The So Blue Marble (20 page)

    

    

    She hailed a cab. “Columbia.” She held tight to the edge of the seat as they bounced up Broadway to One Hundred Sixteenth Street. The driver let her off at the corner and she pushed a bill into his hand, not waiting change. She didn’t know which of these buildings but there was a boy smoking on the steps. He directed her.

    She asked at the registrar’s window. “J. Antwerp Gigland.”

    The girl stared at her strangely. “He isn’t here.”

    “Not here?”

    “No.” That strange look again, then the girl said anxiously, “Wouldn’t you like to sit down? You look ill.”

    Griselda tried to smile. “I’m all right. Only I was surprised. When did he leave?”

    “He’s been away about a month. Dr. Wilkes Gigland is taking his classes. Would he-could he help you?”

    She said, ‘I’ll see him.” She followed directions, to that first red brick building, up in the creeping elevator. The certain office; inside was Gig.

    He too looked at her so strangely, pulling forward a chair. “Griselda, sit here. What’s happened? I’ve been trying to reach you. Your sister said you hadn’t been in.”

    “Ann said that?” Was all the world crazy?

    “Not Ann. The other one. At Con’s.”

    “Oh.” She touched her throat Missy had been there, was there. Why?

    He was calm. “What has happened, Griselda?”

    She held his hands, tightly. “I don’t know. I’m in a funk, Gig. I want to run away, and I can’t now. I’m in it too deeply.”

    “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Go where we can talk. To my apartment.”

    She shook her head. “I don’t dare. Tobin’s outside. And Missy’s already there.” Everything closing in. She couldn’t breathe.

    He put on his hat, coat. He was gentle. He rested you. Even if he weren’t Gig. She asked, “Are you Gig’s brother-J. Antwerp Gigland?”

    He flushed. “I’m his cousin. I should have told you.” He was so embarrassed. “But I didn’t think you’d be interested. You had your own troubles.”

    “Where’s Gig? Con’s Gig I mean.”

    He said, “He had a chance to go to Persia on a survey. He asked me to take his place. It was arranged at the University. I’d been teaching in Germany, before things changed there…”

    It didn’t matter.

    He opened the door. “I suppose they told you at the office when you asked for him.”

    She said, “Yes-I…” She mustn’t say she knew it before, that would give Con away. “I asked by the full name.” She even laughed. “I don’t know why.”

    They went down in the elevator. He asked, “If you don’t go home, where will you stay?”

    “I don’t know.” No place was safe.

    “Why can’t we smuggle you into my place? We could do it. No one need know. You’d be near home to get clothes and things.” He thought of a way. “The fire escape. The back apartments have them. I’ll go up in the elevator and open the window.”

    They did it. She standing below in the dirty, dank courtyard, her heart in her mouth, until his head stuck out four stories above. She climbed the damp treachery of the old iron ladder. No one saw. And she was inside, rubbing her hands together for warmth.

    “You’re safe here. Why don’t you take a hot bath? That would relax you, maybe sleep. I’ve papers to correct. I won’t leave until you’re awake. You’ll be safe with me here.”

    “Yes.” There was much he hadn’t explained but maybe it was true. Whether he was safe or not, she felt comfortable with him. She went into the bedroom, closed the door.

    When she woke it was dark. But light shone under the door from the living room where Gig was working. Or was he gone? She put on the lamp, opened the door a crack. He was there and alone, but the gate-leg table was loaded with food.

    He saw her. “I called ‘L’Apertif and asked for service for two.” He blushed. “I believe the waiter thought I was having a rendezvous.”

    She patted his shoulder. “You’re an angel. And I do feel better.” She was rested, ravenous, almost gay. She ate hungrily. “I don’t believe I’ve really tasted food in a week. I’m not scared now. How long do you think I’ll be safe here?”

    “Until someone finds out. And why should anyone find out? I can bring in food, do your telephoning. You stay away from doors, windows and phones; you should be safe enough.”

    “Bette?”

    He was surprised she didn’t know. “She won’t be coming. She was shot.”

    “Not…” She couldn’t speak it

    He shook his head. “Her arm, I believe. I found her. In your apartment. She’s all right. Griselda, don’t look so distressed. But she won’t be here for some days.”

