“Looks like a fair crowd,” Schilling said as the fat red doors of the Wren were pushed aside to admit a couple. It was the first time he had seen this place, the girl’s old hangout. Suddenly he said to her: “Want to go in for a while?”
“Not like we are.”
“Who cares?” Nitz said, stepping from the car onto the pavement.
“No,” she decided, with a glance at Schilling. “Some other time; I want to get back. There’s too much to do.”
“It’ll keep,” Nitz said, halting by the car. “Take it easy, Mary.”
“I’m taking it easy.”
“You can’t do everything in one day, baby doll.”
“That’s easy enough for you to say,” Mary Anne said. She moved closer to Schilling, and he was grateful. “You don’t have to sleep there.”
Nitz said: “Neither do you.”
“I—want to sleep there.”
“Be careful where you sleep,” Nitz said, and Schilling leaned forward because he could see what was coming. But he heard it now; Nitz was saying it already. “It’s no good. I’m sorry, Mary. I wish to hell it was. He’s just too old.”
“Good night, Paul.” She didn’t look at him.
“I’ve got to say.”
“It is good,” she said tightly.
“What’s good about it? Well, a lot of things, maybe. But not enough. Go ahead and hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.” Her voice was faint, aloof. She seemed to be watching something a long way off. Nitz reached out to tweak her nose, but she pulled away.
“We can talk about it some other time,” Schilling said. “We’re all tired. This isn’t the best time.”
“Not the best time,” Nitz agreed. “Nothing’s best. Nothing’s as good as you think, Mary. Or want.”
Schilling started up the motor. “Leave her alone.”
“Sorry,” Nitz said. “I really am sorry. You suppose I enjoy this?”
“But you have your duty,” Schilling said. He let out the clutch and the car moved forward. Reaching past Mary Anne, he slammed the door. She made no motion, no protest. Behind them, on the sidewalk, Nitz stood clutching the brown paper bag. Then he turned and vanished inside the bar.
After a time, Schilling said: “Some of the nicest people in the world strung Jesus up on the cross.”
Mary Anne murmured: “What does that mean?”
“I mean, Nitz is a nice guy, but he has certain preconceptions and ideas. And he wants certain things like everybody else does. He isn’t outside, looking down. He has deep feelings toward you, deep personal feelings.”
“Good,” she said. “I’m glad to hear it.”
He was aware that talking was a mistake. She was in no shape to listen, to be rational, to decide. But he couldn’t help himself. “I’m sorry,” he began.
“About what?”
“That we had that run-in.”
“Yes.” She nodded. She gazed out the window.
As they drove along the dark street he said suddenly: “Are you really sure you want to do this?”
“Do what? Yes, I want to. I’m sure.”
“You heard what he said. And you trust him. What about your roommate? Can she find somebody else? Will she be able to handle the rent on your old place?”
“Don’t worry about her,” Mary Anne said with a gesture of dismissal. “She’s got plenty of loot.”
“This all happened so fast. There wasn’t time to plan.”
She shrugged. “So?”
“You should have more time, Mary.” Nitz had forced him to say it. “You should be absolutely certain what you’re getting into. He has a point. I don’t want you to be—well, involved in something.”
“Don’t be silly. I love the apartment. I intend to get prints and mats to fill it up. You can drive me around and help me pick everything out. And clothes…” Her eyes shone as ideas and schemes passed through her mind. “I want to get clothes I can wear, so when we go to another—”
“Maybe that was a mistake, too,” he said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have taken you up there.” Although it was a little late to think of that.
“Oh—” She shoved against him. “You’re talking like a moron.”
“Thanks,” he said.
Mary Anne leaned around, cutting off his view of the street ahead. “Are you mad at me?”
“No,” he said, “but get back so I can see.”
“See what?” She waved her hands in front of his face. “Phooey—run over somebody. Wreck us—see if I care.” In a burst of taunting nihilism she grabbed the steering wheel and spun it back and forth. The heavy car wandered from side to side, until Schilling pried her hand loose.
