by Frances
“Thank you,” the woman with improbable brown hair said, in the voice that carried.
And—in the voice of a woman who had just died. In the voice of Abigail Montfort!
Lois was in that instant, and for that instant, as sure of that as she had ever been of anything in her life. But then, since it clearly could not be true, she knew it was not true. The mind plays tricks.
“You’re all right?” Howard Graham said, and she realized, from the intentness with which he looked at her, that her face must have revealed the shock of certainty, the immediate rejection of the impossible. He looked at her with puzzled curiosity.
“Quite all right,” she said.
“I’m afraid I’d better go out there,” Graham said. “See if there’s anything—”
“Of course,” she said. “Of course you must.”
She pushed the table away and he, quickly, pushed it farther, went around the table’s end and pulled it out so that she could stand freely. The brown-haired woman looked up at them as they moved and Lois looked at her. But there was no sign of recognition in the woman’s face and Lois, looking at her again, was more than ever certain that she had never seen her before—never known her under any name. Only the voice—the voice of a dead woman. It was absurd, it was a fantasy. She realized that as she walked out of the taproom, ahead of Howard Graham. She was imagining things.
They walked out of the Inn’s coolness into the warm, humid evening, stood for a moment on the sidewalk.
“Could I buy you the other drink another—” he began, but she had thought of something—something which might readily explain, end a nagging in her mind, and did not hear him.
She said, “Mr. Graham. Did Mrs. Montfort have a daughter? You spoke of—”
“A daughter?” he said. “No—that is, not that I know. Never mentioned one. Only a son, who’s dead now, and this grandson of hers who seems to have married the wrong—” Again, he was preserving the privilege of communication with a client. “Why?” he said. “Why did you ask that?” And he looked at her curiously, thoughtfully.
There was no point in protracting it, in going into an explanation of mental quirks with a stranger—particularly with a stranger who had other things to do.
“No reason,” she said, and smiled at him—smiled with a measure of apology. “Curiosity. No reason.”
He continued to look at her for a moment, but then the friendly smile—the outgoing smile—returned to his pleasant face.
“Look,” he said, and was boyish—“Look, I don’t want to push in. But—we’d just got started, hadn’t we? I mean, the old saying —can’t fly on one wing. You’ve got another drink coming. A—rain check?”
It didn’t, she thought, matter one way or another. (What did?)
“That would be very nice,” Lois Williams said, in a tone which meant nothing, and then added, “Some time.” But then, to take the sting from that rejecting “some time,” because he did mean so well, so evidently meant so well, “Thank you for the drink,” and tacked a smile to it. She moved then toward her car, and he stood for a second or two watching her before he went toward his own, parked a few yards up Main Street.
So—so the young woman with the carrying voice, the familiar, exasperatingly unplaceable voice, was not Mrs. Montfort’s daughter. Of course she wasn’t. Why would Mrs. Montfort’s daughter be registering at the Inn? Even if Mrs. Montfort had a daughter, and she hadn’t. So—the voice was not a family voice, not an inherited voice. Probably, if she could have heard the two voices together—as now she most obviously could not—they would not have proved alike at all, or alike only in a certain pitch, a certain (not very agreeable) quality. Forget it, Lois told herself, driving toward home.
As always, now, she drove more slowly as she neared the house—the bright small house of glass and redwood siding. She drove slowly so as to postpone the moment when she walked to a door which now only she opened, and turned a key to unlock it and then, setting herself, drawing a quick deep breath to brace herself, walked into a house forever lifeless. But the black road rolled backward under wheels, all the same, and the gravel of the driveway, and the key made, all the same, the small metallic sound in the keyhole and the bolt clicked back, and she walked into bright emptiness.
She made herself a drink—a long drink this time—and turned the television on. It was old movie time, and a man in a flying suit was climbing into an airplane on the deck of a carrier and then the plastic canopy closed over him and—Lois Williams, whose husband had flown planes like that off decks like that, got up and turned the television off and went back and sat, looking at nothing, now and then sipping from the long drink.
