Seven Seats to the Moon

by Charlotte Armstrong

  “Oh …” But J stopped himself from objecting. If she thought she could, she must be allowed to try. Who was he to say she couldn’t?

  “And afterward, as soon as Avery learns how to be by himself, I’ll work, of course.”

  “Well,” said J, “we can wait and see about that.”

  Amy leaned back against his shoulder and sighed. He could feel her weariness, and he could feel her trust. Then she said, “Pops, you know I enjoyed it.”

  “What’s this?”

  “I darned near enjoyed it, anyhow,” she said. “The job. So many kinds of people. Trying to match what they can do with what needs doing. Trying to help both sides. If that’s what the job is, you know, I don’t mind business.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” said J. “Business is not all people trying to help one another. Oh-ho, no. People in business can get into the kinds of fights that two-year-olds have got to the bottom of and abandoned.”

  “I’ll bet.” Amy cozied her dark head to his shoulder. “But then you’ve just got to cool them all down? Is that what you do, Pops?”

  “Oh, I tell them where to head in, I do,” said J absurdly pleased, absurdly happy.

  “I’m going to be darned good at it,” said Amy abruptly. “Pops, would you do one more thing for me?”

  “Why, sure.” His spirit coiled around her to save, but let her be, since otherwise he could not save her.

  “I was thinking. You know, Avery has … this talent?”

  “I was thinking about that, too,” said J somberly.

  “But it might be,” she said, “that he could express it in music. It might be so! He has an excellent ear. He sees sound in some funny way. He’s even tried to paint it. And they say there’s compensation, and his hearing could get even better. So—Win is selling off a lot of stuff, he told me. The house and all. I wondered if I could possibly have their piano? Cheap?”

  “Good idea,” said J (concealing surprise at this news of Win). “Darned good idea! Why not? Avery’s got to do what he alone can do. I know that.” (Amy concealed surprise.) “A piano and a tape recorder, maybe?” J went on. “Wouldn’t have to write, eh? You’re darned tooting I’ll see to the piano. Right away.”

  Amy said sleepily, “I’m glad you came.”

  “Can you rest?” he said quickly. (Oh, the dark road this child must go!) “Come home, Amy. In between. When you can.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I will. I sure will.”

  After having called Sophia, J took off looking neither to the right nor the left, but straight ahead, to do what more he could for Amy. He was thinking that Avery had to have a seat to the moon. How did the race know it didn’t need a blind painter? Who could say what might not come out of that? Not J.

  There were at least three clumps of strangers touring the long spread of the house when J arrived. The place had already acquired the subtle air of a house about to change hands. Win had long ago called the hospital for news of Avery and knew that he had survived the surgery, but he did not know, until J told him, that Avery’s sight was almost gone.

  Both Win and Marion were so stricken by this news that they seemed to have received a strong yank at the patterns of their anxieties. Some trifles fell away. Of course, they’d give Avery the piano. Win said, with heavy cheer, that he’d even have it tuned.

  J told them there was no need for them to go to the hospital. Avery had to be absolutely immobile and quiet. He could not be seen. As for Amy, she was about exhausted and would soon be going to the house in Burbank. Driving herself. Wanted the old car with her. She’d make it.

  “Sure, she will,” her brother said. “Of course, she will,” said Marion.

  So J telephoned Sophia again. (She had already told him that Nanjo had confessed to being with that miserable boy. It seemed that she had been more or less blackmailed—Sophia did not say how—into meeting him last evening. But Nanjo had seen her chance to get away and had actually, in the traditional manner of good girls, “walked home.” She hadn’t wanted to tell her parents; she’d been ashamed; she’d known they’d be distressed and so on. Oh, how could they help Amy?)

  So now J said, “How’s everything?”

  “Fair enough,” Sophia said. “Amy called. Avery’s doing as well … and so forth. She’s on her way home, thank God.”

  “Good. Tell her she’s got the piano.”

  “Good. Tell Win and flock to come here, why don’t you? They’ll be wanting to see Amy.”

  “I’ll tell them. Be home soon.”