Slowing the car, he demanded: “Do you want to walk?”
“Don’t threaten me.”
Goaded by fatigue, he said: “Somebody ought to paddle you. With a leather strap.”
“You sound like my parents.”
“They’re right.”
“Drop dead,” she said, unruffled, but subdued. “Would you hurt me? You wouldn’t do that, would you?”
“No,” he said, driving carefully.
“Maybe you would…it’s possible. All kinds of things are possible. Nothing and everything.” She slid down on the seat and meditated. “Do you feel like stopping and having something to eat?”
“Not really.”
“Neither do I. I don’t know what I want—what do I want?”
“Nobody can tell you that.”
“Do you believe in anything?”
“Of course,” he said.
“Why?”
They had reached her new apartment. Upstairs on the second floor, lights blazed out into the darkness. The newly painted ceilings could be seen, glittering and sparkling, still moist.
Looking up, Mary Anne shivered. “It’s so barren. No curtains, no anything.”
“I’ll help you get your things unpacked,” he said. “Whatever you need for tonight.”
“That means we’re not going to do any more painting.”
“Go to bed and get some sleep. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
“I can’t stay here,” she said, with a mixture of loathing and fear. “Not half-finished, this way.”
“But your things—”
“No,” she said. “It’s absolutely out. Please, Joseph; honest to God, I can’t stand it like this. You understand what I mean, don’t you?”
“Certainly.”
“You don’t.”
“I do,” he said, “but it’s awkward. Your stuff is up there—clothes, everything. Where else can you stay? You can’t go back to your old place.”
“No,” she agreed.
“Do you want to go to a hotel?”
“No, not a hotel.” She pondered. “Jesus, what a mess. We shouldn’t have started painting. We should have just moved the stuff.” Wearily she hunched over and covered her face with the palms of her hands. “It’s my own fault.”
“Do you want to stay at my place?” he asked. It was something he would not normally have suggested; the idea was created by fatigue and the need of rest, and this blank wall at which they had arrived. He could not cope with it; he was too tired. It would have to wait until tomorrow.
“Could I? Would it bring on a lot of trouble?”
“Not that I know of.” He started up the car.
“You’re sure it’s okay?”
“I’ll take you over there and then come back here for your things.”
“You’re sweet,” she said dully, leaning against him.
He drove her to his own apartment, parked the car, and led the girl inside.
Sighing, Mary Anne dropped into a deep chair and sat staring at the rug. “It’s peaceful here.”
“I’m sorry we didn’t finish your place.”
“That’s okay. We’ll finish it tomorrow night.” She had nothing to say as Schilling removed his coat and then came over to receive her red jacket.
“What would cheer you up?”
he asked.
“Nothing.”
“Something to eat?”
Irritably, she shook her head. “No, nothing to eat. Christ, I’m just tired.”
“Then it’s time for bed.”
“You’re going back there now?”
“It won’t take long. What are the essential items?” He searched for a pencil and paper, then gave up. “I can remember, if you tell me.”
“Pajamas,” she murmured. “Toothbrush, soap…oh, the hell with it. I’ll go over with you.” Rising to her feet, she started toward the door. Schilling stopped her; she stood leaning against him, saying nothing, doing nothing, simply resting there.
“Come along,” he said. His arm around her, he led her into the bedroom and showed her his big double bed. “Climb in and go to sleep. I’ll be back in half an hour. What I forget I can pick up for you tomorrow morning, before work.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “That’s so.” Mechanically, she began to unfasten her belt. Schilling paused at the door, concerned. She was stepping out of her shoes; without a word she grasped hold of her paint-streaked T-shirt and tugged it over her head. At that point despair overwhelmed her; she stood mutely in the center of the bedroom in her bra and jeans, making no progress in any direction.
“Mary Anne,” he began.
“Oh, what?” she demanded. “Leave me alone, will you?”
