Perfect Stranger

by Duncan, Alice

  “She’s really awfully nice,” Isabel assured him, as if she knew what he’d been thinking. “She takes things very hard, and she’s not used to American manners. She also . . . well, I shouldn’t talk about that.”

  “About what?”

  She eyed him for a second, then reconsidered her reluctance to speak about Marjorie’s problem. “She’s quite embarrassed because her ordeal with the Titanic has given her a great fear of the water. She’s terrified of going to sea again. So, you see, she could no longer be a stewardess and she had to find other employment. She’s awfully grateful to Loretta.”

  “Is that so?” Somerset’s gaze went from Isabel to Marjorie, still sparring verbally with the doctor on the porch, and he frowned. “I don’t think she has anything to be embarrassed about. I should think her fear is only a sensible reaction to a truly terrifying and tragic event.”

  “It was worse for her than for the rest of us, although Eunice does have those awful dreams, as I told you. But Marjorie lost so many friends and co-workers. She feels it dreadfully.”

  “I’m surprised we all aren’t suffering from various mental problems after that experience. It was the worst thing I’ve ever been through. Perhaps Miss MacTavish has developed a . . . what do the alienists call them? Phobias? Perhaps she has a phobia.”

  Isabel narrowed her eyes at him. “Loretta said she had a phobia, too. Exactly what is a phobia, pray tell? Obviously, it’s another one of your Latin words, but what does it mean?”

  “A phobia is an exaggerated and illogical fear of something. For example, my aunt Greta has a phobia about cats. When she sees a cat, she’s terrified. Starts to perspire, mouth gets dry, heart begins pounding out of control. She has to leave wherever she is if the cat stays there. She admits it’s not sensible, but she can’t help having an inexplicable and overpowering fear of cats.”

  After thinking about it for a second or two, Isabel said, “Even little house cats?”

  “Even little house cats. That’s what makes it illogical. But the poor woman isn’t faking or joking. She’s absolutely terrified of cats.”

  “Hmmm.” Isabel plucked a dead leaf from a nearby bush. “Well, that’s interesting, all right. Overall, I’d say that Marjorie’s fear—or phobia, if that’s what it is—of the ocean is more logical than a fear of house cats. Lions, I could understand.”

  Somerset chuckled. “That’s what makes it a phobia, I guess. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I guess.” She was silent for another couple of seconds, then said, “Although if Marjorie’s problem is a phobia, she’s probably the only working-class person in the world ever to have one. Most regular people can’t afford fancy problems like phobias.”

  His chuckle turned into a laugh. “That’s all too true, I’m afraid.”

  “I’d better get Eunice inside. It’s time for her to wash up for bed.”

  “Right.” Somerset closed his sketch book.

  “Eunice! Time to come inside now.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Eunice stood, and Somerset saw that she wore not simple trousers, but an entire Chinese pajama set featuring a mandarin-collared top and trousers in a silky brocade. The fabric was a soft, shimmering peach color, and it flattered Eunice’s coloring.

  “My, but don’t you look swell!” he cried.

  Eunice stopped walking, tilted her head to one side, and pinned Somerset with a puzzled frown. “Why, I don’t know. Do I?” Accurately interpreting the amused glint in Somerset’s eyes, her own countenance cleared. “Oh, you mean I look good.”

  “Yes, indeed. You look very good.”

  “Thank you. Miss Linden said I looked like an Oriental empress. I should like to be an empress one day.”

  “After you finish with biology and journalism?”

  “And elevator-operating,” Isabel put in.

  Eunice nodded. “Yes. Perhaps there’s a school that teaches empressing. I should like to learn.”

  Forcing himself not to laugh, Somerset said, “Well, I do believe you’d be good at the job, Miss Eunice. And I think your Chinese pajamas are lovely.”

  “Thank you.” She brightened still further and trotted up to Somerset and her mother. “Miss Linden got us each a set. Mine is peach-colored; Mama’s is blue, to match her eyes; Miss MacTavish’s is the color of ivory; and Miss Linden’s own set is green.”

  “Somebody has good color sense,” Somerset noted.

  “Mama picked out the colors,” Eunice said proudly.

  “Aha.”

  Isabel, darling that she was, blushed again, and prompted him to write Ispahan in his notebook. Somerset liked the old roses.

