Mary and the Giant Page 4

  “I see.”

  Guiding the girl from the pavement, Tweany said: “This is it. My house.” His expansiveness soured as the old house loomed up before them. “Not much to look at, but…good music lacks commercial appeal. A person has to choose between riches and artistic integrity.”

  A dark outside staircase led from the yard to the third floor. Mary Anne felt her way through the gloom; ahead of her was Tweany and to her left was the house itself. A rain barrel glided by; it was filled with soaked and decomposing newspapers. Next came a line of rusting oil drums, and then the steps. Under her feet the wood groaned and gave; she clung to the banister and stayed close behind Tweany.

  The apartment was a blur of shadows as Tweany led her down the hall to the kitchen. She gazed around her in wonder; she was seeing a vast clutter of furniture and shapes, nothing distinct, nothing she could properly make out. And then the light was on.

  “Excuse things,” Tweany murmured. He left her standing in the kitchen as he prowled, tomcat-wise, from room to room. His possessions seemed to be safe: nobody had stolen his shirts; nobody had ruffled his drapes; nobody had drunk his whiskey.

  In the kitchen a slight pool of water shone; the linoleum was damp with evidence of the catastrophe. But the heater had been repaired and the mess mopped up.

  “Fine,” Tweany said. “They did a good job.”

  Subdued, aware now that her alarm had been wasted, Mary Anne padded here and there, examining bookcases, peering out of windows. The apartment was very high up; she could see across town. Along the horizon ran a series of clear yellow lights.

  “What’s those lights?” she asked Tweany.

  He was indifferent. “A road, maybe.”

  Mary Anne breathed in the faintly musty scent of the apartment. “You have an interesting place. I’ve never seen a place like this. I’m still living at home with my parents. This gives me a lot of ideas for my own pad…you know?”

  Lighting a cigarette, Tweany said: “Well, I was right.”

  “I guess the plumber came.”

  “Nothing was the matter after all.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, feeling uncertain of herself. “I was thinking about the people downstairs. I read an ad, once. An insurance company ad about a hot water heater that exploded.”

  “Might as well take off your coat, now that you’re here.”

  She did so, pushing it over the arm of a chair. “I guess I got you away from the Wren for nothing.” Hands in the back pockets of her jeans, she returned to the window.

  “Beer?”

  “Okay.” She nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Eastern beer.” Tweany filled a glass for her. “Sit down.”

  She sat, holding the glass awkwardly. It was cold and damp with drops of collected moisture.

  “You don’t even know if there are any people downstairs,” Tweany said. He had made a point and he intended to develop it. “What makes you think there’s somebody downstairs?”

  Staring at the floor Mary Anne murmured: “I don’t know. I just thought about it.”

  Tweany settled himself on the edge of a heaped table; he was now located well above her, in a position of authority. The girl seemed quite small in comparison to him, and quite young. In her jeans and cotton shirt she might have been a teenager.

  “How old are you?” Tweany demanded.

  Her lips barely moved. “Twenty.”

  “You’re just a little girl.”

  It was so. She felt like a little girl, too; she could sense his eyes fastened mockingly on her. She was, she realized, about to undergo the ordeal of a lecture. She was going to be reprimanded.

  “You got to grow up,” Tweany said. “You got a lot of things to learn.”

  Mary Anne roused herself. “For cripe’s sake, don’t I know it? I want to learn things.”

  “You live here in town?”

  “Naturally,” she said, with bitterness.

  “You go to school?”

  “No. I work in a lousy broken-down chrome furniture factory.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Stenographer.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “No.”

  Tweany contemplated her. “Do you have talent?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You should do something creative.”

  “I just want to go somewhere where I can be with people and they won’t let me down.”

  Tweany went over and turned on the radio. The sound of Sarah Vaughan drifted out and into the living room. “You’ve been dealt some hard knocks,” he said, returning to his vantage point.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t had it so bad.” She sipped her beer. “Why does eastern beer cost more than western?”

