Seven Seats to the Moon

by Charlotte Armstrong

  When there was a knock at the door, it was apparent that Marietta had no intention of interrupting her treatment, or whatever it was, so Goodrick found himself forced to do the honors.

  The blowsy blond woman said, “Hi. How’s Avery?” Goodrick stepped back, and she came in. “I guess he don’t feel too good, eh?”

  Marietta said, “Nonsense. He is feeling better every moment, aren’t you, dear Avery?”

  “Yeah?” said Lily. “Listen, I almost forgot I said I’d check on him while Amy’s on the job. Don’t tell her I was so late. Okay? Hey, he ought to go to the doctor’s. That’s what I say.”

  “Pain is unreal,” said Marietta.

  Lily blinked and glanced at Goodrick with the intention of communicating. Some kind of nut? was on her tongue.

  “Glad you came by,” said Goodrick, all toothy.

  Lily saw something in his face that caused her to shrink away. “Well, so long as he’s got company.”

  “Where do you live, dear?” the man said.

  “Forget it,” said Lily and went across the hall and locked herself in.

  But Marietta’s spell had been broken. Avery, who had for a time seemed to relax, now wrenched himself out from under her hands. “Let me alone. Don’t touch. Pain is pain.”

  Marietta’s face became bewildered.

  Goodrick said, “I think we better get the hell out …”

  Feet clattered outside; the door opened. “Oh,” said Amy. “Marietta? Hi.” She brushed past Goodrick. “How is he?”

  Avery was coiled on the cushion in a fetal position.

  “Sssssss!” Amy pulled breath in through her teeth.

  “Amy, dear,” said Marietta, “I’ll stay! I’ll be so glad to help. As long as I am needed.”

  “We’ve got no bed for you,” said Amy, not even looking at her. “Is it bad, Avery?”

  “Make her go away,” said Avery. “It’s bad, and she’d better believe it!”

  “I believe it,” said Amy softly. She rose, tall, and looked at Goodrick.

  “I happen to be a friend of your father’s,” he said. “Drove her down.”

  “Then would you please,” Amy’s fine eyes flicked over his face, “take my grandmother home again? I’m sorry.”

  “I’d like to ask you if you know what your father was told in Chicago,” began Goodrick loudly.

  “No idea,” said Amy, “and I will not have loud talk in here. Just go. Please.”

  Marietta said in a whisper, “Dear Amy—”

  She went out the door and down the stairs, stumbling a little. Goodrick followed. In the car he said, “Well, how come no angel showed? You sure poured it on, old lady.”

  “Did you not see and hear the angel?” said Marietta tremulously.

  Goodrick trod on the accelerator. “About time I took you to see the devil,” he said in a mumble.

  Marietta did not, of course, hear what he said.

  Lily had listened to them leave; she came out of her burrow. “Listen, hon,” said Lily, shuffling in at Amy’s door, “you get that boy to a doctor, but quick, hear?”

  “I know,” said Amy. “I’ve got to. I can’t go back to the office. Lily, would you sit with him while I go and phone? I don’t know what you could do.…”

  “I don’t, either,” said Lily realistically. “I’ll stick around, though. So long as that fellow with the fat lady ain’t coming back. Who’s he?”

  “How should I know?” said Amy, rummaging for money in her purse. She hadn’t much. She did have change for the phone. “Said he was a friend of Pops’.”

  “Naw,” said Lily, “not that son of a bitch. Your Pops wouldn’t have nothing to do with that character.”

  “What?”

  “Listen, I happen to’ve met your Pops.”

  “I know,” said Amy.

  “Man, was he stoned the other day,” said Lily. “Had a real crying jag on. Real nice, though, I thought. He gimme twenty bucks.”

  “Cheap enough,” said Amy lightly.

  “Not for just a coupla cups of coffee,” said Lily.

  Amy stared at her.

  “You take this bird,” said Lily. “He’d pry the gold outa your teeth and kick in what’s left of ’em. Listen, go ahead. Call somebody.”

  “Lily, can you lend me some dough?”

  “Nope, for the reason I ain’t got it.”

