Mary And The Giant

Again Mary Anne felt his fingers against her neck, the very strong little hand at the base of her skull. His knuckles dug into her skin and smeared her; she felt the stain grow and spread and seep. She cried out, but it was hopeless; now the rancid beerbreath billowed into her face and he was twisting her around to face him. She, still holding plates, heard the crackle of his leather jacket, the stirring of his body. She closed her eyes and thought of different things: good things and quiet things, things that smelled nice, things distant and peaceful.

When she opened her eyes he had gone; he was sitting down at the table. "Hey," he said, as his wife approached with the casserole, "she's getting nice little tits on her."

Rose Reynolds said nothing.

"She's growing up," he said, and pushed back his sleeves to eat.

3

"Gordon," she said. But it wasn't David Gordon.

It was his mother who opened the door, looking out into the night darkness and smiling vaguely at the girl standing on the porch.

"Why, Mary Anne," Mrs. Gordon said. "How nice."

"Is Dave home?" She had, in jeans and cloth coat, left her own house as soon as dinner was over. The sense of escape was strong in her, and she had the ad in her purse.

"Have you had dinner?" Mrs. Gordon asked. Warm dinner smell drifted out. "I'll go upstairs to his room and see if he's still in.

"Thanks," she said, breathing her impatience, hoping he was home because it made things more convenient; she could go to the Wren alone, but it was better to have somebody along.

"Don't you want to come inside, dear?" It seemed natural that her son's fiancee should come in; the woman held the door open, but Mary Anne stayed where she was.

"No," she said. She had no time; she was hunted down by the need to act. Damn it, she thought, the car's gone. The Cordons' garage was empty, so Dave was out. Well, that was that.

"Who's there?" Arnold Gordon's hospitable voice sounded, as he materialized with his newspaper and pipe, slippers on his feet. "Mary, come on in here; what's the matter with you, standing out there?"

Backing down the steps she said: "Dave isn't home, is he? It doesn't matter; I just wanted to find out."

"Aren't you coming in? Just the old folks, Mary. Look-how about ice cream and cake, and we can chat?"

"We haven't seen you in so long," Mrs. Gordon added.

"Good-bye," Mary Anne said. Dear, she thought, how wonderfully my new egg dicer works. You must take it when you and David set up housekeeping. Any date yet? Have some more ice cream.

"Dave's at the Junior Chamber of Commerce meeting," Arnold said, emerging on the porch. "How've you been, Mary? How's the folks?"

"Fine," she said, closing the gate after her. "If he wants me I'm at the Wren. He'll know."

Hands in the pockets of her coat, she started walking in the direction of the Lazy Wren.

The bar was smoky with the confusion of drinking people. She pushed among the tables, past the individuals clustered around the bandstand, and to the piano.

At the piano was Paul Nitz, the intermission pianist. Slumped over, he gazed off into space, a lean, shaggy-blond young man with a dead cigarette between his lips, his long fingers tapping at the keys. Lost in his trance, he smiled up at the girl.

"I thought I heard," he murmured, "Buddy Bolden say." Into the texture of his music he wove a hint of the old Dixie tune. The thread, elaborated and diminished, was lost in the dominant theme: the bop tune "Sleep."

Assembled at the piano were a very few admirers, listening to Nitz ramble. Eyes half-shut, he nodded to one of them; the listener's face responded, and the two men nodded sagely together.

"Yes," Nitz said, "I thought I heard him as clearly as I see you now. News for you, Mary?"

"What?" she said, leaning against the piano. "Nose is running."

"It's cold outside," she said, brushing her nose with the edge of her hand. "Is he going to sing, soon?"

"Cold," Nitz echoed. He ceased playing and, from around the piano, his few admirers drifted off. The real group waited at the bandstand, and they were more patient. "You don't care," he said to the girl. "You won't be here. Minors. The world's full of minors. Do you care if I'm playing? Do you come and listen to me?"

"Sure, Paul," she said, liking him.

"I'm a hole. I'm a faintly audible hole."

"That's right," she said, sitting down on the bench beside him. "And sometimes you aren't even audible."

"I'm a musical silence. Between moments of greatness."

She felt a little calmer, and looked around the bar, measuring the people, listening. "Good group tonight."

Nitz passed her the remains of his unlit reefer. "You want this? Take it; be delinquent. Go to hell in a bucket."

She dropped the cigarette to the floor. "I want to ask your advice." Since she was here, anyhow.

Getting to his feet, Nitz said: "Not now. I have to go to the bathroom." He started unsteadily off. "I'll be back."