Seventeen Widows of Sans Souci

by Charlotte Armstrong

  Robert said, feebly from the bottom of the pit where he snuggled so cravenly, “Thanks for everything.”

  They stayed no longer.

  On the way back to Sans Souci Nona said doubtfully, “But shouldn’t Georgia be told? All he said! Was that untrue?”

  Tess said, “Don’t be too quick, Nona. He needs her now. Could you see? As for Georgia Oliver, it’s possible she likes and needs to take care of weaker people. Some do.”

  “I suppose …” Doubt drifted out of Nona’s mind. She was thinking about the flowers. Yes, she knew how flowers should go in a vase. Had known, once. Still knew. She wished she had bought some flowers for herself.

  That afternoon when Winnie Lake prepared to make the tailored buttonholes on the gray-green dress, Nona took the work gently out of her hands. “I’m a little fussy,” Nona said apologetically. “A botched buttonhole is one thing that really gives a dress that homemade look. See here? This way.” Her hands were skillful. She had not forgotten how to do this, either.

  Winnie Lake received the news that, all this while, she had not been teaching Nona Henry anything. She took it silently. Her faintly slanted eyes were first thoughtful and then more humbly adoring than before.

  That evening Harriet Gregory went down to the lobby and got into one of those conversations with Oppie Etting. Oppie was full of the previous night’s excitement.

  “The doctor and I practically carried him out,” he told her, elbow on counter, eyes popping. “You never know, I guess, when a thing like that is going to hit you.”

  Harriet looked frightened. “Never know,” she agreed. Her own heart was uncomfortable and she suspected it.

  “One thing I heard the doctor say, though,” Oppie confided. “I can’t figure it out. He said something about alcohol.”

  “Alcohol?”

  “Just as we put him in the car. Said ‘comes a time when alcohol’s better left alone.’”

  “You mean Robert Fitzgibbon had been drinking?”

  “He didn’t look like he was drunk to me,” said Oppie defensively. “He was really sick, what I mean. He looked terrible! We practically had to carry him!”

  “Such a young man, so good-looking,” quavered Harriet, as if the good-looking deserved to be spared.

  “You never know,” said Oppie again, and they nodded solemnly, each with the fear of the known and inevitable just around the corner of the clock … for whom? For them?

  Harriet Gregory said to Sarah Lee Cunneen the next morning, “Robert Fitzgibbon wasn’t drunk, was he?”

  “What do you mean?” cried Sarah Lee. “He had a heart attack! Why do you think they called the doctor?”

  “But I wonder what the doctor meant, then.” Harriet recounted what Oppie had told her.

  Sarah Lee Cunneen couldn’t imagine what the doctor might have meant, or so she said to Bettina Goodenough. (This was not true. If the doctor had mentioned alcohol, then somebody had had alcohol.) So Sarah Lee got to thinking. “You know what? I had a funny impression … seems to me now there was a whisky bottle on the floor up there in Tess Rogan’s.”

  “On the floor!” Bettina laughed, not the laugh that means mirth, but the one that indicates shock.

  “Listen!” said Sarah Lee with a shrug. “Who knows?”

  Bettina Goodenough bumped into Felice Paull in the lobby. “Wasn’t that a sad thing,” intoned Felice mournfully, “about Robert Fitzgibbon? How did he happen to be in Mrs. Rogan’s apartment?”

  “Mrs. Henry says that was just an impulse …” Bettina’s eyes swerved. “Of course, who knows? There was some drinking going on up there, or so I heard.”

  Felice Paull said, “I haven’t heard that. What?”

  So Bettina told her, including a vague notion of a bottle on the floor, and added virtuously, “I can never understand why people drink. Such a waste!” (It was a waste of money.) “I can have all the fun I want without alcohol,” Bettina said, laughing a lot.

  When the Unholy Three got into session Agnes Vaughn said, “But what was he doing in Tess Rogan’s place? With Nona Henry?”

  “You said Georgia better watch out,” squeaked Ida Milbank, “for that Mrs. Henry. Didn’t you say so?” Ida nodded and beamed because she had remembered and she was proud to have remembered.

  “I did say that, didn’t I?” mused Agnes.

  Felice Paull limbered up her throat and told them the rumor of heavy drinking, up there.

  “Drinking, eh?” Agnes massaged her teeth with her tongue. “Say,” she exclaimed, “of course. Why, I heard them myself!”