After a few minutes she thought, I must make myself think of something else. Tomorrow is Tuesday, she thought, and I’ve got to have the list of houses definite by then because the Advertiser closes at noon and I’ve got to get the copy in, and have Mrs. Simpson look at it first, because what would she do if she couldn’t approve things first? Let’s see—Lois thought, and checked over the houses which had been promised. Pruitt’s house and the Sopher house—which was, actually, the house Pruitt was talking about when he spoke with contempt of a couple of bricks left standing, although you wouldn’t think so to look at it now—and the old schoolhouse and—and—and— And the Montfort house, the old Brown house.
She supposed not, now that Mrs. Montfort was dead. It would be considered inappropriate, she supposed, to open the house so soon after Mrs. Montfort had died in it. (Mrs. Simpson approved almost everything, but she probably would not approve that, would find it unsuitable.) It was rather a pity, because the house—if unquestionably gloomy—was authentic. (Even Pruitt admitted that, grudgingly, while pointing out that a lot had been added to it since the Revolution.) And Mrs. Montfort—if Mrs. Harbrook was to be trusted—and why not?—had planned to give permission and write and say so being—if Mr. Graham was to be trusted, the friendly well-meaning man—a “hundred per cent Glenville.” She would talk about it with Mrs. Simpson in the morning and—
Where had she heard that voice before? Thinking now of the house, of its cool darkness, the sound of the voice came with memory of clammy coolness, of gloom. She could hear it again, quite clearly, and it was the voice of the old, old woman, wrapped in a shawl in a deep chair in a dim room—
And—it wasn’t. It was the voice of a slim, youngish woman with short brown almost certainly dyed hair. What it amounts to, Lois thought, I’ve begun to hear things. Being alone so much now, avoiding people whose presence, and whose every word, is a reminder, shunning new contacts—I must take hold of myself, Lois thought and then, quite slowly, with a kind of determination, Ken wouldn’t want it this way for me. And then, as deliberately: If Mr. Graham does get around to asking me to have the second drink—as probably he won’t—I’ll say, “I’d like to very much, Mr. Graham. Thank you, Mr. Graham.”
Earnest, friendly Attorney Graham, with his tendency to say the wrong thing; to say too much and then—so revealingly—stop as if he had tripped himself. If wool were to be pulled over eyes, Mr. Graham had the eyes for it and—
And at that instant, her thoughts running along without direction, Lois Williams herself stumbled. For a moment she could not believe what she stumbled on; rejected it as altogether preposterous. People don’t do such things, she thought—echoing Judge Brack’s celebrated error—before she formulated with any precision what it was that people did not do. Then she did:
A woman in her thirties, with short brown hair, did not impersonate a woman in her eighties and—sign an old woman’s will for her. A long-faced woman in her sixties, with a noticeable beard on her chin, did not lean close to such an impostor and call her “dear.” A youngish lawyer—a hearty youngish man, of the kind who slaps other men on the back—did not accept such an imposture— Her mind checked on that, since that he might was precisely that which had started her on this preposterous fiction. Howard Graham might very well. He had seen old Mrs. Montfort only twice befor
e the signing, and might well, each time, have seen the impostor. And Lois herself, she really would have no reason whatever to doubt Mrs. Montfort’s identity, since she had never seen her before and seen her only dimly that afternoon. And as for Tony—she did not suppose that Tony had even looked at the woman in the deep chair. And as for Mrs. Harbrook’s nephew—Keating, wasn’t it?—
As long as I’m writing fiction—preposterous fiction—Lois Williams thought, I may as well finish off the story. And, although of course this isn’t real—this is merely something to make up so that I don’t sit brooding—it isn’t really true that people don’t do such things. People do all sorts of things, many of them worse. They murder and—
They murder old women, and old men—and young women and young men too—for money. One reads about it often—reads of far-off things which, although they do not (ever) happen close to hand, do still happen. And, Mrs. Abigail Montfort had money. A great deal of money, Mr. Graham said. And the money would go to someone, because money always went to someone.
