The Albatross

by Charlotte Armstrong

  The little warmth remained, just the same.

  “Court had been drinking, had he?” Saunders shifted in the chair.

  “Oh yes, he had been drinking. Did he drink a lot?”

  “Well, poor guy—once in a while. When Audrey … when the whole thing got him down. Court was okay. He was no lush. Worked hard. I miss him.” Saunders smiled to take the hurt out of that one. He seemed to rouse himself and address her purposefully. “Mrs. Gardner, there’s a thing I’d like to tell you about. You know he got back in town on the Sunday? Well, this office is open on Sundays, you know. Our big day. So he dropped in late—about six, it was. And I thought he didn’t look good. So I spoke of it. I said to him, ‘Court, you look like the devil. Maybe you’re coming down with something. Whyn’t you go see a doctor?’

  “So he said—” Saunders leaned to her as if she were an audience he had been waiting for. “Mind you, this was Sunday, around six P.M. And he dropped dead the next morning. This is exactly what he said to me. He said, ‘When somebody drops dead in front of you, you don’t feel so good.’”

  Esther frowned.

  “Funny, wasn’t it? I couldn’t make much sense of it. So I asked him, I said: ‘What d’you mean?’ And he said, ‘I don’t want to talk about it. I’m hung over, if you want the truth.’ So then he went home. Funny thing, though. The next morning, he drops dead himself.”

  “When somebody drops dead in front of you …” she repeated slowly.

  “That’s what he said.”

  Esther’s brain began a vague churning. No, no, she couldn’t be thinking straight. Tom had seen the man in death himself. He had been asked to identify … But death alters. Then there had been the photograph—but photographs are retouched. “Do you have a picture of Mr. Caldwell in here?” she asked.

  “Sure. That’s him. In that group up there. Man on the end, left side, first row.”

  Esther got up to look closely. The face was that of the man in the motel. Or very like it. “He didn’t have a brother, cousin—someone who resembled?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” The man threw in a musing irrelevant remark. “He practically never got personal bills at the office.”

  Esther sat down, moving her head as if she were physically trying to get the weight of the albatross off her own neck. She was worrying at Caldwell’s remark. What if the man in the motel had not been Courtney Caldwell? Why, the albatross fell away. Audrey would have no claim on Tom Gardner.

  “Tell me what he said again,” she begged.

  “Said, ‘When somebody drops dead in front of you, you don’t feel so good.’ That’s word for word, Mrs. Gardner.”

  “Did you mention this to Mrs. Caldwell?”

  “No. No, I didn’t want to do that. But I did tell the police officer, this Mueller. You know him?”

  “What does he think?”

  “He thought I was trying to prove something about a premonition. He paid no attention. He thought I was … you know, superstitious or something.”

  “But you’re not.” Esther locked her fingers together.

  “Not me. I know what Court said. I’ve got a good ear and a good memory. Why would he say a thing like that?”

  “You think he did see somebody die? Somebody else?”

  “Well, I don’t know. But it sure seems so.”

  “Mr. Caldwell might have given his business card to someone?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Tom hit this man four hundred miles away from here. He gave Tom a card. I know Mr. Caldwell did drop dead, but … If Mr. Caldwell saw another man drop dead, how does that work out? What happened?”

  “Kinda got me, too.” Saunders was looking bright and patient. “What do you make of it?”

  Esther shook her head. “If he did see such a thing, it would have been on his trip? That trip, that weekend?”

  “I suppose.”

  “I don’t understand, Mr. Saunders. I can’t imagine … But I’m glad you told me.” Esther rose uncertainly.

  He rose too. “You people are doing a good deed,” he blurted, “but, believe me, I can see how it’s pretty tough going.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Esther frankly. She liked him very much. She gave him her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Saunders. If you do turn up an apartment be sure to call me. And if you think of anything …”

  The man promised.

  Esther left him. Her brain buzzed. There was something—coincidence somewhere. Where? How? Two men, or at least two people, had dropped dead. Or so it seemed. And the one had seen the other. Some connection, then, But what?

