Mary and the Giant Read online

  “What’s yours, lady?” the tow-headed boy behind the Bobo’s window inquired, when she approached.

  She ordered a hamburger and milkshake. “Thanks,” she said, accepting her order. He watched her move carefully away from the window, holding onto her purse and hamburger and container of milkshake.

  “You go to Pacific High?” he asked.

  “I did once.”

  “That’s what I mean. I think I used to see you.”

  Stopping a few feet from the window where the big, brightly painted sign cast a square of shade, she began eating.

  “It’s hot,” the boy said.

  “No kidding.” She moved a little farther off.

  “When did you graduate?”

  “Years ago.”

  “What’s your name?”

  With great reluctance, she said: “Mary Anne Reynolds.”

  “I think we were in a class together.” He turned up a radio by his elbow. “Dig this.” Progressive jazz drifted out and mixed with the sounds of traffic. “Recognize it?”

  “Naturally. Earl Bostic’s ‘Sleep.’”

  “You’re good.”

  Mary Anne sighed.

  “What’s the matter?” the boy asked.

  “I’ve got ulcers.”

  “You drink cabbage juice?”

  “Why should I drink cabbage juice?”

  “That’s what cures ulcers. My uncle has had ulcers all his life; he drinks it by the gallon. You have to go up to the health food store in San Francisco to get it.”

  “Sleep” ended and a new tune took its place, a Dixieland number. Mary Anne finished her milkshake and dropped the container into the wire basket.

  “What are you doing?” the boy asked, resting his arms on the counter of the window. “Going to work?”

  “Not until three.”

  “Where?”

  “Phone company.” She wished he would stop pestering her; she hated to be pestered.

  “That’s a long way; that’s across town. How are you going to get there?”

  “Walk!”

  The boy hesitated, and a strange expression fell over his face. Clearing his throat, he said squeakily; “You want a ride over?”

  Mary Anne sneered. “Take off.”

  “I’ll be done with my shift in a couple of minutes. I’ve got a cool ’39 Chevy; it’s my brother’s, but I get to use it. What do you say?”

  “Go fly a kite.” He reminded her of Dave Gordon; they were all alike. Wiping her hands with a paper napkin, she examined her appearance in the plate-glass window of the drive-in.

  “You going?” the boy asked.

  “You’re a wizard.”

  “Sure you don’t want a ride? I’ll take you somewhere; anywhere you want. You want to drive up to San Francisco? We could go to a show and then maybe to dinner.”

  “No, thanks.”

  An elderly white-haired gentleman approached the window, leading a little girl by the hand. “Two ice cream sandwiches,” the elderly gentleman said.

  “Strawberry!” the child shrilled.

  “There’s no strawberry,” said the counter boy. “Just vanilla.”

  “Vanilla is quite satisfactory.” The elderly gentleman brought out his purse. “How much will that be?”

  The child, noticing Mary Anne, started a few hopeful steps after her. “Hello,” she piped.

  “Hello,” Mary Anne said. She didn’t mind talking to children; they, like Negroes, seemed to mean no harm. She could feel close to them. “What’s your name?”

  “Joan.”

  “Tell the young lady your whole name,” the elderly gentleman instructed.

  “Joan Louise Mosher.”

  “That’s a nice name,” Mary Anne said. She bent down, being careful of her nylons, and held out her hand. “What’s that you have?”

  The child studied the drooping camellia she clutched. “A flow’r.”

  “It’s a camellia,” the elderly gentleman said.

  “It’s sweet,” Mary Anne said, straightening up. “How old is she?” she asked the elderly gentleman.

  “Three. My great-granddaughter.”

  “Gee,” Mary Anne said, touched. It made her think of her own grandfather. The image of his marvelous tallness…and herself, tagging along, running to keep up with his giant strides. “What’s it like, having a great-granddaughter?”

  “Well,” the elderly gentleman began, but then the ice cream came, and he found himself involved in removing wrappers and giving out money.

  “Good-bye,” Mary Anne said to the child, and patted her on the head. Then, with a wave of her hand, she started in the direction of the slum area and Elm Street.

