Seventeen Widows of Sans Souci

by Charlotte Armstrong

  And why hadn’t Daisy Robinson jumped in to offer shelter? She had an extra bed and hers would be the most convenient surely, right across the hall. But no, Nona Henry was stuck with it.

  Then Georgia Oliver caught her up. “Ah,” said Georgia, “you are so good, Nona. So fine of you! The poor old thing, put out of her house …”

  Nona felt better.

  “The least one can do,” she murmured. (What a louse I really am, she thought, resignedly.) They walked along, Georgia’s arm around Nona’s waist girlishly. They came to Nona’s door, and Georgia turned to cross the hall. “Is Mrs. Fitz all right?” asked Nona anxiously. “She wasn’t too frightened, was she?”

  “No, no,” said Georgia. “She was very brave, I think. But I’ll stay with her a little while.”

  “Of course,” said Nona. Saint nodded to saint.

  Nona went in. She checked the other bed to make sure it had linen. She turned back the spread and folded the blanket sideways down. She quickly straightened up some small disorder on her dresser.

  Then she went to her kitchen, put some water on to boil. Willing or no, saint or no, louse or no, she had a roommate. (But this odd person. This Tess Rogan. Nona felt nervous.)

  Morgan Lake went down in the elevator, at last, and straight to the door of 102. He touched the bell but at the merest tinkle the door opened.

  “Everything O.K.?” asked Avery Patrick.

  “The fire’s out,” said Morgan crisply. He entered and closed the door behind him.

  Avery Patrick, who wore a silk robe and had a glass in his hand, glowered at him, his face sulky.

  “She’s out of the building,” Morgan said. “I called her nephew to get her out.”

  “That’s good,” said Avery. “Frankly, as soon as I heard the equipment I knew you’d have it under control.”

  “We were lucky,” said Morgan grimly.

  Avery turned away. “Drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “How’s the damage? We’re insured against the damage, aren’t we?”

  Morgan didn’t answer. He was angry but anger was not physiologically permitted to him and he had to try to bank it down.

  “Now, don’t make a big deal out of it, please!” Avery said in pain. “O.K., the old lush finally did it. O.K., you were right and you told me so. That make you feel better?” His mouth sneered.

  “I feel fine,” said Morgan bitterly, and turned and left.

  The owner of Sans Souci muttered to himself and mixed another highball. Life was hard, he felt. Fate was unkind.

  There’s one thing left, thought Morgan Lake. One act would help him sleep.

  He went softly down the east wing to the end. He did not ring the bell of 101. He tapped on the door. He knew it would not open. He waited. At last he saw the doorknob turn. “Mrs. Gardner?” he said softly into the crack along the wood. “There was just a small fire. It is out now. There is no danger. It’s all over.”

  He knew there would be no reply, but he watched. The doorknob moved, again. So he felt satisfied.

  Marie Gardner, the hermit of Sans Souci, left the inside of that door and padding on bare feet went into her bedroom, where the night light burned. She repeated all eleven of the rituals that she had evolved, without which she could not possibly sleep, went through them with ease and dispatch, this second time, tonight. Got into her bed with the right foot first, pulled up the blanket. Snugged down. She would sleep very well, she realized. A real danger (that was all over) was relaxing.

  “I thought we’d have some coffee?” Nona gushed a bit. “Or do you prefer tea?”

  “Either,” said Tess. “That’s very nice.”

  She was an old woman with tall bones, but she moved easily. She seemed to be able to move silently, with no lost motion. She had put her few things, some clothing on her arm, a case of toiletries, into the bedroom, asking no questions, making no fuss. Now she sat down in the dinette.

  “What a thing to happen!” Nona said, fluttering between stove and table. “That poor Mrs. Hull, to have gotten into such a state! I don’t believe she even knows that she set the fire.” Her words seemed to fall into a great pit of silence and go echoing down. “But I am assuming that she did. I don’t know that. Did she?”

  “Well, there was a fire and she smokes,” said Tess with a mischievous smile that Nona shyly returned. “If she did,” Tess continued placidly, “she doesn’t know it. Yet.”

