The Withdrawing Room Page 18

  “We read anything: scraps of newspaper we found in the gutter, billboards, cracker boxes, movie posters. One of my aunts, who was more sympathetic than the rest, used to shoplift a book for us now and then. It might be anything from Peter Rabbit to How to Make Out Your Income Tax, but we’d pore over it as if it were the world’s greatest treasure.”

  “I’ve always been the same way,” said Sarah, trying to establish some sort of rapport with this haunted creature. “I even read the labels on aspirin bottles. But do go on.”

  As if by some compulsion, Mrs. Sorpende kept pouring out her story. “I suppose I didn’t have as bad a life as some. Gypsies are indulgent with their children as a rule. Even I, the little bastard, was never beaten or left to go hungry. I was often cold, but that was on account of the miserable places we lived in, and I was seldom clean because there’d be no hot water or soap. But I survived, and learned to dukker. Tell fortunes, that is. I did it rather well, perhaps because reading gave wider scope to my powers of invention, but I was hopeless at the little tricks that tend to go with the fortunes. Consequently I never made more than the legitimate fees, and that didn’t boost my stock in the family much.

  “To make a long story short, when I was about twelve or thirteen, my mother simply gave up and died. The night of the funeral, I ran away. I stole a dress off a clothesline, leaving my gypsy clothes in its place to persuade myself I wasn’t really stealing, and lied about my age and got a job in a diner washing dishes. The pay wasn’t much but the food was all right and I didn’t mind sleeping on the floor behind the counter because that was the only sort of bed I knew.

  “Then the counterman got funny. I broke a plate over his head and ran off again, and lied a little harder and got myself promoted to waitressing in a greasy spoon restaurant. I was on my way up. By the end of that year, I owned a good pair of shoes, a decent dress, and even a warm winter coat. I’d learned how to sleep in a bed and eat with a knife and fork. I even knew what a napkin was for. I’d discovered the public libraries where I could get all the books I wanted without paying a cent, and I’d settled on my life’s ambition. I was going to be a lady.”

  She laughed at herself. ‘That sounds absurd to you, I’m sure, but it meant everything to me. Some day I’d live in a grand house and be waited on by a maid and a butler. I’d wear a long evening gown and jewels in my hair when I came down to dinner. That was the dream I sustained myself with while I was slinging hash and dodging grabby hands and fishing nickel tips out of the cigarette ashes and gravy. Some day they wouldn’t be treating me like this. Some day they’d respect me. Some day I’d be somebody.

  “Well, I shan’t bore you with my whole life’s history. I took lessons in elocution and deportment, once I’d found out what those words meant, from a drunk who’d played bit parts with Gloria Swanson and Theda Bara. That was as close as I ever got to greatness. I attracted the wrong sort of man and made a rotten marriage that lasted far too long. Now I’m back telling fortunes and clearing up dirty dishes. But I’m living in a beautiful house with a maid and a butler to wait on me, and I come sweeping down to dinner in a long evening dress with jewels in my hair. Your hard luck gave me the chance to fulfill my lifelong dream. If that’s any consolation to you, take it and welcome.”

  “It is and thank you. But would you kindly tell me why, if it’s been your lifelong dream to become a fine lady with jewels in your hair, you go slopping down Tremont Street in dirty sneakers and a frowsy kerchief? Surely that’s not part of the dream, too?”

  Mrs. Sorpende flushed. “No, that was an attempt to protect my position with you. Since the distance between here and the teashop is so short, I worried about being recognized. I know it’s a dreadfully tacky disguise, but it’s easy and didn’t cost me anything. My means are a good deal more than straitened, as you must realize by now. I hoped that if I could manage to keep my two identities separate, I might squeak through a few more weeks here. No doubt you find the whole performance absurd, but please try to realize that illusion has been my way of life for a very long time.”

  “I do realize, but wouldn’t you like to indulge in a spot of reality for a change? I suggest you throw away those ghastly sneakers and dress as you want to. If anyone from the house should happen to find out about the tea-leaf reading, tell them it’s your hobby. If they ask whether I know, tell them yes and I may be hitting you up for a job any day now. Oh, and one other thing. Did you ever actually meet Vangie Bodkin?”

  “Is that her first name? No, I’m afraid it’s just something that stuck in my head from the society pages. My required reading, you know.”