  “Because it’s finer.”

  “I thought maybe it was the freight cost.”

  “Did you?” His great contemptuous grin reappeared.

  “See, I’ve never had a chance to find things out. Where do you find out things like that?”

  “A lifetime of broad experience. A cultivated taste is acquired gradually over the years. To some people eastern beer and western beer taste exactly alike.”

  Mary Anne didn’t like beer of any kind. Dutifully she sipped at her glass, wishing, in a wan sort of way, that she was older, that she had seen more and done more. She was aware of her ordinariness in comparison with Carleton Tweany.

  “How does it feel to be a singer?” she asked.

  “In art,” Tweany told her, “there’s a spiritual satisfaction that goes beyond material success. The American society is only interested in money. It’s shallow.”

  “Sing something for me,” Mary Anne said suddenly. “I mean,” she murmured, “I like to hear you.”

  “Such as?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Sing ‘Water Boy.’” She smiled at him. “I like that…you sang it at the Wren, one night.”

  “It’s a favorite of yours, then?”

  “We sang it once in grammar school assembly, years ago.”

  Her thoughts eddied back to her earlier life, when she, in scotch-plaid skirt and middy blouse, had trooped as part of an obedient line from one classroom to another. Crayon drawings, current events, air raid drills during the war…

  “That was better,” she decided. “During the war. Why isn’t it like that now?”

  “What war?”

  “With the Nazis and the Japs. Were you in that?”

  “I served in the Pacific.”

  “Doing what?” She was instantly curious.

  “Hospital attendant.”

  “Is it fun to work in a hospital? How’d you get to do it?”

  “I signed up.” His activity in the war had never ranked high in his own estimation; he had come out as he had gone in: a private earning twenty-one dollars a month.

  “How do you get to be a nurse?” she asked.

  “You take courses, like anything else.”

  Mary Anne’s face glowed. “It must be wonderful to be able to devote your life to something real and important. A cause—like nursing.”

  Distastefully, Tweany said: “Bathing old, dried-up men. There’s no fun in that.”

  Mary Anne’s interest waned. “No,” she agreed, sharing his aversion. “I wouldn’t like that. But it wouldn’t be that all the time, would it? Mostly it would be healing people.”

  “What was so fine about the war?” Tweany said. “You never seen a war, young lady. You never seen a man get killed. I’ve seen that. War’s an awful business.”

  She didn’t mean that, of course. She meant the unanimity that had arisen during the war, the evaporation of internal hostility. “My grandfather died in 1940,” she said aloud. “He used to keep a map of the war, a big wall map. He stuck pins in it.”

  “Yes,” Tweany agreed, unmoved.

  But she was greatly moved, because Grandfather Reynolds had been a vast and important person to her; he had taken care of her. “He used to explain to me about Munich and the Czechs,�
� she said. “He loved the Czechs. Then he died. I was—” She computed—“I was seven years old.”

  “Very young,” Tweany murmured.

  Grandfather Reynolds had loved the Czechs, and she had loved him; and, perhaps, he was the only human being she had ever had real affection for. Her father was a danger, not a person. Since one certain night when she had come home late, and he, in the living room, had caught her, had really caught her: not in a game. Since that night she had been afraid. And he, the grinning little man, knew it. And enjoyed it.

  “Ed was working in a defense plant in San Jose,” she said. “But my grandfather was home; he was old. He used to own a ranch in the Sacramento Valley. And he was tall.” She felt herself drifting, falling away into her own thoughts. “I remember that…he used to lift me up and swing me around a long way off the ground. He was too old to drive; when he was a boy he rode on a horse.” Her eyes shone. “And he wore a vest, and a big silver ring he bought from an Indian.”

  Getting to his feet, Tweany walked around the apartment pulling down the window shades. He leaned over Mary Anne to reach the window behind her; he smelled of beer and shirt starch and men’s deodorant. “You’re a nice-looking girl.”