  “Heard whom?” Felice was a lump in one of Agnes’ chairs.

  “That’s right,” said Agnes. “I heard what they said.”

  “What who said?”

  “Listen, somebody was punching for the elevator. Must have been around ten o’clock. Nona Henry came along. I knew her voice. Couldn’t get the words. But it was a man’s voice that she was talking to. The heck he went with her on any impulse! Know what I heard him say?”

  “Who say?”

  “Robert Fitzgibbon, of course. Heard him say, ‘Drunk, you mean.’ So what was that about? Nona Henry must have been telling him that somebody was drunk. She wasn’t drunk.”

  “I don’t follow,” said Felice. (Ida didn’t either, but she wasn’t expected to.)

  “Well, I follow,” said Agnes Vaughn. “I see it now. She was asking him if he would help. That must have been it.”

  “Help? How?”

  “Help,” said Agnes, “because I distinctly heard him say, ‘Be glad to. Certainly, Mrs. Henry.’ Now, that’s when, and that’s why, he went to Tess Rogan’s apartment.”

  Agnes Vaughn was accurate, up to a point. Those were indeed the very words she had heard through her door. But Agnes couldn’t help turning them around and about in the light of her imagination.

  “You know Tess Rogan’s got a piece of sticking plaster on her forehead? Notice?”

  “She fell,” said Felice heavily. Felice conceded that she was always too innocent. Often it took Agnes Vaughn to enlighten her.

  “She fell, all right,” said Agnes. “That’s what must have happened.”

  “What?” said Felice. (“What?” said Ida Milbank.)

  The Unholy Three drew their heads together.

  “It must have been Mrs. Rogan who was drunk,” said Agnes, “and that’s how come she fell. Well, Nona Henry—I told you they were thick—she must have been up there. And when Mrs. Rogan fell and hurt herself Nona Henry must have gone looking for help. To pick her up, maybe? Who can say? Anyhow, she comes out and she finds Robert Fitzgibbon. Why, I heard them myself. That’s why he was in Mrs. Rogan’s place. That’s how it happened.” Agnes Vaughn’s tongue slid over her lower lip. Her mind checked back rapidly over her theory.

  Felice Paull said righteously, “If we have another alcoholic in this building, I really think somebody should protest very strongly to the owners. After all, you remember the night Leila Hull set a fire? If Tess Rogan’s another one of those, I shall speak to Mr. Lake myself.”

  Agnes Vaughn’s tongue was exploring a rough filling. It was a good solid theory, but it didn’t please her much. She had nothing against Tess Rogan. Still a story was a story. A hypothesis was also a story.

  Felice said, “It’s a disgrace! I am going to ask my lawyer. I believe it is a crime!”

  Ida Milbank said, “Yes, it is!” (Ida Milbank had taken to a little shoplifting lately.) Her little eyes turned and all the soft flesh of her face was sly. “A crime! A disgrace!” Her head bobbed and her cheeks shook.

  It was Ida Milbank who let this theory-hypothesis-story of Agnes Vaughn’s go through her to Harriet Gregory. Ida could repeat things, parrot-fashion, if she repeated them soon enough. Harriet was thrilled and appalled.

  Harriet Gregory soon perceived her simple duty. She went to Georgia Oliver. “I just thought you ought to know, Georgia. Mrs. Rogan was dead drunk the other night. Why, there were bottles on the floor. She fell, and Mrs. H
enry called Robert Fitzgibbon to help her. Of course, he isn’t going to say anything about that. He is a perfect gentleman. He would be chivalrous.” Harriet smiled gruesomely. “But actually, what happened … Mrs. Rogan was so drunk she fell down and did something to her head. You’ve seen that bandage? So, of course, Mrs. Henry needed help. And that makes sense,” said Harriet Gregory triumphantly.

  Georgia Oliver said chidingly, “Oh, I can’t believe that. Not that Robert wouldn’t have gone to help, if he could. Perhaps she … just fell?”

  “That’s not what the doctor told Mr. Etting,” said Harriet, all ready to feel insulted. “The doctor knew she was drunk!”

  “Then it’s too bad,” said Georgia.

  Georgia told Mrs. Fitz about it. “Dear Robert, he would cover up for her, of course. I’m just sorry the story got out,” Georgia said.