  “I’ll call the eye man,” said Amy. “He’s got to see Avery before next week.”

  “That’s for sure,” said Lily. “Listen, while you’re out, why don’t you call your Pops? Could be you need him, honey.”

  Amy ran down the stairs, her quick feet not needing the use of her eyes. She might have to call somebody besides the doctor. She didn’t feel like calling her Pops right now.

  The car stopped in front of the Retreat.

  “Okay,” said Goodrick, prodding his passenger. “Go on in. You got the hundred dollars.”

  Marietta got out of the car and hesitated on the sidewalk. She had two fifty-dollar bills in her hand. She was looking blank.

  “Listen, you told Mr. Jones all about the heavenly revelation and the angels and all that. And he gave you the hundred dollars. So what’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know.” Her lips were moving.

  “Look, old lady,” he said, “you been all day looking for someplace that would take you in. So now you got it! What’s the matter with that?”

  Marietta said in anguish, “I’m asking.”

  Goodrick hit the steering wheel with his fist. “Best bargain you ever made,” he raved. “A C-note for nothing.”

  “It was cheating,” said Marietta solemnly. She looked down at the money. “I must give it back, then.” She held it out.

  Goodrick said, “I wouldn’t touch … Take your eye off me, old woman!”

  He tore away. By his own standards he must be crazy!

  J, having been so busy all day long that he had stopped incoming calls and lunched at his desk, drove home at the usual hour with no idea that he was being escorted. The hired help who rode his tail saw no sign of Goodrick and Co.

  When J came in, Nanjo was on the phone. She greeted him, cut her call short, and scuttled to her own room. J’s spirits sank.

  Sophia seemed normal. As she reported the day to him, Sophia forgot to mention his father’s call. She was full of other news. The woman who ran the Retreat had called just a while ago. Marietta was there, begging to be admitted. The woman wanted to know whether her daughter understood the way the place was run. It was a retreat, yes, and also a home, not necessarily for the aged, the woman had explained in a calm and sensible voice, but for certain people who needed to “retire” from shocks and alarms. Nothing fancy was provided, but there were costs—food, maintenance, and so on; the place was financed as many retirement homes are. Those entering permanently (in the event they were accepted, that is) assigned what income they had for the common use. Now, the woman insisted upon a week’s trial. Too many people, it seemed, thought this was going to be the life they needed. A week helped sort them out, but for this the woman had to ask a fee of one hundred dollars.

  She then explained that she was not selling. She did not need another resident. She was, on the contrary, besieged. She could take in only about thirty. Therefore, she would not negotiate with an individual without having everything put clearly before those in connection with that person, who might not approve, or might even suspect that she ran some kind of racket.

  Sophia had replied in the same tone, thanked her gravely, asked her to put Marietta into a cab, and said that she herself would come there, perhaps tomorrow, when it could all be discussed in a businesslike way.

  “But where Marietta got the hundred dollars is what bothers me,” Sophia cried.

  J was rubbing his forehead. He looked so ghastly all of a sudden that Sophia was sorry she had poured all this out. “J, you’re tired,” she said. “Don’t you worry about this. She’s my mother. That woman was pretty smooth, but I don’t have a
brother Tobias for nothing.”

  “Thirty people, did you say? Not enough, either,” he muttered.

  “For heaven’s sake,” said Sophia tartly, “rest your bones. Have a drink. Have two. You look as if the whole world were sitting on your neck.”

  “Just call me Atlas,” sighed J. “Maybe that’s who I am.”

  He fixed himself a cocktail, knowing that Sophia’s eye was on every sag of his spirits. It was just that Nanjo was apart from him, and Amy, too, and J was lonely and unsure and bumbling around in the dark, and yes, he was tired.

  The phone rang; Sophia flew to it.

  Win said, “Ma? How are you? How’s Dad?”

  “He’s had a rough day,” said Sophia. “How are you?”

  “I was thinking about running over to talk to him. Marion thinks I should. I’m afraid there’s some bother.…”

  Sophia’s mind discarded the thought of illness in a flash, and she said sharply, “Bother for your father?”

  “Ma, it’s a bit of a mess. Faulkner, by the way, is not giving me his business. He’s taken off for South America.”