  Nona looked up from having poured the coffee. She was receiving a glimpse of future remorse for Leila Hull. But now Tess Rogan’s blue eyes fastened upon Nona’s eyes and would not let them get away. “It looks to me,” said Tess, “as if this will take time. You won’t want me here a week or more … whatever it takes. I’ll make another arrangement tomorrow.”

  Nona said, flushing, “Well, that’s as you please …”

  Something kept her from protesting.

  The steam rose from the coffee cups. Nona said, “Sugar? Cream? Did you hear what the little Lake girl said? That Mr. Lake’s heart isn’t good? She seemed so … well, so concerned for him.”

  Tess took a sip.

  “I felt … oh, I don’t know … annoyed with that girl at Christmas time,” Nona rattled on. “I suppose I shouldn’t have, but I resented catching her counting up her money.”

  Tess grinned. “When she made the rounds with her pot holders? They tell me she does it every year.”

  “I didn’t like it. I just …”

  “Maybe you don’t like being pressured,” Tess said.

  “I guess I don’t,” said Nona. “I don’t mind giving people anything I have. But I don’t like to be taken …” (Now why in the world am I saying this? she thought. Why have I let out even a hint of my private trouble? Oh, Dodie, deluded! Oh, that Silas, and my bonds!) “Of course, she’s just a child,” she said quickly. “Did she come to you, too?”

  “I gave her a dollar.” Tess sighed. “It’s great sport to give. It’s a little harder to receive, I think.” The blue eyes fastened again. “Will you overlook what I said, Mrs. Henry?”

  “Overlook?” Nona was confused.

  “I wasn’t very gracious to receive,” said Tess Rogan. “It’s good of you to take me in and I should be willing to let you acquire merit.” She was smiling, as if she amused herself.

  “Oh, please,” said Nona with a nervous wave of her hand. She felt frightened. She didn’t want any more said on this subject.

  But when the old woman obligingly said nothing more, Nona felt drawn back toward an edge of some kind, a brink, a most attractive danger. “Perhaps,” she said demurely, “you can start around the world a little sooner?”

  (Now what was this? With what was she flirting?)

  “You know,” said Tess easily, “there’s an example. My son-in-law wants to give me a trip around the world, and I am having a bad time accepting it. True, it isn’t putting him out a great deal. He’s high up in the ranks of the steamship company and I imagine it only takes a word or two. Still he is giving; he wants me to enjoy it. A bit of a dilemma. If you were I, would you accept?”

  “Would I accept … a trip around the world?” gasped Nona. “I don’t know. It would depend.” Her mind sharpened. “Do you think you really would enjoy it?”

  “That puts a finger on it,” Tess said with a satisfied nod and a grin. “And that is what I do not know.”

  “Your son-in-law, you say?” Nona had begun to believe this story. She had gone over some kind of brink; she didn’t know what.

  “Yes, George Tremaine, my daughter Mary’s husband. They live a good part of the year in Honolulu. I’m to stop over there. But I’m not at all sure about seeing a meandering circle around the whole world,” Tess said musingly. “I am seventy-one years old …”

  “You must have seen quite a lot already,” said Nona.

  “I am just beginning to see,” said Tess, “and the more I see, the less I think it matters where, on earth, I am.”

  Silence fell. It was the small
hours. All patterns were broken. Here they sat. Nona felt the imp in her heart, that loosening feeling. “A grandson of yours,” she said boldly, “bumped into me in the patio on New Year’s Day. What had you said to him?” She herself was grinning.

  Tess slid her eyes and laughed. “Oh that,” she said. “That was Liam’s son. Young Dan Rogan.” She did not go on.

  “You have a big family?” Nona asked.

  Tess nodded.

  “But why …?” Nona could not imagine what was possessing her to ask such impertinent questions, but she let this one fall out of her mouth just the same. “Why are you living here?”

  The woman did not seem to mind the question. “It’s a tribal situation,” she said frankly. “Caroline Buff, I think, has the same. We are matriarchs. Well, that’s power. Which we all enjoy, of course. I sometimes have to take myself by the ears and get out.”

  “I don’t understand …” said Nona, her heart racing.

  “Why, when the whole brood gets to asking for wisdom and judgments from you,” said Tess Rogan, “you surely like to give. Giving is great sport, as I said. But you ought to remember …”

  “Yes?” Nona was breathless.