  “Robert wouldn’t have refused a plea for help, of course not.” Mrs. Fitz was getting pinker, thinking of her boy. “And she is a large woman. So tall, isn’t she? Heavy? It does seem so … unfortunate, Georgia dear. So very unnecessary.” Mrs. Fitz was indignant for her own.

  “Poor old soul,” said Georgia softly.

  “An old countrywoman,” said Mrs. Fitz rather distastefully. “How could Robert have wanted to go and call on her, so late at night. I never believed that, somehow. It really does seem to me, Georgia, that Nona Henry shouldn’t have protected that woman by lying to me. I had thought Nona Henry was my friend.” Mrs. Fitz was very much disappointed.

  “Ah, well,” said Georgia. “It’s done and can’t be undone. We just mustn’t bother Robert about it.”

  “Oh, certainly not,” Ursula Fitzgibbon sighed and sighed again.

  It was the next day that Nona Henry got forgiven.

  Chapter 24

  She came into the patio, having been to market, and found herself catching up to the slow progress of Georgia and Mrs. Fitz as they proceeded toward the entrance of Sans Souci.

  Nona slowed down and hung back, thought better of it, and caught them. “How is Mr. Fitzgibbon today?” she inquired cheerfully.

  Mrs. Fitz stopped walking. “He is doing very well, thank you,” said she without a smile. “Nona, dear …”

  “Yes?”

  “I want you to understand that we both do understand,” cooed Mrs. Fitz, and now smiled.

  Nona blinked. Her heart had jumped.

  “I realize perfectly,” Mrs. Fitz went on, “that you wanted to spare your friend the humiliation …”

  Nona’s eyes opened very wide. “What …?”

  “Of course, I rather wish,” said Mrs. Fitz mournfully, “you hadn’t lied to me about it. But just the same …”

  “Lied?” Nona’s thoughts were chasing each other in surprised circles. What did the old lady know?

  “Just the same,” said Mrs. Fitz, “I can understand why you did it, my dear. And to understand is to forgive, they say.” She was benign; she was condescending.

  Nona looked sharply at Georgia Oliver. “Is this about Robert …?”

  “Oh, we haven’t said a word to Robert, dear man,” said Georgia, benign in her turn. “Of course, he wouldn’t tell on her. We understand.”

  “Tell?” Nona swallowed. “On whom? Please?”

  “There’s no use pretending any more,” said Ursula Fitzgibbon sweetly, “because, I’m afraid, the true story is all over the building. She wasn’t badly hurt, was she, when she fell?”

  “I … beg your pardon?” Nona stammered.

  “Your friend,” said Ursula, “your Mrs. Rogan.”

  “Why, not badly. I don’t quite …”

  “Perhaps Nona has promised,” said Georgia quickly. “Never mind. Everything will work out,” she said comfortingly.

  They had begun to move again, leaving Nona stunned.

  Winnie Lake came along, carrying her books, and at the sight of Nona she stopped beside her.

  The eyes of Sans Souci were looking down. Mrs. Fitz and Georgia were moving, in their snail’s pace, away toward the building. Nona plunked her paper bag of groceries into Winnie’s arms. “Take my key,” she said. “Do you mind, Winnie? Put the things in my kitchen, and excuse me a little while? There is something I want to do,” said Nona. She was feeling puzzled, but also, with premonition, already angry.

  She went past Morgan Lake, and the two ladies who had achieved the lobby, without speaking. She walked rapidly around the corner to where Harriet Gregory lived.

  Harriet would know all.

  Nona had never been in this apartment, 106. When Harriet Gregory opened her door and stood, dumb with surprise, Nona said, “May I come in? I want to ask you something.”

  “Of course. Of … of … of …” Harriet backed away. “I’m not … I haven’t had a chance …” She began to apologize. The room was a mess. Medicine bottles seemed to be everywhere that underwear was not.

  “What story is going around the building?” demanded Nona. “About Mrs. Rogan?”

  Harriet Gregory clutched her throat and, in a strangled voice, began to tell her. “Agnes Vaughn heard a lot of it,” she wound up, “and the doctor knew. You couldn’t keep it a secret. Not if the old woman was as drunk as that.” Harriet put her face into the arrangement labeled smile.

  Nona’s anger was swelling to the bursting point, but she kept control. When Harriet began to stammer something about a cup of coffee Nona thanked her and declined. She marched out. (Harriet felt insulted.) Nona ran up the stairs and down the east wing to Tess.