    “I could do her cleaning for exercise.”

    They laughed a little then finished dinner almost in silence. Over cigarettes her eyebrows folded together. “It is important that I reach Con. He must know where I am. You don’t know him, do you?”

    He was embarrassed again. “I’ve met him with my cousin. I doubt if he’d remember.”

    “If you saw him?”

    “I’d know him, yes.”

    She said, “You write a note, leave it in his box. Say: ‘Con, get in touch with Gig immediately. Important.’”

    He wrote. “Shall I take it down now?”

    “Yes. Here…” She handed him the key to the box. “Take your door key with you too and let yourself in. I won’t open the door. If there’s mail for me, will you bring it?”

    He nodded.

    She wasn’t ill at ease with him away. She smoked quietly until he returned. He brought a note in Con’s writing. It had been dropped in the box, not mailed. “Be good a day or so. Watch your step.” The heart went out of her again. She flung it towards Gig, sat down. She laughed, uncertain. “He may be in Chapala by now. With Con you never know.”

    He read it looked at her, touched it. “Anything I can do, Griselda? You know I’d do anything for you.”

    She was silent, wondering. “Dear Gig.” But she couldn’t ask him to break into a bank vault for her. And suppose it were not true, his simple explanation of two Gigs. Suppose the other Gig, the real one, were somewhere face down in a pool of blood. She shuddered. “No. No, Gig.”

    He spoke softly. “You needn’t be afraid-for me.”

    She touched his hand. “I know. But you’ve involved yourself enough as it is, Gig. Too much. There’s nothing more you can do. Give me something hard to read while you’re at your night class. Maybe that will put me to sleep again.”

    He handed her “The Art of Weaving in Medieval Persia,” presenting it with a sweeping bow.

    

    

    Gig was, of course, gone in the morning. He’d left the papers, food in the icebox, the percolator ready to be plugged. It would be a peaceful day, not to be fleeing from one place to another. It was ten o’clock before she got up, rolled her pajama sleeves, took broom and mop, and emulated the good Bette. She would have liked to sing but that might be heard; further, despite her carefree spirit, something was listening for the whine of the elevator.

    She washed the breakfast things. Everything spandy. Then she dressed lazily; it was nearing noon. And then she remembered-Ann! She took up the phone. She couldn’t reach the operator; the line was dead. It would happen now. She’d have to risk going out. She put on coat and hat, took her bag, gloves.

    She couldn’t open the front door. She wrestled it; it wouldn’t open. She stood soundless, then tried again, in panic now, but it was fast. It took all her courage to attempt the back way. That door also would not budge. She was locked in.

    Had Gig done this? Was it so she could not get away; was the telephone no accident but that she could not communicate? She couldn’t believe that; she wouldn’t. The phone an accident; the doors for her own safety.

    There was a way out, the fire escape, or was that barred too? No way to shut off that escape. Had he thought she would’t dare go that way? The danger of being seen-but she had to risk it She opened the window, peered below. There was no one in sight. She stepped out, pulled the window after her, hearing as she did the whine of the ascending elevator. You couldn’t hurry on those precarious iron rods. It took hours to climb down, expecting every moment sound from above, a window opened, to be caught.

    She took the leap to the ground. She didn’t dare emerge the front way. She crossed through another court, through dirty passageways, out on Fifty-sixth Street. Whether to go towards Fifth or Madison, she didn’t know. The Mad. buses were faster but Tobin had been watching Madison yesterday. She was afraid of cabs. She half-ran to Fifth, caught a bus, chafed at traffic delays. At Seventy-eighth she got off, walked up the block and looked carefully down Seventy-ninth before almost fleeing towards the apartment house. It was surprising that the doorman should be the same one; she’d never really noticed his face before; it was round and ruddy, kind. And the elevator man, dark and square, looked as if he had a wife and children. Olga seemed surprised to see her. “Mrs. Stepney?”

    Olga didn’t close the door quickly enough. You were safe only with doors closed and bolted. Griselda took the knob from the maid’s hand, put her back against its shutness.

    “Mrs. Stepney?”

    By the girl’s eyes, she knew the answer.

    “But she left early, Miss Satterlee.”