  “Take a little time out,” Sophia said. (Everybody was tired.) “Oh, I forgot to say, before … There was a limousine or something came looking for you. I didn’t answer the door. And somebody called an hour and a half ago, wanting to know where you could be reached.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say. Man’s voice, a kind of purring effect.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Just that our son-in-law was in the hospital, and you’d been called away.”

  “Okay,” said J. “Hold the fort,” he added.

  “Certainly,” said Sophia merrily.

  As he hung up, J did not feel in the least depressed, either. The family was acting, dealing with its affairs. J was in the middle, functioning. No point in being depressed. No time for that.

  Win said they’d surely come to the house later on. “Dad, have you got a minute?”

  They were in Win’s den, which was on the street side of the house and was not an “area.” It had an old-fashioned door that could be closed. Strange people were shuffling through the house. Win closed the door. Marion crept into the couch corner. The Little kids were out in their play yard.

  Win said, “First, I am definitely not getting the account I had hoped to get. So I’m cutting back my staff. I’ll survive. That’s maybe not so easy, but I will.”

  “Good enough, eh?” said J with a cheerful shrug.

  “We’re selling out here, as you see. I don’t know why it is that I handle money in the office better than at home. I suppose I’m forced to be solid and reputable, there; I couldn’t gamble at all without that basic chip. But here … I’m over my head, all right. Which is no way to serve my profession.” (J caught the communication between husband and wife.) “I’ve got an obligation to meet on Monday, and I just can’t do it,” Win went on. “Going to be short. We’ve got rid of one car, Marion’s coat, but two paintings and the silver are on consignment, and even if we sell the house this afternoon, I can’t touch any considerable cash before escrow.”

  “The five thousand, is it?” said J.

  “It’s six. There were other outstanding …”

  “What’s the missing difference?” J said steadily.

  “I’m not asking you for it,” said Win. “That’s not the reason I’m telling you all this. You’ve got to know that I used Grandmother Alice’s bonds from the safe-deposit for collateral.”

  “I see,” said J. (His mother had left in her will some bonds to each son. J had had his share long ago. Willy’s share had gone to his only child. But Winnie’s share had reverted to his father. The old gentleman had always vowed he would never touch them. They were destined for the namesake. For Win. Someday.)

  “Old Mr. Little,” Marion was saying, “told him that he could, Dad. For thirty days. He said so. Win didn’t steal them.”

  “No,” said J, “I wasn’t thinking so. Gambled with them, did you, Win?”

  “They’re secured,” said Win. “But the hitch is Grandfather says he wants them cashed in now. He’s got some deal going that Uncle Tobias arranged with Mr. Pudney.”

  J groaned.

  “So,” said Win, “as soon as the rush dies down around here, I’ll be going down to see Grandfather. No use stalling. Nothing is going to make up the missing difference by Monday. So I’ll go down and lay it on the line.”

  “But Win had permission,” said Marion stubbornly. “The old gentleman just forgets. You understand, do
n’t you?” Then she realized that there was something here she did not understand and fell quiet.

  Win was looking out the window. “I could repeat that phone conversation word for word,” he said. “If I’d had it recorded, most people would have to believe that he did definitely give me permission.”

  “But?” said J.

  “But you know, Dad, just as I know. My grandfather really did not understand what he was saying.”

  “So, no contract?” said J.

  “That’s right,” said Win. “As good as stealing.”

  “No,” said Marion in pain.

  But Win was shaking his head. “Dad understands,” he said gently. “I won’t go to jail, honey. Grandfather will be—disappointed in me.”

  “He’s already upset,” said J, shaking his shoulders looser. “He wants to see me about a moral dilemma.”

  “Ow,” said Win, and it wasn’t humorous.

  J got up. “Well, it so happens that I’m going down there and tell him that he is not selling those bonds.”

  “What?”

  “And no more needs to be said,” said J. “If he has discovered that the bonds are gone, I’ll say, ‘Of course they’re gone. You gave Win permission, whether you knew it or not. They are secured,’ I’ll say. That’s right?”