  Esther thought she might as well try to see Sergeant Mueller while she was here. She felt an urgency; something needed to be found out.

  Sergeant Mueller was not at police headquarters. Esther came out of the building disappointed. There he was, getting out of his car. She ran to him.

  “Mrs. Gardner, isn’t it? How do, ma’am.”

  “I’ve been talking to Mr. Saunders.”

  “Yes?”

  “He told you about the strange thing Mr. Caldwell said the night before he died?”

  “What was that?”

  “About somebody dropping dead?”

  “Oh yes, that.”

  “It must mean something,” she insisted.

  “It probably doesn’t. Look, Mrs. Gardner, we get this all the time. If you were in my business, you’d discount seventy-five per cent of it, easy.”

  “Why?”

  “People can’t report what they see or hear. You get to know this. They remember it wrong. They think they’re being accurate, but they’re not accurate, Mrs. Gardner.”

  “What did Courtney Caldwell say, then?”

  “We dunno what Courtney Caldwell said. It’s possible he could have sensed something wasn’t right about the way he felt. His head being cracked, you see? So he could have been scared. He could have worried about himself, see?”

  “A premonition, you mean?”

  “Yeah, kinda. But what Saunders said he said—I forget it now—didn’t made any sense at all.”

  “Therefore you think Mr. Saunders got it wrong?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No,” said Esther. Mueller shrugged. “Can’t you try?” she began.

  “Mrs. Gardner,” said Mueller kindly. “I guess you’re hoping something new is going to turn up. You go ahead and hope that maybe your husband didn’t kill the man. I guess that’s what you’re hoping. Now remember, we can’t prove he did. But we sure can’t prove he didn’t, either.”

  “I don’t think you’re trying, really,” said Esther rather bitterly. And Mueller smiled. His smile was kind, indulgent.

  Esther had had too many kind indulgent smiles lately. She walked away.

  Mueller, looking after her, had stopped smiling. He was trying to remember exactly what it was that Saunders had said that Caldwell had said. The exact words eluded him. Which only went to show.…

  As Esther drove homeward through the vast maze of the city, she told herself that she believed Mr. Saunders was accurate. Courtney Caldwell had said those words. All right, what did they mean?

  She could think of nothing for them to mean.

  After dinner they watched television. There was a little ceremony of pleasant good nights. Tom brought a glass of milk into their bedroom and sat down and took his shoes off.

  “Tom, I went to Arcadia today.”

  “You did! Why?”

  “I thought maybe we could get their old apartment back. I thought we could pay the difference. Don’t you see we’re paying for them now, and if Audrey knew that—” Esther was going too fast.

  Tom had stiffened. “Did Audrey know you were going to Arcadia?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you think,” he said coolly, “it would have been at least a courtesy to tell her?”

  “I …” Esther’s heart sank.

  “She may not want to live in Arcadia.”

  “But …”

  “How would you li
ke it if she found you a house and never even consulted you?”

  “I …” She couldn’t defend herself.

  “What’s the matter with you, Esther?”

  “Nothing. I thought it was an idea—”

  “Sit down,” said Tom sternly. “Now, tell me. What does Audrey do?”

  “Do?”

  “To make you so unhappy?”

  “Well she …” Esther couldn’t say.

  “Is she rude?”

  Esther couldn’t speak.

  “Well, is she? I never see her being rude. Is she rude when I’m not around?”

  “No.”

  “Is she demanding, unkind?”

  “Never,” said Esther. Tears sprang into her eyes.

  “Then is she messy around the house? Are her manners disgusting?”

  “No.”

  “Then why do you hate her the way you do?” Tom waited. Then he asked her gently, “Are you jealous, Es?”

  “Maybe,” said Esther miserably.

  “Do you think I’m falling for her?”

  “N-no.”

  “I admire her in some ways,” Tom said deliberately, “but I love you, Esther.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that,” flared Esther.

  “Like what?”

