Seventeen Widows of Sans Souci

by Charlotte Armstrong

  Nona sighed. “That’s that. Now, I’m filthy.” She began to run the water in the bathtub. Tess Rogan sat on the W.C. and turned her face and closed her eyes, while Nona stripped, took soap, stepped into the tub, cleaned herself thoroughly.

  Afterwards, there was nothing to do but put on the same clothing. Still, Nona felt better. Much better. She had expended the anger, hatred, panic. Used it up, temporarily at least. Now she felt relaxed, and almost comfortable. Without a word she retreated to her own particular corner, sat down upon the floor, drew up her knees, rested her head upon them. She could hear Tess Rogan running the water now.

  At least we won’t smell, thought Nona. At first this was a bitter thought, and ugly. But slowly it changed over and she knew it was just a simple fact. It began to take on comedy.

  “At least we won’t smell,” she said cheerfully, out loud.

  “We smell something sweet,” said Tess’s voice, calm and amiable, amid clouds of dusting powder. “We won’t stink, I guess.”

  “People are no damn good,” said Nona hugging her knees.

  “We could have a game of chess,” said Tess, “in our heads. I can’t play chess.”

  “Recite Shakespeare to each other. I can’t remember any.”

  Nona sighed. She didn’t lift her head but she was smiling. This was absurd. Life was absurd, altogether. Which was good reason to love it. In fact, an irresistible reason.

  Morgan Lake, at his post in the lobby this Friday, watched the widows come and go, and doled out the mail. Midafternoon, he noticed that a couple of mailboxes had not been emptied.

  He had not heard that Mrs. Rogan was ill. Or Mrs. Henry either. He usually did know when a tenant was ill. He knew, for instance, that Mrs. Fitz was abed, today. Georgia Oliver had come down and collected mail for two.

  When Kelly Shane came up from the basement with one of the lobby lamps he had been rewiring, Morgan Lake asked him whether he had seen Mrs. Rogan or Mrs. Henry today.

  “Oh, oh,” said Kelly Shane. “I forgot. Elise says Miz Henry’s bed wasn’t slept in. She didn’t know if she ought to say anything. Mama not being here …”

  “How is your mother?”

  “Ah, she’s doing O.K., Mister Lake. Thank you.”

  “Mrs. Henry wasn’t in, last night?” Morgan Lake frowned.

  “Looks like it.” Kelly wasn’t worried. He fiddled the lamp into place and stepped backward to see the effect.

  “Has Mrs. Rogan gone away, do you know? She hasn’t come for her mail. I wonder where she is.” Morgan Lake permitted concern to sound in his voice.

  “I haven’t seen … oh, excuse me, Mrs. Milbank.”

  Ida Milbank, scurrying through, had bumped into Kelly Shane. She was making a wide and warycurve around the desk and Morgan Lake. Under her left arm she was hugging an aluminum tin of some kind, tight to her side. She squealed, on the run, “Isn’t this a lovely day?”

  It was not a lovely day, but rather one of those Southern California days plagued by what weathermen on radio and television called “High Cloudiness.” This means that the light, the marvelous light that so often makes everything appear to be sparkling, clean, fresh, colorful and charming, was dimmed down. Everything seemed dull. Rustiness showed in lawn and shrub. Barrenness showed on the mountains. Shabbiness showed on the buildings. Dirt and litter became, obviously, just what they were.

  As Ida Milbank scooted around the corner to the elevator, hopefully but with no success trying to conceal something, Morgan Lake shook his head. Kelly Shane rolled his eyes.

  What the dickens am I going to do about her? thought Morgan Lake. Wait for the police?

  Upstairs, Agnes Vaughn said severely, “Now, Ida, where did you get that muffin tin? You better tell me.”

  “I just picked it up,” said Ida evasively. “Isn’t it a good one?”

  “You need a muffin tin like a hole in the head,” Agnes said rudely. “And you better watch it.” (Ida didn’t fool her.) “You are taking terrible chances.”

  Poor old Ida Milbank didn’t want to be scolded. After all, she was doing so little harm. She had the cunning to know that if she could produce a tidbit for Agnes Vaughn, the scolding might be averted. So she gasped out, “Did you know Mrs. Rogan’s gone? Mr. Lake doesn’t know where she is!”

