Seventeen Widows of Sans Souci

by Charlotte Armstrong

  This night, with Christmas so near, she might have been driven to an especial rudeness, but she did not seem to have put on either attitude firmly. She looked lost. She had so little, Oppie found it in his heart to feel sorry for her. He swore her to secrecy and told her about this Mrs. Quinn.

  Harriet reacted with an uncertain veering between strong indignation that such a thing could be rumored about so respectable an address, and an avid, fearfully delighted licking over of names. But who? Who? She solemnly agreed with Oppie that this must go no farther, probably nothing to it … and yet …

  When she left the lobby, however, Harriet knew very well where she could barter this news for a long session of companionship. It would be weak of her. Yet, ought not warning be given? It took her all the way around the corner to the foot of the stairs to rationalize her desire. Harriet Gregory went up and rapped on Agnes Vaughn’s door.

  Agnes Vaughn was watching television and let her in reluctantly. But Agnes grew cordial as soon as Harriet began to tell. The two of them had a fine two hours, ripping the widows up and down, and Harriet finally went to bed sated, and even purged.

  Agnes had agreed that this story ought not to be spread but of course the next day she did tell her special cronies, Felice Paull and Ida Milbank.

  It was Felice Paull, viewing the possibility of the presence of Mrs. Quinn with civic-minded concern, who told Daisy Robinson. She, Felice, proposed to find out the facts. She would go—yes, just as soon as Christmas was over—to the library and look in the old newspaper files for any account of the trial of a Mrs. Quinn. Perhaps Felice would find her photograph. This would settle the doubt. This was the intelligent thing to do. Felice respected Daisy’s intelligence and awaited praise.

  But Daisy Robinson was not one for murder mysteries. She didn’t believe in them, either in fiction or in life. They were cheap, she felt. Crime was below the salt on Daisy’s mental table. So she laughed at Felice. It was pure melodrama. The intelligent thing to do, said Daisy, was to forget it. Felice Paull felt miffed.

  Ida Milbank told Sarah Lee Cunneen, blabbed it out. Ida was a transmitter of news who seemed never to appreciate the meaning of what simply went through her. Sarah Lee immediately checked with Agnes and promised not to spread the rumor except, of course, to her sidekick Bettina Goodenough, with whom she talked it over all afternoon. In fact, they helped each other pack for their trip so as not to have to stop talking.

  That was how Georgia Oliver came to overhear some of it in the hall upstairs when they were on their way to Bettina’s. Bettina innocently filled her in before Sarah Lee could stop it.

  So Georgia went down the hall and told Ursula Fitzgibbon. Ursula refused to believe any part of it. So distasteful! It was that Mr. Etting’s fault and unfortunate. Georgia said she was very sorry for this woman, whoever she might be, and really thought one ought not to talk about it. At all. So they talked about Robert Fitzgibbon—a subject interesting to them both.

  Nona Henry was sitting in the last sun in the patio as Sarah Lee and Bettina went forth, carrying overnight cases. Sarah Lee Cunneen was a realistic little soul and, by now, she knew perfectly well that the story was being spread. She didn’t intend to miss the fun of doing her share, before leaving. So she told Nona.

  “This woman could be here,” Sarah Lee said. “For heaven’s sakes, who’d know the difference? You got the rent, you get the apartment. Did I give references? Anybody ask you about your past life?”

  Bettina said, “I think it’s scary. I don’t see how we will ever know. One of us might be a murderess!” (By now, Mrs. Quinn was a murderess and no doubt about it.) Bettina laughed. Bettina’s laugh meant not mirth but interest. Bettina’s laugh was for oiling social hinges.

  Nona scarcely responded. She bade them godspeed politely.

  When they had gone on, Nona sat fuming. She thought the story was ridiculous.

  The sun was almost gone when Tess Rogan ambled by. When Nona nodded Tess turned back. “Hi,” she said. “Have you heard this thing about a Mrs. Quinn?”

  “Yes, I have.” Nona felt surprised that Tess Rogan knew.

  “Daisy Robinson told me.” Tess sighed and sat down on the bench. Her feet were large and ugly and stood on their heels before her as if she’d forgotten them. “If she got it straight, somebody’s here in disguise.” Tess grinned.

  “You don’t believe it, do you?” cried Nona. “A criminal! Here!”