  “Well, I’m sorry,” she said, “if that’s bad.”

  “Well,” said Win, “I won’t say it’s not a blow, but I can stagger along. However, we are selling the house.”

  “Oh?”

  “And at least one car and the silver and the mink and the paintings (if anybody will give us anything for them) and the piano, I imagine.”

  “For heaven’s sakes!” said Sophia.

  “So you could say I’m retracting,” Win said grimly. “It’s not so much that. There’s a matter of timing.”

  “Why time?”

  “It takes time to sell a house,” Win’s nerves snapped.

  “Naturally,” Sophia was turning cold. “Hadn’t you realized?”

  “Ma?”

  “You want to come and dump all this on your father, tonight?”

  “I think I’d better.”

  “I think you’d better not,” she said fiercely. “The man is tired. His father’s after him. Did he call you, by the way?”

  “Oh, yes, he called me.”

  “Okay, you take that over. I’ll see to my mother. It’s time some things were off your father’s back. You’re a big boy now.”

  “I may be,” said Win wryly, “a fairly small man.”

  “Call me in the morning,” said Sophia, softening. “I’ll see how he feels then. I will not have him disturbed tonight. Here comes Marietta. I’m going to hang up, dear. Good luck. I’ll have to say I’m glad that you’re cutting back to a size you can manage. But if that’s what you’re doing, shouldn’t you just do it?”

  “It seems so,” said Win. “You’re right, Ma. As usual.”

  “Give my love to Marion.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the Little kids.”

  “Yes, and Ma, don’t speak to Dad about any of this? I’d rather do that some other time.”

  “All right, dear.”

  Sophia paid the cab and bustled her mother into the house, not scolding too hard, but demanding to know about the money. Marietta was in tears; she said she feared she had cheated it out of the devil. So Sophia took it away (wondering what on earth she was going to do with it) and warned Marietta very sternly that she herself would look into this Retreat, but J was not to hear one word about it. Not one word! Not tonight. She then relented and said that Marietta would be moved, either to the Retreat or to the Wimple, as soon as Sophia could arrange to do this, and she was promising, so would Marietta kindly cheer up and look on the bright side?

  Then Sophia went into Nanjo’s room and admonished Nanjo, “Your father is very tired. I will not have him bothered. So can you, for once, leave off stewing around in your own little frenzies and pay some attention to his peace of mind?”

  “Well, sure,” whined Nanjo. “Mother, what’s the matter with Daddy?”

  “None of your business what,” snapped Sophia. “Your father happens to need, as human beings often do, some peace and quiet and tender loving care. And he is going to get it if I have to declare war on the entire rest of the population.”

  So J had quiet and a kind of peace. All was more or less well, he guessed. He was caught up at the office. There would be no more than the normal number of crises tomorrow. All was more or less serene here at home. Everyone thought of his comfort. He appreciated Marietta’s silence and Nanjo’s soft deference (he guessed he did) and Sophia’s calm. He appreciated the tender loving care. (Of course he did.) He appreciated the good food, the lazy table talk which Sophia conducted, being gently amusing, saying nothing to upset anybody. Nothing at all.

  After dinner Marietta, of all things, went into his den to watch television. Nanjo went to her room to study, or so she said. Sophia began to knit on her ribbon costume in smiling peace. The phone did not ring.

  J settled down with a news magazine. It was as if the spider had left off spinning and rested on his web. Resting on my laurels? thought J with a pang.

  He began to read about ghettos and urban decay, about war and riot, crime and credibility gaps, alienated generations, fads, drugs, violence, vandalism. And then he got to read a piece all about the prospect of man building on the moon pretty soon. Pretty soon.

  CHAPTER 23

  Friday Morning

  It was a half an hour into Friday, half after midnight, and Tony Thees was watching the clock go around.

  He was lolling in a chair in Annette’s room, passing the time. “Had a run in with the old fella, didn’t you?” (He might as well tease her a little bit. Anyhow he was curious.) “What’d he do? Call you a painted Jezebel?”

  “Where did you ever hear of Jezebel?”