  As always, she located the house by the ragged palm tree growing in the front yard. Holding tight to the banister, she mounted the stairs. The door, of course, was locked. She got out her key and made her entrance.

  Nothing stirred. In the living room stood a card table heaped with beer bottles and ashtrays. A chair, one leg broken, was over turned; she righted it. On the piano, among the clothes and newspapers, was a plate of sandwich crumbs; something small dived out of sight as she approached.

  In the kitchen the remains of a meal were drying on the table. A man’s hand-painted necktie lay over the back of a chair, and a pajama top was on the floor beside the table; with it was a cigarette lighter—Tweany’s—and two wire coat hangers. The sink was filled with dishes, and sacks of garbage spilled out from below.

  Removing her coat, Mary Anne wandered into the bedroom. The shades were still down and the room was amber dark, slightly damp with the presence of sheets. There, in the gloom, she began listlessly removing her clothing. She folded her skirt and blouse across the bed and, opening the closet, rummaged among the mothball-clouded fabrics.

  Soon she had what she wanted: women’s jeans and a heavy checked shirt that reached to her knees as she buttoned it around her. In a pair of moccasins, she padded over to the windows and let up the shades. For the other rooms she did the same, lifting, in addition, the windows she could budge.

  First, before anything else, she washed the dishes. After that came scrubbing down the wooden drainboard with steel wool and soap. Rivulets of grime dripped from her bare arms as she worked; pausing, she pushed her hair from her eyes, rested, and then searched the cupboards for rags. In the closet she found a heap of clean shirts; she ripped them up, filled a bucket with soapy water, and began scrubbing the kitchen floor.

  When that was done, she got a broom and swept down the cobwebs from the walls and ceiling. Bits of soot rained on the newly scrubbed floor; panting, she halted and examined the situation. Of course she should have done the ceiling first, but it was too late now.

  She gathered up the garbage and made her way downstairs to the backyard. The can was full; she heaped her armload on top and started back. Cans and bottles lay everywhere; in the weeds under her foot a light bulb burst, sending fragments of glass flying. Wearily, she climbed the stairs, glad to be away from the shrub-sized weeds; there was no telling what lived in the wet boards and litter.

  Now she began dragging out the decrepit vacuum cleaner. Clouds of dust rolled from it as she snapped it on; she spread out newspapers and located the catch that opened it. A vast ball of dust bloomed in her face, and she scrambled back miserably. It was just too damn much. It wasn’t worth it.

  Through a blur of exhaustion she surveyed what she had accomplished. Virtually nothing. How could she put in order the corruption of years? It was too late, and it had been too late as long as she had been alive.

  Giving up, she forced the vacuum cleaner together and carried it back to its place in the closet.

  The hell with Tweany’s pigsty. The hell, she thought, with Tweany. Let him clean up his own mess. She went into the bedroom and began searching the dresser for clean sheets and blankets. The dirty sheets she threw out into the hall, stumbling as she did so, and then began turning the mattress.

  When she had finished making the bed, she
smoothed a coverlet over it and threw herself down. She kicked off her moccasins, stretched out, and closed her eyes. It was peaceful and quiet. The hell with you, Carleton Tweany, she thought again. Paul is right: you are a jerk. A great big grinning jerk. But, she thought, that isn’t all. Not at all it isn’t all. Daddy, she thought, you could have done a lot better by me, but what the hell, who ever has?

  She had come to a dead end. Belief in Tweany was no longer possible. She couldn’t go on pretending he was what she wanted him to be: a great, kindly man whom she could count on. He had let her fall back into her old fear and isolation.

  Thinking that, she fell asleep.

  At two o’clock in the afternoon the stairs shook with the sound of people; a moment later the door burst open and Carleton Tweany, his arm around Beth, appeared.

  “Jesus,” Beth said, wrinkling her nose. “What’s all the dust?” She halted at the pile of dirty sheets lying in the hall. “What’s going on?”