  Agnes looked sour. “I know she’s gone,” she said scornfully. “Now, Ida, you don’t want to get into trouble, do you?”

  Ida’s jowls trembled pitifully.

  By the time Felice Paull barged in, Agnes had Ida Milbank in tears.

  Felice Paull immediately looked tearful, too. She lowered her weight to a chair and began to speak, in a voice of doom, about the majesty of the law.

  Ida, however, wasn’t much fun to scold. Oh, she wept and repented and made vows. But she didn’t take the fine points they made. And her vows meant nothing. She would forget.

  After a time, when Ida Milbank (sniffling) was in the kitchen making tea, Agnes Vaughn said to Felice Paull, “Well, Tess Rogan got out from under, I see.”

  “What’s this?”

  “Oh, she left. I saw her go, last night around five o’clock. Hadn’t come back by one A.M. Hasn’t come back yet, to my knowledge. Morgan Lake is having a fit, I understand.”

  “You mean she didn’t tell him she was leaving?”

  “Looks as if she took the notion and lit out,” said Agnes Vaughn. “She has a right. She’s over twenty-one. I don’t blame her, myself. Hand me the box, will you?”

  Felice handed the box and Agnes rummaged for the kind of chocolate cream she preferred. “Did she have many suitcases?” Felice inquired.

  “I couldn’t tell,” admitted Agnes. “Fact, I almost missed her entirely. I just saw that red coat—you know?—going out under the arch.”

  “If you ask me,” said Felice Paull, “poor little Nona Henry is getting the worst of it. It’s a wonder she doesn’t run away.”

  “I haven’t seen her, in or out, today, either,” said Agnes Vaughn thoughtfully. “Oh, that Mrs. Fitz! She’s taken to her bed. Notice?” (Agnes, of course, knew-this.)

  “Well!” said Felice Paull.

  When Mrs. Paull came down to cross the lobby at about a quarter of five, she said to Morgan Lake with one of her pained smiles, “Mrs. Rogan has been driven away, I hear.”

  Morgan Lake put on his strongest armor, his most courteous mien. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Paull?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Vaughn saw her leaving. Can’t miss that red coat she wears. It was about this time, yesterday.” Felice Paull swiveled her huge eyes toward the glass door. “And just as dark! An old lady—to have to slip away after dark.” Felice was working herself up. “A shame, Mr. Lake! A disgrace! When it was that Fitzgibbon man who behaved disgracefully and Mrs. Rogan and Mrs. Henry simply did their best …”

  Morgan Lake’s fingers shifted some papers. He would not discuss the issue, of course.

  “I’m really not surprised that she has run away from the nastiness here,” said Felice Paull. “I am shocked! She didn’t even tell you she was going?”

  Morgan Lake was thinking, Oh, Lord, Lord, now we’ll have rumors of exile and persecution.

  “Why, yes,” he said smoothly, “Mrs. Rogan told me that she was going away.”

  “A woman of her years—” Felice went on the momentum of outrage, and checked herself almost comically. “Oh? I hope she’s not gone forever.”

  “Not at all,” he purred.

  “Where did she go?” Felice was taken back suddenly enough to become even more blunt than usual.

  But Morgan Lake leaned over the counter and said, “Mrs. Paull, I wonder if I might speak to you … confidentially?”

  He had her.

  “About Mrs. Milbank,” he went on. (Oh, he knew how to use diversionary tactics.) “I believe you are a close friend, and I am sure you must be as concerned as I.…”

  After he and Felice Paull had carried on an oblique dialogue about Ida Milbank in which neither one used the word “steal” or th
e word “thief” or even the word “shoplift” and Felice had gone tearfully away, Morgan Lake’s thoughts went back to Mrs. Rogan.

  It was true. She had hinted to him, at least, that she might go to San Francisco to visit a son. Perhaps, having hinted, she thought no more needed to be said. Still …

  When Oppie Etting came at five o’clock Morgan Lake said to him, “When Mrs. Rogan left, last night, did she say anything to you about how long she’d be gone?”

  “Said nothing to me,” said Oppie. “I didn’t even see her.”

  Morgan Lake said coldly, “I left you on the desk at five exactly.”

  “Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” Oppie was afraid of Mr. Lake, Mr. Lake did not like him.

  “You stayed on? You didn’t, for instance, think you needed a cigar?”