  They strolled toward the porch, and Somerset tucked his sketch pad under his arm. He could put the rose arbor in the middle of the yard just beyond the porch, and plant fruit trees in the back. That would be nice. And he’d be sure to include several rare and unusual specimens in the cactus garden.

  Then, if he could talk Loretta into adding a side patio area, with a woven redwood awning, as he’d seen while visiting a lovely garden in New York City, she would have a showplace she could be proud of. Such a delightful outdoor retreat might also impress the people she invited over for her millions of meetings and rallies. Politicians were far more easily swayed by displays of wealth than by fiery rhetoric, mainly because they could bank money. Words just flew into the air and were lost.

  By this time, they were close enough to the porch to hear the brangle in progress between Dr. Abernathy and Miss MacTavish.

  “I am not feeling poorly, thank you,” Marjorie said, and it was obvious she was only curbing her temper with difficulty. “I’m feeling perfectly bonny.”

  “Are you sure? You look mighty pasty-faced to me,” said the doctor, lifting his bushy eyebrows in feigned concern. He had great eyebrows for teasing people with. He moved closer to her. “Perhaps you need a thorough physical examination.” He took her arm.

  “Adone do! Leave off teasing me, you wretched blatherskite. You’re embarrassing me.”

  “But I’m a doctor. I’m supposed to take care of people. I’d be delighted to take care of you.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

  “Don’t be daft!”

  “Perhaps you need a tonic. Or maybe your beautiful, fiery red hair only makes your skin appear paler than it really is.”

  Her skin wasn’t pale any longer. Marjorie had blushed a red that rivaled the sunset. Somerset pulled his notebook out of his pocket and wrote down Henri Martin.

  # # #

  Isabel wished the doctor wouldn’t tease poor Marjorie so, because the poor woman never knew how to take it. Instead of giving the doctor as good as she got, she became flustered and upset.

  She hurried up to the porch. “Dr. Abernathy!” She spoke loudly, in order to interrupt his flow of nonsense. “How nice to see you this evening.”

  Marjorie snorted. It was an indication of exactly how perturbed she was, because she was usually the most delicate and well-bred of women, the result of all that training as a White Star stewardess, Isabel felt sure. Funny how Dr. Abernathy could destroy her dignity with only a few words. Isabel suspected that the doctor had an underlying purpose, but she didn’t think he was going about it the right way.

  Dr. Abernathy bowed politely. “How do you do, Mrs. Golightly? Loretta invited me over this evening to tell me all about your audition, which I understand went very well.” He pulled out an engraved gold watch and squinted at it. “She said she’d be home around seven-thirty, and it’s almost seven-thirty now.”

  “Yes, I believe she’ll be home soon, if she doesn’t get arrested.”

  “Arrested!” Dr. Abernathy threw his head back and roared with laughter. After a few moments of that, he mopped his eyes with a hastily retrieved handkerchief and said, “Good old Loretta. She never manages to get herself arrested, no matter how hard she tries, so I suppose she’ll be home soon.”

  “I hope so,” said Isabel, trying not to laugh along with him. Loretta’s desire to get on the wrong
side of the law could be considered amusing, she guessed, although she’d known people aplenty who couldn’t not get arrested, no matter how hard they tried. Eunice’s father sprang to mind. “And thank you, yes, the audition went very well. Marjorie, why don’t we go fetch some tea, since I doubt if Li and Molly have finished up in the kitchen yet. And Eunice can run upstairs and wash up for bed.”

  “Aye,” said Marjorie, still bright pink, “We’ll do that, and leave the gentlemen to enjoy the sunset.”

  “Castor oil!” Dr. Abernathy called after the two women. “A dose of castor oil will fix what ails you!”

  Somerset and Jason heard Marjorie growl, “Hateful fesart!” before the porch door slammed behind her.

  Chapter Ten

  Isabel had no idea what a fesart was, and she decided it would be best not to ask. She pretended she didn’t hear either of them. However, when the doctor shouted, “Wait! Put these in water while you’re there!” Isabel gestured for Marjorie to go inside with Eunice, and she returned to the porch to take a small bouquet of flowers from the doctor.

  “How pretty,” she murmured, lifting them to her nose to sniff.

  “Bought ‘em off a bum at the foot of Russian Hill,” he said indifferently.

