He peered at Tess Rogan.
“Air,” said Tess.
“Air?” he murmured. He cocked his head. “Fresh air, I presume?” He had not seen Nona at all.
“Can you stand up?” inquired Tess mildly.
“I think so,” he said. “I am standing, am I not? Or are you holding me up?” He knotted his eye muscles.
“We’ll see,” said Tess and she took her hand away.
He swayed. “A hundred paces, eh?” he said. “Back and forth. Forth and back. Then, I go up. O.K.?”
“Twenty paces might do it,” said Tess judiciously. “Or none. You are not as drunk as you seem.”
“That’s true,” he said. “I’m stalling. Don’t want to go up. I think I’ll go with you. Where are you going?”
“To church.”
His brows flew. “May I come?”
“No,” Tess said, “not with me.” Her voice had no anger in it, at all. This was fact.
He threw one arm across her shoulders. “Pity?” he begged. “For pity?”
Nona, standing there as if she were invisible, could see very well what was going on. He was trying to kiss her! Nona’s heart pounded, her gorge rose … trying to kiss an old woman of seventy-one! It was nauseating! And the old woman stood quite still.
He did not kiss her.
Something stopped him. He stepped back. “I am carried away,” he mumbled, “with good will to all. That is a lie, mistress.”
“So I perceive,” Tess said dryly. “Good luck to you, sir.”
“I wish you wouldn’t leave me,” the man said, plaintively, turning as Tess started by, “at the bottom of a pit. I still …” He stood erect suddenly. “If I didn’t still know it when I see it, the pit could close over.”
“Perhaps it will,” said Tess softly. She went through the arch.
Nona stood in a shadow. Utterly paralyzed.
“Who’s there?” the man said owlishly. “Nobody?”
Two figures came in through the arch. A stout woman in black satin coat and a stout man. Both were sober and respectable. They hesitated.
The drunken man became sober in an instant. “I beg your pardon,” he said urbanely and stepped from their path. They went toward the building. The man settled his coat with a wag of his shoulders and walked after, stepping as steadily as they.
Nona slipped out of the shadow and through the arch.
Out on the sidewalk, Tess Rogan was waiting for her.
“I don’t … don’t think I’ll go,” Nona fluttered. She was frightened. She was fascinated. She wanted to be reassured. She wanted the mystery to be brushed away by some commonplace. She wanted to be coaxed to come. And in the worst way, she wanted that conversation clarified so that she could be inside the mystery, too.
But Tess Rogan neither coaxed nor explained. “As you like,” she said amiably and walked on.
Nona went back inside the patio wall and sat down on that hidden bench; she hugged her coat around her. She did not know what to think or even what she actually was thinking.
But the sky had removed to a higher place, the horizon had retreated, the little saucer of Sans Souci spilled over.
Now, in the book of her past life, on those pages that flipped by so fast, her memory seemed to put in a thumb, to cease skimming and begin to read.
Sitting in the dark, Nona remembered that she and Val had been happy. She and Val had also been miserable. There were things about Val she had never liked at all; she had simply put up with them. She knew exactly which things. She and Val had discussed them, fought about them. And Val had hated Nona on occasion, as she very well understood, for things about her that he had never been able to change. This was so. It did not banish grief. Or love. Or loss. It was just true. And she had always known it.
And I am Nona O’Connor, she thought, and I always have been.
Her grief was suddenly for Val Henry, for him, just as he had been and now was no more, and she wept as she had never wept in her life, a deep and terrible dissolving.
Afterwards she felt very strange. What was she doing here on this dark bench in the middle of the night before Christmas, staring through foliage at some colored lights far away? She had meant to go to church, but she was not in church. She had meant to pray, but she did not know what to pray.
A thought struck in. That drunken (or not drunken) man had said “go up.” Then he couldn’t be Avery Patrick, who lived on the first floor. Then, could he be Robert Fitzgibbon? Impossible!
But she knew that it was so.
Chapter 9
To Sans Souci came Christmas Day.
In the morning, after the squeals and the packages, Morgan Lake went to his post at the desk.
