies or cakes or candy or nuts. She almost never went anywhere but things came to her.

  Felice said, “Sometimes I think Morgan Lake is the owner, himself.”

  Ida said, “Can I unplug your toaster, Agnes?”

  Agnes said, “Surely not. Or Rose Lake would let us know it, believe me. They’re in the round box, Ida. Oatmeal.”

  The three of them settled down in the midst of the clutter, very cozily. When the little elevator began to move (its protests were audible, here, so near its shaft) Agnes held up her hand for silence. They heard it go down, heard the door clang, heard it come up, the door crack … heard soft murmuring. “Mrs. Fitz and Georgia Oliver,” pronounced Agnes. “Mrs. Fitz has been taking a sun bath for hours. Hoo!” Her laugh was derisive. “208 came. Georgia better watch out,” she said.

  “When’s Glamour-boy coming?” asked Felice, who could read Agnes’ train of thought. “About due, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, yes. Wonder-boy is supposed to come back right around Christmas. You see the new one?”

  “What’s she like?”

  Agnes, of course, knew. “She’s young,” said Agnes and looked at her friends with malicious satisfaction.

  (Youth is dynamite. Youth is trouble. Agnes Vaughn was seventy-four. Ida Milbank was sixty-six. Felice Paull was sixty-one. Youth is relative.)

  “Right across the hall from Mrs. Fitz.” Oh, Agnes foresaw trouble.

  “What is her name? Hanley?” Felice inquired.

  “Henly,” said Agnes, firmly. “From New York. Real smart. Nice clothes.”

  But the meaning of the arrival of Nona Henry slipped away from their tongues and their minds. Felice said, “Did I tell you … my lawyer thinks the parking lot may be liable? There is no sign posted.”

  Ida said, “Isn’t it cute?” Her hand hovered near the small electric pot for heating water very, very quickly. “I think it’s the cutest thing. And only nine ninety-eight.”

  The disjointed talk proceeded. The three of them nibbled and sipped, while dark came down upon Sans Souci. Downstairs, Morgan Lake touched the switch that lit the light over the entrance, the light in the far arch, and the double line of lamps on posts that marched beside the patio walk … before Oppie Etting came in, at five o’clock, to relieve him at the desk.

  Therefore, Agnes Vaughn was able to say (for, night and day, whenever a figure moved below, Agnes Vaughn was usually aware of it), “There she is, now!”

  Felice stood up and so did Ida. From the windows over the doors, three sets of eyes watched as Nona Henry, wearing her long tweedy top coat, walked away from the lamplit patio.

  “Out to dinner,” pronounced Agnes Vaughn. “She hasn’t had time to shop.” Her pug-dog face looked shrewd. Agnes was often right, up to a point. Agnes often went a point farther. “I think she’s attractive,” said Agnes. “And looks like she might have a little snap to her, too. Hoo! Hoo! You just watch Mrs. Fitz’s baby-boy!”

  Ida Milbank’s white-rat face looked wistfully stupid.

  Felice rolled her cow-eyes. There was no doubt; Agnes Vaughn had the gift of imagination.

  “Oh, oh!” cried Agnes. “Oh, oh! Do you see what I see? There goes Harriet Gregory. There she goes!”

  Three sets of eyes watched a second figure, thin, driving, that followed upon Nona’s footsteps.

  “She’s got her hat on backwards,” said Agnes with glee. “Hoo! Hoo! She’s on the trail. Wouldn’t you think Harriet would give up? You notice Mrs. Rogan is through? Since Saturday?”

  “Mrs. Rogan lasted two full weeks,” said Felice, “and that’s remarkable. Well, dinner. I think I’ve spoiled mine.”

  “It won’t hurt your hips,” said Agnes. Felice took no offense. She even smiled.

  “I’m just going to boil some eggs in my little pot,” said Ida rapturously. She pulled out the plug, took up the new pot by its handle, and went trotting out, omitting farewells, happily absorbed.