  Win said, “That’s right, but I wish you wouldn’t. It’s not your problem.”

  “I don’t doubt you wish I wouldn’t,” said J, “but I happen to be in the middle here, and I have a problem you don’t seem to understand. He’s my father. And you, my son, can’t see past your own nose.”

  Win sat down.

  Marion said angrily, “Win could have pretended …”

  J thought, she’s got the fine point. He didn’t say so but smiled at her with affection and said instead, “I’m getting on down there because I want to know what Pudney is up to, what the money is buying, and who conned my father into touching those bonds. And if it was Tobias, he’ll hear from me.”

  “I may take after Uncle Tobias, somewhat,” said Win painfully.

  “I doubt Tobias gambles much,” said J. “He’s pretty careful to cheat only cheaters. Whether you are a cheat or just slightly stupid, that’s up to you to figure out. What you are not seeing is this. There’s such a thing as protecting the innocent. My father doesn’t need you meowling.” (J remembered Barkis’ word.) “He needs me. Because there comes a day when a man’s child is father to the man.” (He thought, but that day hasn’t come for you, my son. Not yet!)

  Win looked exactly like his mother suddenly. As if he could hear, as she so often did, a body’s thought.

  Marion had fled J’s unbearable affection and was standing at the window. She said sharply, “Win! There’s a man out there! I won’t have him watching the Little kids.” She turned and with ferocious purpose opened the door and ran through the rooms to gather her children to herself.

  Win was at the window. J joined him. There was a car pulled up behind J’s. J said, “Oh, that man? He’s after me.”

  “After you!” said Win, astonished. “He came here with Marietta—I meant to call Ma … Who is he?”

  “Tell you what you do,” said J. “You call the police. Tell them there’s a suspicious loiterer, and you’ve got small children, and you don’t like it.”

  “But why, Dad?” Win was bewildered.

  “Because I’ve got things to do, and I can’t be bothered.” He looked sideways at his son. “Take a chance? Help me, blind?”

  “Of course,” his son said.

  The strangers in the house noticed nothing of its fluster, the mother with her children, the father on the phone, the grandfather watching slyly out the window. The timing worked out well. At the first sound of the siren J went out and got quickly into his car. Win, on his heels, swiftly approached Goodrick. When the police car turned into the curve of the street (just as J turned out of it), Win was standing in front of Goodrick’s car, signaling them to stop here. Here was the trouble.

  J chuckled and drove on, although what he had to chuckle about he did not analyze, nor why he felt so fine.

  Goodrick, having worked very hard to discover which hospital harbored Avery, and having got on to J’s tracks there, was alone. He was forced to maintain that he had come to inspect a house that was for sale. Win said it was not for sale to him, and he did not believe that Goodrick was here for that reason. The cops, who believed nobody one way or the other, listened to both sides very conscientiously before letting Goodrick go.

  J, by now, was on the San Diego Freeway heading through the hills, once more, toward Santa Monica.

  At the house in Burbank Nanjo was very glad when her sister came, whom her mother must receive and surround with all the concentrated passion of her sorrowing heart. Sophia put Amy down on Sophia’s own bed, fed her, cosseted, and listened to her.

  So Nanjo, wearing her green capris, green blouse, and sweater, sat by the telephone, and whenever it rang told the caller, and most particularly her own cronies, that the line had to be kept open. Sorry. Could not talk. Her brother-in-law was in the hospital.

  When Annette called, therefore, Nanjo told her very firmly that her father was not at home, her father was very busy, there was nowhere he could be reached, he had no time, right now, for anyone but the family.

  She hung up with a brief feeling of triumph. She had, by some miraculous strength, so far kept from telling her mother all of it. However, by now, Nanjo had a doubt gnawing on her which she did not wish to examine closely and dared not expose. Nanjo tried not to think too much. If she were going to keep on successfully in this course, she had better not think about Cal, the gardener, at all.

  As for Cary Bruce, Nanjo didn’t care where he was. If he was in jail, so much the better. Her mother had wanted to know if Nanjo wanted to go and see him. But that was ridiculous! Nanjo never wanted to see him again. He was guilty, wasn’t he? (Oh, was she?)