  She roused herself a little. “I’m too thin.”

  “You’re not a bad-looking girl,” he repeated, looking down at her legs. Instinctively she drew them under her. “Do you know that?” he demanded, in an oddly hoarse voice.

  “Maybe.” She stirred fitfully…it was getting late. Tomorrow morning she had to be up early; she had to be alert and fresh when she went to see about the ad. Thinking of it, she took hold of her purse.

  “You a friend of Nitz’s?” Tweany asked.

  “I suppose.”

  “You like him?” He settled himself facing her, his body slack. “You like Nitz? Answer me.”

  “He’s all right,” she said, feeling uncomfortable.

  “He’s little.” The man’s eyes were full of brightness. “I bet you prefer your men large.”

  “No,” she said irritably, “I don’t care.” Her head had begun to ache, and Tweany’s closeness seemed oppressive. And she hated his beer smell: it reminded her of Ed. “Why don’t you clean this place up?” she demanded, shifting away from him. “It’s an awful mess—junk everywhere.”

  He sat back and his face collapsed into itself.

  “It’s terrible.” She got to her feet and collected her coat, her purse. The apartment was no longer interesting: she blamed him for spoiling it. “It stinks,” she said. “And it’s all littered and I’ll bet the wiring is bad.”

  “Yes,” Tweany said. “The wiring is bad.”

  “Why don’t you have it fixed? It’s dangerous.”

  Tweany said nothing.

  “Who cleans up?” she demanded. “Why don’t you have somebody come in?”

  “I have a woman come by.”

  “When?”

  “Once in a while.” He examined his jeweled wristwatch. “It’s time we were getting back, Miss Mary Anne.”

  “I suppose. I have to be up early tomorrow.” She watched him go to get his coat; he had withdrawn back into his shell of formality, and it was her fault. “I’m glad your hot water heater’s okay,” she said, as a sort of apology.

  “Thank you.”

  As they walked down the dark night street, Mary Anne said, “Tomorrow I’m going job hunting.”

  “Are you.”

  “I want to work in a record shop.” She felt his disinterest, and she wanted to draw him back. “It’s that new one that’s opening.” In the late air she trembled.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “My sinuses. I’m supposed to go down and have them drained. Changes of temperature make them hurt.”

  “Will you be all right?” he asked. They had come to the edge of the business section; ahead, along the street of locked shops, she could see the red glow of the Wren.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m going home and go to bed.”

  “Good night,” Tweany said, and started away.

  “Wish me luck,” she called after him, suddenly feeling the need of luck. Loneliness closed in, and she had to force herself not to flee after him.

  Tweany waved and continued on his way. For a moment she stood anxiously watching the diminution of his figure. Then, holding onto her purse, she turned toward her own neighborhood.

  5

  • • • • • • • •

  At eight-thirty the next morning Mary Anne entered the telephone booth in Eickholz’s Creamery and dialed California Readymade Furniture. Tom Bolden answered.

  “Let me talk to Edna,” Mary Anne said.

  “What? Who do you want?”

  When she had got hold of Mrs. Bolden, Mary Anne explained: “I’m sorry, but I can’t be at work today. It’s my period and I always have a lot of difficulty.”

  “I see,” Mrs. Bolden said, in a neutral voice that showed neither doubt nor belief, only an acceptance of the inevitable. “Well, there’s not much we can do about it. Will you be back on your feet tomorrow?”

  “I’ll keep you posted,” Mary Anne said, already hanging up. The hell with you, she thought. You and your factory and chrome chairs.

  She left the creamery. High heels tapping against the pavement, she walked quickly up the sidewalk, conscious of her appearance, aware of the texture and style of her hair, her careful makeup, the scent of her perfume. She had spent two hours grooming herself, and she had eaten only a piece of toast with applesauce and a cup of coffee. She was on edge, but not apprehensive.