  Felice Paull lingered. “Nine ninety-eight,” she said and shook her head.

  “Oh well,” said Agnes, reaching for a cookie. “That’s Ida.”

  Felice left.

  Agnes, with her small feet crossed over at the ankles, looking singularly childlike, did not move. She could look down into the patio, upon light and leaf pattern, green shadow.… Beauty did not interest her. Dinner didn’t interest her either. She munched the cookie, and watched for something human.

  Nona Henry clicked her heels along alien sidewalks. She crossed the street and, at the mortuary corner, where its pink neon sign made her wince, she crossed again. The early dark seemed uncanny to her winter-trained senses, because the dark was not cold. It was simply dark, by the calendar.

  A strange youngish man, at the desk of Sans Souci, had explained to her, very thoughtfully, how to be a pedestrian in Southern California. “Stay between the white lines,” he had told her, “and you have the right of way. That is, they can’t mow you down legally, ha ha.” He had a balding head, and ears that stood out from it, a long and slightly crooked nose, and an evident wish to please. He had handed her a postal card. “I guess Mr. Lake didn’t see it in your box,” he had apologized.

  Nona Henry put it in her coat pocket.

  A postal card, she thought with a pang.

  Hunt’s Restaurant was not, she agreed, what one could call “expensive.” Olde Englishe had been the original intention of its décor, but Modern American had crept in upon it. She opened the door and the essence of French-fried potatoes assailed her. The place was a lattice of aisles, between rows of booths. The customers sat with only heads and necks showing above barriers of wood and red leather. There weren’t many customers, but such as they were, they looked respectable.

  Feeling somewhat reassured to see that it was a respectable place, Nona slid into a booth and began to look at the menu without enthusiasm. She was trying to decide between filet of sole (if only it were done with a light touch) and old reliable prime ribs, when a shadow fell.

  “I beg your pardon,” said a female voice, “but haven’t you just mo
ved into Sans Souci?”

  “Why, yes …” Nona looked up, startled, and there was a woman. A woman with a long oval face that was plastered with some brand of pancake make-up, and an old-fashioned amount of rouge. A woman with eager gray eyes under plucked and penciled brows. A woman with red hair that was not natural … with a long broad-shouldered bony body that was angular in tension.

  “I live there, too,” said this woman, with the brows arched, sweetly. “My name is Harriet Gregory. I think it is only right to be neighborly, don’t you?”

  “Well, of course, Miss-er Gregory. I am Nona Henry.”

  “It’s Mrs. Gregory,” said the woman. “May I join you?”

  “Why I’d be very glad …” Nona was amazed.

  Harriet Gregory at once slid in beside her, as Nona shuffled over to give more room.

  “Now, this is nice,” the woman said. “I hate to eat alone, don’t you? And your first meal … You looked lonely.”

  “I suppose I was,” said Nona feebly. But she tried to smile because surely this woman meant well, she was really being very kind, and perhaps, perhaps … she was a friend-to-be … something to go on with.

  “What are you having?” Harriet Gregory asked chummily. One hand batted at her small black hat that did not seem to settle comfortably at the forehead. “I can tell you what’s good here and what isn’t, believe me.” She snorted. There was no other word to describe the sudden intake and expulsion of air throught the nostrils. “Oh, they try,” she said, “but it’s not high cuisine. The roast beef is fair.”

  “I was thinking of having it,” said Nona. “I think I will.”

  Harriet Gregory summoned the waitress with an imperious gesture. “Two prime ribs,” she said. “How do you like yours, Miss-er Henly?” She wore the air of a hostess.

  “Mrs. Henry,” said Nona. “Medium rare, if you please.”

  “Yes. And mine well done,” said Harriet, “and I mean it. Please.” Her eyes closed in a gesture of long-suffering.

  The waitress took notes, stolidly.

  “And don’t put any goo on my baked potato,” said Harriet. “Please.”