Seventeen Widows of Sans Souci

by Charlotte Armstrong

  “Yes. Yes, she’s in.”

  “Then let the two of them run Sans Souci,” snapped Nona. “They’ll do it quite well. As well as usual.”

  Avery Patrick mopped his neck, gave her a hurt look, and got up and walked to the windows. He peered out upon the patio. Ralph, the gardner, was working down there. His rump was visible among the shrubs. “Frankly,” said Avery, “if I could sell this place in the next fifteen minutes I would get rid of it.”

  “Perhaps you should sell it,” Nona said. “You don’t really run it, do you?”

  He turned a world-weary smile upon her. “Mrs. Henry, no landlord gets any sympathy. Now, I know what the tenants would like. But I cannot afford some of the things … I can not put in modern kitchens, for instance. The remodeling expense!”

  “Most of these women,” said Nona slowly, “have never had a modern kitchen.”

  “Believe me when I say,” said Patrick, “if I did put in modern kitchens, and so on, I’d get higher rents and younger people.”

  “These women have to live somewhere,” Nona said.

  He did not produce the old gag line “not necessarily.” He said in a moment, rather darkly, “If I sell this corner, the building will be torn down.”

  “Why don’t you run it?” she said, not belligerently but in a musing tone. “Modern kitchens aren’t necessary. This building was new when these women were—new. It is familiar to them. Maybe a building and its tenants should grow old together.”

  He wasn’t getting her message.

  “You could run it and make it pay …” she went on. “Oh, not a fortune. But a living. Of course, you would have to spend some money to make money.” (Who was saying this? she wondered fleetingly.)

  Patrick mopped at his neck. “Frankly, running an apartment building isn’t my real business. I suppose … a couple for instance, man and wife, working together, could run it and get a fair living.”

  His grasshopper mind had jumped. His nervous eyes were running up and down Nona’s body.

  Oh no, no, thought Nona, vastly amused. Not I. Not again. What? Accommodate to another male personality and grope, again, for just and pleasant compromises between a man’s ways and my own? Not I!

  “Well, that is your problem,” she said sweetly. “I’ll be happy to meet your daughter. And, thereafter, to say what I think.”

  Avery Patrick was still thinking of Sans Souci. “Should I turn the whole thing over to Morgan Lake? I could move out. I could take … well, a kind of time payment.”

  “You’d have to wait and see how his health is going to be,” said Nona judiciously.

  She seemed to have the power to advise; this was strange.

  “That’s right,” said Avery. “Well, then … thank you.” He put on a haunted look and scurried out.

  When he had gone, Nona reflected. She hadn’t asked for power or any say in the management of Sans Souci. She didn’t want it. But she could not help wondering whether Morgan Lake was the man to take over, to run this place.

  She hadn’t asked for power over the fate of Winnie Lake. But when it came upon you, what did you do? Nona would have a good hard look at this daughter. She would use all the judgment she had. Never mind the Laws of Men! She was fond of Winnie Lake and she was concerned about her and she would advise. And love was responsibility and, therefore, influence, and that was the law.

  Chapter 36

  The confusion and excitement, the death of Rose Lake and Nona’s involvment in all this, had kept Nona away from Tess Rogan until the Tuesday.

  Just before noon, after Avery Patrick had called, Nona went around to see how Tess was.

  Tess was fine. She seemed almost totally recovered. She moved around her rooms with her step nearly as light as it had ever been.

  They sat down at the dinette table for coffee and a sweet roll. “Still hungry,” sighed Nona. “Aren’t you? Doesn’t it taste delicious?”

  Tess grinned. Nona, grinning back, discovered (with the promise of rejoicing) that while she felt a strong bond here, a complete confidence in the possibility of communication, yet she did not “adore” this remarkable old woman. Tess was Tess. Her ways were Tess Rogan’s way. Nona Henry herself would have other ways. Not for Nona the same passivity or acceptance or what she had called “too much detachment.” Nona herself (whoever she was) would behave differently. At least, she thought, until I’m seventy-one.

  But how marvelous and delightful the communication between them. Now, Nona told her all about Rose Lake, Mrs. Quinn, and Winnie’s secrets too.

