Very Old Money

by Stanley Ellin

  Of course, she thought, the protocol. Apparently the servant supplied the ice-breaking hello on arrival. She cleared her throat. “Good-morning, Miss Durie.”

  “It seems to be, Lloyd. Place the tray here. You may go, Hegnauer.”

  Hegnauer did not go. From that look in her eye, Amy thought, she’s waiting for me to make a mess of this waitress act. Knock over the coffeepot, drop the newspaper, and faint away. The hell with her. Amy lowered the legs of the tray and set it on the silvery quilted counterpane over Ma’am’s knees, then wondered what to do with the newspaper. There were night tables on both sides of the bed, but this one close by was cluttered with a pair of telephones and two large flat plastic control panels studded with push buttons. Trusting she wasn’t violating any house rule, she gently balanced the newspaper on the edge of the bed away from those outstretched legs.

  No rules violated it seemed because “Off you go, Hegnauer,” said Ma’am. This time there was a warning in the voice, and this time Hegnauer did go. The sound of the hallway door probably meant that she was on the way to the staff hall for her own breakfast now.

  The sightless eyes pivoted toward Amy. It was disconcerting, she found, that they were directed well below her own eye level, a misjudgment there. And the realization that blindness would make this room pitch black, everything in it concealed by impenetrable blackness, suddenly struck her like a small sharp blow to the diaphragm.

  Ma’am made no move toward her breakfast. “Difficult at moments, our Hegnauer,” she remarked, “but refreshingly direct in answering the direct question. I asked her what you looked like. She said,”—the fluting voice dropped to a simulation of Hegnauer’s guttural—“‘She is tall and skinny with red hair and she will not win any beauty contest.’ Not a bad quality, that outspokenness.”

  Not unless it’s aimed at you, ma’am, Amy thought with irritation. And what would you know about that?

  “Now,” said Ma’am, “tell me what she looks like.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “You heard the question, Lloyd. Don’t make me repeat it while you contrive an answer. Do you know the advice Alice was given in that situation?”

  Alice. Alice? “Oh, Alice in Wonderland,” said Amy. “Yes. ‘Curtsey while you’re thinking what to say.’”

  “Well, now.” Ma’am did seem pleased. “You are well informed in some ways, aren’t you? But never mind the curtsey. How would you describe Hegnauer?”

  A trap, Amy thought. I am Alice going headlong down the rabbit hole and when Mike kept saying unreal, unreal he knew what he was talking about. And how do you describe Hegnauer anyhow without putting your size-ten foot in your mouth?

  “She looks very strong, ma’am.”

  “And she is. But with remarkably gentle hands. The strong can afford to have gentle hands, can’t they? The weak cannot. You brought the paper, Lloyd? You placed it on the bed here?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good.” Ma’am pointed. “Now draw that chair up. Observe its imprint on the carpet; it must be returned to exactly that place. Be careful. It’s heavier than it looks.”

  It was heavier than it looked, flat white leather pads for seat and back mounted on shiny metal tubing. Amy placed it beside the bed and was poised to sit on command when Ma’am pointed again. “That birdcage. Just to prevent distraction, cover it.”

  The ornate birdcage—it appeared to be a minipagoda made of silver wire—hung from a stand in a corner of the room. Its occupant, Amy saw when she peered closely, was a canary that looked absolutely wretched. It stood on a perch, eyes closed, head thrust down into its shoulders, if that’s what they could be called. When Amy worked a finger through the wiring and along the perch it made no move.

  “Playing with it, Lloyd?” Ma’am said uncannily. “I only asked you to cover the cage.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The cover dangling from a cross-piece of the stand appeared to be made of a section of discarded garment, wildly patterned and crudely stitched together into a cylindrical piece. While Amy was working it down over the cage Ma’am remarked, “The bird’s name is Philomela, Lloyd. Do you think it a suitable name?”

  “Well, ma’am, Philomela was a bird, so it’s not unsuitable.”

  “Indeed? What kind of bird?”

  “A nightingale, ma’am.”

  “Yes, go on.”