  “I don’t know enough to have a belief,” Tess said mildly.

  “In this place!” Nona bristled. “Maybe you’re one of those who say that where there is smoke there has got to be fire.” Her voice held scorn. She was braced against this woman.

  “I should say that where there is smoke there may, or may not, be fire,” said Tess amiably. “You think ‘this place’ is too respectable?” She looked up at the windows of Sans Souci. “Respectability. We pay for it.”

  “I don’t know what you mean …” Nona felt confused. This woman did confuse her.

  “We put up with the poor plumbing, the chipping paint, the smells—because Sans Souci is so respectable. I wonder why.”

  “Because, I suppose, decent people, living decently—” Nona flared and stopped and bit her tongue.

  “Just the place for this Mrs. Quinn, then,” mused Tess. “Respectable. She would want that. She could live here, decently. Among the silverfish,” Tess added mischievously, “in these dismal kitchens and beat-up bathrooms.”

  “Why—” Nona bit her tongue again. She had been going to say “Why don’t you live somewhere else if you don’t like it here?”

  “I’m going around the world, in the spring,” said Tess Rogan, as if she were answering what Nona had not asked aloud. “Or, I may.”

  “Isn’t that nice?” said Nona, polite and skeptical. “I see you got back safely from the Mission,” she said.

  “Oh yes.” Tess Rogan did not volunteer any explanation of how she had done this. She was looking up at the windows. “But don’t you suppose,” she said in that musing tone, “that in the pasts of seventeen women—a lot of years when you add them together—there must have been some sin? There well may be some repentant and forgiven sinner, living quietly and decently among us.”

  Nona felt irritated. She found this old woman’s manner of speaking annoying and upsetting. “I’m afraid I’m chilly. Would you excuse me?” Nona rose. “I certainly hope this wild tale will just die down,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Tess.

  And that was irritating too. It didn’t mean anything. Nona resented those eyes and whatever was in them. She walked away, disliking Tess Rogan heartily, and the more heartily because she did not really know why.

  But when she was in her kitchen making supper, her brain began to tick the widows off and she could not stop it.

  Out of and into the building today, the story went. All right, that eliminated Marie Gardner who never came out of her door. And Agnes Vaughn who seldom, if ever, went out, and when she did, did so with fanfare. And Elna Ames who, rumor said, was not feeling well would not have been out this day. And Kitty Forrest and Joan Braverman, who had jobs and were therefore away from the building all day long, not going in and out. So that’s five from seventeen leaves twelve—

  Not me! thought Nona. For pity’s sakes! So that leaves eleven.

  Her brain kept going around and around. But surely, not Ursula Fitzgibbon, so fragile and full of grace (and not Agnes Vaughn). And not Caroline Buff! Unthinkable! Not one of the older ladies, the deans of the house. Not Ursula the Good Dean (nor Agnes the Bad Dean), nor Caroline, the Dean who transcended this kind of judgment.

  Tess Rogan? Did age eliminate her? Why should it? Nobody knew how old this Mrs. Quinn would be. Nona shivered. Oh, nonsense! Melodrama! She sat down to eat and fix her mind, God help her, on a book. It was Christmas Eve.

  Georgia Oliver knocked on Nona Henry’s door at eight o’clock that Christmas Eve. “Mrs. Fitz wants to know if you won’t come over and have a Chris
tmas cookie,” said she. “We are watching television and waiting for Robert. Please come.”

  Nona had been crying for almost an hour and crying bitterly. Her eyes were swollen, her whole face lumpy and distorted. She had turned off all but one lamp and stood in shadow. “Oh, I don’t think …” she began.

  Georgia said, softly and pityingly, “But tomorrow is Christmas. And everything works out. It always does. Please come.” She must have been able to hear the aftermath of tears in Nona’s voice.

  Georgia Oliver’s nicely formed body was, by Sans Souci standards, young. In her sweet face the soft blue eyes had always been friendly. Now her fair hair, silhouetted against the pinkish light from the open door across the hall, was reminiscent of a halo. “Were you going to church?” asked Georgia gently.

  “I … hadn’t …” Nona straightened. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been bawling my head off,” she confessed bluntly. There was virtue in this. She felt better, she realized with surprise.