Suppose, Lois thought, all the money is left to Mrs. Harbrook. Suppose Mrs. Harbrook and her nephew have forced the poor old thing to draw up a will leaving all the money to her faithful housekeeper and then got a bumbling lawyer—
No, she thought, it wouldn’t be that way. Suppose they killed the old woman and found she hadn’t left a will, or had left the money to the wrong person, and then hired a woman—an actress?—to impersonate her. And then called in the bumbling lawyer and pulled the wool over his eyes, letting him meet the fake Mrs. Montfort and draw up a will as instructed and stand by, with witnesses similarly taken in, while she signed it and—
Suddenly, Lois laughed at herself. I’m no good at this sort of thing, she thought. Because all I come up with is a forged will (if one doesn’t count murder) and that really is preposterous. Mrs. Montfort’s signature is, of course, all over the place and you don’t pick up an actress who can impersonate an old woman and, at the same time, forge her signature well enough to fool experts. Because, if there is any question about the will—and the grandson, if he was cut out of it, might certainly raise one—there are experts who can detect forgeries, even very good forgeries.
I sit here mooning in front of a dead TV set, Lois Williams thought, and decided that, by now, the airplane movie would surely be over, and turned the set on again. The movie was over; she watched news which, while certainly not anything to uplift the spirits, was at least not full of pictures of airplanes.
After the news was over, Lois Williams fixed herself something to eat and afterward read for a time—not about munder and forged wills—and then went to bed and to sleep; went early, since tomorrow would be busy, what with Mrs. Simpson and Mr. Oliver at the Advertiser.
This night she was not awakened by a dream of flame. It is true that she dreamed of an old woman who cried out for help in a high, carrying voice and signed her name to something—but signed it with a brush, not a pen, and hence could be assumed to be an old Chinese woman. Howard Graham appeared briefly in the dream—as a sheep.
III
On being told, Mrs. Simpson looked worried. Lois had not known her long, but had not known her at any moment when she did not look worried. When responsibilities arose, Mrs. Simpson accepted them—there were those, but not the kindest, who hinted that any responsibility passing within hailing range of Mrs. Simpson was accepted before it knew what was happening to it. Responsibilities worried her; that was evident. It might even be that they weighed on her. But she did not shirk them. Nobody could say that about her.
“Well,” Mrs. Simpson said. “Well, dear—I don’t know. After all—a House of Death.”
“Of course,” Lois said, “the funeral will be Thursday. Friday at the latest. So—”
“Yes,” Mrs. Simpson said. “But—is it Seemly, dear? Does it show Proper Respect? That’s what we have to think about, isn’t it?”
“A good many people must have died in the old house,” Lois said. “Since—it was built around seventeen fifty, wasn’t it? A good many people—young men who were soldiers and—and—so many people. The house itself is—there. Impervious.”
“I do see what you mean,” Mrs. Simpson said, which was consoling, since Lois had not herself been sure. “But—”
“And without it,” Lois said, “so much will be lost, don’t you think? The cannon-ball house.”
Obscurely, Lois felt a duty to the Montfort house.
“But you must decide, of course,” Lois said, heaping responsibility where it would find its most suitable resting place. “Mrs. Harbrook was quite sure Mrs. Montfort would want the house included.”
“Poor dear Ella,” Mrs. Simpson said. “I do hope Abby did the Right Thing for her. So devoted. So many years.” She shookher head, bowed down. “Such a difficult house to keep clean, too,” she added, rather unexpectedly.
There did not seem to be much to say to that.
They were in a corner of the main room of the Community House. The Community House—once the Asbrook Mansion, but barely a hundred years ago—consisted almost entirely of the main room, which was sparsely furnished (wicker) but most suitable for Garden Club shows. The various committees met in various corners; the Committee on Special Events was at that moment—ten-fifteen, Tuesday morning—meeting in the corner most distant from that in which Lois piled and Mrs. Simpson shouldered.
“Perhaps,” Lois said, “I might call Mrs. Harbrook? Or—should it be Mr. Graham? As her lawyer—”
“Graham?” Mrs. Simpson said. “Oh—Howard Graham. Well—”
“Or,” Lois said, “it might be better—I’m sure it would be much better—if you called her. As chairman, don’t you think?”