  “All that you have can die on the vine,” said Tess rather sharply, “unless something comes in. Now, let’s not …” She turned the subject abruptly. “How large is your family?”

  “Not very large,” said Nona evasively, and also stubbornly. “You haven’t told me what you said to that boy.”

  “You and I,” said Tess in a moment, “better not get into a religious discussion, at this hour. I’ll tell you sometime. I’m sleepy, now.”

  “It’s after three o’clock,” Nona admitted. (Religion! she thought in amazement.)

  “Then, shall we go to bed?” said Tess. “I am an old woman, Mrs. Henry, and I often talk too much. I give opinions to the young. You mustn’t tempt me.” She grinned. She rose.

  Nona was tense in her bed, feeling the invasion of another person most keenly for a while. But the old woman lay silent, and somehow light as a leaf in the other bed. Nona began to feel the safer for her presence. Before she could even wonder why, she went off abruptly into a profound sleep.

  Chapter 14

  February is one of the duller months of the year. The seventeen widows of Sans Souci could not work up much excitement over the Groundhog or St. Valentine, either. Lincoln and Washington would have their birthdays, and there would be the perennial confusion over which birthday closed the banks and stopped the mail and which did not. But no fiesta.

  The local great event, that fire, turned out to have a rather dull aftermath. Leila Hull’s apartment was neither occupied nor given up by her. Rumor said she was taking the cure. No excitement, there. Yet.

  Felice Paull got nowhere with her righteous wrath against the owner. There seemed to be a conspiracy. Nobody wanted to hear any more about the fire, or place any blame, or demand any revenge for it. Even Agnes Vaughn had lost interest.

  The effect, as far as Agnes was concerned, was simply this. She no longer suspected Leila Hull of being the murderess, Mrs. Quinn. Why did she not? Well, it wasn’t any fun. Leila Hull was gone away. Agnes cast about the building for another candidate. Marie Gardner she did not suspect either, and for the same reason. No fun to suspect a woman you did not know, you never saw, you could not watch.

  Agnes brooded, over that entrance door.

  It was Sarah Lee Cunneen who had a bright idea. “We ought to give a shower for Georgia Oliver,” said she, one day.

  This was a very juicy notion. It led to much talk and intrigue.

  In the first place, the ideal spot for such an entertainment was Bettina Goodenough’s apartment. Now Bettina was broke; she was afraid she might even be overdrawn at her bank. But Bettina, challenged, repeated to herself her motto, “Life’s too short,” and recklessly agreed that the party must, of course, take place in her spacious rooms. But who, she wanted to know with hidden anxiety, would supply the refreshments? Sarah Lee said that she would share. “Maybe all go Dutch,” said Sarah Lee, with the careless air of the solvent. Bettina told herself that by supplying the space, surely she should be let off from giving an expensive present, at least, and she bent her efforts to convince herself that all was well.

  Next was the guest list. The thing to do was to consult with Mrs. Fitz. Georgia had to be surprised and must not know, but Mrs. Fitz would be mother-in-law to this party. In the drawing up of the guest list she would have full sway.

  So the Gadabouts maneuvered and schemed and at last they got to Mrs. Fitz alone.

  Mrs. Fitz thought it was a lovely idea. How thoughtful of them! Dear Georgia would be so pleased! Of course the wedding date had not been set … but a shower! How delightful!

  If the Gadabouts, at least, knew that no party was going to be any fun if it did not exclude someone, this was not openly admitted. Bettina and Sarah Lee and Mrs. Fitz talked it over.

  Well, now, Mrs. Fitz herself, and the two instigators, and Georgia, the guest of honor, and who else? Daisy Robinson? Yes. Harriet Gregory? Well, yes, poor thing. Elna Ames? Such a nice quiet person. Of course. (Although she hadn’t been well.) Oh, and Nona Henry, don’t forget. A very nice little person. And so fond of dear Georgia. What about the Unholy Three—Agnes Vaughn, Felice Paull and poor stupid Ida Milbank? Sarah Lee and Bettina were against it. At this point, Mrs. Fitz looked grave. Georgia was friendly to all, she pointed out. It was not up to the hostesses to exclude those who were Georgia’s friends.