Soon after, Miss Winifred Lake went on an expedition of her own. He saw her begin it, and he winced, but she had done this for years; Rose still thought it was cute.
Miss Winifred Lake, playing Santa, began to distribute little gifts among the widows of Sans Souci. Pot holders, they were. (They always were.) She had made them herself and they were well made, for Winnie could sew expertly. She had wrapped each of them carefully, lavish with ribbon and seal.
Morgan reflected that not all the widows were here. Some celebrated Christmas elsewhere. Morgan was thankful that Mrs. Hull, for one, had been taken off by some nearby relatives for the day. Mrs. Goodenough and Mrs. Cunneen were gone to Las Vegas. Daisy Robinson was also out for the day. She had bustled away early.
Winnie, he knew, would visit all the rest.
He watched her set off down the east wing where Marie Gardner never answered her bell but Felice Paull would, at the patio end. He saw her return on nimble feet, to cross the lobby and do the north wing. Caroline Buff, at the angle. Harriet Gregory. Ida Milbank. In a little while, he thought he heard her skipping up the stairs.
He moved his shoulders uneasily. Winnie had begun to do this as a child. But now that she was seventeen, he did not think it was cute. True, none of the widows had ever complained of it. In fact, many had said to him, over the years, that they had been touched and pleased. But he did not like it. Never had. And definitely did not like it now.
He didn’t entirely understand why Winnie kept it up. As far as he knew, Winnie was not fond of the seventeen widows of Sans Souci. She had let those so inclined make a pet of her when she had been smaller. But now that she was too old to be a pet, and almost old enough to be a friend, he knew that she was not really a friend to any of them. She, rather, reflected her mother’s attitude, her mother’s contemptuous impatience with the lot of them.
The switchboard began to claim his attention. There would be long-distance calls throughout the day for those widows who remained.
Nona Henry was dreading her own inevitable long-distance call. She could not imagine what she could say to Dodie. Must neither laugh nor weep …
When her doorbell rang, she went to it in surprise. (She fleetingly hoped this would be Georgia Oliver.)
“Oh,” said the young girl standing there. “Oh, I’m sorry. You know, I forgot that Mrs. More was gone. You are Mrs. Henry, aren’t you? I’m Winifred Lake. Mr. Lake’s daughter.”
“Oh yes, Winifred,” said Nona. Her voice was kind and her smile polite. What she knew, in the back of her mind, stayed hidden. What she had seen, by night, below.
“Merry Christmas,” said Winnie, smiling so that in her smooth cheek a dimple appeared. “I have a present. Well, I don’t know you yet, Mrs. Henry, but I made Christmas presents for everybody. Here.” With an engaging awkwardness Winnie thrust forth a small flat, fancily wrapped package.
Nona was overcome. “Why, how nice!” she murmured. “Won’t you come in a minute, Winifred?”
Winifred would.
Nona’s mind was scurrying about. What did one do? She had no gift for this girl. Was there anything she could wrap up quickly? No, no, that would be ridiculous.
But one could not refuse to take a Christmas present. That would not do.
“I haven’t a thing …”
she began. “I wonder if you’d like a glass of juice, perhaps? Won’t you sit down, Winifred?”
The girl sat down in one of the chairs near the windows. “I’d love it,” she said, with stars in her eyes.
Nona went into her kitchen, flustered, but rather pleased too. She opened her refrigerator and took out the remains of the morning orange juice. She turned to open a cupboard and reach for a glass. What could she give? The only solution leaped into her thought. Well, of course, a bit of money. If it were presented gracefully … She could say, “Buy something you’d like, dear.” She could put it in an envelope, she was thinking, a dollar or two. Any young girl …
“I hope you like orange,” she called. “Are you having a nice Christmas?”
“Oh, just lovely!” Winnie said ecstatically.
Nona just happened to look over the top of the cupboard, expecting to see the young face turned toward her with a smile.
The morning sunshine came strongly through and hit upon the girl and upon her hands. Winnie wasn’t even looking. What was she doing?
Nona stood still, with the glass in one hand. Winifred Lake was pulling money out of the pocket of her dress. Crumpled bills. The young hands were smoothing them and stacking them and counting them. Miss Winifred Lake was adding up the loot.
