Seventeen Widows of Sans Souci

by Charlotte Armstrong

  “Oh, Lord …” Nona trembled all over.

  “Right now, I think. He may be very seriously ill. We cannot not tell her.”

  “No.” Nona blanched. “Georgia isn’t here.”

  “You had better go and rouse his mother.”

  “I?”

  “Tell her,” said Tess judiciously, “that he stopped in for a moment … that he began to feel ill … that we urged him to wait before going out … that we made coffee … that when the attack finally came on, we called a doctor.”

  “Your head!” Nona half-sobbed. “What he did!”

  “I fell,” Tess said.

  “You mean cover up?”

  “I don’t see what else,” said Tess rather stoically. “He’s … what he said … done. He’s for the pit. Why should there be a fuss?” said Tess. “It comes too late.”

  Nona swallowed hard.

  “I’ll arrange everything here. Change this—” Tess plucked at her dress where her blood had spattered. “You go tell Mrs. Fitzgibbon, and do it slowly?” She looked at Nona. “All right. We’ll ask him,” Tess conceded.

  They came into the living room. Robert was curled there around his pain. His face glistened with sweat. His eyes were holes in his skull.

  “My mother?” he said pitifully. “Don’t …”

  “The doctor is coming,” Tess Rogan said. “We must call your mother. Mrs. Henry will go and rouse your mother, very carefully. Not to upset her too much.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “Thank you.” He closed those eyes.

  Chapter 22

  So Nona Henry found herself speeding around the quiet corridor all the way to Ursula Fitzgibbon’s door. She tapped upon it—not too loudly. Nona felt her own heart swinging fearfully, not able to help imagining the sound in the night, the break in the pattern, the terror of it, from within. She took hold of herself. She remembered her advice to Winnie Lake, the essence of which had been “if you are going to cover up and lie, do it well.” Nona pulled down the calm, like a garment, over her head, pinged the bell lightly.

  Something stirred on the other side of the door.

  “It’s Nona Henry, Mrs. Fitz. Don’t be alarmed. May I please speak to you a minute?”

  It took a long time for the door to begin to rattle and thereafter to open. Ursula Fitzgibbon was wearing a white quilted dressing gown. Her white hair, slightly tousled, was still becoming to her small dry pink face that peered blindly forth. “Nona? Why, what is it, dear?”

  “I’m so sorry toα have to disturb you. I’m afraid that I must. You see, your son Robert isn’t feeling well at all.”

  She could think of no more gentle way to put the news.

  Ursula Fitzgibbon looked as if she could not understand. “Robert has gone to his hotel,” she said.

  “Well … no,” said Nona, speaking softly. “You see, I happened to meet him at the elevator. He went with me to call on Mrs. Rogan … just on the impulse …”

  Ursula had one hand to her throat and was massaging it. “But he left some time ago,” she insisted.

  Nona perceived that, slowly as she was going, it was still too fast. She stepped closer to the old lady. “Please … we did go to see Mrs. Rogan and it seemed that he wasn’t feeling very well then.”

  “I thought,” said Ursula stiffening, “I thought Robert wasn’t looking quite himself. Come in, dear. Come in.”

  Nona stepped in. “We thought it best to let him sit quietly, you know? We didn’t think he ought to go out.”

  “Of course not,” said Ursula bravely. Her lashes fluttered. “You ought to have called me. He ought to have come back here.”

  “I’ve come to call you,” said Nona gently.”

  “Is it his tummy?” said Urula.

  Tummy! The man is fifty-three! Nona’s heart sank.

  “I think you might want to come with me,” she said. “The doctor …”

  “Doctor?”

  “Yes. You see Robert really isn’t feeling at all well.”

  “Of course I will go to my boy,” said Ursula. She seemed to be panting daintily. “Will you wait a minute? My slippers … I cannot go out like this.”

  “Let me help you.”

  “Please, dear.” So Nona went with her to the bedroom. The small body leaned hard on Nona’s arm. “My glasses …”

  Nona found the glasses. Then Ursula directed the finding of another pair of slippers and changed to them. (Why, Nona could not imagine.)

  Ursula brushed her hair. Her voice kept lapping. “Robert hasn’t looked well the last week, as I said to Georgia. I don’t think he eats properly. He needs to rest. Robert has always driven himself. Did you say a doctor? Which doctor?”