  The new little record shop had been the Floral Arts Gift Shop. Carpenters were working busily in the newly decorated store, installing overhead recessed lighting and laying carpets. An electrician had parked his truck and was lugging phonographs inside. Cartons of records were piled everywhere; in the rear a pair of workmen were tacking squares of soundproofing to the ceiling of the half-completed booths. The work in progress was directed by a middle-aged man in a tweed suit.

  She crossed the street and walked slowly back, trying to make out the figure that loomed over the carpenters. Waving a silver-handled stick, the man paced back and forth, giving instructions, laying down the law. He walked as if the ground came into existence at his feet. He was creating the store from the puddle of fabrics, boards, wiring, tiles. It was interesting to see this big man building. Was he Joseph R. Schilling? She gave up her prowling and approached the store. It was not yet nine.

  Passing through the entrance was a sudden leaving of the emptiness of the street; she found herself in the midst of activity. Large and important objects had been collected here; she felt the tightness, the reassuring pressure that meant so much to her. While she was inspecting a newly built counter, the tweed-suited man glanced up and saw her.

  “Are you Mr. Schilling?” she asked, a little awed.

  “That’s right.”

  All around them carpenters were hammering; it was noisier than California Readymade. She took a deep, pleased breath of the smell of sawdust, the stiff unfolding of new carpets. “I want to talk to you,” she said. Her wonder grew. “Is this your store? What’s all the glass for?” Workmen were carrying panes to the rear.

  “For record booths,” he answered. “Come in the office. Where we can talk better.”

  Reluctantly, she forgot the work in progress and trailed after him, down a hall past a flight of basement steps and into a side room. He closed the door and turned to face her.

  It had been Joseph Schilling’s first impulse to send the girl off. Obviously she was too young, not more than twenty. But he was intrigued. The girl was unusually attractive.

  What he saw was a small, rather bony girl, with brown hair and pale, almost straw-colored eyes. Her neck fascinated him. It was long and smooth, a Modigliani neck. Her ears were tiny and did not flare in the slightest. She wore gold hooped earrings. Her skin was fair and unblemished and faintly tanned. There was no emphasis of sexuality; her body was not overly develo
ped and there was an ascetic quality to her, a strictness of line that was refreshing and unusual.

  “You’re looking for a job?” he asked. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty,” she answered.

  Schilling rubbed his ear and pondered. “What sort of experience have you had?”

  “I worked eight months for a finance company as a receptionist, so I’m used to meeting the public. And then I worked over a year taking dictation. I’m a trained typist.”

  “That’s of no value to me.”

  “Don’t be silly. Is your business only going to be on a cash basis? You’re not going to open charge accounts?”

  “My bookkeeping will be done from outside,” he said. “Is this your idea of the way to ask for a job?”

  “I’m not asking for a job. I’m looking for a job.”

  Schilling reflected, but the distinction was lost on him. “What do you know about music?”

  “I know everything there is to know.”

  “You mean popular music. What would you say if I asked you who Dietrich Buxtehude was? Do you recognize the name?”

  “No,” she said simply.

  “Then you don’t know anything about music. You’re wasting my time. All you know is the Top Ten tunes.”

  “You’re not going to be able to sell hit tunes,” the girl said. “Not in this town.”

  Surprised, Schilling said: “Why not?”

  “Hank is one of the smartest pop buyers in the business. People come down here from San Francisco, looking for tunes backordered all the way to L.A.”

  “And they find them?”

  “Most of the time. Nobody can catch them all.”

  “How do you know so much about the record business?”

  For an instant the girl smiled. “Do you think I know a lot about the record business?”

  “You act as if you do. You pretend you do.”

  “I used to go with a boy who did Hank’s stock work. And I like folk music and bop.”

  Stepping to the back of the office, Schilling got out a cigar, cut off the end, and lit up.

  “What’s the matter?” the girl asked.

  “I’m not sure how good you’d be behind a counter. You’d try to tell people what they ought to like.”