Seventeen Widows of Sans Souci

by Charlotte Armstrong

  Nona would have gone by but he lumbered into her path. Now she could tell that Robert Fitzgibbon was three sheets to the wind. “Don’t be so ’sclusive,” he muttered. “Where’s Mrs. Rogan? I’ll go with you.” He teetered. (Did he always offer to go with whoever came along when he was in his cups?)

  “I don’t think,” said Nona, “that you are in a condition to go calling, really.” She felt cold and prim. She ducked around him.

  “Drunk, you mean?” he said loudly. His voice boomed in the quiet corridor. Nona knew they were standing just outside the door of Agnes Vaughn’s apartment. “Sssh,” she warned.

  He began to mutter low in his throat. “Sure, I’m drunk. Stinko. Only thing to do, get stinko and the hell with it.”

  “Excuse me, please.” Nona took another step.

  The man was teetering. “Be glad to,” he bellowed, a caricature of courtesy. “Certainly, Mrs. Henry.”

  Nona sped away down the east wing. Where could he have found so much liquor, if he had been visiting his mother and Georgia? Then she remembered that Georgia Oliver had gone off north to see her married daughter for a day and night. Nona was almost running now. At Tess’s door she tapped lightly; she looked behind. He was following, zigzagging in the lane between the walls as if he ricocheted and yet progressed.

  Tess opened the door. Nona said, “Robert Fitzgibbon is out there. I’m afraid he’s drunk. I don’t know what—”

  Tess put her head around the doorframe

  There was a stoppage in time. Nona with her neck twisted, Tess peering out; and the figure of the man large, and somehow menacing in the dim light, kept zigzagging crazily nearer and nearer.

  Tess said cheerfully, “He ought not to be out in the street, that’s sure.”

  Now his fiery breath blew upon them. “Invite me?” he said. “Want to see you. Come in?”

  “Come in.” Tess opened her door wider.

  Afterwards Nona sometimes wondered what would have happened if Tess had not done this. If she had closed the door, would he have banged upon it, found this futile, given up, staggered back, gone out of the building? Then what?

  However, there they were in Tess Rogan’s living room. Nona was rigid with alarm and distaste. The man fell into a chair. Tess put a cup of hot coffee before him.

  He couldn’t lift the cup. He couldn’t find the handle. He was very drunk indeed. He kept trying and at last he got some kind of hold. The cup slipped, part way up. Coffee slopped upon his trousers. But he kept on lifting the emptied, lightened cup and sucked noisily at nothing.

  Tess sat down.

  “Ladies,” he said, “I’m getting married in June. What do you think of that? I’m getting a June bride.” He laid his head back upon the upholstery and his face contorted in frozen mirth, without sound.

  “You had better have coffee,” Tess said flatly. She rose and went to him. Her hand tried to disengage his fingers from the handle of the sloping cup.

  He looked up into her face, stretching and working his eye muscles. “Help me?” he said pitifully.

  “I’ll get your coffee.”

  “Please?” His fingers made a spasm and the cup handle broke.

  Tess caught the falling body of the cup quite deftly.

  Nona was beginning to feel more angry than frightened.

  “Shall we call someone?” she inquired in a low voice.

  But Tess said to the man, rather briskly, “What is the matter with you?”

  “I’m a bum,” said Robert Fitzgibbon. “I know that. You know that.”

  “You have had too much to drink this time,” said Tess, standing over him.

  “S’right. A no-good, drunken bum. Drank it all.” There was a bottle in his jacket pocket. He fumbled at it, gave that up and began to lean forward, and one hand grabbed out for Tess.

  She stepped backward. Nona now began to feel as if she herself were invisible. The man seemed to have no idea she was in the room.

  “You hear my mother?” said Robert, sagging uncertainly forward. “‘Mother, dear.’ What she says? Great foreign correspondent. Right? Fact is, no-good bum. Kicked and been kicked around the world. Can’t keep job. Never could. Never did. Can’t get a job. Who wants no-good drunken bum? But my mother, and God damn my mother!”

  Tess Rogan said, “Put your head back. Close your eyes.”

  The man jerked backward in the chair. “Go sleep, eh? Little boy, go sleep? Mother kiss it, make it well?” He leered. “June. Madam, I’m going down for the last time. Cold blood. You know that. You know what? My blood’s not cold enough. I can’t do it.”

