Mary And The Giant

She stood out of reach for a moment, panting, and then she turned and walked away from the table. There was nothing in her mind, no thoughts, no tensions, only the awareness of the candles, the shape of the waiter, the watching patrons. She seemed to be in a hazy, noiseless medium that was all around her. The patrons, the curious bystanders, were transformed into fish-faces, grotesque and expanded until they filled the room. And she was cold, very cold. A numb and frigid quiet crept into her mind and lodged there; with a great effort she shook her head and saw around her, saw where she had come.

She was by a solitary chair in the corner of the restaurant, a straight-backed chair, varnished and shiny, set apart, isolated. There she seated herself, and folded her hands in her lap. She saw the entire restaurant. She was a spectator to it. And there, far off, distorted and shrunken, a wizened shape crouched at the table, was Joseph Schilling. He did not follow.

Joseph Schilling remained at the table. He did not follow her, and now he tried not to look toward her. The restaurant had returned to normal; the patrons were eating, and the waiter was circulating around. The kitchen doors swung open and shut; busboys pushed their carts out, and the clatter of dishes issued noisily.

At the entrance of the restaurant, by the cashier's desk, a young couple was preparing to leave. The man was putting on his topcoat, and his wife was before the mirror, straightening her hat. Their two children, a boy and a girl, both about nine years old, were wandering down the stairs to the parking lot.

Getting to his feet, Joseph Schilling walked over to the young couple. "Pardon me," he said. His voice sounded gruff, hoarse. "Are you driving back to town?"

The husband eyed him uncertainly. "Yes, we are."

"I wonder if you'd mind doing me a favor," he said. "See that girl sitting there in the corner?" He did not point; he made no motion. He did not even look. The husband had seen her, and he now turned slightly. "I wonder if you'd mind taking her back to town with you. I'd appreciate it."

The wife had now come over. "That girl?" she said. "You want us to take her back with us? Is she all right? She's not sick, is she?"

"No," Schilling said. "She'll be all right. Would that be too much trouble?"

"I guess not," the husband said, exchanging glances with his wife. "What do you say?"

The wife, without answering, went over to Mary A

"Thanks," Schilling said.

"Not at all," the man said, and departed after his family, puzzled but compliant.

After paying the check, Joseph Schilling walked across the deserted parking lot to his Dodge. As he started it up, he looked for the young couple and their children and Mary A

Presently he drove alone back to town.

21

The young family let her off in the downtown business section, and from there she walked through the evening darkness to her own room. On the front porch the empty wine bottles of the colored women remained, a heap of glitter and smoothness near her feet as she pushed open the front door.

The hall, narrow and dank, unwound ahead of her as she walked toward her door; she fumbled in her purse, found her key, and stopped at her own door.

Somewhere in a nearby room, a radio thundered out a jump record. Outside, along the dark street, a sweeper made its complicated route among the stores and houses. She put her key in the lock, turned it, and entered.

Shapes outlined themselves in the light from the hall: the pasteboard cartons of her possessions. They had never been unpacked. She closed the door and the weak light cut off; the room dwindled into itself and became a solid surface.

She leaned against the door for a long, long time. Then, removing her coat, she walked to the bed and sat down on its edge. Springs groaned, but she could not see them; she could only hear. She pushed the covers aside, kicked off her shoes, and crept into bed. Pulling the covers over her she lay on her back, her arms at her sides, and closed her eyes.

The room was still. Below, in the street, the sweeper had gone on. The floor vibrated from the sounds of other people, other rooms, but even that was a motion rather than a sound. She could no longer see and now she could no longer hear. She lay on her back and thought of different things, good things, pleasant things, clean and friendly and peaceful things.

In her darkness nothing moved. Time passed, and the darkness departed. Sunlight streamed through the frayed curtains, into the room. Mary A

She lay, staring up at the patterns of sunlight on the ceiling. She thought of many different things.

At nine o'clock in the morning Joseph Schilling opened up the record shop, found the push broom in the closet, and began sweeping the sidewalk. At nine-thirty, as he was filing records away, Max Figuera appeared in his soiled coat and trousers.

"She didn't show up?" Max said, picking his teeth with a match. "I didn't think she would."

Schilling went on working. "She won't be coming back. From now on, I'd like you to come in every day. Until Christmas, at least. Then maybe I'll go back to handling it alone."

By the counter Max paused, leaning, an expression of wisdom on his face, a knowing dryness that dropped from him like fragments of skin and cloth, bits of himself deposited wisely as he went along. "I told you so," he said.

"Did you."

"When you first looked at that girl, the one with the big knockers. The one drinking the milkshake; remember?"

"That's true," Schilling agreed, working.

"How much did she take you for?"

Schilling grunted.

Max said: "You ought to know better. You always think you can take these little babes, but they always wind up taking you.

They will; they're smart. Small-town girls, they're the worst of all. They sell it high. They know how to cash in on it. Did you get anything for your money?"

"In the back," Schilling said, "there's a Columbia shipment I haven't had time to open. Open it and check it against the invoice."

"Okay." Max roamed through the store. He chuckled, a wet snicker. "You did get something, didn't you? Did she pay off at all?"

Schilling walked to the front of the store and looked out at the people, at the stores across the street. Then, when he heard Max rooting in the shipment, he returned to his own work.

At one-thirty, while Max was out at lunch, a dark-haired boy wearing a yellow uniform entered the store. Schilling waited on a fussy gentleman at the counter, sent him into a booth, and then turned to the boy.

"Is Miss Reynolds here?" the boy asked.

Schilling said: "You're Dave Gordon?"

The boy gri

"She's not here," Schilling said. "She doesn't work for me anymore."

"Did she quit?" The boy became agitated. "She did that a couple times before. You know where she lives? I don't even know that anymore."

"I don't know where she lives," Schilling said.

Dave Gordon loitered uncertainly. "Where do you suppose I can find out?"

"I have no idea," Schilling said. "May I suggest something?"

"Sure."

"Leave her alone."

Dave Gordon went out, bewildered, and Schilling resumed his work.