He was not really surprised. But it was not easy to hear. And he must have showed it, because Mary Anne said:
“I’ll pay you the money back—the fifty dollars rent. I’m sorry, Joseph. I meant to tell you right away.”
“How’d you move your stuff?”
“I called a cab. There’s nothing left in the apartment; just paint and newspapers.”
“Yes,” he said. “The paint.”
“Some is in cans; some is on the walls.” The quickness entered her voice. “What do you suppose? What else?”
“Is the room nice?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry,” he said uneasily. “Why isn’t it?”
“It’s in a lousy neighborhood. I have a view of—neon signs and garbage cans. But it’s just fine; it’s just what I want. Twenty dollars a month, something I can pay for.”
Schilling turned to a fresh page in his notebook. “What’s the address?”
“I forget.” Suddenly she was staring at him with the same old hard blankness.
“You must have it written down somewhere.”
“Maybe so. Maybe not. I recognize it when I see it.”
“Did Beth and Tweany find you there?”
“Yes.”
Then, he reasoned, it was in the colored section. She had probably found it through somebody at the Wren. The owner, most likely. “How do you recognize it?”
“No,” she said.
“No what?”
“I’m not going to tell you where it is.”
He had made a mistake. He had pushed her too far. “Okay,” he said agreeably, closing his notebook. “That’s all right with me.”
“And I’m leaving,” she said.
“The store?”
“I’m quitting.”
Rationally, he nodded. “All right. Whatever you want.” He had accepted it already; it was reality and it had to be faced. “Now, what about money?”
“I have enough,” she said.
“Whatever you need,” Schilling said, “I’ll give it to you. Over a period of months, preferably. I’ll give you enough to go where you want and get started.”
She studied him wildly.
“I’ll try to get you the kind of job you want,” he went on. “But there I’m not worth much. I haven’t been out here in years, and my contacts are bad. I know the record wholesalers in the city, though; I might be able to do something there. You could talk to Sid Hethel. Maybe he can do you a good turn. Anyhow, you should drop in to see him if you’re going up there.”
“I’m going somewhere else,” she said.
“Back East?”
“No.” She was breathing rapidly. “Don’t ask me.”
In spite of his care, he had brought her around to this. So he had done nothing. He could not help her after all. He could only try to manage himself so that no further harm was brought to her.
This was the moment, he realized, when the great masterstroke was needed, the solution that would clear up everything. But he did not have it. He sat only a foot from her, close enough to touch her, and he could not do a thing. All his knowledge, all his years, the understanding and wisdom he had built up in many countries, all of it was useless. This one, thin, frightened, small-town girl could not be reached.
“It’s up to you,” he said.
“What is?”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want anybody to help me,” she said. “I just want people to leave me alone.”
“Mary Anne—” he said. Her hands rested on the table, white against the checkered tablecloth. “I love you,” he said. He reached out to touch her…
…but she drew away. The man’s hand, as if it were intrinsically alive, was creeping, fumbling at her. She watched, fascinated. The hand located her, and still the old man rambled on, talked and mumbled even as he took hold of her.
As his fingers closed over her flesh, Mary Anne kicked him, kicked his ankle with the sharp toe of her shoe, and at the same moment scrambled back and up. Springing to her feet, she leaped away from the table. Her coffee cup spun and splashed over its rim, turning on its side and spurting fluid down her skirt, onto her leg.
Across from her, Joseph Schilling gave a little snuffling cry of pain; he reached down and felt for his damaged ankle. On his face was an expression of acute pain.
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 Anne and, bending down, talked to her. Schilling stood with the husband, neither of them speaking. Presently Mary Anne arose and went with the man’s wife out of the restaurant.
“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 Anne, but there was no sign of them.
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 l
ock, 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 Anne lay on her back, her arms at her sides, and heard the sounds of cars and people outside the window. Toilets were flushed; noise vibrated among the other rooms.
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 grinned self-consciously. “I’m her fiancé.”
“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.
He did not expect that Dave Gordon would find her; the boy would search for a while and then go back to his gasoline station. But there were others who might. Some of them had found her already.
That evening, after work, he remained in the store by himself, preparing a Decca Christmas order. The dark street was quiet; few cars moved by, and almost no pedestrians. He worked at the counter with a single light on, listening to one of the phonographs playing new classical releases.
At seven-thirty a sharp rap startled him; he looked up and saw Dave Gordon outlined in the doorway. The boy made a sign that he wanted to come in; he had changed from his uniform to a stiff, double-breasted suit.
Putting down his pencil, Schilling walked over and unlocked the door. “What do you want?” he asked.
“Her family doesn’t know where she is either,” Dave Gordon said.
“I can’t help you,” Schilling said. “She only worked here about a week.” He started to close the door.