  “Then don’t do it,” Tess said quietly.

  Nona felt the conversation, if that was what it was, getting away from her. She had ceased to understand what they were saying.

  The man’s head bent forward again, drooping from the neck. Surely he would pass out soon and sleep, and relieve the room of his miserable consciousness.

  “You’ve heard my mother,” he was muttering, “talk about my father? Big famous judge? Right? Su-ure he was! He did a job. That’s what my father did. Like anybody else. I’m telling you the truth. So he was a judge. It’s my mother, has to have a gre-eat judge. He was a poor slob, did a job. Nothing. But all my life … all my life … ‘Your father was a great and famous man.’ Where famous? I’m telling you the truth. He was nothing … special.” Robert’s face looked pinched and old. He swayed backward.

  “Brother, the same thing. You’ve heard her. Gre-eat success. Right? Su-ure he is! so damned scared he’d … ’scuse me ladies … Job’s too damn big for him. Scared, I’m telling you, and it’s the truth. He’s going to crack up. And she’ll fix that, too. She’s going to say he’s retired—gre-eat success! He’s tired, all right. That’s what I’m telling you. And I’m tired. She … she’s exhausting.

  “Listen … listen to me! What’s she done? What’s so wonderful? Married. Had kids. You did too? True? Right? Also, she eats three times a day. And takes a bath … never misses. And now she is seventy-five. So what? To what does that entitle her? What did she ever do that’s so wonderful?”

  Tess said, “It doesn’t matter.” Tess sat down.

  Suddenly he seemed to shake off the liquor and sound perfectly sober. “I may be no good and never was,” he said forcefully. “But I can be sickened! Listen … will you listen to me? I looked around one day… that was in Tokyo. I’m fifty-three. Handwriting was on the wall. You understand? Better stop and think. Right? So I came back. Thought I’d see what Mother-dear could do for me. Gre-eat foreign correspondent. Around the world. Around the world? My God, you follow a wisp of hay around the world and never get it … what is that to do? Fifty-three. No job. No reputation, if you want to know the truth. Nothing. Mother-dear, she says, Such a gypsy, dear boy. Please settle down? Need you near me, she says. She’ll pay a little. Pays the hotel. I can always eat with her. You think I’m worth that?”

  Tess said nothing.

  “I am,” he said. “I’m quite the ladies’ man.” He sagged. “Must be some nice girl, says Mother-dear. ‘You might marry … and live hap—’” He hiccoughed. “Roam no more, says Mother. Rest on your laurels.” He began to laugh. “Mother-dear’s the great little old laurel-kid. She’s fixed a crown for all of us. You know whose crown it is? It’s her crown. I know that. What to do though? I’m fifty-three. No-good bum. Well? Look around. Why not? Who’s got enough to keep herself and me in reasonable … reasonable … circum … reasonable …” He muttered inaudibly for a moment. Then he continued.

  “Gigolo? So what about it? I’ve been worse. Much worse. However, still got a certain amount … stomach. O.K. Take youngest … best-looking … available.” He hiccoughed. “Nothing to it.” He slashed the air with one hand. “Pretty romantic, eh?” His face was ugly. “Oh, I’m a ladies’ man! Cold blood. Add it up.” He pulled himself back to forceful speech. “My mother isn’t going to be here forever. So with half what father left her, and what Georgia’s got, I could live. I could live, I
figured.” His face went into a spasm. Then the eyes opened. “I’m going to ask you, why? Why should I? What kind of life is this?”

  Nona was shrunken small in her chair, hoping now to remain invisible and unnoticed. Tess appeared to be simply listening.

  “My God! My God!” said Robert Fitzgibbon. “I’ve had women! A little tang, and little bite! Something to touch, and to be touched by. God damn it, not mush-mush-mush! Oh, see the pretty flowers, Robert? See the lovely sunshine? I can’t do it! From June to the end of my life? I’m not so far down …”

  The man, this large male in Tess Rogan’s chair, now began to cry.

  It was terrible to watch and to hear. Nona thought, this shouldn’t be seen or heard. It mustn’t be noticed. He’ll pass out. He’ll forget.

  Tess said, “I’ll get more coffee.”