Tossing her T-shirt on the bed, she unbuttoned her jeans and dragged them off. Then, paying no attention to the man at the door, she finished undressing, padded naked to the bed, and climbed in.
“Turn out the light, please,” she said.
He did so. There was no comment from the darkness. He lingered, not wanting to leave. “I’ll lock you in,” he said finally.
From the darkness stirring sounds were audible. She turned over, adjusted the covers, tried to make herself comfortable. “Whatever you want,” her voice came.
Schilling crossed the darkened room to the bed. “Can I sit?” he asked.
“Go ahead.”
He did so, on the very edge of the bed. “I feel guilty. About not finishing.” And more, too. Much more.
“It’s my own fault,” she murmured, staring up at the ceiling.
“We’ll collect some help, maybe not Nitz. And finish up, perhaps around the middle of the week.” When she didn’t respond, he went on: “You can stay here until then. How’s that?”
Presently she nodded. “Fine.”
He drew a little away. In the bed beside him, Mary Anne seemed already to have drifted into sleep. He watched, but he couldn’t be sure.
“I’m not asleep,” she stated.
“Go ahead.”
“I will. This is a nice bed. It’s wide.”
“Very wide.”
“Do you notice how the rug looks like water? It looks as if the bed’s floating. Maybe it’s because of the light… I had to work with it shining in my face. I’m dizzy.” She yawned. “Go on and get my things.”
He left the room on tiptoe. Closing the front door of the apartment, he tried the knob to be certain it was locked, and then strode off down the front steps.
The lights still burned in Mary Anne’s new apartment. The air, as he entered, was heavy and unpleasant with the reek of paint. As quickly as possible, he collected her possessions, snapped off the heat and lights, and backed out.
When he unlocked the front door of his own place there was no response from the darkened bedroom. He laid down his armload and removed his coat. Hesitating, he announced:
“I’ve got your stuff.”
There was no answer. Probably she was asleep. Or, on the other hand, there was an alternate possibility. Locating a flashlight, he stalked into the bedroom. She was gone, and so was her discarded clothing. His bed, rumpled and recently occupied, was still warm.
In the living room he found a note lying on top of his record cabinet.
“I’m sorry,” the note read; it was a carefully prepared pencil scrawl, composed of blunt, direct letters in Mary Anne’s hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow in the store. I’ve thought it over, including the business with Paul, and I’ve decided it’s better if I stay with my family tonight. I don’t want to create any kind of situation. Until we’re really sure, anyhow. You know what I mean. Don’t be mad at me. Sleep tight. Love, Mary.”
He crumpled the note and shoved it in his pocket. Well, better it should happen now than later. He felt a measure of relief, but it was flat and unconvincing.
“Oh, Christ,” he said. “Christ!” He had failed; he had let them drag her away.
Anguished, he went back into his bedroom and began smoothing out the empty bed.
19
• • • • • • • •
By the refrigerator, Mrs. Rose Reynolds poised and leaned forward, arms folded, watching her daughter pour herself a bowl of Post Toasties. Mary Anne dribbled milk into the bowl. As the cornflakes sank into a mass, she stirred her coffee and buttered a piece of dry toast.
“Dear,” Mrs. Reynolds said. “Let’s have it.”
“Let’s have what?” She spooned up her breakfast. “I can’t sit around here talking; I have to be down at the record shop by nine.”
The woman said steadily: “Tell me who you’re sleeping with.”
“What makes you think that? Why do you say that?”
“Just so it isn’t a jig. I couldn’t stand that.”
“It isn’t.”
Mrs. Reynolds pursed her lips. “Then you are sleeping with somebody. Did he throw you out? Is that why you came home?” Her voice dimmed to a monotone. “Your life’s your own, of course. You moved out of here to be with him; then he got tired of you. May I ask you something? When did you start? You were living under this roof when you started. I say that because I’ve noticed you feel yourself, poking around inside your pants. That’s been several years at least.”