  “Perhaps you should start reading the obituaries, too,” Sarah suggested gently. “It appears Mrs. Bodkin’s been dead for quite some while. I think that’s Miss Hartler’s car stopping out front now. Good night, Mrs. Sorpende.”

  Chapter 21

  MISS HARTLER WAS IN a state that fluctuated wildly between overwhelming gratification at the number of people who’d turned out to say good-by to dear Wumps and overwhelming grief at the thought of tomorrow’s funeral. Charles got her into the house and strong-armed her into drinking enough brandy to quiet her down so that Sarah and Mariposa could put her to bed.

  “Thank heaven that’s done,” sighed the weary landlady. “Has Mr. Bittersohn come in the back way, by any chance?”

  “No, madam,” said Charles. “The gentleman has not yet returned.”

  ‘Then we’d better leave the front hall light on and the night latch off.”

  “Mr. Bittersohn will be more apt to come through the alley, madam. As you may recall, you yourself gave him a set of keys to the basement door because of his necessarily irregular hours.”

  “So I did. Turn on the alleyway lamps so he won’t fall over the trash cans and scoot along to bed yourselves. He’ll show up sooner or later, no doubt.”

  Mr. Bittersohn did not show up. Mariposa reported at breakfast time that his bed had not been slept in.

  “Maybe he slept someplace else, huh?” she suggested with an innocent smile.

  “Go take Miss Hartler her poached egg,” said Sarah crossly, “then get your mind out of the gutter and on to the dishes. If your niece’s play starts at eleven, you’d better be out of here by ten. What if the subway breaks down again?”

  She still hadn’t told her faithful allies about the impending swarm, and she didn’t want to start preparations in front of Mariposa for fear the helper would insist on staying and miss her big family event. There wasn’t all that much to do, anyway. The house was clean, she had plenty of crackers and things for people to nibble on, and a whole case of sherry obtained at a substantial discount from a friend of Charles’s who was alleged to have come by the wine honestly.

  Uncle Jem, Dolph, and the invaluable Egbert had all agreed to lend a hand, and she was fairly confident Mr. Bittersohn would send that staff member he’d promised even though he himself had not appeared by noontime when Miss Hartler tottered out of her room swathed in musty black and quavered, “Marguerite should be here any minute. Aren’t you ready, Sarah dear?”

  “Whatever made you think I was going with you, Miss Hartler? How could I? One of us has to stay and get ready for all those people you’ve invited.”

  “But surely your servants—”

  “It’s their day off. Isn’t that the car outside?”

  The funeral was set for one o’clock. At half-past twelve, as Sarah was finishing a cup of tea and brooding about how she got herself into these things, the doorbell rang. That must be the person Mr. Bittersohn was sending. She answered it with a good deal of curiosity.

  Sarah had vaguely expected a lantern-jawed individual in a trench coat with the collar turned up and the belt gutted in. What she found was an elderly lady in a slate-blue coat with a little gray mink collar, and a blue velour hat perched at a chic angle on her freshly coiffed silver hair. The woman was no taller than she. As they met face to face, Sarah thought she looked somehow familiar. Then light dawned.


  “Why, Miss Smith! What a marvelous surprise, and how lovely you look. Do come in.”

  “Didn’t recognize me, eh? Mr. Bittersohn said this would be the best disguise I could put on. I’m sorry I couldn’t wear black since it’s a funeral, but this is the only good outfit I own, and I didn’t want to shame you in front of everybody the way I did before.”

  She took off the coat to reveal a matching shirtwaist dress with a pleated bosom and a row of tiny covered buttons marching down the front. “Is my dress all right? I bought it on my employees discount at the going-out-of-business sale. Figured I might as well have a good one since I knew I’d never be able to afford another. He gave me the money to have it dry-cleaned and get my hair done. Such a fine young man. His mother must be proud of him.”

  “Actually I believe she’s sorry he didn’t become a podiatrist,” said Sarah. “Your dress is exquisite. I only wish I had one as lovely. Can I give you some lunch?”

  “Well—”

  “Would you mind coming into the kitchen? I was just having a bite, myself.”

