Seventeen Widows of Sans Souci

by Charlotte Armstrong

  So there was his own futility and uneasiness, and around him, fatigue and anxiety. No angels, at all.

  Everything this Holy Season seemed to him to be especially shabby, spiritually. It made him sad.

  When Elsie came in to do Nona Henry’s apartment on the Friday, Nona sat mending a slip strap. “I’ve been hearing about this poor Mrs. Gardner on the first floor,” she said pleasantly. “Is it really true that she never goes out at all?”

  “I wouldn’t know that, Miz Henry.” The black woman’s voice was soft. Her hands kept on working skillfully and steadily.

  “Mrs. Robinson was telling me,” went on Nona. “She said that you actually were her only friend.” Nona flashed a bright democratic smile. “But how strange! Whatever does she do in there?” Nona bit the thread.

  Silence caused her to look up.

  “That’s right, ma’am,” Elise said gently. “I guess she do feel friendly to me.”

  Nona’s face grew hot. She felt a flash of rage. It was in her mouth to say sharply, “Are you supposed to wait inside the patio, as you do every day? Does Mr. Lake know?” Wanted to say it viciously with full intent to wound or alarm.

  But this was a devil! Nona clamped down on the wickedness. “I beg your pardon,” she murmured. “I don’t mean to ask you to gossip, Elise. I was—just interested.”

  She rose and turned her back.

  “O.K. if I go ahead on and do the bathroom, ma’am?” said Elise, without malice.

  “In a few minutes,” said Nona shortly. “I am going out.”

  She went into her bathroom to fix her face, her very red face. Lessons in dignity, or loyalty, or integrity, from the colored maid! But it was so easy to run your tongue over anything odd, for the mere exercise of that poor unused member, and mean no harm. No harm, surely.

  Don’t be an idiot, she said to herself. Don’t be so ridiculously sensitive!

  When Nona, in hat and coat, passed through her foyer she was able to send Elise a forgiving smile.

  “Christmas shopping?” said Elise. Her smile was conciliatory and apologetic. “Enjoy yourself, Miz Henry. Have a good time, hear?”

  Nona thanked her.

  A good time, she thought in the corridor. Enjoy myself! I haven’t had a good time, or enjoyed myself (or anything else) for ages and ages! I haven’t had any plain fun!

  The imp said, It would have been fun to hash over Mrs. Gardner’s neurosis.

  Nona thought, Oh God, sinful or not, I need something. Thou knowest …

  Her eyes were full of tears. She took the poky elevator so as to wipe them away, unseen.

  Mail was in. As Nona came around the corner from the elevator, Georgia Oliver passed toward it, both her hands holding a stack of letters. “It isn’t all for me,” cried Georgia childishly. “Most of it’s for Mrs. Fitz. Bless her heart!”

  But the wild tree had been cut from its root; it was dead, although it stood, looking as if it were alive, bearing splendid ornaments.

  Daisy Robinson stood by the desk, tearing open Christmas card envelopes as fast as her hands could go. Her eye wasted no time on the pictures or the printed sentiments, but ticked off the signatures against a mental master list.

  “Oh, Mrs. Henry,” said she, “I’m off to the County Museum. Meant to give you a ring. Like to come along?”

  “Wh—where is the County Museum?” said Nona dazedly.

  “Oh, it’s a goodish drive,” said Daisy. “Better plan several hours. You’ll want to see everything.”

  Nona valued Daisy Robinson, who was an interesting and admirable woman, and Nona did not want to turn her friendship away, or even to risk seeming to do so. But there was absolutely no use pretending that she could bear a “goodish drive,” or even one hour of marble floors.

  “I’m sorry,” she gushed. “It’s so nice of you, Mrs. Robinson, to ask me. But there is my Christmas shopping and I’m afraid—”

  “Haven’t you done that, yet?” said Daisy. “I finished mine in September.” Daisy made off for the elevator with no more said.

  Nona looked after her, uncertainly.

  “Puts you in your place, I guess,” said a gruff voice, and Nona turned to look into the face of the shorter of the Gadabout Girls. This was a term Nona had privately invented for the two of them; the ones who “went a lot.” The taller one was nearby, too, and she burst into laughter.

  “I hope I didn’t offend her,” breathed Nona.

  “You didn’t,” said the shorter woman. “I’m Sarah Lee Cunneen and this is Bettina Goodenough. Been wanting to meet you.”