Nona turned away. She filled the glass, feeling stony cold. She brought it into the living room and the girl took it in innocent empty hands.
Nona picked up the tissue-wrapped package, sat down in an opposite chair, and deliberately opened it. The two pot holders, within, were blue and yellow, very gay.
“I made them,” Winnie said shyly.
“You made them for Mrs. More?” said Nona coolly. “Don’t you think you might have sent them to her?”
“But I don’t know where to reach her,” said Winnie making her eyes big. “And I want you to have them, now.” (Oh, she controlled those dimples. She had them when she wanted them.)
“Thank you,” said Nona. You little fraud! she was fuming. You junior racketeer! Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, would it? But I’ve seen you, you and that male, whoever he is, and I’ve seen you when you were not quite so innocent and not quite such a sweet little child!
Nona placed the gift upon a table with fastidious fingers.
Winnie Lake was female enough to receive intuitively the news of that cold fury.
She cut her losses. She drained down the orange juice and rose with an insulting swift and easy thrust of her young muscles. “I must skip along, Mrs. Henry,” she said and her voice overdid the sweetness now. “Thank you so much. And I hope you have a lovely day.”
Nona received the hostility and returned it in kind. “You are very sweet,” she said. “Thank you, my dear, for the lovely present.”
When Winnie had gone Nona ground her teeth together. Christmas, she thought bitterly. Oh, what is it? Last night, for a while, I thought it was goodness and giving. (Oh, what am I?)
Her phone rang. It was Dodie. Nona was able to talk across the continent with no sentimentality and no false cheer either. When she hung up she knew she had sounded fine, controlled and easy, because that little phony had made her so mad!
Strange, how things work out!
When the group of widows came in, at midafternoon, returning from the Christmas dinner party that had been organized by Felice Paull, Morgan Lake cast an expertly assessing eye upon them.
He knew at once that it had been ghastly, again.
It had. Kitty Forrest and Joan Braverman had been roped in. They were the only workingwomen in the building.
Joan Braverman was an old war horse, heart and soul in her job, quite convinced that the business could not be run without her. A Christmas dinner was necessary; she didn’t like to cook, so she didn’t mind where, what or with whom she ate. Kitty Forrest went along with Joan. She too lived a disproportionate amount of her total life in her office. But Kitty was a private worrier and Joan, always so sure of herself, was something to cling to. Both of them gladly let Felice manage.
Elna Ames had gone along in sheer weakness. She felt so ill, it really did not matter. She was quiet, as usual.
Ida Milbank, of course, had made no trouble. It was Harriet Gregory who had had a run-in with Agnes Vaughn.
This could almost have been predicted.
Agnes, who almost never went out, had allowed herself to be dragged forth for this affair. After all, Christmas was Christmas and an effort must be made. So, arrayed in a garment so madly out of style that it was almost back in again, Agnes had walked on her tiny feet as far as the elevator, and all the way through the patio as far as a taxicab. The crisp air had not been too much for her.
The necessity of sitting at table in the restaurant and waiting for the waitress, however, had bored Agnes Vaughn, who was used to doing exactly as she pleased. A little controversy would make things livelier. Agnes cast about for a victim. She discovered a bit of a grudge. Oh, she had been intrigued into being much too chummy the other night. So Agnes pounced on Harriet Gregory.
Harriet had considered herself to have been mortally insulted before the roast turkey came in. But she had eaten it, for economic reasons, in a bristling silence that radiated her self-image of “good breeding.” Before the pudding, Harriet’s “good breeding” had broken down before her even more powerful self-image of the “sensitive soul.”
Felice Paull, who was a master at giving and taking offense, had begun to scold Harriet, claiming to be under the impression that this would brace her up. So Harriet had flared back at Felice, although she had not left the battlefield, for poor Harriet had long known how little solace there is in solitary indignation.
Elna Ames had borne the unpleasantness in pale withdrawal. Kitty Forrest was upset and feared she would not digest. Joan Braverman had laid about her with common sense, and this was easily beaten away by Agnes Vaughn who felt quite stimulated by the challenge.
