“Right,” said Morgan, “and do some work on the oven, in there. Mrs. Milbank has so many different kinds of electric stoves, she doesn’t use it. But it’s a mess. However, we can rent the two-rooms easily. At better profit. The painters can do both places while they are here. Makes it cheaper. You have to paint on occasion …”
Avery looked gloomy. “You got the painters lined up?”
“Yes. I thought I’d let Ida Milbank choose her own colors. Be a way to make her happy.”
Rose said, “Why bother to make her happy?” She smiled at Avery. “If she can’t pay the rent on two rooms she’ll have to go to the one-room. Simple enough.”
But Avery Patrick well understood the value of being indirect, of tackling people on the vain side, of doing things other than simply. He did not respond to Rose.
Morgan said, lightly, “While the painters are in they could do Mrs. Paull’s kitchen.”
“They will not,” said Avery savagely. “Keep the bills down.” He rose, ever a restless one. His eye fell upon Winnie, who had been demurely silent all the while. Winnie raised her eyes to him. She knew that Avery Patrick was male, divorced, and important to the family’s economic welfare. Winnie understood life very well, so she became female indeed, young and pure, and most obviously his grateful admirer.
Avery Patrick’s wise and nervous eye took note and immediate flight. So did his body.
“About Leila Hull,” Morgan said, pursuing him. “Something ought to be done about her, Avery. I mean it. It’s taking an awful chance.”
“You listen,” said Avery. “Not until you rent 109—or III as it works out—am I going to take any chance of letting Leila Hull out of 203. Her bills get paid, don’t they? Frankly, that’s what counts.”
When he had gone, Winnie began to explain to her mother that she probably wouldn’t be home until pretty late, after school. There was this club meeting …
Rose grudgingly accepted the news.
Morgan Lake had an intuition. Now he thought he knew why Winnie had come home to lunch. Winnie had wanted to work it so as to get away free this afternoon. Winnie was “handling” her mother. (There was probably no club meeting. God knew what there was.)
But he couldn’t question, accuse or interfere. He could not reach Winnie, in word or in spirit. He had to let her go whatever way she was going. His wife, Rose, stood as she always had stood, fiercely between.
He went out into the lobby and let Kelly Shane, who had been relieving him at the desk, go about Kelly’s own work. Winnie skipped through in a moment. “Bye, Dad.” Morgan Lake had a few moments of depression. What kind of life had he? A buffer, buffeted from all sides. And no one to love, in the sense of communion and understanding, nothing to keep him alive except his own lonely secret one-sided reaching to understand them all … every one.
All the “things” that Nona Henry had to “do” she did in one day. The banking, some more-thoughtful marketing, the writing of the “arrived safe” letter, the unpacking and rearranging, then the pressing and the rinsing out.’
On the following day she already found herself thinking of a trip to the store for the evening’s meat as a high spot. She was a little dismayed to perceive this. But there was nobody, and nobody’s wishes, to shape her days for her. She must get used to it.
For several days she remained alone, and in the apartment most of the time. She tried her best to rest. (She must, in some way, consolidate herself. This was necessary.) But there was no present tense. Whenever she thought of the past, the procession of scenes from her married life would go flapping through her mind, just as before. When she thought of the future, it had no sequence at all. It was a confusion of possibilities that hopped like popcorn in a pan. She might sight-see. She might go to theatre or concerts. She might read, seriously. She might sit in the sun and breathe deeply. She might reduce. She might sew. She might make new friends, but not yet. She could do nothing until her wounds (whatever they were) had begun to heal. But there was no “now” in which they were healing.
She might go to a doctor. Find help? No. Not yet. Wait and see.
She would, of course, sally forth in this new world when she was rested and felt stronger. She would explore. Experience something. But not yet. Not today. She didn’t have the energy. She felt timid about it.
She began to sit behind the glass curtains in her living room, to watch the comings and going in the patio below, and to distinguish certain patterns.
Two of the tenants must have jobs of some kind since they always scurried out of the building at a quarter after eight in the morning, wearing staid and dignified clothing, and they returned—not together but in close sequence—at about six P.M. One of these was very thin and always wore blue. The other was flabby and faded and usually wore beige.
