The So Blue Marble (6 page)

    He turned at the door. “If I’m not in?”

    “Then I won’t come home alone. I’ll bring someone with me.”

    He thought that was wise. He hesitated. She knew he would stay given a word. It wasn’t that she didn’t wish it. He wasn’t Con but he was nice and he wanted to stay. She didn’t know why she didn’t speak.

    

    

    After he had gone the room was too quiet She snapped on the radio that there might be a cessation of the silence and peace but she had been wrong. She twisted the dial to a late news broadcast and suddenly Con was in the room; out of that non-committal box, Con’s deep, dear voice came. She was aching with her need of him and his voice was there but she couldn’t answer back; couldn’t tell him all she must tell him; she could only listen to that voice discussing the trivialities of border trouble.

    She silenced the room again quickly. Then she looked carefully at the bolted door and turned out the living room lights. Quickly she moved to the bedroom, closed the Venetian blinds and undressed. It steadied her to cream her face, wipe away the cream, pat astringent, begin brushing her golden hair.

    If Aunt Charlotte knew she’d be on the next plane flying East. She considered with comfort her aunt’s domineering nose, her brook-no-nonsense shoulders. But she couldn’t send for Aunt Charlotte. If she came, and if Con returned, there wouldn’t be a chance to… She put down the brush. To what, she didn’t know.

    If Con had the marble… Until tonight she hadn’t thought of it as a marble. Long ago, when they were first married, that little blue jewel. It had somehow frightened her even then; she didn’t know where he had picked it up, but she hadn’t wanted it in his possession. Con had laughed at her and had said once, “Wouldn’t the police like to know I have this.” After that she didn’t see it again.

    And Missy, too, had seen it. She recalled now. Before the little sister had sailed with Maman. Missy had wanted it, her eyes greedy on it that afternoon in the apartment when Con came in, found her toying with it. But Missy couldn’t have remembered that long ago. It had been only an incident and she had been a child.

    Why was it so important? No one would fling a really valuable thing around in an apartment. Of course it wasn’t here. If Con did still possess it, it would be in a vault, some place safe. No one would be fool enough to carry it with him or hide it carelessly where any marauder might search it out. No one but Con. He had no sense about such things.

    If she could find it, get rid of it for him, it would keep him safe. She must keep him safe. The twins had evidently failed in their search here for it; surely she had no chance. Yet perhaps they had not searched as yet; perhaps they had been interrupted. And they didn’t know the little secrets she and Con had shared.

    She was ready for bed. She knew where to look, the grinning Golliwog perfume bottle on the chest. She had thought perhaps Con kept it all these years for sentimental reasons, because it had been hers. Con sentimental! She lifted the Golliwog’s head, pointed the dark stopper to her chin. Hidden in her hands she knew where to turn the head, no one else would know.

    It had been faulty. He had hollowed it and once he had left little rolled-up balls of paper there with messages to her, when he went early on an assignment and she lay still asleep in their bed. Their hollow tree. She hoped the marble wouldn’t be there.

    It was such a tiny blue ball, blue as cloisonnй is blue. She had forgotten its beauty. She put it in the drawer among the handkerchiefs. If anyone had searched they had surely already rummaged there. Tomorrow she would think of a safe place for it. She couldn’t just throw it away after all; it was Con’s; he might want it again.

    She replaced the perfume stopper, climbed into bed, snapped off the lamp. She was almost asleep when her throat began to prickle with fear. She had remembered careless words, “No trouble.” She was certain now that Missy would have welcomed trouble. Missy had wanted to use that lethal cane.

    

    

    

    Bette was Saturday cleaning, moving furniture, spreading that nice-smelling polish on the floor. Griselda looked at the clock. Ten-fifteen. She called, “Bette.”

    “Yes, Miss.” Soft-spoken, sweet-faced, she was in the door.

    “Would you be an angel? Hand me my juice and the coffee. I’m lazy.”

    Bette’s smile was twinkles. “Yes, indeed, Miss.”

    She thinks I’ve been on a party. “And the papers,” she called.

    Bette brought them. Her smile liked serving a pretty woman in bed. Good as the pictures it was. She handed over the glasses case without being asked. Then she was the cleaner again. “Did you know the little rug’s not in the living room?”