  “You think that’s going to help?” He wept. “You want to make me sober? Listen, being sober doesn’t help. And being drunk doesn’t help. And nothing helps and nothing is going to help and why wouldn’t she let me be? Why does everybody have to be so wonderful? I never wanted to be wonderful. I don’t want to live hap—” He hiccoughed in the middle of a sob. “June, moon, roses. Nuts! I’m fifty-three and a bum! O.K. Still got the … ’pacity. I can be bored … to the point … could throw up …”

  “I imagine,” said Tess mildly. (He looked as if he would.)

  “Knew you when I saw you,” Robert said in sudden triumph. “Only one in the place! Girl in Singapore … one time, she looked me in the eye. Lost her. She was a no-good bum, like me, but she looked me in the eye, just the same. And you do. Don’t you? Bet you can’t stand the mush-mush-mush. The world is crawling with boobs and mush.… Help me?” He came forward and fell out of the chair upon his knees. He walked on his knees to where Tess Rogan sat.

  “You save me,” he said to her. “Save me from the pit?”

  Tess said nothing. (Nona quaked.)

  “I’ve been around the world,” he said. “What I could show you … not in the guidebooks. I could take you places. Real places. See things. I would never leave you. My arm, madam?”

  Tess said steadily, “Nothing that I need, thank you.”

  “Who is kidding?” Robert said, as if he had been accused of kidding. He sank back on his heels. He was smiling. “What’s a few years? I’ll marry you.”

  Tess said patiently, “Try to be quiet.”

  “I love you,” he said very loudly, and then he fell forward and put his head in her lap and sobbed.

  Nona was paralyzed. Tess sat still and did not move, even to touch his hair. He was a heavy man. Nona did not think she could possibly lift his weight away. Tess was burdened and imprisoned and Nona did not know what she could do.

  She said anxiously, in a low voice, “Shall I call downstairs? Maybe Mr. Etting …?”

  The man stopped his sobbing when she spoke. He was silent and motionless a moment. Then he seemed to realize where he was. He lifted his head, pulled back. He tried to get off the floor. He couldn’t make it and tipped backward. The back of his neck landed at the rim of the couch seat. It was supported there. He turned his head tiredly and seemed to go to sleep.

  Tess got out of that chair.

  She and Nona moved, tiptoe, into the dinette. Trembling, Nona got the coffee from the kitchen. They sat down at the table facing each other. It was late, for Sans Souci. The widows were all abed or going to bed. The building was quiet.

  “Let him sleep,” said Tess compassionately.

  “I won’t leave you,” said Nona tensely.

  What, actually, could Oppie Etting do with the man? she thought. What else was there to do but let him sleep where he was and hope that as the fumes wore out of his brain his anguish would wear away or be hidden under and politely denied? He would come to himself. He might not remember. They could all pretend not to remember. He could depart quietly.

  Tess Rogan and Nona Henry had been sitting, talking only a little in very low voices, for about half an hour when Nona, looking up, had to suppress a shriek of alarm.

  Robert Fitzgibbon, on his feet, had moved silently to stand behind Tess Rogan’s chair.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly. (Was he sober now? Would they now be able to agree that nothing meaningful could have been said because of the liquor?)

  Nona, on her part willing to make this a bargain, said nervously, “Of course.”

  Tess turned her head and began to rise. But he leaned over and put a stiff arm across her, to the table’s edge. Sober or not, there was some thunder in his mood.

  “Did I ask you to take me around the world?”

  “You did.” Tess smiled.

  “You won’t do it, will you?” He was very serious.

  “No,” said Tess. Her note of indulgence disappeared. The reply was flat, quiet, true.

  He stood still, and Nona’s heart was pounding with fear. Finally he moved, lifted the arm that had barred Tess’s rising. He turned back into the living room.

  Tess got up and followed him. So did Nona.

  He had moved toward the windows. He looked around at Tess and his face was once more boyish and rather attractive. “I can get somewhat lower than I thought I could,” he said. “I certainly don’t blame you. But I appreciate … You look me in the eye, at least.” The mood was tightening. “Will you tell me what to do?”

  “I don’t know that I can,” said Tess, after hesitating.