  “No, sir, no sir.” Oppie Etting had not realized that Morgan Lake knew how he, once in a while, sneaked down to the basement to have a cigar—as was forbidden on duty. So Oppie swore now to the truth. “I stayed right on. Right here.” His pop eyes swore it; his ears swore it.

  But Morgan Lake, who left without further comment, had received distinct intelligence of Oppie Etting’s fear.

  So he rather supposed that Tess Rogan had left the building, just a bit after five, last evening. It was Agnes Vaughn’s reputation that she did not miss much.

  As he stepped into his own apartment, Rose Lake attacked. “So!” she cried. “She did get out! Did you talk to her?”

  “To whom?” Morgan Lake saw that Winnie was sitting on the sofa in the living room, looking very lonely.

  “Oh, that nice Mrs. Henry, of course,” spat Rose.

  “Why, no, I haven’t spoken …”

  “Then she got away.” Rose let a wail into her voice.

  “Oh, Mom,” said Winnie tiredly.

  Morgan Lake said, “But I thought you wanted her to go away, Rose. I don’t see what’s the trouble …”

  “I wanted her thrown out,” said Rose viciously, “and not let come back. She’s gone off, but her clothes are there. Lily told me. Elise says her bed’s not been slept in.”

  Winnie put her arm over her eyes and Rose saw this and stopped speaking.

  Morgan Lake thought, with the mental equivalent of a finger snap, I forgot to ask Etting about Mrs. Henry.

  “When did she leave, I wonder?” he murmured.

  “Even Winnie doesn’t know that,” said Rose nastily.

  Winnie Lake sat on the sofa alone. (She had called Dr. Huffman. He would see her on Tuesday. She was scared, all right, but she was not going to be scared. She was going to find out and then she knew what she would have to do … and if Mrs. Henry had gone, as she had said she might go, well, probably it was for the best that Winnie would have to do all this alone. Her sad and frightened heart was loyal still.)

  She took down her arm and said to her mother, with tired dignity, “Mrs. Henry has her own life, Mom, and her own family. If she wants to go to Seattle to see her son-in-law and her little granddaughter …”

  “Oh, so!” pounced Rose. “So you do know! And how do you know all this?”

  “I know because she told me,” said Winnie sadly.

  “Oh, so you’ve been up there.”

  “I don’t see why,” said Morgan Lake, buffing, “you keep talking about her if she’s gone away. What’s that I smell cooking? Winnie’s special?”

  “Yes, it is,” said Rose, sullenly. “Southern fried chicken.” She was reluctant to abandon her gloomy anger. “But Winnie doesn’t even notice.”

  Winnie summoned all her strength to tell a lie. “Ooh!” she said. “Ooh, Mom, did you really?”

  “I know what you like to eat, don’t I?” Rose bridled.

  “Ooh, I love it!” said Winnie Lake. Her heart was like a stone, and in her stomach fear wiggled its worm tracks, but she did her very best to force the old stars into her eyes.

  Morgan Lake perceived the fortitude this took, and his heart was toward the liar.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rose turn silently toward the kitchen and he received the news that, this time, Rose Lake also perceived the lie. She knew the stars in Winnie’s eyes were fakes.

  So now, what would happen? he wondered. Something was changing in his household. Something hung over it. He knew that this was so. He did not know what it was that so hung. He felt that something would break. Trouble would fall.

  Winnie said nothing. He sighed.

  But Rose and Morgan Lake had asked a couple in for bridge, that Friday evening.

  The one place Morgan Lake had any fun was at the bridge table. There, and there alone, he shucked off the worries of Sans Souci, or any other worries, in the exercise of considerable skill. Not only to understand the problem of the hand and play the cards, but to do so with Rose as his partner, compensating for her ineptitudes and even, on occasion, anticipating and using them.

  At the bridge table Morgan Lake was no buffer. There he permitted himself to be a fox. His bidding that seemed erratic, by ignorance or impulse, was actually keen and bold. On offense, blandly and oh, very innocently, he would outfox the enemy, for he had an almost psychic intuition of enemy strength or weakness, and located missing honors as if the key in which a throat was cleared spoke to him of a king or the sheen on the enemies’ fingernails winked intelligence of the queen-jack, there or not there.

  On defense, how he ripped and tore and undercut! Oh, then he was a spoiler!