  “So now,” she wound up, “all that is over and nothing is to be said, that I can see. The boy is dead. Her mother is dead. As Winnie says herself, everything is going to be new for her. But the practical question is, where can she go? Live? With whom? I doubt if living with her stepfather, here, is the best idea. Mr. Patrick seems to think that his ex-wife might let her visit indefinitely. Now it could be a fine thing for the poor child to get far away. But who knows what kind of woman? What kind of home? A divorcee? College is coming up in the winter and that solves that problem. It’s the summer …”

  Tess had no glib answers.

  “How long is it going to take you to go around the world?” asked Nona impishly. “All summer?”

  Tess said, “As long as I … fancy, I imagine.” She jumped a paragraph. “But I’m not going to take Winnie Lake with me, around the world.”

  “No, I know.” Nona hadn’t really thought so.

  Tess looked at her, smiling.

  “I know,” said Nona. “Winnie has got to learn the first part of life, first. She isn’t ready to travel your way—and observe.”

  Tess said, “How about you?”

  Nona felt a great pleasure. She said, “Thank you, Tess. But no. Not I.”

  “I thought not,” said Tess and her grin grew wider. “You’re too busy. You’re not old enough either.”

  “I am learning the second part,” said Nona. “I’m in that kindergarten.”

  They understood each other very well.

  In the middle of the afternoon Miss Elizabeth Patrick turned up at Sans Souci. She breezed into Nona’s apartment. “Hi! I’m Liz Patrick. Hello, Mrs. Henry. Hi, Winnie. Look, I’m sorry about your mother. How are you?”

  “Hi!” said Winnie feebly. “I’m O.K.” She was; the bleeding had subsided to normal.

  The newcomer sat down on one foot and dangled the other. She wasn’t a pretty girl but she was smartly turned out. She had a brisk air and a friendly smile. She looked competent and she was not in the least self-conscious. “You’ve sure had a bad time,” she said. “Gosh, haven’t seen you for two years, isn’t it? Listen, I think you ought to just cut out of here. So why don’t you come home with me? I’m leaving Thursday.”

  “How can I?” Winnie gasped. “What do you mean? Your mother has never even seen me.”

  “The thing of it is,” said Liz, “you’ve got to go somewhere. Pop feels kind of responsible.”

  (Oh, he does, thought Nona, silent, observing.)

  “And my mother’s the hospitable type,” went on Liz blithely. “She wouldn’t mind, honest.”

  “But, there’s school …” Winnie gulped.

  “Heck, you could transfer to my old high school. Why not? I know all the kids. It wouldn’t be so bad. Might be fun. Then, who knows, probably you could get into Perkins in the fall. That’s where I go. It’s a real neat college.”

  Winnie was dumb. Nona looked this girl over shrewdly.

  “You are pretty free with your invitations,” she said bluntly. “You girls haven’t met often, have you? What if it turns out you don’t like Winnie? Or your mother doesn’t?”

  “My mother lets people come and go,” said Liz, waving a hand. “So do I, I guess. Anyhow, what else is she going to do? Why shouldn’t she take a chance on us?”

  Nona was compelled to smile. “What generation are you?” she challenged.

  “I don’t see why it couldn’t be fun,” persisted Liz, brush
ing off a silly question. “I wouldn’t mind a kind of sister, you know. Under-the-wing stuff.”

  Color was coming into Winnie’s face.

  “She’s not an absolute drip, either,” said Liz judiciously. “She’s real cute. She turned out cuter than I am.” Liz, however, was not (one saw) afraid of the competition.

  Winnie turned her burning face. “What shall I do, Mrs. Henry? I don’t want to be a bother …”

  Nona sat straighter. “There is entirely too much thought and said about being a bother,” she pronounced. “Why shouldn’t we bother each other? So help me, Winnie, I am going to tell you what to do. Go with this girl. What you need in the worst way is some fun.”

  She looked at Liz, “And I think you are the one to see to that. And I’m inclined to think …”

  She swallowed back the end of the sentence: Someone, maybe your mother, maybe yourself, or maybe God, has raised you very well. Because you are somebody.

  “The fact is,” she said, instead, “I’ve been giving this poor child the benefit of my advice and much too much. It’s a frailty of us older women. Enough is enough. She’s had a bad time, but it’s over.”