There were also two women who went in and out together in a variety of costumes at a variety of hours. One of these was tall and thick and minced when she walked as if her shoes were too tight. The other was short and thick and walked with her toes turned out. They passed by, always talking, gesturing, tapping each other’s forearms, sometimes giggling. Nona guessed they were the two who “went a lot” as Harriet Gregory had told her. Gadabouts. One of them, then, lived in the angle apartment on this floor.
Another pair. That dainty little old lady and the fortyish woman with fair hair moved in and out together with slow grace, as the younger one accommodated to the older woman’s pace. Nona knew that the older woman was Mrs. Fitzgibbon (Mrs. Fitz) who lived directly across the hall. The younger one would be this Georgia Oliver, who was engaged to be married again. Sometimes these two sat peacefully together in the sun, on the bench where Nona had first seen them, near the fountain.
Then there was the huge woman in black who stalked in the majesty of her size along the walk, with a mousy little woman sometimes scurrying beside her.
Some of the widows traveled alone. Nona recognized Harriet Gregory. And that Mrs. Rogan. Separate.
Nona never saw a man in the patio who looked as if he lived here. But there was a man. She wondered.
She observed wistfully that, alone or in pairs, most of the widows came and went as if they had something to do. She wondered if there were other eyes who also watched, alone, from other windows.
One thing she noticed. Just inside the arch at the corner, there was a gray wooden bench against the encircling wall, hidden among a clump of trees that had, perhaps, grown thick and high since the bench had been put there. From Nona’s eastern bedroom window her angle of sight struck down and behind those trees, but she began to think that the bench would be visible from no other window. (For the same window, directly below, would be too low.)
Every afternoon, at about five o’clock, a figure slipped through the arch and turned to sink down upon this bench. It would wait there perhaps ten, perhaps fifteen minutes. Nona knew who it was. One of the colored maids, the one named Elise (who, in fact, did Nona’s own apartment on Fridays). Evidently she was in the habit of waiting there, after work, for someone to pick her up in a car.
Nona was faintly amused. She thought it was no harm, of course, but she wondered whether the colored woman would have been forbidden the patio, had anyone known.
She wondered all alone.
Nona began to feel ashamed of this sitting and watching. Was she, then, nothing? An observer only? Nothing, in herself? Then the scenes of her life would go rushing by, and one of them began to take on an ugly look.
One day Nona found herself sitting with clenched hand, her teeth tight, her mouth contorted. Well? Had she not been robbed? Had not Dodie connived with Silas Jones to take those bonds from the safe-deposit box, while Val was so ill and Nona paying no attention? Those negotiable bonds risked, now, on Silas and his hardware store? But Val could not have promised to lend them to Silas on a personal note! Could not have done such a thing, without even talking to Nona about it! Those bonds had been for Nona’s safety. They were a part of Val’s love and Val’s care and this belon
ged to Nona and should not have been violated. Never, never would Val have promised them.… So that was a lie! How could Nona have believed it! No wonder she had been unhappy in their home. They were guilty toward her and they knew it and—
Nona stopped this in a panic. What evil suspicion rising up like scum here? Why Dodie was her child, her beloved, and anything Nona had she would gladly give to Dodie, her beloved child. They had not lied. No. Never think it. If they had, perhaps, misinterpreted something Val had said, why Nona could forgive them. Had forgiven them already. Could understand. Was not stingy or greedy or begrudging. Had faith in them, loved them, would sacrifice for them. Had, indeed, done so. Why, she had come far away and was here, so alone, so broken away from everything she had ever known, for their sakes, really! And greater love had no woman … Nona wept.
When common sense dried her eyes and washed her face, she fled the silent apartment. She went down to sit in the patio herself. Sat, feeling eyes upon her.
Went to the market and pinched fruit and bought none.
Did not even cook a supper. Ate a sandwich, walking, walking back and forth.
Went, at last, to lie on her bed fully clothed.
Could not bear it.