  “Like a damned movie scenario,” said Esther furiously. “And don’t give me any catechism. She’s hanging around your neck. Okay, but not mine. I’ve had it. Her husband died in an accident and I couldn’t help it, and I don’t care if I never see her again in my life or what becomes of her either.”

  “I won’t conspire with you behind her back,” said Tom icily. “I won’t start plotting and intriguing to get her out of here. I invited her in good faith.…”

  “Stay pure,” said Esther. And dove into her bed and tried not to make any noise, weeping.

  After a while, Tom stood over her.

  “Aw, Es …”

  She couldn’t bear the separation. She pretended she’d been a misbehaving child; at least she got to weep on his shoulder.

  In the morning, Esther told him as dispassionately as possible how she had talked to Saunders, and that Saunders would look for an apartment suitable to Audrey. Tom kept the precarious peace between them by making no particular comment. He seemed preoccupied, anxious to be gone from the house. So Esther did not repeat what he might so easily call gossip, or report any mystifying statement by the man who was dead, nor did she tell him that she had spoken to Mueller. She would tell him all this another time, a better time.

  Tom left. He was doing his best to be preoccupied. Women! thought Tom to himself. Woman trouble! His house full of women! He knew he had been naive and he resented this. Everything would have been all right, he told himself, if women didn’t think like women. He had told Esther a simple truth and it was too simple for her. He had acted in good faith. He had tried to help a woman who needed help and to whom he felt he owed it. He had thought Esther was with him all the way. She had agreed, she had seemed to understand.

  But because it was taking time, Esther was getting restless. Why couldn’t Esther have patience? A man going to business soon finds out that patience is what he has to have the most of. He understood that Esther would rather not have two strange women in her house. Sure, he understood that very well. He felt it himself. Not that Audrey had done anything wrong that he could see. She was on the frail side. Maybe not too bright. A little cloying. But wasn’t it ignoble to intend to be helpful and then complain of the trouble it took? What virtue could there be in helping somebody out at no cost to yourself? Couldn’t Esther see that?

  Maybe this Saunders would turn up an apartment. But if Audrey moved back to Arcadia through Esther’s conniving, he didn’t like it. Keep pure, Esther had said. Yes. That was exactly what he wished he could do. He did not like to contemplate the purity of his motive, the straightforward simplicity of his deed, and all the good of it, becoming twisted and complicated and—yes, sullied—because of a personality clash, a womanish prejudice, a dislike that was unreasoning, intuitive and blind.

  He wouldn’t sully himself with intrigue. He shook the whole thing out of his attention and looked forward to the office.

  As he entered the building, he saw a young chap named Latimer headed towards the elevator. Tom’s feet dragged. He managed not to take the same car. This Latimer was the merest office acquaintance. Tom had avoided him ever since Caldwell had died. Rumour was that Latimer had been in a highway accident, had killed a man. Tom did not want this cheerful callous soul giving him the earnest eye, saying to Tom: I know just how you feel.

  Nobody knew just how Tom felt.

  Not even Tom.

  When Tom had gone, Esther turned to her chores, feeling sad and uneasy. To have found it necessary or wise to hold something back from Tom was a terrible thing, a destroying thing. She supposed he’d been right. To go to Arcadia as she had gone was a sneaky thing to do.

  Yet, here was this beautiful day, the sun bright, the sky benign, the great complex metropolis full of places to go and things to do. But Esther Gardner could not jump into her car and take off and prowl, going where whim led her. Whim was not for her, under these circumstances.

  She would have to confer with Audrey and Joan.

  Esther felt numb and helpless. The albatross was on her neck, for in the last analysis, if Tom was stuck with her, so was Esther.

  It was like having children, she thought. No, it was not. If, one day, she had a child this would of course bind her. But for love, for delight! And a baby you could dump upon a competent sitter. A baby would not smile sweetly and say to you with saintly forbearance, “Please never let me interfere.” A baby interfered like a king in his kingdom! Then again, a baby you fed what he should have to make him grow, and if he didn’t like it, he let you know. A baby would not say to you, “Of course, my dear, that will be nice. We don’t eat a lot of cheese, either of us, but I am sure whatever you plan …” A baby was not a saintly forgiver of all your sins. A baby was human and a sinner, too.