  “So live already!” Liz moved one shoulder. “O.K., why not settle it, right now. We’ve got stuff to do.” Liz got up. “We better go over your clothes,” she pronounced solemnly. “That’s important.”

  Winnie got up. “Thursday? Day after tomorrow?”

  “It’s only sensible,” said Liz, “if we fly back together. A lot more fun, too.”

  “She’s right,” said Nona softly.

  Winnie said, “Then, I … Wait till I get some shoes on?” She ducked away into the bedroom. She moved, Nona perceived, as if she had shed five years in five minutes.

  Nona looked at Liz Patrick with open respect. “You amaze me,” she murmured.

  “Why?” Liz Patrick cocked an eyebrow. “Because my father and mother got divorced, I’m supposed to be a crazy mixed-up kid? I’ll clue you. Not everybody from so-called broken homes goes to pieces. That’s a lot of mullarky.” Liz stretched. “Come on, Winnie. Where is your stuff? If we are flying you’ll have to express most of it.”

  “I’ve never flown,” gasped Winnie.

  “It’s real neat,” said Liz. “You’ll like it. Come on, Mrs. Henry; better give us the benefit of your advice.”

  Nona, crowing inside with delight, followed them downstairs.

  If tragedy haunted the silent Lakes’ apartment, two chattering girls sorting out petticoats and sweaters set it so far out of their path that Nona Henry forgot about it, too.

  But on Wednesday at Rose Lake’s funeral, when Nona stood between the two of them for the ritual, recognition and acceptance of the tragedy, she could feel that Liz Patrick was perfectly composed. Tragedy was tragic. Death was dead. Liz was respectful. She was alive. And on the other side of Nona, Winifred Lake was perfectly steady.

  The world is new, thought Nona. In the midst of death we are in life! By God’s mercy!

  Afterwards, the three of them went to visit Morgan Lake in the hospital.

  He was in the men’s ward, lying quietly, looking very peaceful. When they told him Winnie’s plans he gravely agreed. He was fond, but he was detached.

  He was grateful to Nona Henry, but from far away.

  Morgan Lake was in retreat. For him, life would now become all new … but not yet. A little later. First, he must get to the point of tears and weep for what would never be again. He had not wept, yet.

  What he perceived, at the moment, was that he no longer functioned as a buffer. Wherever he had been the buffer, now he was there no longer. The widows of Sans Souci were meeting the owner, head on.

  And Rose Lake, gone. Nobody could stand between her and the world. Nobody could stand between her and her grave. Or between her child and the world, any more. Winnie was free and running head on toward life.

  He, Morgan Lake, was expendable. So he was let off. He could rest. (What am I? he thought, fleetingly.)

  He could not know that Nona Henry was turning in her mind his future. Oh, he was a goodhearted man. But weak, she thought. No force. (She liked forceful people. Perhaps one tended to like what one was?) She wasn’t sure that Morgan Lake had it in him to run—really run—Sans Souci.

  It needed a good heart; yes, it did.

  It needed strength, too. One must be strong enough not to be thoughtlessly kind.

  But what was it to be kind?

  Winnie and Liz went chattering off to spend the night together in Santa Monica where, as Liz said, the hotel was neat.

  So Nona Henry was alone, on the Wednesday night. She reveled in the welcome solitude. About eight o’clock she thought she’d drop around and have a word with Tess.

  “Tess?” She tapped again.

  In a moment she heard movement and Tess Rogan’s voice from the other side of the closed door. “Nona?”

  “It’s me. Can I come in?”

  “Not just now,” Tess said. “Would you excuse me? Another time.”

  “Well, of course,” said Nona surprised. Rejected, since the wood of the door remained flat and unwinking before her face, Nona turned to retrace her steps.

  But she took no offense. It was strange, but all she felt was wonder. What was going on, that Tess could not let her in? So deep was Nona’s faith that she believed, quite simply, there must be some good reason.

  Back at her own door, Nona saw the door across the hall wag open. Mrs. Fitz peered out. Her small pink face looked peaked. Her soft lips seemed to nibble. “Nona?” she said weakly.

  “Yes, Mrs. Fitz?”

  “I am all alone,” said Mrs. Fitz. “I’m feeling a little shaky. I wonder … could you …?”