  As she was getting out another cup and plate, Miss Smith settled herself with a sigh of pure joy. “My, this is nice. I can’t tell you how comfortable it feels to sit down at a real kitchen table again. Not that they don’t give us good meals at the Senior Citizens, but it’s always those long tables with some old codger jamming an elbow into your ribs and gumming at you to pass the ketchup. Not cozy, if you know what I mean.”

  “I shouldn’t think it would be. Do you take milk and sugar in your tea? Or would you prefer coffee? I can make some in a second.”

  “No, tea’s fine and I’ve got into the habit of taking it with just sugar. We always pinch those little envelopes out of the sugar bowls when we get a chance. They know we do, of course, but they make believe they don’t see. I have a little hot plate in my room where I live and I can keep tea bags and sugar but not milk because it goes sour on me and who can afford it these days, anyway? But you shouldn’t be waiting on me like this. I came to work, and don’t think I won’t. Mr. Bittersohn said I should keep my eyes peeled, too, just in case I recognize anybody.”

  “There’ll be plenty to do in a little while, never fear. Eat your sandwich while you have the chance. I’m going to cut us a piece of cake.” As Sarah had suspected, without her swaddling wraps Miss Smith was thinner than she ought to be.

  Right now, though, she was supremely happy. “This reminds me of when my mother was alive, not that we lived in any such style as you but we did have a lovely flat in a three-decker over on Savin Hill Road. I wouldn’t want you to think I’ve been a derelict all my life.”

  “I certainly don’t think you’re one now,” Sarah assured her. “You have too much gumption ever to be a derelict.”

  Miss Smith, she decided, must be a good deal younger than she looked in her working clothes; probably still in her late sixties. She’d treated her weather-beaten face to make-up from some carefully saved hoard, with pale pink lipstick and even a dab of blue eye shadow that intensified the somewhat faded color of her eyes. One or two small pieces of old gold jewelry that had no doubt been her mother’s or grandmother’s enhanced her well-chosen, well-fitted dress. She’d no doubt be one of the best-dressed people present this afternoon. Her manners were infinitely better than Professor Ormsby’s, her conversation livelier than Mr. Porter-Smith’s and far more sensible than Miss LaValliere’s. If only she had some money!

  The doorbell rang again. Sarah excused herself.

  “Please go on with your lunch. That will be some more of my crew.”

  Uncle Jem and his long-suffering gentleman’s private gentleman stood there, both of them got up as waiters. Jeremy Kelling had hung a massive chain and emblem from one of the disreputable chowder and marching societies he belonged to around his neck, and announced that he hosied to be wine steward. Dolph charged in as they were getting rid of coats and demanded to know what sort of tomfoolery the old idiot thought he was getting up to on a day of mourning. Jem retorted that any day Dolph showed up automatically became a day of mourning. Leaving them happily engaged in their usual exchange of pleasantries, Sarah went back to Miss Smith.

  “My uncle and my cousin are here, along with my uncle’s man, Egbert. If you’re sure you’ve had enough to eat, you might as well come and know the worst.”

  Miss Smith gave a nervous pat to her impeccable hairdo, rinsed her hands at the kitchen sink, freshened her lipstick, and followed Sarah into the library.

  “Miss Mary Smith, may I present my Uncle Jeremy Kelling, my Cousin Dolph Kelling, and Mr. Egbert Browne, who’s the only sane one among us?”

  Everybody claimed to be very pleased to meet everybody. As Dolph shook hands he said, “Mary Smith, eh? Seems to me I’ve heard that name before. Haven’t we met somewhere?”

  “I’ve heard you speak at any rate,” Miss Smith replied; not sure whether Dolph was trying to be funny or not, which in fact he was not. “You spoke to a group at the North End Senior Citizens not long ago.”

  “M’yes, so I did. And you were there? Fancy that.”

  “Yes, I thought you made some interesting points about the needs of seniors, but there was one topic I was sorry you didn’t address yourself to. What this city really needs is a chain of recycling depots where people can bring old papers and cans and bottles and stuff they pick up, and maybe get paid a small sum for their efforts. That would help solve the litter problem, cut down on the proliferation of rats and other vermin, aid the conservation effort, and provide employment and a little extra income for the elderly and the underprivileged.”

  “By George, that’s brilliant! And the stuff they collect could be sold to recycling plants and before long the enterprise would be at least partially self-supporting.”