  “But a girl originally. Then raped by her brother-in-law, who cut out her tongue so she couldn’t tell about it. In the end, the gods avenged her and then turned her into a nightingale.”

  “Avenged her how, Lloyd?”

  Back to school, Amy thought. Friday morning orals in Greek mythology. “Well, ma’am, the rapist’s wife did find out what happened, and she killed their son and served him to her husband as dinner.”

  “Very good, Lloyd. An adequate vengeance, would you say?”

  “Perhaps more than adequate, ma’am.”

  “Not at all. A just vengeance can never be more than adequate. It must be all-consuming, all-fulfilling. That is why the original Philomela is immortal. My niece gave me that bird as a well-intentioned gift, Lloyd. Have you met her? Mrs. Langfeld?”

  “Yes, very briefly,” Amy said, and waited with trepidation for what was coming.

  What does she look like, Lloyd? How would you describe her?

  The meditative one, ma’am? Well, to put it as succinctly as possible, she looks like Miss Piggy. In a caftan.

  But it didn’t come. Ma’am said, “She and I once had a discussion where I explained why I dislike small animals about me. Pets, so-called. Dogs are always blundering into one, cats slyly get underfoot. But Mrs. Langfeld is kin in her way to Saint Francis, passionately in love with all of God’s little creatures. She gave me that bird as my Christmas portion last year, perhaps as a means of investing me with the spirit of Saint Francis. Now tell me, Lloyd, do you think he would have caged one of those birds he so much loved?”

  Another trap, Amy thought. Even deeper than Alice’s rabbit hole. Answering yes didn’t make any sense here. But answer no, and next thing, this merrily malicious old woman could pass that judgment along to Gwen Langfeld, who’d then have her own score to settle with this beleaguered waitress-secretary-administrator-whatever.

  Ma’am cut in on the thought. “Prefer not to answer that, Lloyd?”

  “Well, it does seem rather a rhetorical question.”

  Ma’am laughed deep in her throat. “You are a clever girl, aren’t you? Now sit down and find the obituary section of the paper. I want you to read me the obituary index, never mind the encomiums.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Amy reached for the Times on the edge of the bed and took notice of the tray. She screwed up her courage. “If you don’t mind, ma’am, your breakfast. I’m afraid it’s getting cold.”

  Ma’am dipped her head in acknowledgment. “Quite right. Kind of you to remind me of it, Lloyd.”

  Amy sat back with a glow of self-satisfaction to scout out the obits. Then as she opened the paper to them the glow faded. Preening herself at age twenty-five, she wondered, because she had just gotten a pat on the head from the unpredictable mistress?

  She folded the paper for easier reading of the boxed column listing the late departed, then found herself fascinated by the unpredictable mistress’s handling of her breakfast tray. Those fingertips, the nails scarlet, explored the tray, lightly brushing over everything on it with a butterfly touch. Then nerve-rackingly the coffee was poured—

  “Lloyd?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Amy and bent to her labors. “Abrams,” she read. “Beaufort. Benedict. Dolfman” and so on to the end, taking notice along the way that Ma’am, neglecting coffee and brioche, was now lying back against the pillows, eyes closed, face a mask of concentration.

  Anticipating bad news? Amy wondered. An old friend dying? Or good news? An old enemy dying. Although it was hard to conjecture what enemies Margaret Durie could have made in her fifty years of darkness. After the reading was ov
er and apparently no name had struck a spark, Ma’am’s reaction suggested that this, in fact, was the good news. No name. Nobody there for her to mourn. She sat up briskly, bit into the brioche although it couldn’t have been that tempting anymore.

  She patted her lips with the napkin. “You read well, Lloyd. Tell me, do you find this a macabre procedure?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Wise of you, because in the midst of life we are indeed in death. At my age especially, familiar names show up more and more on that page. That means, Lloyd, that each day you’re on duty, we’ll start this way. Regrettably, on your days off Hegnauer must attend to it. Do you read braille?”

  “No, I don’t. But I’m sure that if I—”

  “I’m not asking you to learn the method, Lloyd. I’m quite fluent in it myself. I was merely curious. Is there any art news in this edition? Art, meaning the fine arts.”