    Griselda opened the paper, shut her face away. “Yes. Someone spilled-a drink-on it last night. He took it to be cleaned.”

    Bette understood parties. She worked for Con. She said, “I hope the stain will come out. Sometimes they’re hard to get out.” She returned to the polishing.

    Griselda drank her juice, turning pages of the paper. There they were again in the tabloid. “Old friends of the continent meet in Manhattan. Montefierrow twins and companion tour night spots.” Missy, of course. “Missy Cameron, daughter of the Princess del Artiaggio of Rome, Italy, and the late Dr. T. W. Cameron of Park Avenue, who arrived yesterday on the
Queen Mary,
toured the Manhattan night spots with the Montefierrow twins last night The picture taken in the Stork Club…” And so on. No mention of Hollywood’s Griselda Cameron Satterlee, thank God. She had a distaste of publicity amounting almost to mania. The heart break of her divorce and her picture slathered in the tabs, knowing how Con must have writhed with his newspaperman’s scorn of such things. And after that the movies, all the tawdry stunts the studio had done on the front pages to build her, she too numb then to care. Always publicity beating against her name. She had only been a little girl but she would never forget her father’s sick eyes in the newspaper when her mother divorced him. She wouldn’t let it soil her again. She’d stay away from the twins. No mention of Mrs. Arthur Stepney of East Seventy-ninth Street either. Ann would be annoyed.

    The phone. She was afraid to answer but it was Ann.

    “Have you seen the
News?
Olga brought her copy to me. Missy’s picture with those fascinating twins you were telling about. She said she didn’t know them, you know…”

    “Yes, I know.”

    “But it seems she did. She just didn’t know our pronunciation. Isn’t that amusing? The Italian of their name is so different. She told me what it was. Are you meeting us for lunch?”

    “I can’t, you recall.”

    “Oh, yes. Dinner?”

    “I’m so sorry.” She couldn’t face Missy. Not until she knew what to do. “I’m afraid I can’t make it”

    “I’m so sorry too. Missy has promised to try to bring the twins. At any rate you’ll come for cocktails tomorrow afternoon, just a few intimates to meet Missy. Bring Gig if you wish.”

    She got rid of Ann. So her sister had taken up the young one. But of course. For society Ann would do anything. But what if she knew the truth? She wouldn’t believe it. Missy and the twins could out-lie any truth-tellers.

    Bette said at the door, “Miss Satterlee, poor Mrs. Grain, the wife of the superintendent you know, is so worried. Mr. Grain went out about nine o’clock last night to see about something and he’s not back yet You didn’t see him, did you, Miss Satterlee?”

    She didn’t look at the maid. She swallowed trying to make words come. She had to speak false ones that must sound false. Not for herself, for Con. Keep him from danger. Her voice to her was surprisingly even. “Why, no, Bette. I had dinner at my sister’s and didn’t return here until after ten. Then some friends came in.”

    Bette half-apologized for being presumptuous. “I didn’t think you would have, Miss. I only asked because I found this under the couch.” Griselda didn’t move. She was frozen. “It’s that penny he always carried on his watch chain, his lucky penny-”

    Griselda turned in the bed. Her eyes were wide. Bette had the coin on her hand. “Are you certain it’s the same one, Bette?”

    “Oh, yes, Miss.” She was as serious as a nun, holding the copper coin. “It’s a foreign one, Mex he called it. It’s bigger than our pennies, you see, and that little hole in it-see? I’d know it anywhere.”

    Griselda saw. She wondered if Bette knew how hard it was to keep her face real. She repeated, “I didn’t see him.” Words, stupid words. “He must have dropped it here some other time.” That wasn’t right. “I wonder how long it’s been there.” That was wrong.

    The woman said, “He was never without it. I was behind that couch Wednesday, Miss Satterlee, it must have been since then. Maybe he brought in a package last night before you come home.”

    She answered, “There was no package. I didn’t see any,” and knew again she had spoken wrong words.

    Bette kept turning the coin. “Shall I give it to Mrs. Grain, Miss?”

    “Please.” She couldn’t stay in bed, in this apartment. “Tell her if I can help in any way-”

    “That’s good of you. She don’t know where he could have gone. He’s never stayed away all night in the forty years they been married. A steady man, Miss. There’s not many of them.” Then she turned abruptly and went out, slipping the coin in her pocket.

