Mary and the Giant

  “I’m tired,” Tweany said. “I’ll let it go this time.”

  “You can’t.”

  Hauteur overcame Tweany; he clearly was not giving up. “I can’t perform creatively when I’m tired.”

  “Then come on,” the blonde urged.

  As if responding to an occult power, Taft Eaton approached the table, his bar rag oozing bubbles in a trail across the floor. “One more set, Carleton. You’ve not leaving.”

  “Certainly not,” Tweany agreed.

  Grinning, with a wink at Mary Anne, Nitz said, “Tough luck. Anyhow, this Lemming might start singing folk songs.”

  With his usual profound gravity, Tweany turned back to the blonde. She was still standing, still smiling at him, on the verge of leaving. “Perhaps,” Tweany said, in a tone Mary Anne well recognized, “you could bring him over to my place. I’ll be there directly I complete this final set.”

  “Then it’s settled.” A little quiver of her hips—a quite visible undulation of triumph—and then the blonde prodded her still-seated companion, saying: “Let’s be going.”

  “My address,” Tweany began artfully, but Nitz interrupted him.

  “I’ll take them over.” Under the table he gave Mary Anne a comradely kick. “I’ll be along; I want to have a look at this bird.”

  “Glad to have you,” the blonde said.

  “Just a moment,” Taft Eaton began. “Paul, it seems strange to hear you talk about leaving.”

  “I don’t have to accompany him,” Nitz said. “I’m intermission pianist. He can sing some of those stomps and chain-gang hollers.”

  “Can I come?” Mary Anne asked, in a flurry of misery. She didn’t want to be left out; she was helpless to prevent Tweany and the blonde from mingling, but at least she could be there, too.

  “And my girl,” Nitz said, rising. “I have to have her with me.”

  “Bring her.” The blonde was already moving toward the street door.

  “A party,” her companion murmured, glancing at Nitz and Mary Anne. “Got any more friends?”

  “Don’t be rude.” Halting beside Tweany, the blonde said: “My name’s Beth, and this is my husband, Danny. Danny Coombs.”

  “How do you do,” Tweany said.

  “You can’t leave,” Taft Eaton repeated stubbornly, still there. “Somebody has to do something around here.”

  “I’m not leaving,” Tweany said. “I explained it fully. I’ll do the final set and then leave.”

  Putting his hand on Mary Anne’s shoulder, Nitz said to her, “Don’t feel bad.”

  She followed morosely after Beth and Danny Coombs, her hands in her pockets. “I don’t want to go. But I have to.”

  “You’ll live through it,” Nitz said. He held the red-padded door open as Mary Anne stepped out onto the sidewalk. The Coombses had begun climbing into a parked Ford. “We’ll give this guy a hotfoot.”

  He crawled into the backseat of the Ford and helped Mary Anne in. Hugging her comfortingly to him, he reached into his coat and got out his drink glass.

  “Ready?” Beth inquired cheerfully over her shoulder.

  “Here we go,” Nitz said, settling back and yawning.

  9

  • • • • • • • •

  When they arrived at the Coombses’ apartment, there was no sign of Chad Lemming.

  “He’s in the bathroom,” Beth said. “Taking a bath.” The sound of running water could be heard. “He’ll be out in a few minutes.”

  The apartment was a single huge room with a grand piano at one end, two tiny bedrooms, and a kitchen no larger than a pea. The bathroom, in which Lemming was contained, was across the hall; it was a community bathroom, shared with the family downstairs. The walls of the apartment were spotted with prints, mostly by Theotocopuli and Gauguin. The floor, except at the extreme edges, was covered by a gray-green mat of woven fiber. The curtains were burlap.

  “Are you an artist?” Mary Anne asked Beth.

  “No. But I used to be.”

  “Why’d you stop?”

  Glancing at Coombs, Beth strolled into the kitchen and started fixing drinks. “I got more interested in music,” she answered. “What do you want to drink?”

  “Bourbon and water,” Nitz said, prowling around. “If you have some.”

  “How about you?” she asked Mary Anne.

  “Anything’s okay.”