  “I’m Nona Henry.”

  “We know,” said Bettina Goodenough merrily.

  “Say, we’re going shopping,” said Sarah Lee Cunneen. “Want a ride to Bullocks?”

  “I … really don’t know where I’m going,” said Nona in confusion.

  “Come with us, then,” said Bettina, cordially. “That’ll be fun!”

  “Why don’t you look at your mail, see if it’s important, and then come on?” urged Sarah Lee.

  Nona’s mail consisted of six Christmas cards. She slipped one behind the other, noting the return address.

  Morgan Lake held out his hand. “Shall I put them back in your box, Mrs. Henry?”

  Nona wrestled with guilt. “It doesn’t seem right,” she murmured, “to say they are not important.”

  He said to her, “They are not urgent.”

  She looked up at him, grateful and surprised.

  “Oh, come on,” said Sarah Lee.

  And Nona thought, All right, I’ll go shopping. I’ll spend some money. I’ll have some fun. I don’t care. Why must I feel guilty all the time?

  She went with the Gadabout Girls.

  The big store was warm and smelled sweet. It was brilliant with beautiful wares, and crammed with living people.

  Nona lost herself in the frenzy. What fun to look at all these things, some of which at least one could really have and give! To be drawn and tempted, to reject, to hunt and spy, at last to decide. The eyes culled; the brain darted and hummed. In this place, in the buying and the selling, the current of life was wonderfully flowing.

  The three of them came up to the restaurant floor three times. On the first two occasions, a long thick line of people waited before the entrance and the rhythmic murmur of female voices rose in swells, with little sharp squeals of laughter like foam on top.

  The third time, and it was very late, they reached the velvet rope; they were let inside. Nona slipped into the seat. An aching radiated from her soles. “This was just my day,” she said gaily, “to get museum-feet.”

  “Oh, that Daisy Robinson!” said Sarah Lee Cunneen. She had very dark wiry eyebrows and lively dark eyes. Her hoarse hearty voice, her habit of nudging or tapping her listeners, gave an impression of happy vulgarity. “She’s too high-brow for me. And listen, what’s the fun of buying Christmas presents in September? It’s cold-blooded, that’s what I think.”

  Bettina Goodenough had a full pink face, and a frizz of streaked hair. She laughed a lot. When she laughed her upper plate showed. “Maybe you don’t spend so much in cold blood. I always get carried away. Somebody should have held me down. Oh, well, what’s the difference? Life’s too short. I might as well go absolutely wild and have crab Newburg.”

  “Wonder if anybody’s holding Ida Milbank down.” Sarah Lee snorted laughter. “That Ida! Let’s have crab Newburg. Listen, I don’t feel like eating sensibly.”

  “Neither do I,” said Nona, recklessly.

  They had spent too much. Now they ate too much. They laughed, they talked too much.

  Nona heard all about Ida Milbank.

  “My Lord, her dinette table!” said Sarah Lee Cunneen. “She’s got so darned many electric gadgets you can’t even get the dishes on it. You know what I hear? They’re going to put her out of III and into 109. Why, she can’t get all that stuff in there!”

  “Hum.” Bettina cocked her head. “I was more or less thinking about 109, myself.�
�

  “Go on,” said Sarah Lee, slapping Bettina’s hand. “You’ll never give up your prize apartment.” She turned to Nona. “She’s got the angle apartment, best in the house. You ought to see!”

  “You certainly must come and see,” said Bettina heartily. “Do you play bridge, Nona? I can’t call you Mrs. Henry and I’m not going to.”

  “Please, don’t. Yes, I play bridge. I haven’t played—”

  “That’s wonderful!” cried Sarah Lee. “Now, who can we get for a fourth, right in the building?”

  “How about Harriet Gregory?” said Bettina slyly and Sarah Lee rolled her eyes to heaven.

  “Elna Ames, then?”

  “Oh, she’s such a stick.”

  They talked without scruple. Yet Nona could not feel they were unkind. It was all in fun.

  She came back to Sans Souci with her blood tingling. She didn’t even look at Morgan Lake as he handed her a somewhat augmented pile of mail. The mood of guilt, of scruple, of self-reproach, had been washed away.

  Sarah Lee Cunneen hit Nona’s forearm. “Say, I live right under you, you know. So don’t tap-dance, Nona.”