    She didn’t suspect anything, Griselda knew. She was worried about the poor man, and his wife sleeping alone after forty years. He would never sleep with her again. He-but she didn’t know where he was. Maybe he’d never be found again. Only his lucky coin would be found. She was trembling in the hot shower. If the lucky coin hadn’t rolled away would his luck have held? She’d join Ann and Missy for dinner if the twins would be there. She’d find out. They couldn’t do this, let her in for it.

    

    

    She dressed quickly. It looked dank out, grim. She put a clean handkerchief with a round thing inside it into her bag. She sat on the edge of the bed, ruffled the hotels, dialed.

    “I should like to speak to Missy Cameron.” She held the wire. She was afraid Missy would be out but she wasn’t. “This is Griselda.”

    “Griselda.” Missy’s voice sounded as if she’d never heard the name.

    “Are the twins dining with you tonight? With Ann and Arthur?”

    “Why?”

    Griselda spoke with impact. “I must see them. If you are all dining together I will join you. Otherwise I won’t.”

    Missy said, “Wait.”

    The wire was quiet Griselda was nervous, her back to that double-bolted back door. She turned on the bed to keep it visible. No need to be frightened with Bette cleaning in the next room.

    Missy’s voice said, “You could see them now.”

    “I couldn’t. I’ve a business engagement Will they be at dinner tonight?”

    Without hesitation came the answer, “They will.”

    “Tell Ann I’ll join you. I’ll find out where later.”

    Missy suggested, “We’ll call for you.”

    She was cold. “I’d rather not. I’ll speak to Ann later.” She rang off, went into the living room. “I’m going now, Bette.” She laid the week’s money on the mantelpiece. She couldn’t help repeating, “Tell Mrs. Grain I’ll help in any way.”

    “Yes, Miss. Like as not he’ll be back before long.” She leaned on the mop handle. “Maybe an accident. She’s been calling the hospitals.”

    She had to say it, was surprised that she urged it. “And the police-of course, the police.”

    Bette said, “She don’t want to call in the police, Miss. Not unless there’s a need to. She don’t want to be in the papers. They’re decent people, never had any trouble-and it gives the apartment a bad name, the police.”

    “Yes.” She went out, leaving the door ajar until the elevator came. No one seemed to want the police. Except herself. And she couldn’t call them. Not now. Not and risk having them go after Con; worse, set the twins after Con.

    It was relief to be bouncing downtown, out of that neighborhood. It was joy to meet Joie Eisenhorn with his bristle jowls and spats, to finger velvets of candy colors, jewel-smooth satins, starchy brocades. Lunch in a noisy unheard-of restaurant with strange, Kosher foodstuffs was reality. And then it was time to return to fear.

    She walked up Fifth, stopping at Best’s, thinking of Ann’s Cornelia, kept in with threatening weather and a cold. She saw a doll, golden yarn curls, pink organdie ruffles. It was a Cornelia doll. “I want this.”

    She carried the package. On up the Avenue. The new Kresge’s. A fascinating place to dally, and always things needed at the ten cent store. She stopped at one counter, needles, thread. She remembered, more ash trays for the apartment. She bought heavy chain locks; at least when she was inside at night no one could enter. She could get up mornings and let Bette in.

    Now she had too many bundles. And she would have to find something for Allen. She couldn’t take presents to Cornelia and not to Allen. She crossed the street took a Fifth bus to Schwartz’s. A lovely game with marbles-not marbles, no! There was a barnyard, better. And a funny tiny stuffed donkey Nana would adore for a pincushion. Laden she went out, hailed a cab. “Seventy-ninth and Madison.”

    Olga told her, “Mrs. Stepney is at the masseuse. The children are asleep, I believe.”

    She handed her coat and hat to the maid. “I’ll be in Mrs. Stepney’s room. Tell Nana to let me know when the children wake. I’ve presents.”

    Safe behind Ann’s bedroom door. The twins wouldn’t bother Ann; they didn’t want anything here. With nail scissors she ripped a seam. The tiny blue ball into the very center of the cotton-stuffed doll. Replace the rip with tiny matching stitches. No one would ever know; no one would dream. After this was over, as soon as the twins realized she didn’t have it and went away, she could return it to Con. No one would touch the doll until then; Cornelia at two years was jealous of her possessions.