“Shout away,” Mary Anne said. She had finished breakfast and now she carried her dishes to the sink.
“I’d like to discuss it with you,” Mrs. Reynolds said. “People, good friends of mine, tell me there’s a singer at a bar you’ve been with. I don’t recall the particular name of the bar—it’s not important. The singer is colored, isn’t he? People have a way of finding out; it’s surprising. I was reading in the paper about that jig who killed the white man, the one they arrested. I’m surprised they let him out on bail. They must have a good deal of influence in California, especially down in Los Angeles.” Her arms folded, she followed after Mary Anne. “When you and I were discussing marital relations earlier this year, I mentioned to you the difficulty of an unmarried woman obtaining a diaphragm. However, through friends a girl is sometimes able to—” She ceased talking.
In his leather jacket and work trousers, a lunch pail under his arm, Ed Reynolds appeared in the doorway; he was on his way to the plant. “How’s my girl?” he said. “Where have you been the last few months, and let’s have a straight answer.”
“I have an apartment—you know that.” She retreated from her father, turning her back to him.
“Where’d you come from last night?”
“They say she’s been bedding down with a colored fellow,” Mrs. Reynolds said. “You ask her. I can’t get a respectful answer; maybe you can.”
“Has she started to swell? Have you looked at her?”
“I didn’t have the opportunity last night.”
“Keep away from me,” Mary Anne said, leaving the kitchen and hurrying into what had been her bedroom. “I have to get to work!” she shouted apprehensively as her mother scuttled after her. Starting to close the door, Mary Anne wailed: “You keep your goddamn hands off me!”
“Better let me,” her mother said. “Or he will; you don’t want him to, so for your own good let me.” She pushed the door open. “When was the last time?”
“The last time what?” Pretending to ignore her, Mary Anne searched through her closet, getting out a dark red suit. From the dresser she took her old purse; the
forty dollars was still there, where she had stuffed it. They hadn’t found it.
“Your period,” Mrs. Reynolds said. “Or can’t you remember?”
“No, I don’t remember. Last month sometime.” Rapidly, nervously, Mary Anne shed her jeans and T-shirt, the clothes she had worn when she appeared at her family’s house the night before. As she began getting into a clean slip, Rose Reynolds leaped from the door and ran toward her.
“Let go of me!” Mary Anne screeched, clawing and scratching at her mother. Ed Reynolds appeared in the doorway and fixedly witnessed.
Catching the girl around the waist, Rose Reynolds pulled her underpants down and dug her hand into the girl’s hard belly. Mary Anne, shrieking, struggled to tear her mother’s hand away. Finally satisfied, Mrs. Reynolds released her and strode back to the doorway.
“Get out of here!” Mary Anne screamed, grabbing up a shoe and hurling it. Her face collapsed in furious tears. “Get out!” She ran, shoved her mother and father out of the room, and slammed the door.
Sobbing, fumbling with her clothing, she managed to dress. She could hear them outside the closed door, conferring about her.
“Shut up!” she wailed, wiping at her face with the back of her hand; and, as she hurried, planning out what she was going to do.
At nine o’clock she put in her appearance at the Lazy Wren. Taft Eaton, somber in his dirty apron and work trousers, was sweeping the sidewalk. When he saw her he pretended first to ignore her. “What do you want?” he demanded finally. “You always mean trouble.”
“You can do me a favor,” Mary Anne said.
“What kind of favor?”
“I want to rent a room.”
“I’m not in the rooming business.”
“You know all the property around here. Where’s a vacant place? Just a room—something cheap.”
“This is colored around here.”
“I know. It’s cheaper.” And, in her state of mind, she needed the comforting presence of Negroes.
“What’s the matter with what you got?”
“None of your business. Come on—I don’t have all day. I’m not going to tramp around looking; I don’t have time.”
Eaton considered. “No kitchen. And you know it’s colored. Yeah, that’s right; you like to hang around with colored. What for? What sort of kicks do you get out of it?”