  “Somebody’s been here,” Tweany grumbled, letting go of her and peering into the living room. “Probably Mary Anne; she shows up all the time.”

  “Does she have a key?”

  “Yeah, she shows up and cleans. She likes to.” Tweany made his way into the bedroom and halted. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “What is it?” Beth came and looked over his shoulder.

  Mary Anne lay asleep on the bed. On her face was a troubled, unhappy frown. Beth and Tweany stood in the doorway, dumb with astonishment.

  Then, very quietly, Tweany began to titter. He tittered in a high-pitched falsetto, his teeth showing in a broad, flashing grin. The laughter spread to Beth; she chuckled in low, short barks.

  “Poor Miss Mary Anne,” Tweany said, trying not to laugh, trying to hold it back. But it couldn’t be held back. The laughter spread across his face—and then he and Beth were shrieking in spasms of merriment. On the bed Mary Anne stirred; her eyelids fluttered.

  “Poor Miss Mary Anne,” Tweany repeated, and the laughter bubbled out in gusts.

  While the two of them stood rocking back and forth, the door flew open and Daniel Coombs bounded into the apartment.

  Tweany, identifying him, pushed between him and Beth, as Coombs, his head down, raised the Remington .32 and aimlessly fired. The noise awakened Mary Anne; sitting up, she saw Coombs hurry past the doorway of the bedroom toward Tweany and Beth.

  “I’m going to kill you, nigger!” Coombs raved, trying to shoot once more. He tripped over a heap of magazines and stumbled; Tweany, pushing Beth out of the hall, caught him around the neck. Arms flailing, Coombs struggled to get his head loose. Without emotion, Tweany dragged him down the hall to the kitchen.

  “Tweany!” Mary Anne shrieked. “Don’t!”

  Then she and Beth were clawing at him. Tweany continued to drag his burden, paying no attention. Coombs’s face could not be seen; it was buried in Tweany’s coat. Feet scraping the floor, Coombs was yanked against the kitchen table—it spilled salt shaker and sugar bowl to the floor—and over to the sink.

  “For God’s sake,” Mary Anne pleaded, kicking at the Negro’s shins; Beth’s long red nails gouged into his face. “Don’t do it, Tweany, they’ll put you in jail the rest of your life; they’ll string you up and lynch you and burn your body in gasoline and spit on you; spit on your body. Tweany, listen to me!”

  Holding Coombs with one arm, Tweany snatched open the drawer under the sink and fumbled among the silverware until he found an ice pick. Coombs managed to jerk free. He skittered away, reached the door, and then the hall. His thrashing sounds diminished as he vanished out the door, onto the flight of wooden steps.

  Coombs squealed, a shrill, high-pitched bleat, followed by the sound of old wood splintering. After that, a distant plop, as if some wad of organic waste, voided, had dropped a long way.

  “He fell,” Beth whispered. “My husband.”

  Mary Anne ran down the hall to the door. The railing was intact, but at the bottom of the steps lay Daniel Coombs. He had plunged the length; he had, along the stairs, missed his footing.

  Beth appeared. “Is he dead?”

  “How would I know?” Mary Anne said frigidly.

  Shoving her aside, Beth scampered down to the ground level beside her husband. Mary Anne watched for a moment, and then turned back to the apartment. Tweany was still in the kitchen; he emerged, straightening his shirt and smoothing his tie. He looked disconcerted but not apprehensive. “Those cops,” he said, “they’re going to be mad.”

  “Want me to call them?”

  “Yes, maybe you better.”

  She picked up the phone and dialed. When she had finished she hung up and faced the man. “You were going to kill him.” It was, for her, the final straw.

  Tweany said nothing.

  “It’s lucky for you he got loose.” A lethargy lay over her. “Now you don’t have to worry.”

  “I guess not,” Tweany agreed.

  Mary Anne seated herself. “You better put something on your face.” The side of his head was bleeding where she and Beth had clawed him. “What did you do with the ice pick?”

  “Put it back in the drawer, naturally.”

  “Go down and make sure she won’t say anything about it. Hurry—before they get here.” She could already hear sirens.