    Griselda’s fingers were clenched. “Did she say…”

    “To the country with friends.”

    “Did she say when she would return?”

    “Sometime tomorrow, she thinks. Or Monday morning.”

    This was Saturday. She remembered then something else. Services for Nesta. Private, but that only meant greater hordes of fans. She wouldn’t be missed by the fans but Oppy and Jasper would know. The press would know. The police would wonder? Surely it would be safe to pay last tribute. The Montefierrows wouldn’t be there. Not if Ann had gone away with them. If she went with Oppy and Jasper she’d be safe.

    She called the Waldorf. The clerk said Mr. Coldwater would speak with no one, doctor’s orders. She told him with cold fury, “This is Griselda Satterlee. Get me through to Mr. Coldwater or Mr. Oppensterner or you’ll never have another celebrity at your hotel!” She hadn’t the nerves for tact now.

    Jasper was speaking. “What is it, Griselda? You’ve no idea what I’ve been through. It’s positively revolting. I am exhausted. Where are you? Oppy’s been trying to reach you. The services are at three.”

    She told him, I’m at my sister’s, Ann’s. Can you come for me?”

    “Griselda!” He shrieked it. “If you knew! I can’t even put my head out of the door. We have guards. The fans!”

    She said, “I can’t help that, Jasper. I suppose I have to be there today. And I can’t go alone.”

    He spoke aside for the moment, then said, “We’ll send for you.”

    She told him flatly, “I don’t trust anyone I don’t know. Whom can you send?”

    He mentioned Jack Churchill, one of Oppy’s publicists. That was satisfactory.

    She warned him, “Don’t tell anyone else where I am.”

    He was weary. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Griselda. They’ve been hounding you, too. I know how it is.”

    He didn’t know. He wasn’t in danger. But she could trust Jack. She added, “Tell him to come up for me.”

    He said yes. “Wear a heavy veil. Women, are fortunate. They can wear veils.”

    She had lunch on a tray, then finger-tapped until Olga announced him. It couldn’t have been long, long as it seemed; they were before time for the services. The walks in front of the fashionable church were packed, police lines holding the gogglers back. Jasper said: Wear a veil, as if Ann’s wardrobe held mourning veils. But no one would know her face. She wasn’t of this; she was an innocent bystander. Churchill took her arm through the guard lines, down the church aisle. She was to sit with Jappy and Oppy. They rose to let her enter the pew.

    Jasper whispered, “I’m exhausted. What I’ve been through! You’ve no idea!” but he kept his face looking doleful.

    The organ was sad, and the preacher’s poignant words in a more poignant voice. Gardenias, Nesta’s flower, were blooming everywhere; the scent was overpowering, nauseous. Everyone was sniffling and fat tears rolled down Oppy’s cheeks, plopping on his derby. But it wasn’t sad about Nesta. There was nothing for which she should continue existence except more money and more clothes and more men. It was sad about Mr. Grain, and his wife so lone; about the bank guard with never a chance. Nesta had walked into her own web. But everyone wept as if something beautiful and lovely had been halted. Not everyone. Not Jasper, strong and silent, beating back tears. Not Tobin two pews ahead and across, but the back of his head looked at her. Not Moore, two pews back; you could see him when you looked towards Oppy. Nor Griselda, wondering why they were here, frightened of them now because they could balk her freedom.

    The organ played recessional and everyone stood up. Jasper whispered, still lugubrious, “We’re flying back this afternoon. You’d better come too.”

    Escape. If she could. But she couldn’t. She said, “I can’t Jasper. I wish I might.” The passion of regret took away his feigned sorrow for the moment and he peered curiously at her.

    “You’d better come, Griselda. I’d be afraid to stay around here any longer. Too many queer things happening.” He half-shivered.

    They were in the aisle, Oppy first Jasper and she, in single file moving slowly to the door. Fresh air, out of the stifle of gardenia scent.

    She spoke a word to Oppy, poor little red-nosed Oppy, and Jasper playing to the now-sobbing sidewalk starers.

    Oppy wept “You won’t go with us to the airport? There will be photographers there, and we will scatter Cape jasmines.” He said it jas-o-mines. “All the way to California! That’s better than gardenias, everybody has gardenias.” He blew his nose.