  “That was kind of you, Dr. Abernathy.”

  “Hmph.” He shrugged.

  Isabel found it interesting that Dr. Abernathy was always dismissing his efforts at charity, yet he inevitably showed up everywhere he went after having helped some poor person. And he ran that clinic right in the middle of Chinatown, where he offered free or extremely cheap medical help to the poor people who couldn’t afford to go to expensive doctors. She suspected that under his teasing exterior, Dr. Abernathy’s heart was as soft as pulp.

  Which meant he was very much like Marjorie, who did her level best to behave as a proper White Star stewardess at all times, even though she wasn’t one any longer. The notion amused her. Taking the flowers, she followed Marjorie into the house.

  After kissing Eunice good-night, she caught up with Marjorie. “I’m sure he only teases you because you react so violently, Marjorie,” she ventured delicately.

  Marjorie’s cheeks, which had lost their color, bloomed anew. “Bother. How would you like it if someone goaded you every time he saw you. The man’s a haggis-headed nyaff.”

  Isabel couldn’t help herself. She laughed as she held the door for Marjorie to enter the pantry before her. She always showed deference to the former stewardess, although she wasn’t sure why. Probably leftover class consciousness from her British upbringing. Marjorie huffed past her into the pantry.

  “What in the name of heaven is a haggis-headed nyaff?”

  Marjorie took a deep breath and looked as if she were trying to calm down. “A very annoying person.”

  “He said you had beautiful hair,” Isabel pointed out.

  “Only so he could say I looked sick,” Marjorie shot back. “He called me pasty-faced.”

  Pressing her lips together so as not to giggle again, since she didn’t want Marjorie to get mad at her, Isabel said, “I think he doesn’t mean to be vile. I think he admires you.”

  Marjorie stopped so abruptly, Isabel bumped into her back. “I beg your pardon,” she gasped, putting a hand on Marjorie’s shoulder so she wouldn’t fall down and holding the flowers out to the side so they wouldn’t get squashed.

  Swirling around to look Isabel in the eye, Marjorie’s face glowed fiery pink when she spoke. “He admires me, you think? He admires me?” She turned and stomped through the swinging door into the kitchen, where Li and Molly were just finishing up the evening-meal dishes. “I’d appreciate it if he didn’t show his admiration in exactly that way.”

  In spite of Marjorie’s avowed anger, Isabel smiled. Marjorie’s Scottish accent became very pronounced when she was incensed, and her Scottish vocabulary popped out. Eunice, who had professed an interest in becoming a linguist one day, had begun collecting Scottish words and phrases. If there was one person guaranteed to provoke Scottishisms from Marjorie MacTavish, it was Dr. Jason Abernathy. Isabel reminded herself to offer haggis-headed nyaff to Eunice in the morning. She couldn’t remember the other strange word Marjorie had used, unfortunately.

  She shooed Li and Molly out of the kitchen when they asked if they could be of service, and put the posy in an old jelly jar she’d filled with water. Deciding the kitchen help needed some brightness in their lives, she put the jelly jar in the kitchen window. It looked pretty there.

  Then she and Marjorie prepared a pot of tea. Isabel loved taking tea at Loretta’s house, because she had the most beautiful tea things. Loretta’s so-called everyday china was more beautiful than any Isabel had ever seen, even in the houses she used to clean in Upper Poppleton, and Loretta had special cups and saucers for when friends came over for tea. Loretta’s array of friends comprised about every type of person imaginable, from the politically powerful leaders of San Francisco to actors and actresses to temperance workers to a priest and a couple of nuns who ran the soup kitchen Loretta helped support.

  No matter who came to tea, the service was magnificent. Tonight, Isabel measured out loose fragrant oolong tea into a vivid-blue teapot with a silver dragon crouching on it. Loretta said she’d bought it in Chinatown, a section of San Francisco Isabel wanted to explore one day. She set out six beautiful blue cups with silver handles on a tray, filled the matching milk pitcher and sugar bowl, set the sugar tongs and tea strainer on the tray, and leaned against the table, waiting for the kettle to boil.

  In an effort to soothe Marjorie’s jangled nerves, she said, “Mr. FitzRoy’s plans for Loretta’s grounds are coming right along. Tonight he showed me a sketch for a rose arbor and a cactus garden.”