“We went down to that bar,” Dave Gordon said. “But it isn’t open yet. We’re going to try later. Maybe they know.”
“Who is ‘we’?” Schilling asked, stopping.
“Her father’s with me. He doesn’t have a car of his own. I’m driving him around in the truck.”
Schilling looked out and saw a yellow service truck parked at the curb a few spaces down. In the cabin of the truck was a small man, sitting quietly.
“Let’s have a look at him,” Schilling said. “Tell him to come over.”
Dave Gordon left, stood talking at the truck for a time, and then he and Edward Reynolds returned together.
“Sorry to bother you,” Ed Reynolds murmured. He was a slender, lightly built man, and Schilling saw some of the girl’s lines in his face. There was a nervous tremor in his arms and hands, an involuntary spasm that might have been a suppressed abundance of energy. He was not a bad-looking man, Schilling realized. But his voice was thin, shrill and unpleasant.
“You’re looking for your daughter?” Schilling said.
“That’s right. Dave here says she worked for you.” He blinked rapidly. “I think something’s happened to her.”
“Such as?”
“Well.” The man gestured and blinked again. He twisted on one foot, his hands opening and closing, a shudder of movement that reached his face and put a series of muscles into activity. “See, she was hanging around with colored people down at this bar. I think there was one, murdered a white man. It was in the newspaper.” His voice trailed off. “Maybe you noticed it.”
This was her tormentor. Schilling saw a small man, in his middle fifties, a workingman hunched with fatigue from his day at the plant. The man, like most human beings, smelled of age and perspiration. His leather jacket was stained and crinkled and torn. He needed a shave. His glasses were too small for him, and probably the lenses were obsolete. Around one finger was a ragged strip of tape where he had cut or hurt himself. There was nothing evil or sadistic in the man. He was as Schilling had expected.
“Go on home,” Schilling said, “and mind your own business. All you can give her is more trouble. She has enough of that.” He closed the door and locked it.
After a conference with Mr. Reynolds, Dave Gordon again rapped on the glass. Schilling had returned to the counter. He went back and opened the door. Dave Gordon looked embarrassed and the girl’s father was flushed and humble.
“Get out,” Schilling said. “Get out.” He slammed the door and pulled down the shade. The tapping began again almost at once. Schilling yelled through the glass: “Get out or I’ll have you both arrested.”
One of them mumbled something; he couldn’t hear it.
“Get out!” he shouted. He unlocked the door and said: “She isn’t even in town. She left. I gave her her money and she left.”
“See,” Dave Gordon said to the girl’s father. “She went up to San Francisco. She always w
anted to; I told you.”
“We don’t want to bother you,” Ed Reynolds said doggedly. “We just want to find her. You know where in San Francisco she went?”
“She didn’t go to San Francisco,” Schilling said, half-closing the door. Then he went over to the counter and resumed his work. He did not look up; he concentrated on the Decca order sheet. In the darkness Dave Gordon and Ed Reynolds came softly into the store toward him. They stopped at the counter and waited, neither of them speaking. He went on with his work.
He could feel them there, waiting for him to tell them where she was. They would remain for a while, and then they would go to the Wren, and there they would find out where she was. And then they would go to her room, the room in which she looked out at neon signs. And that would be it.
“Leave her alone,” he said.
There was no answer.
Schilling put down his pencil. He opened a drawer and took out a folded piece of notepaper, which he tossed to the two of them.
“Thanks,” Ed Reynolds said. They shuffled away from the counter. “We appreciate it, mister.”
After they had gone, Schilling relocked the door and returned to the counter. They had carried off the scribbled address of a San Francisco record wholesaler, an outfit on Sixth Street in the Mission District. That was the best he could do for her. By ten o’clock they would be back, and then they would go to the Lazy Wren.
There was nothing else he could do for her. He could not go to her, and he could not keep others away from her. In her twenty-dollar-a-month room, not more than a mile away and perhaps as close as a few blocks, she sat as she had sat in the restaurant: her hands in her lap, her feet together, her head slightly down and forward. He could help her only by not hurting her; he could keep himself from doing her further damage, and when he had done that he had done everything.
If she were let alone she would recover. If she had always been let alone she would not need to recover. She had been trained to be afraid; she had not invented her fear by herself, had not generated it or encouraged it or asked it to grow. Probably she did not know where it came from. And certainly she did not know how to get rid of it. She needed help, but it was not as simple as that; the desire to help her was no longer enough. Once, perhaps, it would have been. But too much time had passed, too much harm had been done. She could not believe even those who were on her side. For her, nobody was on her side. Gradually she had been cut off and isolated; she had been maneuvered into a corner, and she sat there now, her hands in her lap. She had no other choice. There was no other place for her to go.