  Four bourbons and water were brought out; each of them took his awkwardly. Beth had tossed off her coat; now her figure emerged, mature and expanded. She wore a T-shirt and slacks. Seeing her, Mary Anne reflected on her own small bust. She wondered how old Beth was.

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  Beth’s blue eyes widened with dismay. “Me? Twenty-nine.”

  Satisfied, Mary Anne dropped the subject. “Is this your piano?” She wandered over to the grand piano and plunked a few random notes. It was the first time she had ever touched a grand piano; the great blackness of it awed her. “How much do they cost?”

  “Well,” Beth said, a little amused, “you can pay up to eight thousand dollars for a Bösendorfer.”

  Mary Anne wondered what a Bösendorfer was, but she said nothing. Nodding, she approached one of the wall prints and scrutinized it. Suddenly from the hall came a swirl of motion; Chad Lemming, having completed his bath, was returning.

  Lemming, a slender young fellow, dashed through the living room in a flapping cotton robe and vanished into the bedroom. “I’ll be directly out,” he fluttered. “I won’t be long.” He sounded, to Mary Anne, like a fairy. She resumed her examination of the print.

  “Listen, Mary,” Nitz said, close beside her. Beth and Danny Coombs were following Lemming into the bedroom, telling him at length what to sing. “Stop sticking nails in yourself. It’s not worth it.”

  At first she couldn’t imagine what he meant.

  “Carleton Tweany,” he said, “is a conceited posturer. You’ve been at his house; you’ve seen his jars of hair oil and his silk shirts. And his cravats. Those cravats.”

  Very thinly Mary Anne said: “You’re jealous of him because he’s big and you’re a tiny-man.”

  “I’m no tiny-man, and I’m telling you the truth. He’s stupid; he’s snobbish; he’s a fake.”

  Mary Anne floundered. “You don’t understand him.”

  “Why? Because I haven’t slept with him? I’ve done everything else; I’ve been up close to his soul.”

  “How?”

  “By accompanying his ‘Many Brave Hearts,’ that’s how.”

  Wavering, Mary Anne said: “He’s a great singer. No, you don’t think so.” She shook her head. “Let’s drop it.”

  “Mary Anne,” Nitz said, “you’re a hell of a sweet person. You realize that?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Take your pal, that punk who chauffeurs you around. Dave something.”

  “Dave Gordon.”

  “Re-create him along useful lines. He’s basically sound, just too young.”

  “He’s dumb.”

  “You’re way ahead of your pals…that’s one of your troubles. You’re too old for them. And you’re so darn young it’s pitiful.”

  She glared at him. “Keep your opinions to yourself.”

  “Nobody can tell you anything.” He rumpled her hair, and she jerked away. “You’re too smart for Tweany. And you’re too good for all of us. I wonder who’ll finally snare you…not me, I guess. Not very likely. You’ll wind up with some donkey, some hulking pillar of bourgeois respectability you can admire and have faith in. Why can’t you have faith in yourself?”

  “Lay off, Paul. Please.”

  “Are you even listening?”

  “I can hear you; don’t shout.”

  “You’re listening with your ears only. You don’t even see me standing here, do you?” Befuddled, Nitz rubbed his forehead. “Forget it, Mary. I feel tired and sick and I don’t make sense.”

  Beth rushed over to them, bright-eyed and excited, breasts wag
ging. “Chad is going to sing! Everybody shut up and listen!”

  The young man had now emerged. His hair was crew-cut; he wore horn-rimmed glasses; a bow tie dangled under his protruding Adam’s apple. Beaming at the people, he picked up his guitar and began his monologue and song.

  “Well, folks,” he said cheerily, “I guess you read in the papers a while back about the President going to balance the budget. Well, here’s a little song about it I figured you might enjoy.” And, with a few strums at his guitar, he was off.

  Listening absently, Mary Anne roamed about the room, examining prints and furnishings. The song, in a bright metallic way, glittered out over everything, spilling into everyone’s ears. A few phrases reached her, but the main drift of the lyrics was lost. She did not particularly care; she was uninterested in Congress and taxes. She had never seen anybody like Chad Lemming and the impression of him dulled against the closedness of her mind…she had her own problems.