  Fun was so rare and so very precious!

  Afterwards Rose said, as she almost always did, “Well, Morgan is just plain lucky at cards, and you can’t fight that.”

  The evening’s enemies ruefully agreed. (And so did Morgan. That fox!)

  Going to bed, if he thought of Tess Rogan at all, it was to imagine her in San Francisco. (Etting was not reliable. Agnes Vaughn was.) If he thought of Nona Henry it was to imagine her in Seattle, for he was satisfied that Winnie Lake, promise or no, would have seen Mrs. Henry and been told where she had gone. He didn’t worry about either of them.

  Chapter 30

  Nona’s head was aching, while at the same time it felt strangely light, so that the ache had no locus. By her watch, they were well into another night, and had had no food all this long day.

  They had allotted themselves more vitamin pills, at meal hours.

  “When we get out, Tess,” she said gloomily, “Ursula Fitzgibbon is going to get it! She left us locked up. She heard me! Don’t you think so?”

  “If she did,” said Tess, “she didn’t let herself know it. I think it’s too late to tell her—much.”

  “You’d spare her, I suppose? You’d cover up? I can’t understand!”

  “I can’t see how I could save her,” Tess said, wearily.

  The lights were still on. Nona thought that Tess’s high cheekbones were looking lean, and her eyes had gone deeper into their sockets. Nona felt frightened. “Are you too awfully hungry?” she asked.

  “Fasting won’t hurt us.”

  Nona stretched her aching back. “You know what you said about travel? I remember Mrs. Fitz, at San Juan Capistrano. She took her shell right along with her.”

  “Shell?”

  “Her foibles. Her kind of food. Her naptime. At least, that’s nearly all she thought about. She didn’t rest, because everything was unusual. She endured it.”

  “There are people who do that.”

  “But that’s not traveling.”

  “No,” said Tess rousing a little. “We can travel here, where we are, better than that.”

  “Around the world?” said Nona, dreamily.

  “Farther.”

  In a moment or two, Nona, feeling restless and uneasy, got up, put both hands up to the high shower rail, and arched her back. “I’ve got a misery,” she explained.

  Tess said, “Give me a hand. I’ll do that too. That’s good.”

  So they stretched, using the high bar.

  “This might make us hungrier,” Nona said.

  “We are hungri
er.” Tess grinned.

  Nona let go abruptly. “You know, I don’t approve of you, altogether. You’re too detached.”

  Her head was light. She could say a thing like this.

  “Do you think so?” Tess said.

  “Observe,” teased Nona, “with detachment, what I say.”

  “In what way am I too detached?”

  “Well, it isn’t human,” said Nona, “to think of letting Ursula Fitzgibbon

  get away with what she did. Isn’t human to just say ‘Well, here we are then.’ Until Wednesday! Or human to say ‘We are hungrier’

  “May not be human,” grinned Tess Rogan, “it’s accurate.”

  “No,” said Nona, with that lightheaded release, “too detached. I think you should raise a little hell. I don’t have your temperament. No martyr’s blood.”

  “You have changed,” Tess Rogan murmured. “This makes me too dizzy.” She sank down.

  Nona thought, But who is talking in my voice? Who am I?

  She sank down in what had become her own corner. “I don’t know what I’m talking about,” she murmured. “Or what I’m doing, half the time. Or who I am.”

  “Tell you what would have been detached,” Tess said in a moment, “—if we had called Mr. Etting and washed our hands of Robert Fitzgibbon.”

  Nona said, thinking of Winnie Lake, “I concede. But then, I say, as long as you didn’t wash your hands, then you should have done something—helped the man, told him what to do.”

  “Does it occur to you,” said Tess, “that I might not be wise enough?”

  “No,” said Nona impudently. “I think you’re plenty wise and you could tell plenty. But you don’t. You’re too detached. What did you mean—what did he mean—by the ‘pit’? I couldn’t understand half you did say.”

  Tess considered. “Pretense, I guess, is the best word. Sinking into it … you see? Getting lost in it. He’s seen his mother pretending all her life. So he knows it when he sees it.”

  “What he observes is the lack of pretense,” Nona mused. “Don’t you ever pretend, Tess?”

  “I may have lost the trick,” Tess confessed. “Best I can do, when I see I’m heading for trouble, is shut my mouth.”