  He looked away. “I can go out this window,” he said bitterly. “There is cement down there. It shouldn’t take long. Even I …”

  Nona’s patience ended. Anger burst. “Oh, don’t be such a ridiculous damn baby!” she cried.

  He cocked his eyebrow; he looked sideways at Nona Henry. The look was cold and reckless. I’ve given myself away, it asked, to such as you? “It wouldn’t be very nice,” he said, “would it, Mrs. Henry?”

  He seemed to be poised on the edge of the violent deed. His head was pointed, his body gathered toward destruction. Nona had no doubt that, in this instant at least, he meant to jump. She was terrified.

  Tess Rogan was frightened too, but she said quietly, “You might not hurt yourself enough. Come, sit … I’ll tell you what to do.” Indulgence in her voice was faint, but there.

  She moved a little nearer him.

  “No, no.” His head went up and back. His ear had caught that note. “Now you’re conning me. Don’t do that. Don’t you know …” He was speaking to the ceiling or to God or to Tess Rogan. “Don’t you know I never could tell the truth? It wasn’t allowed. Don’t you know I needed to tell the truth? Once, anyhow …”

  “Of course I know. Come, sit down, then,” Tess said, “and talk to me.”

  “Aah, aah,” he spoke as to a naughty child. He turned swiftly and threw out his right arm. It caught Tess along the jaw and she staggered. Her knees crumpled; she grabbed for the back of the couch, going down, caught it a little too late. Her head fell forward and cracked upon the edge of a low table.

  Nona let out a tiny yelp and fell to her knees beside Tess. “You beast! Get out!” she said up to him guttural with rage.

  “Mush?” he mocked her. “Mush-mush-mush. You’re another one.” He reeled and he staggered.

  But Tess Rogan, kneeling on the floor, lifted her head and was perfectly conscious. She put her fingers to her forehead and Nona could see that there was a streak of blood along the hairline. Rage gave Nona an animal strength. She pushed up from her own position and threw herself toward the telephone. The man was there before her. He was stronger. They seemed to be wrestling. If she hadn’t been too angry to think, Nona would have supposed that he was out of his mind entirely.

  She did not think. She blazed, “Hit an old lady!” She wanted to hurt him physically, give him pain, any kind of pain. She wished he would go out the window. “You no-good rotten …!”

  He said, with a strange confidence, “She understands.”

  Tess said crisply, behind them, “Stop that. I’m not hurt, Nona. H
e has been hurt. That’s what he wants understood.”

  Tess was still on her knees. Nona’s arms were held to her sides by the man’s strong arms. The man was now still. It was frozen violence.

  Tess was getting up. “I do understand,” she said, and her voice was loud and clear. “Your mother pressures you, you say, with praise and expectations? So, you say, it’s not your fault you’ve turned out a bum?”

  The man’s hold was loosening. Nona, with her body so close, could feel his whole body losing whatever purpose had been in it.

  “That’s not the truth, however,” said Tess Rogan in ringing tones. “Nobody makes a bum out of anybody else. The truth is, it’s not that simple.”

  Nona felt the man go limp. She found that she was free.

  “Then I’m done,” he mumbled. “I’m done. I know it when I hear it. How do I know, I wonder? I’m done.” He did not move toward either the window or the door. Instead, he crumpled over, holding his own breast. He began to breathe strangely and to moan. He curled down upon the floor and Nona ran to Tess.

  “Let me help you. What shall I do?”

  Tess, with a handkerchief, was wiping blood from a smallish cut in her forehead. “I don’t think it’s much,” she said. “I’m afraid that looks like a heart attack. We must call a doctor.”

  Nona turned and saw the man curled upon the floor embracing pain. She felt nothing but curiosity. What ails him now? she wondered.

  “I’ll call, “ said Tess. “What was his name? The one who came for Mrs. Ames? O’Gara? Look up his number, Nona.” She sounded matter-of-fact.

  So Nona found herself, after all the violence and the fright and the fury, standing still in a quiet room focusing down upon the small type in the phone book. She found the number.

  Afterwards—the doctor having promised to come at once—Nona, in the bathroom, bathed with trembling fingers the cut on Tess’s forehead. Tess stuck a Band-Aid over it. This gave a jaunty effect.

  Their ears were listening, around corners, through open doors, for the sound of the man.

  “His mother,” Tess said firmly, “will have to be called, you know.”