Mary And The Giant

In his easy chair Ed Reynolds sat waiting, muscular and small, with gray hair like strands of wire. His fingers gripped the chair and he half-rose, gurgling and blinking rapidly; a beer can fell to the floor and then he swept newspaper and ashtray aside. He wore his black leather jacket and beneath it his undershirt, his cotton undershirt, stained with sweat and dirt. Smears of grease crossed his face, his neck; by the chair were his heavy work boots, lumpy with grease.

"Hello," she said, startled as always to see him, as if she had never seen him before.

"Just getting home?" His eyes glowed and his protruding Adam's apple wallowed in brisk little quivers of skin and bristling hair. As she walked toward her bedroom he came after, close on her heels, treading in his sticky socks across the carpet.

"Don't," she said.

"Don't what? Why you just getting home?" He pursued her. "Stop off with some of your nigger friends?"

She closed the bedroom door after her and stood. On the other side his breathing sounded: a low rattle, like something caught in a metal pipe. Not turning her back to the door, she changed to a white shirt and levis. When she came out he had returned to his chair. Before him the TV set radiated.

Entering the kitchen, she said rapidly to her mother: "Did Gordon call?" She avoided the sight of her father.

"Not today." Mrs. Rose Reynolds bent to inspect the casserole steaming in the oven. "Go set the table. Be some help." Back and forth, scurrying between the stove and sink. She was thin, too, like her daughter; here was the same sharp face, eyes that moved constantly, and, around the mouth, the same lines of worry. But from her grandfather-now dead, now buried in Forest Slope Chapel Cemetery in San Jose-Mary Anne had got her directness, the aloof boldness; and her mother lacked that.

Mary Anne examined the contents of pots and said: "I think I'm going to quit my job."

"Oh, good Lord," her mother said, tearing at a package of frozen peas. "You would, wouldn't you?"

"It's my job."

"You realize Ed won't be working a full week for the rest of the year. If it wasn't for his seniority-"

"They'll always make pipe. They won't lay him off." She didn't care; she wished him no good luck. Seating herself at the table she opened the Leader to the editorial page. "Want to hear what morons people are? Here's a letter from somebody in Los Gatos saying that Malenkov is the Antichrist, and God will send angels to destroy him." She turned to the medical column. "'Should I be concerned about a painless sore on the inside of my lip that doesn't seem to heal?' He probably has cancer."

"You can't quit your job."

"I'm not Jake," she said. "Don't make me a Jake."

"Who's Jake?"

"He's been there five years." She found the help-wanted columns and smoothed the newspaper flat. "Of course, I can always marry Gordon and sit home sewing while he fixes flat tires. Little soldier in a uniform. So obedient. Wave a flag, Jake. Gordon."

"Dinner's ready," her mother said. "Go tell Ed."

"Tell him yourself. I'm busy." Absorbed in the help-wanted columns she reached about for a pair of scissors. The ad looked good, and it was the first time it had appeared.

Young woman wanted for retail selling.

Must be able to meet public and be personable in dress and appearance.

Knowledge of music valuable but not essential.

Joseph R. Schilling MA3-6041 9 A.M. to 5 P.M.

"Go get him," her mother was repeating. "I told you; can't you help me a little? Can't you be of some use?"

"Lay off," Mary Anne said nervously. She cut out the ad and carried it to her purse. "Get up, Ed," she said to her father. "Come on, wake up."

He sat there in his chair, and the sight halted her with dread. Beer had leaked on the rug, an ugly stain that grew as she watched. She didn't want to go close to him; at the doorway she stopped.

"Help me up," he said.

"No." She felt sick; she couldn't imagine touching him. Suddenly she shouted: "Ed, get up! Come on!"

"Listen to her," he said. His eyes were bright, alert, fixed on her. "She calls me Ed. Why can't she call me Dad? Aren't I her father?"

She began to laugh, then, not wanting to but not able to keep from it. "God," she said, and choked.

"Show your father some respect." He was on his feet and moving toward her. "You hear me? Young lady. Listen to me."

"Keep your goddamn hands off me," she said, and rushed back into the kitchen, by her mother; at the cupboard she took out plates. "If you touch me I'll leave. Don't let him touch me," she said to her mother. Trembling, she began setting the table. "You don't want him to touch me, do you?"

"Leave her alone," Rose Reynolds said.

"Is he drunk?" Mary Anne demanded. "How can a man get drunk on beer? Is it cheaper?"

And then, once more, he had hold of her. He had caught her by the hair. The game, the old, terrible game.