  Amy located the section. “Not much, ma’am. A few paragraphs and a few advertisements.”

  “Nothing about the Jason Cook Gallery?”

  Amy looked closely. “No, there isn’t.”

  “A newcomer,” said Ma’am. “Brash. A bit scandalous. But mark that name, Lloyd. The Jason Cook Gallery. Do you object to the scandalous in art?”

  It was not only dizzying to be subjected to these conversational gambits, Amy thought, but tiring. She had the feeling she was getting winded just keeping up with them. Although what was the worst that could happen if she didn’t keep up with them?

  What, indeed. Off with her head, the Red Queen would order McEye.

  Even so. “I’m afraid,” Amy said, “I don’t know that much about art, ma’am.”

  “Possibly. What do you feel about the feminist movement? Do you find that scandalous? Or are you a partisan of it?”

  Here, Amy thought, I take my stand, I can do no more. “Well, ma’am, I am a working woman.”

  “Hence a partisan?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” And, thought Amy, never having waved that flag before I pick this time and place to wave it. Self-destructive all right, this Mrs. Lloyd.

  This turned out to be a misjudgment. Ma’am said, “You have spirit, Lloyd. No polite lies about matters of conscience. And of course you’re right in your position. But a married feminist? Does your husband approve?”

  “Yes, he does, ma’am.” Which was the truth, allowing for Mike’s occasional teasing about the lunatic fringe of the movement. And of course Abe was no help, pointing out betimes that Audrey never needed any membership card to do well on her own, Audrey making it all the worse by coming on very smug about it.

  “You’re fortunate in your marriage, Lloyd. What is the name of the art gallery I asked you to keep in mind?”

  “The Jason Cook Gallery, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. The proprietor—an anomaly perhaps?—seems devoted to the works of talented women. I understand his showings will be restricted to those who haven’t yet won the public they deserve. Do you know what happened to Mary Cassatt when she returned to America after achieving fame in France as one of its finest impressionist painters?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t really—”

  “She was described by the press here, Lloyd, only as the sister of Alexander Johnston Cassett, president of the Pennsylvania Railroad. That was all. Not a word about her superb achievement. I take pleasure in the knowledge, Lloyd, that the railroad eventually went bankrupt while Mary Cassatt’s paintings are now national treasures. Does that knowledge please you?”

  “Well, ma’am, I never knew there was—”

  “What other duties has Mrs. McEye assigned you today?”

  “Only shopping, ma’am. She feels that my wardrobe—”

  “Yes, she’s explained that to me. Do you feel she’s presumptuous in the matter?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Your tone indicated you do. But bear in mind that Mrs. McEye reflects the older generation here. A stickler for the proprieties. And intensely male-oriented. The male as dominant species. So a word to the wise, Lloyd. Be circumspect in your dealings with her. On my behalf as well as yours.” The pale, scarlet-tipped fingers motioned. “Now open the doors of that cabinet, Lloyd.”

  The cabinet against the far wall stood between long, low book-cases filled with what appeared to be bulky leatherbound albums. Of course, Amy thought as enlightenment struck, works in braille. What those tall, thin volumes were on one shelf, however, couldn’t be that smartly figured out. She opened the cabinet doors and found herself confronted by the components of an elaborate hi-fi set, phonograph, tape deck, speakers, the works. In a way it looked as out of place in this Art Deco territory as did the bulletin board in the oak-paneled staff hall. But if nothing else, it did explain those remote-control panels on the night table.

  However, this was not to be a musicale. Ma’am said, “Mrs. McEye has been attending to my mail delivery. The mail pouch is placed in the pantry by the postman. Mrs. McEye sees to its sorting and distribution midmornings, but you are to do that for me from now on. That is, to extract anything addressed to me and bring it here along with my tray. Starting tomorrow.”

  Good-bye seven o’clock rising, Amy thought. And just how long would it take to sort out the family mail? She had the sinking feeling that this family got a lot of mail.

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said, but it was the grudging unspoken thought, not the spoken words, that Ma’am responded to.