  Nona told her.

  “I would prefer my own doctor,” Ursula said. “I’m sure Robert would too. Such a wonderful man, always so kind. Had I better call him, do you think?”

  “Not now,” said Nona, wanting to scream Hurry, hurry. “Let’s go and see how he is, shall we?”

  Ursula’s bedroom was fragrant, a dainty shell (in spite of Sans Souci’s décor), a clean and dainty shell to shelter a lovely little old lady. But was she a lie-ee? Did Tess’s words apply? Did Robert’s words? Did Mrs. Fitz, having created this shell, now mistake it for the actual world? Nona tried not to think of this, kept murmuring the comforting half-lies.

  At last she was guiding the slow footsteps around the building.

  Dr. O’Gara had come. He was youngish, crew-cut, knowledgeable and decisive. Robert Fitzgibbon was now sprawling in a chair.

  Ursula Fitzgibbon came into Tess Rogan’s room, one foot shuffling after the other, in the strange walk that old ladies acquire. It was a balancing of the skeleton when the hipbones and the leg bones are barren of flesh. Old ladies, with little flesh and so little muscle, simply stagger the bones—one leg, other leg—in an imitation of life. The bones are walking.

  “Robert, dear …” She looked misty.

  “Mother, dear?”

  Ursula did not even look toward Tess Rogan. She went all the way to where her son was sprawling, and her slow progress was so theatrical as to hold her audience silent. She bent to kiss his brow, as if she blessed him.

  Dr. O’Gara said, “He’s having a bit of trouble with that heart.” His wise young eyes had taken everything in. “I’ve called the hospital, Mrs. Fitzgibbon, and I’ll take him there myself. Be quickest and best.”

  “Oh, Robert,” said Ursula, sounding half pitying but also half reproachful. “Are you in pain, dear?”

  “Not too bad,” Robert said. “Don’t worry, please, Mother. I’m in good hands.” His smile was gallant, twisted.

  “Of course you are,” said Ursula with a sweet smile flicked toward the doctor. “I’m so sorry, dear. It can’t be serious. A good rest … Isn’t that so, Doctor?”

  Dr. O’Gara was very busy and did not answer her. “I wonder, Mrs.… er?” He was speaking to Nona.

  “Mrs. Henry. Yes, Doctor?”

  “Perhaps you and I together …?”

  “Shall I call the night man?” said Tess Rogan. She was standing there quietly, in a different dress, in the background. The bit of plaster on her forehead was not conspicuous where she stood, well out of the lamplight.

  “Oh, Mrs. Rogan,” said Ursula, “I am so sorry that you are being inconvenienced like this.”

  It was grotesque. There was no answer. Nona understood when Tess did not try to answer. What could one say?

  But now, suddenly, here came Sarah Lee Cunneen, in robe and slippers, wading into the room with her toes turned out, crying in her husky voice, “Oh, Mrs. Fitz! Listen! What can I do? So sorry, and Georgia away, too …”

  “Just so Robert is going to be all right,” said Ursula Fitzgibbon piously.

  The world steadied. The patterns came over. Strangeness disappeared. Illness is to be faced with unselfish concern on all sides. Mother loves son and hopes for him. Son hopes not to trouble mother with any pain of his. Everyone is eager to be helpful. Reass
urances are given, to and fro. Everyone denies his fear. No one has a selfish thought.

  Nona Henry felt immeasurably relieved that Sarah Lee Cunneen had come, for she was skilled in this sort of thing. Nona herself moved beside the young doctor, who now leaned to heave Robert Fitzgibbon up. “Show me how I can help,” she murmured. “I am young …”

  It did not occur to her, for another hour or so, that to have said such a thing at her age was surprising.

  However, Robert Fitzgibbon more or less walked, using the doctor’s strength, down the way to the elevator, while Nona Henry guarded his other side, opened the door, helped. Once downstairs, Oppie Etting, eyes popping, ears flopping, sprang to assist.

  Nona Henry, released, went slowly back up the stairs to the scene of the incident.

  The affair was now Mrs. Fitz’s affair. The ordeal was now Mrs. Fitz’s ordeal. Sarah Lee fluttered and fussed, quite as if she were Georgia. It was Sarah Lee who would take Mrs. Fitz to her own rooms and who would stay … “Listen!”