  “Makes me boil!” Nona cried. “After what you put up with! The way he behaved! Now they’re saying that you were the drunk and he was a hero! I just can’t stand that!”

  Tess said, “There is nothing to do.” She looked distressed.

  “Oh, yes there is!” flared Nona. “I’m going to tell Georgia Oliver all about her precious Robert. She ought to know, anyway.”

  Tess said, “You needn’t tell her for my sake. It is going to become obvious, fairly soon, that I’m not a drinker. Don’t you see? Let them talk.”

  “But it isn’t fair!”

  Tess made a helpless gesture.

  “I’m going to talk to Georgia. Do you mind?” Nona sounded as if she would be very angry at Tess for minding.

  Tess didn’t answer.

  “It’s just too much!” raved Nona. “Do you forbid me?”

  “There’s no such thing,” said Tess distantly. “I will say that I don’t think it is necessary.”

  “Well, I do!” cried Nona. “Not only for your sake. For mine, too. And actually for Georgia’s. You know all he said.”

  Tess looked sad and her head shook slightly.

  “All right,” cried Nona. “The truth is, I simply am not willing to be forgiven for something I never did at all.”

  “That is hard,” murmured Tess remotely.

  “It’s too hard and unnecessary! And I won’t let it happen to you, either.” Nona kissed the old woman’s cheek impulsively. Then she turned and flashed out of the door. She walked on wings of loyalty toward justice. She felt herself to be herself. She went along the east wing and tapped on Georgia Oliver’s door. If Georgia is still with Mrs. Fitz, she thought, then I’ll go tell both of them. I don’t care! I will not let this go!

  But Georgia was there, in her own room.

  Nona had never seen this apartment either. Georgia’s one room was fragrant and neat. Nona gave it no more than a glance and received only the flash impression of its neatness and its unlived-in look.

  “Why, come in!” exclaimed Georgia Oliver. Windows were sending light past her fair head, giving it that haloed effect. “Do come in, Nona. How nice! I am just about to change for dinner. Going to go cook for Mrs. Fitz and me. Sit down, please do.”

  Nona came in and sat down. Her face, she knew very well, was cold and stern. (Her duty was cold and stern, but she would do it!) She said, distinctly, “I have come to tell you what really happened the other night. I think you will have to know.”

  “Ah �
�” Georgia looked tolerant. Tell your little story if you must, her look was saying, you bothered little creature.

  “Robert Fitzgibbon was as drunk as I have ever seen a man,” said Nona coldly. “He followed me down to Tess Rogan’s door. She let him in because, for one thing, it didn’t seem safe to let him go out on the streets in his condition.” (Georgia didn’t react.) “She tried to give him coffee. He slopped it all over …” Nona began to speak faster and louder. “He then went into a nervous twit or something …” She made wide gestures. “And he said, among other things, that he was marrying you for your money and hated the prospect and did not think he could do it.”

  Georgia was still.

  “I think you ought to know,” Nona went on, blurting it out. “Actually he asked Tess Rogan if she would take him with her on her trip. In fact, he asked her to marry him!” (That was out!) Nona paused.

  Georgia’s brows were drawing together and her head was tilting farther over.

  “Then he … well, he passed out for a little while,” Nona hurried on. “But he got up and, in the course of more talk, he hit Mrs. Rogan and knocked her down.”

  Now Georgia Oliver was getting slowly to her feet.

  “Then he tried to commit suicide. He threatened to jump out the window. No, that was before he knocked her down.” Nona was going too fast. “Then he had that heart attack.”

  Georgia said gently, “I think you must be very upset about something.”

  “I am,” flared Nona. “I am upset about you and Mrs. Fitz forgiving me … when your boy friend caused all the trouble … all that there was … and Mrs. Rogan only wanted to spare you and his mother. You can tell Mrs. Fitz or not. I don’t care. I’ve told you.”

  “Oh, come,” said Georgia, smiling. “I wouldn’t think of telling Mrs. Fitz. Don’t you know that all this is just too fantastic?”

  “It is true,” snapped Nona.

  “Robert? Hit a woman?” said Georgia. “Ah, no … never! I’m sorry …” She looked sad but absolutely sure.

  “I think you ought to be sorry,” said Nona fiercely, “very sorry for a man who is nothing but a no-good drunken bum and knows it and says so.”