  “We all do, sometimes,” Georgia said. “But please come over? We aren’t going to church, either. It really doesn’t matter.”

  “In just a minute,” Nona pleaded.

  She hurried into her bathroom and did what she could to her face.

  All right. She would go. She did not know these women very well but they were gentle and good. That much was obvious. Perhaps goodness was the thing she longed for.

  “Come in, Mrs. Henry,” said Mrs. Fitz cordially. The room was warm and a little stuffy. The furniture was pure Sans Souci but, here and there, Mrs. Fitz had strewn her personal touches. An ivory letter opener. An African violet. Some photographs. A white-and-silver shawl over the back of a chair. The room was softly lit by one pink-shaded lamp. A television set was flickering busily in the corner; a singer, wearing a long spangled gown, was singing a carol there.

  “Just some Christmas music,” said the old lady, her face crinkling. “Do sit down, Mrs. Henry. That chair will be comfortable, I think.” She herself sat, without lounging, in a smallish chair. “Perhaps Georgia will bring you a cup of tea.”

  “I’m fetching it,” Georgia called jauntily from the kitchen.

  “And the cookies?”

  Nona was suddenly very calm and, in a numb way, quite happy. She felt safe, as if she had just rounded a windy point and come abruptly into a harbor.

  She took tea, nibbled a cookie. The voices lapped against her soothingly, saying nothing that was upsetting, nothing that needed analysis, or argument. Nothing that hurt.

  In the corner (In New York? In Chicago?) people kept singing. But the volume was low and the music did not interfere with the gentle voices present.

  Where was Mrs. Henry from? Oh, from Poughkeepsie? Oh, yes. Mrs. Fitz came from New York. The city, yes. And what had been Mr. Henry’s profession? A motion-picture theatre! Why, how interesting! Samuel Fitzgibbon had been an attorney—and finally, of course, a judge. “A rather well-known judge,” Georgia added.

  Georgia was from San Francisco. Pat Oliver had been a newspaperman, she said. “We were so happy,” Georgia said. “I remember everything good.”

  “Val and I,” said Nona, “had such wonderful times.” How could she have imagined, an hour ago, that she would be sitting here, teacup in hand, saying this?

  “Robert is a newspaperman, too,” said Georgia. “There is something about them, I suppose … for me.”

  “Georgia is going to be my daughter,” said Mrs. Fitz fondly. “She is like my daughter, now. Robert is coming, later on this evening.”

  “He is wonderful,” said Georgia. “It is wonderful how things work out.”

  (I suppose he is, thought Nona, and so was her first husband. I suppose that is possible.)

  “My Pat would have liked Robert very much,” said Georgia. “Another cookie?”

  Nona could feel a knot in her mind uncoiling and going limp. How strange—and wonderful, really—that this was possible! “When do you plan your wedding?” she asked politely.

  “Oh, we aren’t sure,” said Georgia. “We’ll see.” She was perfectly relaxed. So gentle and easy. She seemed to be afloat on some cushioning faith. Not torn by anything.

  “We are all very happy,” said Mrs. Fitz, “that this is going to happen. Robert has been a gypsy long enough. Europe, Asia.” She sighed. “So good to have him around.”

  “Will he stay in this country?”

  “I think so,” said Georgia. “If not, why, I can go with him some of the time. I wouldn’t leave Mrs. Fitz for too long, of course. Or Joanna, either. Joanna is my daughter. She is married a year, bless her heart.”

  Nona exclaimed and the talk turned to children. Mrs. Fitz told about her older son, and tolled off the names of his children. The names were pleasant to hear.

  Nona spoke of Dodie and Silas and the baby. She spoke of Millicent and Milly’s baby and Milly’s death.

  “It is hard to understand sometimes,” said Mrs. Fitz, “and go on. I know, my dear.”

  “Yet you know you must and you do,” said Georgia serenely.

  She smiled in the little ensuing silence, and changed the subject gracefully. “Did you enjoy the Mission? Wasn’t it beautiful?”

  “Yes,” said Nona. And what came into her mind came out of her mouth. “I can’t imagine Christmas in Las Vegas …”

  “Ah, well,” said Mrs. Fitz, forgivingly. “They are nice persons. Very gay. I suppose they will enjoy it. Not that I would. Or you, Georgia, dear?”