“I suppose,” Mrs. Simpson said, “it is my Responsibility.”
“The thing is,” Lois said, “we’ve got to get the list to the Advertiser by noon. And I’ve got one more—the Follonsby house. Mrs. Follonsby is still a little worried about the china dogs.”
“Martha and her china dogs,” Mrs. Simpson said. “You told her there’s blanket insurance? By the town, on everything? As long as there is somebody sitting in each room? By the way, dear. Could you possibly manage to do one of the rooms?”
“I told her,” Lois said. “Of course, Mrs. Simpson. I’d be very glad to.”
Which was politeness. It was true that, to comply with the terms fixed by the insurance company to cover such depredations as might be perpetrated—by people from out of town, of course—on the possessions of those whose houses were open for inspection, a responsible person had to occupy each room of each house, and keep his eyes open. There was, for example, no way of telling how many china dog fanciers—from out of town, of course—might pay their two dollars and a half to make the tour. She might, Lois thought, as well be one of the house sitters Saturday afternoon as anything else.
“I will call poor dear Ella,” Mrs. Simpson said. “This very minute. You wait right here, dear. I won’t be a minute.”
She was ten. She came back, and began to nod her head from across the room.
“It’s what dear Abby Would Have Wanted,” Mrs. Simpson said, when she was nearer. “Ella is quite sure. And, dear—I didn’t know it was when you were there.”
“It—” Lois said. “Oh. No, she was all right when we—Mr. Graham and I—left. That is, Mrs. Harbrook thought she had just dozed off. I suppose that, really—”
“How dreadful,” Mrs. Simpson said. “Of course, It Was Her Time. We must accept that. And we all noticed that she had been getting much feebler lately. And Such an Easy Way to Go, of course.”
“Yes,” Lois said, supposing it had been, but thinking, too, that Mrs. Simpson postulated on insufficient evidence, not yet having Gone herself. “Then I’ll include the house in the list. And take it to Mr. Oliver.”
“Do that, dear,” Mrs. Simpson said, discharging that responsibility and, Lois thought, looking around for another.
She drove to the Follonsby house and reassured Martha Follons
by about china dogs. She parked, after that, outside the square brick building of the Glenville Advertiser (and job printing). She climbed a flight of stairs and the door of Robert Oliver’s office was open, as it usually was. Oliver’s typewriter resounded among wooden walls, as also usual. Oliver looked over his typewriter and glared at her, which was equally to be expected.
He was an angular man in his middle thirties; he had deep set eyes and tow-colored hair which always needed cutting. He pushed it back from his eyes so as to glare the better. Lois smiled.
Bob Oliver was one of the few Glenville people outside “the flock” she knew—had known before she sought activity in unreminding places—at all well. He always glared at her, even at parties. (Had, when she went to parties.) Oliver got around, as a newspaperman should. He was, also, curious about everything.
“Everybody,” he said now, harshly, “always waits till the last minute. You got it, finally?”
“Hi,” Lois said.
“All right,” Oliver said and, briefly, substituted a smile for a glare. “Hi yourself. You got the list?”
“Yes.”
“Written out? Ready for the printer?”
“Well,” she said, “I thought you—”
“Always,” he said, and glared again. “Always. Everybody. Think that I. You’re literate, aren’t you? Can use a typewriter, can’t you?”
“Hunt and peck,” Lois said.
“Then,” he said, “hunt and peck. I am up to my ears. Leading citizen pops off. Waits until just before we got to bed, of course. Why not Sunday night? Why Monday?”
“Inconsiderate,” Lois said. “You mean Mrs. Montfort? Was she a leading citizen?”
“Anybody who’s got a million dollars is a leading citizen,” Bob Oliver said. “Where’ve you been keeping yourself, girl?” But he stopped at that; his face changed. “Where have you, come to that?”
“Nowhere much,” she said.
“Taking care of yourself?”
“Trying to. This typewriter you’ve been talking about?”