  Mrs. Fitz, martyred and brave, said she would get in touch with her own doctor. She would feel better about it. Oh, she was not, of course, worried. But if Sarah Lee really didn’t mind … How very kind she was!

  Nona closed the door behind them and turned on Tess fiercely. “Did you let the doctor look at that cut?”

  “No, no.” Tess sighed. “It wasn’t necessary.”

  Nona clenched her hands. “Didn’t his mother know he was stinking drunk?” Tess shook her head. “How bad is he?”

  Tess said, “I don’t know.”

  “Didn’t the doctor say anything?”

  “He may not know …”

  “How did Mrs. Cunneen …?”

  “I phoned her,” Tess said. Nona now noticed that there were three unbroken coffee cups in this living room. Were they for Sarah Lee Cunneen to see? For Sans Souci?

  “She didn’t even notice your … your head.”

  “I hoped she wouldn’t,” said Tess.

  “I mean Mrs. Fitz,” cried Nona. Tess had known this. Tess nodded. “Why did you call Sarah Lee? I mean why her?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think … she’s generous.” Tess sank down into a chair. “I wanted you for myself,” she murmured.

  Nona’s heart swelled. Tess Rogan looked very tired. And why not? Nona thought. How not? After all, she was seventy-one years old. A drunken man had intruded his drunken revelations upon her, had raved, wept, begged … proposed first marriage (which was shocking enough) and then suicide. He had knocked her down! And not content with that, he had proceeded to have a heart attack in her presence.

  “What about you?” said Nona. “And your inconvenience? What can I do for you, Tess? Will you go to bed now? How can I help you?”

  Tess’s eyes were fond. “We are in a mess,” she said. “But, at least, we can talk about it.”

  Nona said, “We can keep the worst of it to ourselves. You were right. Much better to cover up … and just stay out of it.”

  Tess was looking dubious.

  “Wow!” said Nona. “I see what you mean. Louisa May Alcott!” Tess looked so sad Nona wanted to make her smile.

  But Tess said, “I don’t know why he asked me for the answers. I don’t know why that happens, Nona. I don’t have the answers. I know that so well.”

  “Perhaps that’s why,” said Nona, without taking any thought. “Look now … I would prescribe a slug of whisky.”

  “Where will I get any?” said Tess languidly.

  Nona said, “Look there.” A pint bottle, most obviously made for liquor, was lying on the rug half under the dust ruffle of the chair at the telephone. Nona went over and picked it up. It was empty.

  She looked thoughtfully at Tess and Tess returned the look. “I missed that,” said Tess. “I wonder …”

  “Nobody saw it,” said Nona. “And what’s the difference? I wish he’d left a little. Not he. Wine, Tess? I think I have a bit of sherry.”

  “Why must I have alcohol?” asked Tess rather impatiently.

  “I don’t know,” said Nona lightly. “It’s the convention.” Their eyes communicated amusement. “But if you insist, I’ll settle for your taking some aspirin. Come on now, Tess. You are seventy-one.”

  “I forget,” said Tess ruefully. “You’re a nice girl.”

  An hour later, crawling into her bed, Nona wondered to herself: Am I a nice girl? What am I?

  It was peculiar that she had become so entangled, here at Sans Souci. She, Nona Henry of Poughkeepsie, New York, housewife, mother, grandmother, widow … casually here, just for the winter. One who had thought she might as well escape the ice and the snow and be comfortable.

  She shuddered down under the blanket. That sounded so reasonable. (And was so much less reasonable than it sounded.) What was she? She was uncomfortably entangled. Was it because of something that she was?

  Chapter 23

  In the affair of Robert Fitzgibbon Sans Souci knew all (or thought it did) before ten the next morning.

  Oppie Etting had left a written account for Morgan Lake, who called Mrs. Fitzgibbon as early as he dared, to express his sympathy and concern. Then he called Tess Rogan to find out what had happened, for Mrs. Fitz had accepted the sympathy graciously but gave back very little in the way of information. Tess Rogan’s version satisfied him. Of all men, he could accept the possibility of a heart attack any time, anywhere. Morgan Lake was sorry to hear it, but not to the point of acute distress.

  Elsewhere there was Sarah Lee Cunneen to tell Bettina Goodenough.

  “Such a shock for dear old Mrs. Fitz! I stayed with her till four A.M. And am I pooped!” said Sarah Lee. “Listen!”