  “No,” said Georgia, “I like to be quiet, at Christmas time with—” she changed her sentence, “with nice persons.”

  Nona felt a healing peace. These women knew. This was the way. To be gentle, to be kind, loving, and serene. She thought that, if she were to live to be seventy-five, she would like to be as calm and as good and as well-beloved as Ursula Fitzgibbon. (She would like to be Georgia. Loving and useful.)

  Nona remembered, for all she felt so happy here, to rise before too long. “I’ll say good night. Your son will be coming along.”

  “Oh, don’t go. It’s … ten thirty is it? Robert will be late. A night owl, actually …”

  “I think,” said Nona, “that I will go to the Christmas Eve services, after all. You have put me in the mood.” She meant this with all her heart. She wanted them to be pleased.

  “Ah, then do go,” said Georgia, at once. “So glad you feel like it.”

  “We mustn’t forget what Christmas means,” said Mrs. Fitz.

  “It’s for giving,” said Georgia Oliver.

  Nona crossed to her own rooms, got hat and coat and purse. She felt so wonderfully soothed. She was very glad, now, that the Gadabouts had gone away. This was better than bridge, and nibbling and giggling. “Better” was not the word. This was right.

  She firmed her door and walked down the corridor and down the stairs, full of this revelation.

  Yes, Christmas. Of course, it was goodness, good will. Very simple. Very corny. Very true.

  Bemused, she came into the lobby where the tree shone splendidly.

  Oppie Etting was at the desk. One woman was standing, alone, near the glass door. Nona knew her name, Caroline Buff. An elderly widow, dressed for outdoors. The sight of her was tinder and Nona’s mood the flame. An old woman, alone. Was she wishing to go out and hesitating to do so, alone, by night? Was she in need of someone? Could Nona be of service? Was Christmas not for giving?

  Nona crossed toward her and said, gently and sweetly, “Mrs. Buff? Are you going to church? I am going and I would be happy, if you are alone …” She stood smiling, like Georgia, gentle and kind to an elder.

  Mrs. Buff looked up from the buttons of her glove. Another handsome old woman, Nona was thinking, in a flood of generous admiration. “I am just waiting for my son and daughter-in-law, who are parking the car,” said Mrs. Buff. She smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Henry. I am, however,” she added, “a Jewess.”

  Nona stammered that she was sorry. She hadn’t meant— She had only meant— She would say �
��good night” then.

  Mrs. Buff’s eyes were neither amused nor offended. They kindly dismissed her.

  Nona bumbled through the glass door. The string of lights over the entrance threw colored blobs upon the pavement. She started along the walk. She had meant to ask Mr. Etting about churches. She had not been to a church in California, not yet. Nona realized, now, that she had been thrown into confusion, she did not know where she was going.

  But I am going, she told herself firmly, searching for that mood of peace and joy. I meant well, just now. I didn’t know … how could I have known? I meant to be kind. I want to be good, and I will go to church.

  She heard the sound of the glass door moving and looked behind. Oh yes … that coat, the red one. Here came Tess Rogan, out into the night.

  Nona conquered the impulse of her feet to hurry on. No, it was Christmas, and one old lady was the same as another, surely, in the eyes of human kindness. So Nona waited.

  As Tess Rogan caught up to her, she said, “Are you going to church, Mrs. Rogan? If so and if you’d rather not go alone … mayn’t I …?”

  Tess Rogan stood still. “One always goes to church alone, I think,” she said reflectively. “But it might be nice if we walked along together.”

  “I don’t quite … I mean to say, where … what church?” Nona felt herself floundering. She did not know where they were going or who was being kind to whom or even whether she was wanted.

  “Presbyterian?” said Tess Rogan with faint dryness. “It’s the nearest.”

  Nona began to move beside her, with her mood a shambles.

  A car door slammed violently. A figure came lurching into the arch. A tall man paused under the light there and tottered.

  Tess Rogan was near enough and quick enough to take three steps and catch his arm. “Whoops!” she said.

  “Now, I wonder …” He was tall and good-looking with dark hair, and a snubbed-off profile that was boyish, but weather-worn and seamed. The scent of liquor emanated from his mouth in a cloud. “Shall I go up?” he asked. “Or shall I not go up? Which is the better part of valor? What do you say?”