  “I saw the movie,” Tony laughed. “Come on, tell Papa. What happened?”

  “Nothing’s happened all day?” she said challengingly.

  “Goodrick didn’t dog him around today,” said Tony. “I’ll give you that.”

  “Then just let him alone. I’m telling you, Tony, if you up and hide Mr. Little someplace, they’ll just beat up his family.”

  “And you’d rather they beat him up, eh?”

  “Maybe I would,” she said angrily.

  “You know, sweetheart, I don’t think I follow you.”

  “I told his wife you were following me,” she said. “How do you like that for a pack of lies?”

  “I followed you, eh? That’s why I’m out here? Not bad. Calmed her jealous twitches, did it?”

  “Oh, shut up, Tony! Go away. Go to bed. Elsewhere.”

  “Well,” said Tony, “I’ll certainly have to tell our beloved leader how cooperative you’ve been.”

  “Just kindly vanish,” said Annette. “I’m so cross I could spit.”

  Tony proceeded to “vanish,” using the fire stairs turning toward a back way out of the lobby. Damn, he never knew where he was with that ornery female! He batted the door with his shoulder. As it swung outward, it hit somebody.

  “Sorry,” said Tony, pushing out.

  “Sorry,” said Goodrick, baring his teeth and going in.

  But in five minutes Goodrick pushed out again.

  An hour later Mr. Jones said, “I am unwilling to believe in Tony Thees as a lovesick swain! Very well, he knows the girl. What does that mean? What has the man Little got to do with it?”

  Goodrick shrugged. “Maybe the girl is his cousin.”

  “The old lady says so.”

  “She’s crazy,” said Goodrick sullenly. “The son never heard of the girl. It still could be.” Goodrick didn’t seem to care.

  “Pressures?” said Mr. Jones restlessly. “What about the teenager?”

  “Deal me out,” said Goodrick. “Them I don’t tangle with. At any price.”

  Mr. Jones winced slightly. “What about the grandchildren? I can hire you some help.”

  “I don’t like them odds,” said Goodrick. “No good, anyway. He’d tell, all right, for ransom. He’d crawl on his knees to tell. So? They’d ca
ll off the meeting.”

  “Halliwell Bryce holds no valid passport at this time,” purred Mr. Jones, looking sly.

  Goodrick rolled his eyes and waited.

  “It is my conclusion that the rendezvous must be in this country. I have acted. The plane is here and ready.”

  Goodrick raised his brows.

  “Listen to me,” said Mr. Jones. “Leave out Asia, Africa, the Middle East, Scandinavia, and the U.S.S.R. Benet is not in France. It is said he is in Egypt. Conover is not in Australia. They say New York. Andrews is not in Scotland. Paccinetti is not in Italy. Lord Mumpson is not in England. They say Baumholtz is in Tokyo; he is not in Tokyo. But Halliwell Bryce is still at the university.”

  “Well, well,” said Goodrick.

  “I’ve got a watch on him night and day,” said Mr. Jones. “He is our one remaining chance. Unless we have a second chance here with the man Little.”

  “It’s boiled down to that, eh?” said Goodrick. “You think the meeting is on soon?”

  “Don’t you think so? And in this country? What do you think?”

  “I think that if that’s so, and the man Little knows where they are, Thees isn’t going to let me get within ten feet of him.”

  “Test it,” urged Mr. Jones. “Keep after him. See what Thees does then. I’ll hire someone to follow Thees. Watch the girl. Money doesn’t matter.”

  Goodrick said rather heavily, “Everybody must be crazy.”

  At 3 A.M. Mr. Smith said sharply to Tony Thees on the long distance telephone, “What’s up, there?”

  “Not much, sir. Had him dogged all day and no sign of the enemy. He’s home safe with a guard on the house.”

  Mr. Smith made a noise like a geyser. “Hell’s to pay. Everything was fine. All our misdirections worked perfectly. I got H. B. there myself tonight. Slick as butter. And guess who crashed the party, courtesy of the host, damn it. One bishop, Protestant. One cardinal, Catholic. One Evangelist, you wouldn’t believe who! Two swamis, or something. And one rabbi, on the top of it!”