  “I don’t see why it shouldn’t. But it would need a good chunk of capital to get started, and somebody with a lot of drive and public spirit.”

  “And know-how.”

  That was an expression Dolph had recently learned and was using far too frequently. Jeremy Kelling started to make rude noises, but Sarah hauled him away by brute force.

  “Uncle Jem,” she hissed in his ear, “if you queer Miss Smith’s pitch, I’ll break your neck. Come help me fill some glasses.”

  He was in truth of little help, sloshing the jugs around, sneering at the labels, and howling, “Rotgut! Bellywash!” and similar expressions of connoisseurship. However, they managed to get a couple of trays set out and Sarah deployed her forces.

  “Dolph, you’re the biggest and burliest. You be doorkeeper. If you suspect anybody’s trying to gate-crash, make it plain that this gathering is for relatives and close friends only. If diplomacy doesn’t work, feel free to use crude and violent methods. Miss Smith, you hover in the dining room to let me know if the food starts to run out and keep an eye on the silver. I found one of Mr. Hartler’s visitors trying to swipe a Coalport vase the other day. Egbert, you pass things around.”

  “What about coats, Mrs. Kelling?”

  “Don’t encourage people to take them off, and then they won’t stay so long. If they must, they can dump them on Miss Hartler’s bed. Uncle Jem, you stay with the sherry and make believe you’re the one who has to pay for it. Restrain your natural generosity. We’ve got to break this thing up as quickly as possible. I’ll be the odd-job man.”

  “I thought Mr. Bittersohn would be here,” said Miss Smith.

  “So did I,” said Sarah rather worriedly, “but we’ll have to manage without him.”

  They did. Egbert and Miss Smith were supremely competent. Jeremy Kelling was capable of serious effort in the dispensing of spirits, and adroit at insulting anybody who tried to get more than a fair share. Dolph’s bulk and ferocious hauteur were enough to discourage the uninvited and perhaps some of the invited. They did have a mob as anticipated, but it was a well-controlled mob.

  By half-past four the place was pretty well cleared out. Aunt Marguerite talked of ordering the limousine and Miss Hartler
was soothing her nerves with a glass of cranberry juice. Then, at last, Mr. Bittersohn arrived.

  Chapter 22

  MAX BITTERSOHN HAD NOT come alone. With him was a large woman wearing a hand-knitted coat of bright kelly green and a crocheted chartreuse tam-o’-shanter. Her face was kindly, her eyes brimming with sympathetic tears. She rushed up to Miss Hartler and engulfed her in a mighty embrace.

  “Oh, you poor, poor woman! And you loving him so, and coming so faithful and trying so hard, and him giving you the slip and winding up in a coffin, God rest his soul.”

  Miss Hartler struggled to free herself. “Let go of me! Who are you, anyway? I don’t even know you.”

  The woman released her clutch, stepped back, and nodded her tam-o’-shanter vigorously several times. “It’s unsettled her wits, that’s what. My mother went the same way when she heard about the ladder breaking and Dad almost to the top with his load of bricks, may he rest in peace. I’m Mrs. Feeley, Miss Green. You remember me. I took care of your brother these past two months and more. And a handful he was, I can tell you, always at me about that Iolani Palace of his and why hadn’t I got him those sixty-two dining room chairs like he told me to? But a happy soul for all his notions and it was a terrible thing the way he went.”

  “I’m not Miss Green! I don’t know any Miss Green!”

  “If you don’t, then who does? Be easy, now. If ever there was a sister that had nothing to blame herself for, it’s you. Bringing him his supper in a paper bag, even, after he got it into his head he was being poisoned and both of you used to better things as anybody could see. And no wrong done on my part and no offense taken, you know that. But as soon as I saw that picture in the paper I says to my husband, ‘Phil,’ I says, ‘they’ve made an awful mistake. That’s no William Hartler, that’s our Mr. Green. I better go tell the police.’

  “And Phil says to me, ‘You keep out of it, Theresa. First thing you know the cops will start asking us do we have a license, which we don’t.’ So I didn’t go, though the Lord knows nobody could have got better care than Mr. Green got from us, as you well know, Miss Green, and there’s still three days’ worth owing to us not that I’d be so mean as to press you for it at a time like this.”