They returned finally, en masse, but in varying degrees of huff or disappointment.
Morgan Lake watched them break up in the lobby, where Harriet fled dramatically (she had to go to the bathroom anyway) actually running around the corner to her own apartment. Elna Ames and Kitty and Joan had sat limply down in the lobby to deplore everything, with the righteousness of those who had not really been involved.
Felice, her eyes swimming not too much more than usual, had shepherded Agnes to the elevator (with Ida trotting after), and upstairs the three of them no doubt would sip and munch the rest of Christmas away.
It had almost been gotten through. Morgan sighed.
He was pleased to see Georgia Oliver and Robert Fitzgibbon come through the lobby, going out, at about 4:30. A man opening a door for a woman, bowing her through before him, putting the red velvet carpet of masculine courtesy under her feet—this was good to see, in the lopsided world of Sans Souci, sans men, sans children, on Christmas Day.
(Avery Patrick had not been seen for three days.)
Morgan checked his flock over. Poor Marie Gardner had spent Christmas Day no one would ever know how. There had been no sound and no sign of her. There never was. Mrs. Buff, also, had minded her own business but he felt very sure that she had done so competently.
The rest …
He found himself wondering about two of them. Mrs. Henry. He had not seen her, all day. Still, he had caught the tone of her voice on that long-distance call from Poughkeepsie, and she had sounded quite all right.
Then, Mrs. Rogan. She puzzled him. There had been no less than five long-distance calls for her. New York, New York. New Haven, Connecticut. Berkeley, California. Dallas, Texas … and one call, overseas, from Honolulu.
He could not help wondering why—why in the world!—was this Mrs. Rogan alone at Sans Souci at Christmas time.
He, himself, was alone most of that day.
Only when Oppie Etting came was Morgan Lake freed to go to his own celebration—the eggnog bowl, what friends were still beside it, Winnie permitting herself to be admired
, and Rose, a little flushed and excited from a long afternoon of showing Winnie off.
But it was dark, now. The day was going over. Sans Souci had got through it, somehow.
Chapter 10
Impeded somewhat by Christmas Day, the ripple went outward from the fallen stone. But the story about this Mrs. Quinn did not reach every ear in Sans Souci. Avery Patrick was one who heard nothing about it; he ducked hearing about the widows, anyhow.
Oppie Etting, recognizing that the story was dubious and incomplete, was well aware that he should not have told Harriet Gregory one word. The rumor was spreading, the house was talking; and the less known, the more to guess. Oppie Etting felt guilty and he was afraid of Morgan Lake. He did not tell Mr. Lake. In fact, for a few days, Morgan Lake was one who did not hear.
In a way Morgan Lake was the respectability of Sans Souci, visible, incarnate … and he was not disturbed until Christmas had been gotten through.
Two days after Christmas, however, Felice Paull returned from the library, tired and baffled. She had sacrificed her morning and most of her afternoon, but she had not been able to uncover any news story about any Mrs. Quinn. Of course, the year was in doubt and the place was impossible to guess, and there were so many, many newspapers. Felice was miffed, just the same. She decided that the whole thing was bunkum. If she couldn’t find a newspaper account of Mrs. Quinn’s trial, there probably had never been such a thing. It was Felice’s nature to protest. She had a compulsion toward argument and contention. She felt it her duty to raise questions. So Felice Paull spoke of the rumor to Morgan Lake.
He turned to stone. Even Felice was taken aback by the frozen look upon him. No one had seen Morgan Lake angry. Perhaps this was how anger took him.
When Oppie Etting came in that afternoon, at his usual hour, he perceived at once that he was in for it. He had never seen Morgan Lake look so.
Oppie did not want to lose his job. He had thought of a possible way to make amends, to squirm out of punishment. Of course, it would sacrifice two things, the truth and Harriet Gregory, but Oppie cared more for his job than for either. So, as soon as Morgan Lake, in half a sentence, raised the subject, Oppie broke in. “Oh, that! My fault!” he groaned. “I don’t know what got into me. I was pulling Mrs. Gregory’s leg, that’s all.”
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