  “I’ll give it up,” said Nona solemnly and Bettina Goodenough brayed laughter. Sarah Lee walked off, toes out, down the north wing. Bettina and Nona got into the elevator. Nona’s eye was checking over the return addresses on her envelopes. Nothing urgent. Christmas cards always came. You checked your list. They didn’t mean a lot, really.

  “Look, have a bite and then come over,” Bettina said, upstairs. “Be sure, now.”

  “I’d love to. I will,” said Nona gladly.

  So they played bridge, with Elna Ames, in Bettina Goodenough’s apartment. The one on the angle. The prize.

  The bedroom of this apartment was in the north wing and the living room was in the east wing. The kitchen was on the corner. It did give a feeling of difference. The dinette was larger than Nona’s own. There may have been more space, altogether. There seemed to be more closet room.

  But Bettina Goodenough’s apartment had the same kind of “furnished” furniture. Every piece pretended to conservative elegance. Every piece was cheaply and badly made. The fabrics, no two alike, were all at least unobtrusive. So line and color blended to make a consistent impression of dull mediocrity, since no line was clean, no color crisp, and nothing was new.

  Elna Ames was a pale woman of sixty-odd, who had little to say and little chance to say it. The Gadabouts had limber tongues.

  They talked about Marie Gardner. “Well, she’s a little off,” said Sarah Lee Cunneen. “A few buttons missing. Calls up the grocer on the telephone. Won’t open the door for the delivery boy. Nobody knows what she does in there. Maybe she drinks. Like Leila Hull.”

  “Oh?” said Nona.

  “You’ll see,” said Bettina Goodenough. “Haven’t you heard about our drunkard? Well, as I say, who knows what drove her to it. Anyone care for a little wine?”

  They had wine and cake and talked about Felice Paull.

  “Some people are always sticking their necks out,” said Sarah Lee. “Live and let live, that’s what I say. It takes all kinds.”

  There was a moment of silent respect for these profundities.

  Nona spoke. “Harriet Gregory said something to me …”

  “What? What?” The girls were eager.

  “I think I heard it right. She said that this Mrs. Rogan …”

  “Tess Rogan?”

  “Harriet Gregory said she tells lies. Now, what did she mean?”

  “Oh, that,” said Sarah Lee Cunneen. “That’s straight from Agnes Vaughn. Agnes Vaughn says it’s a lie. Or anyhow, she doesn’t believe it, so it’s the same thing.”

  “Harriet doesn’t believe it, either,” Bettina giggled. “Not any more …”

  “Poor Nona doesn’t know what we’re talking about,” said Sarah Lee. “See, this Mrs. Rogan came about a couple of weeks before you did. Nobody knows her. Well, she lets on to Harriet Gregory—and you might as well put it in the newspaper—that she is going around the world on a big luxury liner in the spring! And that’s not all! She’s got two free tickets, she says, and she’s looking for somebody to go around the world with her and for free! We-ell … This got the whole house in an uproar.” Sarah Lee pulled her chin in. “It could be just a story, like Agnes thinks.”

  “Around the world,” murmured Nona. “Wow, that’s quite a story.”

  “Harriet Gregory got all excited,” said Bettina, rather righteously. “She was going to get to go, I suppose. She was all over Tess Rogan. But then … pfft!” Bettina looked rather pleased. “Who dealt?”

  They began to bid. Bettina got the contract.

  “Oh, yes, Harriet was thick as thieves with Mrs. Rogan, there for a week or ten days,” said Sarah Lee while Elna Ames was laying out the dummy hand. “Of course, Harriet never lasts.”

  “Do you really think anybody would tell a story like that?” asked Nona. “If it isn’t true …?”

  “Listen, I don’t say it isn’t true. But it does seem unlikely,” said Sarah Lee. “Tess Rogan sure as heck doesn’t spend much money on her clothes. Listen! Who knows? Maybe she tells it to get the attention.” She met Nona’s eyes and Nona received a little shock. There was something sturdy in Sarah Lee that was willing to admit the possibility. An old woman could crave attention as desperately as this.

  Then, was this Mrs. Rogan’s oddness? Nona wondered. That she, being old and lonely and desperate, was telling desperate and stupid lies? “A stupid lie,” she murmured, “if it is one.”

  “It sure is stupid,” said Bettina Goodenough. Nona looked at her and was surprised to see a whiteness along Bettina’s nostrils. “Anybody who pretends, just to get attention! So cheap! Wasn’t that my nine of clubs?”