  “That sounds nice,” said Marjorie in a tight voice.

  Isabel looked at her sharply, but Marjorie had turned her back so that Isabel couldn’t see her face. “I believe it will be.” For a few moments, Isabel watched Marjorie’s back. “Is anything the matter, Marjorie?”

  Marjorie stood at the stove staring at the kettle and didn’t answer. She gave her head a quick shake, but Isabel didn’t believe her.

  She licked her lips and ventured hesitantly, “Marjorie, I know it’s hard, being here in America and having to start over and all.”

  A choked sniffle answered her, and Isabel’s heart hitched. She went to the stove and put a hand on Marjorie’s sleeve. “Please, Marjorie, I wish you’d talk to me. If there’s anything I can do—”

  ”Oh, stop it!” Suddenly Marjorie wheeled around to look at Isabel, her face chalk-white, her green eyes brimming. “You’re too good, Isabel Golightly! Here you are, a widow with a daughter to care for, and you’re fine! I’m all alone with nobody to worry about but myself, and I’m falling apart! And that man! I never know what to do when he teases me, and then I feel stupid! I—I—oh!”

  She collapsed then, right into Isabel’s arms. Patting her on the back, Isabel crooned softly, feeling tremendous sympathy for the unhappy woman. “But don’t you see, sweetie? That’s just the thing. I do have someone, and that’s why it’s easier for me. If I didn’t have Eunice, I’d be a wreck.” She didn’t actually know that for a fact, but it sounded good when she said it.

  “But your life is so hard, and you have to dance at that hotel and rear your daughter and all! You’ve lost so much more than I have!”

  “But I still have Eunice. She’s the most precious thing in my life. You’ve lost everything.”

  “Codswallop. I’m just so . . . so . . . oh, I don’t know. I’m adrad, Isabel. So, so fleesome.”

  “Um . . . what’s adrad mean? And fleesome?” Isabel hated to break the rhythm, but she needed to know what the problem was if she aimed to help.

  “Afraid,” Marjorie sobbed. “I’m terrified, Isabel. It’s because I’m useless, you see. Utterly, absolutely, useless.”

  Isabel was honestly shocked. “Never! Why, you’re ever so much more capable than I am. You can be a secretary and type-write a
nd compose letters and use the telephone and do all those useful things. The only thing I’m good for is dancing and cleaning houses.”

  Pulling away from her as if she didn’t believe she deserved being comforted, Marjorie dug in a pocket for a handkerchief, then blew her nose with ferocity. “Nonsense. You’re a capable woman, Isabel Golightly, and talented, and you have a beautiful daughter with brains. I’m . . . I don’t know what I am. I’m useless without my profession, and I can’t—” She stopped talking and gulped in air. “I just can’t do that any longer. Go to sea.” She seemed to shrink into herself, and she shivered.

  “I know. I’m so sorry.”

  “Because I’m a worthless goff!” Marjorie said almost hysterically.

  “That’s not true.” Isabel shook her head hard and decided she didn’t need to know the exact meaning of goff.

  “It is, too.” Marjorie blew her nose again, a great, honking sound that would have been funny under other circumstances. “Anyone with an ounce of self-respect would have climbed right back aboard the next ship out.”

  This time it was Isabel who shuddered. “Now, I know that’s not true, Marjorie MacTavish. You couldn’t get me back on another one of those ocean liners with a winch and a crane.”

  Frowning as if she didn’t believe her, Marjorie said, “Be that as it may, I feel like a piece of dandelion fluff being blown abin and aboot with no purpose or direction, and I feel particularly daft to know that I’m this way because of fear. It’s unconscionable, the way I’m succumbing to dread of the ocean.”

  Isabel shook her head in dismay. She was glad that Marjorie had finally taken her into her confidence, but she felt bad that she didn’t have any advice to offer. If they’d still been in England, this conversation never would have taken place. Perhaps talking about her problem might at least ease Marjorie’s sense of loneliness and isolation. Isabel still felt unhelpful. “I think you’re being too hard on yourself, dearie.”

  The kettle started to sing, and Marjorie grabbed a mitt and lifted it from the flame. Isabel removed the lid from the teapot and Marjorie poured water into it. She replaced the kettle, turned down the fire, and mopped her eyes.