  How long? thought Esther. When will it end? It’s all very fine to call her the albatross but it doesn’t get rid of her.

  She cast among her, relatives, in her mind, for someone to ask here. If house guests were coming, it would make an excuse. But Esther and Tom had entertained all the cousins and aunts from the East. There was nobody who would return so soon. Or, at least, she could think of nobody. And Tom would see through such a manoeuvre.

  She went glumly about her tasks. She’d stay home, at their service, today.

  Evidently Audrey was staying, too. Joan was out on the terrace at the back, sitting in the sun at the brink of the little decline. And Audrey, in her black, was mending in the shade. Esther let them alone. She worked. They sat.

  At eleven, the mailman came. Esther went out to the box on its post at the end of the front path. She riffled through the pile. Two ads, a communication from some bank, a bill of some kind in a windowed envelope. All for Caldwell! Not one piece of mail for Gardner. Everything for her, even the mail! It was a kind of last straw.

  Esther ducked between the house and the garage, where the breezeway roof arched over, and, since Joan sat nearest, she threw the mail into Joan’s lap. She tossed it a little rudely.

  Even so, Audrey looked up and said in her cooing way, “For us? Oh, thank you, Esther dear.”

  Esther was breathing fast. Her numbness had been the merest surface shell over her deep anger. The mail was a last straw. She felt as if she might scream like a shrew in a minute. She hurried into the kitchen. She had better not stay here, either, for lunch-time was near, and Audrey might come in with her please-to-be-allowed-to-help, disguising, thought Esther, grinding her teeth together, her curiosity about what are we going to have to eat and whether it suits her. She fled almost the full length of the kitchen and turned a corner to go through the dinette to her own end of the house. If I have any, thought Esther … and reeled suddenly and caught herself and came slap against the sidewall of th
e tall refrigertor.

  It was too much. Too much. All right, Esther Gardner was small, petty, human. Nevertheless, this was intolerable. Esther leaned on the cool enamel and shut her eyes. It was a personal crisis, and she absolutely had to get herself straightened out. I hate that woman, she confessed, forming the words, with a black, black hatred as black as her clothes. But I cannot throw her out of here. What am I going to do? Well, I mustn’t hate her. It hurts me. It hurts Tom. It makes everything miserable. The only thing in my control that I can do is learn not to hate her. So Esther prayed for the grace of charity.

  Then she heard them. Someone—Audrey, of course—opened the kitchen door and Joan’s chair came through. Esther, where she stood, could not see, but she could hear the tyres on the linoleum.

  She stood still. If they turned into their own room, or even if they passed through to the foyer and the living-room, Esther could still stand here in the lee of the refrigerator unobserved. And she had better. She did not trust herself to speak to them, just now.

  “She’s not in here,” Joan said. “Where did she go?”

  Audrey said, “She’s in her bedroom, I imagine.”

  “She’s not on the phone?” Joan said, anxiously. Esther heard the kitchen phone come off its cradle.

  “No,” said Audrey calmly.

  So? They eavesdropped and they spied, did they? As calmly as that! Anger, fresh and hot, flooded Esther’s veins. Then she felt triumphant. (It wasn’t a thing a saint would do! Listen in on the telephone!)

  “Maybe she didn’t see it, didn’t notice,” worried Joan.

  Esther was still. Notice? What?

  “Of course she didn’t notice,” soothed Audrey. “Esther doesn’t pry into our mail.”

  “But don’t you think she seemed a little—well, miffed?”

  “Oh, no,” said Audrey tolerantly. “That’s only Esther’s way. She slams around so impulsively. You’re imagining, Joan.”

  There was a silence.

  “You’re going to have to pay that bill, Audrey,” Joan said, in a low voice. “You’ll have to, or there will be more.…”

  “Yes, I know. I know”

  “And if you’re thinking of writing a cheque, just remember …”

  “Hush, I know. Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”