  “Whoops,” said Sarah Lee. “Excuse my itchy fingers.”

  Elna Ames said in her colorless voice, “If it were Caroline Buff, or even Mrs. Fitz, you might believe it.”

  “Believe what?” Sarah Lee had lost the thread.

  “That she was going around the world.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” said Bettina. “Let’s play the hand. Who wants to go around the world?”

  Nona thought, sharp and clear, You do! She quickly chopped this notion down. “I think Mrs. Fitz—that’s what you call her?—is just lovely-looking,” she said quickly.

  “Oh, she’s a doll,” said Sarah Lee. “A little old doll. Georgia Oliver is going to marry her younger son. He’s something! He’s been around the world, I guess.” She put the deuce of trumps on Bettina’s outside ace. “Not tonight, Josephine.”

  “Oh, you wretch!” cried Bettina. “Now that’s mean! I’m ruined!” She was laughing.

  Chapter 7

  As the days drew on to Christmas some of the frenzy died down. (After all, mailing was over.) Now, clouds began to lower around Nona Henry. This would be her first Christmas without Val. Nothing could keep this grief at bay. A grief that gouged and hurt. But she would have to bear it. It did not matter that she was far from her daughter. She would have had to bear this, anywhere; so much of it was her own, her lonely own. So she answered Dodie’s anxious letters as cheerfully as she could. She denied the bite and pain of her personal grief—in ink on paper. No other way to help Dodie; no way at all for Dodie to help her. She would just have to get through Christmas, somehow. Nona clung to the Gadabouts. They would help her.

  They asked her to go on an expedition, three days before Christmas Day, to the Mission at San Juan Capistrano. Mrs. Fitzgibbon was going and so was Georgia Oliver, but there was room for one more, and Nona really ought to see it. They would have fun.

  Nona accepted quickly. Anything to see. Anything to do. Anything to fill the hours. Anything to get her through these holidays.

  They bought the tickets and went through the gate into the midst of pigeons. These birds were spoiled rotten, too fat and too tame. A small boy, half frightened with delight, stood there with four of the greedy insolent creatur
es perched on his arms and shoulders while his father focused the family camera.

  They were in a garden. The flowers here were fat and tame as if they, too, had been fed and petted into an expectation of too much too easily. All around this garden ran the adobe buildings, some in ruin, some restored.

  The white birds, the red flowers, the blue sky, the brilliant green of huge pepper trees … Nona exclaimed with her companions over the beauty of the scene. But this, she remembered, was a Mission. And what was a Mission? For a moment she wished that Daisy Robinson had come, Daisy would have known.

  It had been a “goodish” drive, but Bettina Goodenough was a steady driver and the trip down had been pleasant. Sarah Lee Cunneen had sat in front with a map in her lap wrangling amiably, and rather amusingly, with Bettina about the turns.

  Nona had ridden behind with Mrs. Fitz and Georgia Oliver. She had felt a bit shy because she had long realized that this little delicate old lady, Mrs. Fitz, was in the world of Sans Souci an aristocrat. She was the Good Dean of the house. In Mrs. Fitz’s company there was serenity and kindness. The little dainty lovely old lady “enjoyed” the ride.

  They had stopped for lunch in a small decent restaurant and quarreled gently over the check. The presence of Mrs. Fitz seemed to have refined the Gadabouts. Everything was gentler.

  Now, here they were in the gardens, and Mrs. Fitz was murmuring admiration and praise. The flowers! How lovely! Oh, what beauty!

  But Nona Henry found her mind stirring and trying to make sense of this place. What had it been for? Why had it been built so? The others seemed content with color and bloom, sun and sky, and no one communicated, if indeed she knew, what else was here to be understood.

  They all strolled along the wide paths, and under the long cloisters, very slowly, for Mrs. Fitz never moved very fast.

  “Please don’t wait on me,” she said. “I’d like to visit the chapel. That and the flowers are enough.”

  “Excuse us then?” blurted Sarah Lee. “We’ll meet you at the gate? How’s that?”

  The Gadabouts prepared to vanish into a shop. Nona blinked. Yes, there was a shop, a souvenir-of-San-Juan kind of place. The Gadaouts ducked in. They hadn’t asked Nona to go with them. She could see them darting from glass case to counter. Buying and selling. Here!