  Georgia Oliver came back during the morning and rallied around Mrs. Fitz. Everything would work out, Georgia opined. When she asked Nona Henry about the night before, Nona gave her the version that she and Tess Rogan had agreed upon. (They were at Mrs. Fitz’s bedside at the time.) Georgia thanked Nona for having been “so kind and loyal.”

  Kind to whom? thought Nona, and loyal to what? “Stay out of it,” she told herself sternly, and left them gracefully.

  So many tongues … Harriet Gregory and the Three were able to get the story as if the walls had tongues. Robert Fitzgibbon stricken! Middle of the night! In Tess Rogan’s apartment! Nona Henry was there! (And Georgia away? Well!) In the hospital now. Rumor said he would recover. Well!

  When Mrs. Fitz (and Georgia) made a grand progress to the hospital they did not move unseen through the patio of Sans Souci. By noon Mrs. Fitz came back again—resting bravely.

  Early that same afternoon Tess Rogan and Nona Henry went through the patio on their way to the hospital.

  (Agnes Vaughn spotted the adhesive on Tess’s forehead from fifty paces. “What’s this?” said Agnes Vaughn to herself, swallowing a peanut whole.)

  They took a cab. Nona was confused about their motive for going. They were so much involved with this affair of Robert Fitzgibbon that it would seem only right for them to go. On the other hand, and for the same reason, it actually was right for them to go. And whether they were doing what they ought to do because they ought, or doing what they did in order to fool people better, seemed to be no question—or else two questions with the same answer.

  There was a florist’s shop conveniently near the hospital entrance. Nona said impulsively, “Shall we?”

  So they entered the shop and Nona ordered a not too expensive bunch of flowers.

  She felt a kind of basic strength today. An odd feeling, rather delightful. A feeling of union. A feeling of standing firm that persisted nicely without her needing to know exactly what she was standing firm upon.

  Tess waited in the shop with her usual passive-alert acceptance of her surroundings. But Nona, watching the florist’s girl putting the flowers into a cheap and expendable vase, felt an ancient urge. “No, no. Let me …”

  So Nona Henry took up the flowers and began to place them stalk by stalk. It had been a while since she had been an avid g
ardener. It had been a long time since she had made a flower arrangement. But her hands and her eyes had not lost the trick of working together. She sank into a familiar trance. The strange thing was that she felt free to do so. Anxiety and any sense of ordeal fell away from her consciousness. She worked with a total concentration, guided by some interior certainty. When she had the bouquet finished she knew it was right. Did not know how she knew, but did know. She felt refreshed and revived … as if the use of an old and almost forgotten skill had deeply rested her.

  “That’s lovely,” Tess Rogan said heartily.

  It was lovely. Line and color. Grace and imbalance. Daring and yet restful. Because it was right.

  Bearing the vase then, Nona went with Tess into the hospital and up in the elevator and along the corridor to Robert Fitzgibbon’s room. Georgia Oliver was sitting in a chair in the corner. “Oh,” said Georgia, “company! How nice! Oh, see the lovely flowers, Robert.”

  Nona winced.

  But the man in the bed was subdued, completely. He was lying very still in the high clean place. He looked very clean and rather wizened. He lay at the mercy of his own heart and at the mercy of others to care for it. Weakened. Dependent. The room reeked of one fact. Robert Fitzgibbon, sober, weakened, finished, “done,” as he put it, did not want to die. If this was the pit, he was willing and eager for it to shelter him.

  Tess Rogan said, smiling, “We can’t stay but a minute. You’re feeling better? Good.”

  Robert said, rather feebly, rather pettishly, “I’m all right, thanks.” He put the contours of his mouth into the shape of a smile. “Georgia’s being awfully good to me.”

  “Well, of course,” said Georgia. “What am I here for? Now, he mustn’t talk. He must just lie quietly. So nice of you to come and bring the lovely flowers.” Georgia’s sweet smile was telling them not to stay.

  Nona said, with that peculiar strength, “We only want to say we hope you’ll soon feel even better. We wouldn’t tire you. Shall we go, Tess?”

  “So kind. But what happened, Mrs. Rogan?” Georgia exclaimed. “Your poor forehead!”

  “Oh, I fell,” said Tess carelessly. “I think I am getting old. It’s nothing. We won’t stay at all.”