  “Ah, J,” said his father. “When I came upon this, I was very much shaken. Look at this verse. Ben Jonson wrote it to be placed opposite the Droueshout engraving in the First Folio.”

  J looked, lying low, waiting and listening.

  “Now, you have heard that Baconians, in particular, keep finding ciphers in the works. They are never valid. They are not true ciphers. Those who pretend to find them are rightfully despised as brainless wishful thinkers.” His father’s voice was quavering. “Oxfordians have also been known to find such ciphers. I do not believe in ciphers. Have never! Yet, in that verse, I have found a perfectly valid cipher message which may say that the Earl of Oxford wrote the plays. But it cannot be so!” The old gentleman pounded his desk. “That—that arrogant ninny!” Grosvenor Winthrop Little III steadied himself.

  “I do not, for instance, believe,” he went on with less heat, “that he was ever called Ver! Edward de Vere, the Earl of Oxford? He signed himself Edward Oxenford. But Ver is a designation that suits the wishful idiots. It can be said to mean true, you see, or green or spring. And even the common word ‘ever’ becomes loaded with ridiculous double meanings. I don’t believe it!”

  The old gentleman was very much upset.

  “Just where do you see this—uh—cipher, Father?” J asked gently.

  “You know what a poetic foot is? Here. Slash those lines into feet. Four to a line. Here. I’ve done it.”

  J looked at the paper on which his father had done it.

  This Fig / ure that / thou here / seest put, /

  It was / for gen / tle Shake / speare cut; /

  Wherein / the Gra / ver had / a strife /

  With Nat / ure, to / out-doo / the life; /

  O, could / he but / have drawne / his wit /

  As well / in brasse, / as he / hath hit /

  His face; / the Print / would then / surpasse /

  All, that / was e / ver writ / in brasse. /

  But, since / he can / not, Read /er, looke /

  Not on / his Pict / ure, but / his Booke.

  B.I.

&n
bsp; “Now,” said his father, pointing to the signature, “B is the second letter in the alphabet. I and J (in those times interchangeable) make the ninth letter. Nine and two add up to eleven, you will agree?

  “So count to the eleventh foot. Extract it. From that, count to the ninth foot following. Extract it. Count eleven more. Then nine. It is not,” hs father mourned, “to be attacked as an improper cipher. Reason tells me so.”

  J did what he had been told to do and read off the result. “Ver had his wit, Ver writ his Booke. Well, well,” J was impressed.

  “How can I honestly omit this from any account of my researches?” his father said passionately, “Is it not my moral duty to reveal it, although it will give my enemies ammunition against me? As far as I know, no one has noticed this before. I could simply keep quiet. But would that be right, J? You see my dilemma?”

  J felt an astonished relief. No thought of Win or the bonds was in his father’s mind. J began to feel touched and fond. The old-fashioned code, he thought, the delicate conscience, the fine point—lost in the shuffle of modern mores, yet existing. Yet handed down to haunt the young, although they knew not whence it came.

  But J roused to stop meowling to himself and say something helpful. The matter needed more study, he suggested. Perhaps there was another meaning in this. His father was dubious about the meaning of those three letters V E R? Then might they have a meaning not yet correctly interpreted? Could not, for instance, the syllables be just the two letters, the E and the R?

  His father listened and was comforted. “Not Elizabeth Regina,” he said scornfully. “Yet, I believe you are right, J. I should take the middle course, here. Neither suppress this discovery nor announce it with fanfares until I, myself, thoroughly understand it. Yes. Well. Telephone, would you, J, to Mr. Thomas at this number, and say to him that I fear the book must be delayed, pending a great deal more work on my part?”

  “I’ll be glad to, Father. There’s one more thing. You do know that Win has used my mother’s bonds temporarily?”

  “What’s that? Oh, yes, I suppose … Young Winthrop did call, I believe. By the way, J, would you mind telling young Winthrop that he need not fetch the bonds to me after all?”