  “It won’t take long, Lloyd. I’ll have one of the staff assigned to help you. And that’s all for the present. You’re free to go.”

  Amy hesitated. “Hegnauer’s not back yet, ma’am.”

  “I’m aware of that.” The voice became sharp. “Is it your impression that I require someone at my side every minute of the day?”

  “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “Indeed? More heated than sorry, from that tone. Foolish of you, Lloyd.” The voice was now teasing. “After all, we can’t afford to have both of us in bad temper at the same time, can we?”

  Amy found herself smiling. The miserable old charmer, she thought. “No, ma’am.”

  “Of course not. That will be all, Lloyd.”

  And now that you’ve shot the rapids, Lloyd, Amy asked herself on the way to the staircase, what do you make of them?

  Well, the bottom line is that she’s blind, poor thing. Can’t read faces, can’t read body language, can’t get clues to people that way. So she throws those non sequitur questions at you. And clever as she is, she quickly knows more about you than you might want her to. But, fair exchange, she does let you know surprising things about her.

  Margaret Durie a woman’s libber? And wary of the McEye? The older-generation, male-oriented McEye? Something rankled Ma’am there, going by her choice of adjectives. Older-generation male had to mean Craig and Walter Durie. Was she jealous of them as the unblind masters of the house? While she, suddenly emerging from those years of self-imposed isolation, found that time had passed her by, that she was not her younger brothers’ equal but their pet?

  Could be. Certainly there were signs she didn’t like those brothers. And didn’t really trust the McEye, who was—had been for so long—much more their vassal than hers. But she did seem to trust this Mrs. Lloyd, the rank newcomer. Take that mail thing, for example …

  In fact, thought Amy, from the signs and portents, things didn’t shape up too badly for the rank newcomer.

  She climbed the stairs up to the third floor, the curlicued ironwork banging underfoot, and felt an uncomfortable sensation at the head of the stairs. This, she thought, was the last thing Margaret Durie ever saw, this staircase. Then she opened her eyes to darkness. For the rest of her life, that maddening darkness.

  If it were me, Amy thought, Mike would probably be very kind to me afterward, and I might come to hate him for it.

  Craig and Walter were probably very kind to their older sister, and she came to hate them for it.

  Or was that an oversimplification?

  Philomela, in
deed. If that sad-looking canary sang—and who makes a gift of a canary that doesn’t—it had to be a male. Philomela was a female name; on those grounds alone all wrong.

  When she entered the apartment Mike had already gone his way to Hale & Hale, clothiers, leaving the bedding neatly turned down for airing and the windows wide open to the mid-September breeze. In the living room she observed—Mike must have heeded Abe’s warning—that the manuscript and notes had disappeared from beside the typewriter. Wisely hidden away somewhere, just in case the McEye did have a spare key for this door and was inclined to make covert tours of inspection. An unpleasant thought, but evaluating the McEye in Ma’am’s terms it made sense.

  The McEye was, after all, the next-door neighbor on this hall, and as bulldog guardian of the proprieties she’d probably feel righteous about putting an ear to the wall or an eye to the keyhole. Which might explain what had happened to the last butler here. Foolish of him to go around seducing houseboys right next door to the family’s busybody conscience.

  Amy helped herself to a bunch of grapes from the bowl in the refrigerator—the grapes in their perfection had to be a hothouse variety—and while at them phoned Audrey at Custer’s First Stand about the shopping expedition.

  “Meet you at eleven, doll,” said Audrey, and gave her the address. “Right near Herald Square.”

  Now for the McEye. The other phone that would be, the house phone. In the desk as promised was a bulky folder, the first page of which provided a listing of in-house numbers. Others, Amy saw as she flipped through them, were the plans of all of the building’s floors, including the basement, each room area identified in neat, tiny print, and there followed pages headed Important. Staff Information. Considering the McEye’s fussiness, Amy thought, this must be the comprehensive text on the subject. Look under p for picayune.

  On the phone, however, the McEye came through affably. “Of course, Mrs. Lloyd. Take whatever time you need. Your schedule has been kept open to allow for that.”

  “Thank you.”