  Obediently, Tweany went off down the hall. Mary Anne remained, rubbing the instep of her right foot; she had twisted it floundering after Tweany. After a time she got to her feet and went into the bedroom. She had changed back into her skirt and blouse and was stepping into her heels when the police arrived.

  The first policeman—one she remembered from the other night—studied her searchingly as she descended the stairs.

  “I don’t remember you,” he said.

  Mary Anne didn’t answer. She stopped to glance at Coombs’s body…thinking, in a corner of her mind, that it would not be possible to get to her job today.

  13

  • • • • • • • •

  On a morning in early December, Joseph Schilling stood inspecting his window display. The sun was shining brightly, and he frowned, thinking of the records warping in their envelopes. Then he remembered that he had, before setting up the display, taken the records out and used the envelopes alone. Heartened, he unlocked the door and entered the shop.

  Records were heaped on the front counter. Temporarily ignoring them, Schilling got the push broom from the back closet and began sweeping away the debris that had piled up before his door during the night. When he had finished he reentered and plugged in the high-fidelity phonograph system mounted above the door. From the records on the counter he selected Handel’s Water Music and started it playing.

  He was outside again, rolling down the awning, when Mary Anne Reynolds appeared at his elbow. “I thought you opened at eight,” she said. “I’ve been sitting over there for half an hour.” She indicated the Blue Lamb.

  “I open at nine,” Schilling said, carefully going on with his awning unwinding. “Or thereabouts. No fixed schedule, actually. Sometimes when it’s raining I don’t open until noon.”

  “Who did you hire?”

  Schilling said: “Nobody.”

  “Nobody? You’re doing all the work?”

  “Sometimes a former friend of mine stops by and helps. A music teacher.”

  “Beth Coombs, you mean.”

  “Yes,” Schilling said.

  “You heard about her husband, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember me?”

  “Certainly I remember you.” He was deeply moved, and he had difficulty speaking. “I’ve thought about you every once in a while, wondering what became of you. You’re the girl who wanted a job.”

  “Can I go inside and sit down?” Mary Anne asked. “These heels hurt my feet.”

  Schilling followed her into the store. “Excuse the mess… I haven’t had time to clear things up.” The music dinned, and he bent to decrease the volume. “You’re acquainted wi
th Mrs. Coombs?” He spoke conversationally, wanting to put this anxious, tense girl at her ease. “Where did you meet her?”

  “At a bar.” Mary Anne seated herself on the window ledge and kicked off her shoes. “I notice you removed some of the listening booths.”

  “I was pressed for space.”

  The girl’s blunt attention focused on him. “Will three booths be enough? What happens when you get a crowd?”

  Candidly, he admitted: “I’m waiting to find out.”

  “Are you making a profit?” She massaged her foot. “Maybe you shouldn’t hire anybody.”

  “I’m currently preparing for Christmas. If I’m lucky this store may yet see some activity.”

  “What happened to what’s-his-name, that singer? Did he go over?”

  “Chad? Not exactly. We sent the tapes down to L.A., but nothing has come of it yet.”

  The girl pondered. “Paul Nitz liked him. I thought he was silly.” She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Neither of them said anything for a while, as Schilling began sorting records on the counter.

  There she was, sitting on the window ledge as if she had gone to work for him after all, as if she had not turned and run out of the store. He had made a blunder, that day. He had liked her and he had frightened her off. This time he was going to be careful; this time—he hoped—he had the situation under control.

  “You like it?” he asked. She certainly looked as if she be longed there on the ledge; like a cat, she had entered and taken possession. Now she was busy making herself comfortable.

  “The store?” she said. “I told you. Yes, I like it very much. It looks lovely.” There was a crisp, businesslike quality in her voice. It embarrassed him.

  “You feel hostility toward me,” he said.

  The girl didn’t answer. She was trying on her shoe.

  “You say you met Beth in a bar,” Schilling said, steering the conversation back to safer topics. “That was here in Pacific Park, wasn’t it? You didn’t know her before?”