Pulled and heaved at the bed until it angled across the window and she could lie there and stare down into the street. Something might be alive down there, she thought pathetically. And jeered at her own pathos. Tomorrow, she would …
She saw a car, a convertible with the top down, slide to the curb directly below. It would be hidden from every other eye in Sans Souci (unless Ursula Fitzgibbon was also lying in the dark on a bed that was out of place so that she could hunt the night for something, anything, to think about).
There was a boy or a man at the wheel, and a female beside him, sitting so close that the front seat could have held two more.
Nona saw them kiss. Saw them begin to wrestle and strain together. Knew they were young.
Nona hid her face. (I am fifty!)
When she looked out again the girl—for now on the dim edge of the street lights’ reach she could see that it was a girl—was getting out. The boy slipped to the curb side of the car. They talked in low voices. The girl stepped away. He called after her, raising his voice. “Hey, Winnie?”
“I’ve got to go in,” the girl said clearly, desperately.
“Baby?” he said, not pleading but commanding. “Tomorrow?”
The girl must have answered by a gesture. She must have walked away. The boy leaned over the side of the car in silent watching for a moment. Then the car made loud noises going away.
Nona Henry found herself scrambling on all fours, off the bed, across the floor, to the other window. Yes, there she was, the girl, just inside the arch now. She had her arms up. She was combing her hair. In a little while, Nona saw her walking down the center of the wide pavement, passing through light and shadow. Dark head, slender waist, graceful legs, so young and lithe, and the nimble young feet …!
In the darkness above, Nona’s face was hot.
Oh God, what am I? Oh God, what am I? Oh God, what am I?” It was indecent to spy at life. Perhaps it was dangerous.
Chapter 5
Early the next afternoon, a thin woman with a long jaw and black-and-white hair that was about as tamed as an old mop was waiting for the elevator. Nona changed her own mind about taking the stairs. This woman had a stack of library books under her arm. When Nona showed signs of taking the elevator, too, the woman smiled. “It’s slow, isn’t it?” she said cheerfully. “Somebody is getting on, I suppose.”
Nona said, “I beg your pardon, but could you tell me where the public library is?”
“I’d be delighted. Why don’t you come with me, right now? I’m driving there. My name is Daisy Robinson.”
“I am Nona Henry.”
“Oh yes, you’re new, I believe. I’m on my way to the library, as I imagine you can see. I could sponsor you, if you want a card.”
“That would be awfully good of you.” Nona nearly stuttered.
“Not at all. Come along.”
The elevator door opened and Georgia Oliver held it for Mrs. Fitzgibbon to emerge. “Oh, Daisy,” said this lady in a soft voice, “were we keeping you waiting? I’m so sorry.”
“That’s all right,” said Daisy Robinson.
Mrs. Fitzgibbons’ lovely purplish eyes met Nona’s. “How do you do?” she said graciously. “We are neighbors, Mrs. Henry. I’ve meant to speak to you before. I am Ursula Fitzgibbon and this is Georgia Oliver.”
“I’m so glad to know you,” said the fair-haired younger woman, with a sweet smile.
Nona felt flustered by an encounter with three people, all at once, after so many solitary hours.
“If you ladies don’t mind,” said Daisy Robinson dryly, “I’d like to get along to the library. Mrs. Henry is going with me.”
“Oh, of course,” said Mrs. Fitzgibbon. “But please, do let us be neighborly.”
Nona thanked her with a grateful heart. What an adorable little old lady!
But Daisy Robinson urged her into the elevator and pushed the button. Nona found that they were sinking down past the lobby floor into the basement. She had never been here before. It seemed to be a garage.
Other men besides Avery Patrick kept cars in the garage of Sans Souci. Oppie Etting kept his old Buick down there, sometimes. Kelly Shane, who lived in what could only be called a slum, owned a handsome Mercury. It was his acceptable outlet for pride of possession, and stood there, shining. Avery Patrick’s Cadillac was by no means as bright and clean and shining as the houseman’s car.
Morgan Lake kept no automobile. He felt that all the extra expenses involved were too many to pay for the small amount of driving he would be able to do.