  The Gadabouts had to admit that Mrs. Fitz was right and, as usual, more charitable than they. Then, Joan Braverman and Kitty Forrest, too? Well, naturally, yes. Although they were not available during the day and this was to be a luncheon, still they should be asked. (They wouldn’t come. This was satisfactory.)

  How about Caroline Buff?

  Well, if Georgia was the one whose relationships mattered, then Georgia was on good terms with Mrs. Buff and certainly would not wish to see her offended. Besides, Mrs. Buff had money and would no doubt contribute a substantial gift. Sarah Lee dared say so in her vulgar way.

  Mrs. Fitz chided her with gentle laughter.

  (Who was to be excluded?)

  Let’s see, Leila Hull was gone and could not be included. No use to ask Marie Gardner. Everyone knew that. Who else was there at Sans Souci? Oh, what about Mrs. Rogan? And, if you came down to it, another woman. What about Mrs. Rose Lake?

  Mrs. Rose Lake would not be invited. Mrs. Fitz and the Gadabouts agreed on this. She was not, nor ever had been, friendly with the tenants. It was not wise, Mrs. Fitz said, to mix socially with the manager’s wife. Rose was out.

  About Tess Rogan then? The Gadabouts were resigned to having her, but Mrs. Fitz pondered. What did the others really think? she inquired. Mrs. Rogan had had no contact with Georgia, really. She was a newcomer here. She was, also, obviously not a woman of means. Didn’t the hostesses think it might be unkind to ask her? After all, if she could not afford to buy a gift it wasn’t kind to invite her to a shower which required a gift. Also, the woman was rather elderly and aloof. On the whole, Mrs. Fitz thought … kinder not?

  “We don’t want to hear about her famous trip either,” Bettina said. “It’s embarrassing. Of course, I feel sorry for her.”

  “We’ll just skip it,” said Sarah Lee blithely. “Now!”

  Now, how could they surprise Georgia? Let Nona Henry be the one to decoy her. Oh yes, that would work nicely! Let Nona Henry ask Georgia to go shopping. Then Nona could entice her, casually, to Bettina’s door with some excuse … and there they would be. Oh yes! Wonderful!

  The plot was made.

  So the Gadabouts cornered Nona in the patio one afternoon to explain the plot and Nona’s role in it. Nona could not help being pleased to have been assigned so important a part and she agreed at once. When was the day? They told her. “All right,” she said, “I’ll work it somehow.”

  “Good. We’ll leave it to you.”

  “Who all i
s coming?”

  They told her.

  “Mrs. Rogan?” she asked, missing the name.

  Well, they said, no.…

  Tess Rogan was still occupying Nona’s apartment. Only now were carpenters beginning to work on that ruined wall in her own place.

  She was a remarkably easy person to live with. She came and went in that lightness and swiftness and lack of fuss. Furthermore she came and went independently. Nona discovered that there was no obligation. She herself could come and go and no questions were asked. Yet, at the same time, there was courtesy, as when each announced the time of her return, or whether she would market or prepare, share or not share a meal. Somehow, the meals were being cooked and eaten in an equitable division of effort that had become established without any formal discussion.

  At first, Nona thought she had divined why the presence of Tess had made her feel safer. This was the older generation. Nona’s parents, and Val’s too, had been dead for some years. Nona herself had been pushed up to the last rank in the back of the schoolroom before one graduates to death. Tess supplied that lost generation which, until now, Nona had not realized she had been missing so much.

  This was at first. Then the weightlessness of the old woman’s presence undermined this idea. There was no pressure and no dependence, either way. It was odd. It was easy.

  By now Nona believed what Tess told her.

  There was the evidence of her mail and her phone calls.

  Mail at Sans Souci was one of the high spots in the day. Or it ought to have been. Morgan Lake, who usually sorted it, felt that he received insight into the seventeen lives whenever he did so. Felice Paull, for instance, had huge quantities of mail but it consisted of pamphlets she had sent away for, or communications from organizations to whom she had proposed something or other, and very little of it was the precious mail, the envelopes with the handwritten addresses and the names of people up in the corner.