  “What is it?” asked Nona. She felt no anger, whatsoever. She realized that she had forgotten it. (She must have forgiven it!)

  “I wonder … if you could just … come in and chat a moment? I’m sure, my dear, that you and I can be good friends. Robert thinks so much of you.” (How much had Mrs. Fitz “forgotten”?)

  The old lady’s voice was a bit high. Weke, Weke, thought Nona. What a whining little mouse we have here!

  “I’m sorry,” she said with a smile, “I have things to do, Mrs. Fitz.” (I bear her no grudge, she thought, which is peculiar enough, but I will not pretend to subscribe to her legend.)

  Still she couldn’t help saying in simple concern, “If it’s important—where is Mrs. Oliver?”

  “Of course, if you are busy,” said Mrs. Fitz, vaguely. She began to pull back that small pointed pink face—mouse into hole. “It’s not important. You mustn’t let me keep you, at all. I understand.”

  Nona Henry went into her own apartment.

  She didn’t understand. She didn’t worry, really. What is happening? she wondered.

  Inside 201, Tess Rogan went back into the living room where the fair-haired woman, on her knees, held the fair head wrapped in both arms where it lay on the soft sofa seat. Georgia Oliver was sitting on the floor, weeping into the sofa.

  “I can’t,” she sobbed, “fool myself. You won’t say. You won’t tell me. But I know! I know she had something to do with it. She knew, all the time, that you were locked in there. Why wouldn’t she ever let me close her bathroom door? Long ago. Before anybody had any idea, long before they found you. Why was that? And why wasn’t she surprised?” Georgia lifted her tear-stained face. “And why,” she almost whispered, “was she having trouble with the light switches? Oh, please help me! If she knew—that is evil! And she did know! Mrs. Fitz knew where you were. Didn’t she? Didn’t she? I’m sure she came here. Daisy Robinson … Don’t you see how I need to know?”

  “I can’t tell you,” said Tess sadly, “whether she ‘knew’ we were locked in there—or not.”

  “I know,” breathed Georgia. “I know. And that is terrible! What am I going to do? I can’t respect her, not any more. And Robert? Mrs. Rogan, he was drunk, that night. I know that, now. All you said, all Nona Henry said to me—it was the tr
uth.”

  She sobbed bitterly and Tess waited.

  “So now, what am I to do?” wept Georgia. “How can I marry a man I can’t respect? Who never loved me? How can I go on? I am sick in my heart, Mrs. Rogan. Yet how can I abandon them? They depend on me. Both. So I don’t know what to do or where to go. I have tried. I have tried, so hard. Not to see evil. Not to let it in to my life. But now … what shall I do? Can you help me?”

  Tess Rogan put her right hand on the weeping woman’s shoulder. She looked at her own hand. How gnarled it was! Why was it given power? For it had power, now. Her voice had power. The words lay in her throat. What must she do?

  Take up her hand? Wash it?

  Nona Henry had said, “If you don’t wash your hands, then you must do something.” Tess Rogan remembered this and considered it, gravely. She was not too old to learn.

  Georgia sobbed, “I have always done the very best that I could think to do. But now … tell me. Is it enough that they need me? No matter what they are? Is it?” She was fierce and must be answered.

  Tess said to herself, Maybe. Aloud, she said sharply, “Does your married daughter need you?”

  “No.” Georgia’s sobs had ceased. She looked up. “No, she has her baby coming, and her husband …”

  “She is like you? She wants to serve, not to be served?”

  “Yes.”

  Georgia sighed and put her cheek down on the sofa, like a child seeking the pillow. “I’ve tried so hard to be good and to do good.”

  “What it is to be good—that bears a little thinking over,” Tess said. Her hand tightened. “It only takes a lifetime. Mere thinking won’t do it, either. Sometimes … you try an experiment, you might say. And observe …”

  Georgia did not move. She seemed to be waiting. “There may be,” said Tess slowly, “something you could do for me.”

  The widows of Sans Souci almost went out of their minds at the new news that crashed upon the news on Thursday.

  Georgia Oliver had split with Mrs. Fitz! She was not going to marry Robert—Wonder-boy! Georgia Oliver was going to Honolulu with Tess Rogan! What? Yes, and not in June, either. Flying. Next week! And maybe on around the world!