The widows kept few cars.
There was Harriet Gregory’s battered old Chevvy, and Felice Paull’s old Ford. There was Bettina Goodenough’s fairly new Ford. There was Daisy Robinson’s middle-aged Plymouth.
The widows were, on the whole, living too close to their economic margin to run cars, or else they were too old, or too timid, being alone now, to face the traffic any more. So they walked, or took buses, or, on gala occasions, called a cab. This, in Southern California (Daisy Robinson explained to Nona), was terribly limiting. Daisy herself would run a car as long as she could.
She put Nona and the load of books into the Plymouth and bucked it up the steep ramp. As they burst into the street Nona felt pleased and excited, as if she had embarked on a great adventure.
At the public library, however, it was just like Harriet Gregory in the market. Nona did not know her way in this place. But Daisy did. Did Nona enjoy anthropology? If so, Daisy had just read an enchanting new book. Perhaps it was in. Daisy would inquire. Was Nona interested in English history? Then she must take this really fine biography of Richard the Third. Admirable. And how about the Dead Sea Scrolls? So fascinating. This account was the best yet, in Daisy’s opinion.
Nona, who had been thinking of a novel or two, and perhaps a couple of mystery stories, was intimidated. She took the books Daisy recommended and Daisy was pleased. So delightful, she said, to meet someone who could read. It was shocking to Daisy how few books there were in Sans Souci. She herself read so enormously that she could not, of course, afford to own books. Except a few indispensable favorites.
“Let’s go to the Huntington,” said Daisy Robinson impulsively, as they emerged. “It’s open. I would enjoy introducing it to a sympathetic person.”
“Where?” asked Nona feebly.
“The Huntington Library,” said Daisy. “Surely you’ve heard of that. We are not far. Of course, you realize, one cannot read there unless, as a scholar, one can get a card. But there are the manuscript exhibits. And the paintings.”
Nona swallowed. She felt at odds with her own nature. Did Daisy Robinson think she was a scholar? Was Nona required to state bluntly that she was no such thing? “Of course, I’d love to see it,” Nona murmured. “You
will have to excuse me, Mrs. Robinson, if I seem literally dumb, today. I’ve been alone for a week. My throat feels rusty.”
“It is not wise,” said Daisy, clashing fenders with the next car as she unparked, and simply ignoring this as if it were routine, “to become a hermit. Unless you have great resources within yourself.”
“I don’t know that I have any,” said Nona humbly.
“I am a widow and I have been told that you are another,” said Daisy amiably.
“Yes.” Nona didn’t know whether to be annoyed, or very glad indeed, that her name had been spoken in Sans Souci.
“The problem for us,” said Daisy, “is not only living alone but growing old, alone. I have my theory. As one grows older, the body inevitably stiffens …” She passed a small truck on the truck’s right. It took a frightened leap but Daisy paid no attention. “The mind, however, does not necessarily stiffen,” said Daisy triumphantly. “So surely it is wise to go on with the mind.”
“I suppose that is so,” said Nona. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. I suppose I haven’t really been thinking …”
They were crossing what appeared to be the main street of the city and Nona gasped. “What on earth!”
The entire street was trimmed with great arching garlands of stars and wreaths and bells. The tinny elements of the decorations clashed together in the gentle warm breeze and the bright sun glittered and flashed upon the tinsel.
“Christmas is coming,” said Daisy Robinson. “We don’t have the climate for it, so the merchants take great pains to remind us. Yes, right after Thanksgiving. Isn’t it ridiculous?” The car scuttled across on a yellow light.
“As I was saying about the hermit life,” resumed Daisy, “it is not wise to shut oneself up in Sans Souci. For one thing, Felice Paull might roust you out.” Mrs. Robinson had a wolfish grin. “We have a hermit, you see, and thereby hangs a tale. We are going to the Huntington? Or so I am assuming.”
“I’d love to go,” said Nona, clenching her toes, not sure they would get there, wherever it was, with Daisy Robinson at the wheel.
Seventeen Widows of Sans Souci Page 5