  The next ballad came almost at once. Now he was bleating about old-age pensions. That was followed by a spirited ditty about the FBI, then one about genetics, and finally an involved, rollicking jingle concerning the H-bomb.

  “…And if Mao Tse-tung makes trouble

  we will blow the world to rubble…”

  Irritably, she wondered who cared about Mao Tse-tung. Who was he; wasn’t he head of Communist China?

  “…I’ll be lying in the ruin

  while disarmament is brewin’…”

  Closing her ears against the racket, she wandered entirely out of the living room, into one of the gloomy bedrooms. Sitting on the edge of the bed—Beth’s bed, from the looks of it—she prepared to endure the remainder of Lemming’s routine. The title of the song, announced with much elaboration and fanfare, still dinned in her ears.

  “What This Country Needs Is a Good Five-Cent H-bomb.”

  It failed to make sense. It had no meaning. Her mind reverted, instead, to prior thoughts. To the strong, dark presence of Carleton Tweany; and, drifting behind it, memories of the incident at the music shop, the large old man in his tweed suit. First striding about with his silver cane…then the pressure of his fingers as he took hold of her arm.

  Gradually she became aware that the singing had died. Guiltily, she climbed to her feet and found her way back into the living room. Beth had disappeared into the kitchen for more drinks; Danny Coombs was off sulking in the corner, leaving Nitz and Lemming together.

  “Who writes your stuff?” Nitz was asking.

  “I do,” Lemming said shyly. Now that he wasn’t immersed in his act, he seemed to be a tame college freshman in a sports coat and slacks. Setting down his guitar, he removed his glasses and polished them on his sleeve. “I tried to do gag writing down in L.A., but I didn’t click. They said I wasn’t commercial. Apparently my material was too pointed.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “That old? You don’t look that old.”

  Lemming laughed. “I graduated from Cal back in ’48, in chemistry. For a while I worked up at the Project—” He explained: “The radiation lab. I could still work there, I guess. They never took away my clearance. But I prefer to keep moving around… I guess I never grew up.”

  “Is there any loot in this stuff?” Nitz asked.

  “None that I’m aware of.”

  “Can you make a living?”

  “Maybe so,” Lemming said. “I hope so.”

  Nitz was puzzled. “A guy like you—you have an education, you could work at a big research project. But you want to bum around with this. You enjoy it? It’s worth that much to you in terms of personal satisfaction?”

  “These are troubled times,” Lemming murmured, and Mary Anne lost the balance of it in words as well as thought. His talk, like his singing, made no sense. But Nitz was muttering away, asking the man questions, digging out answers. His interest was a mystery…she gave up and dismissed the subject.

  “You never told us your name,” Beth said, approaching her with a fresh drink.

  Mary Anne declined the drink. She did not like the woman, and for good reason. But she felt an unhappy respect: Beth had gone directly after Tweany, and her obvious mastery left the girl participating out of her depth. “What’s the matter with him?” she said, meaning Lemming. “Nothing at all, probably. But he’s so—silly. Maybe it’s me. I’m out of place here.”

  “Don’t go,” Beth said with condescension.

  “I might as well. How long have you known Schilling?”

  “Five or six years.”

  “What’s he like?” She did want to find out, and Beth evidently knew.

  “That depends,” Beth said. “We had a lot of fun together. Years ago, when you were—” She measured the girl, until Mary Anne became offended. “Oh, about fourteen.”

  “He must have money, to open that store.”

  “Oh, yes. Joe has money. Not a lot, but enough for what he wants.”

  “What does he want?”

  “Joe is a very thoughtful man. He’s also a lonely man. In spite of everything—” She smiled her fixed smile—“I have the highest regard for his taste and intellect. He’s highly educated; he’s charming in an old-fashioned way. He’s a gentleman … most of the time, at least. He knows a great deal about the music business.”

  “Then why isn’t he running a big record company, like RCA?”

  “Haven’t you ever met a record collector?”

  “No,” Mary Anne admitted.

  “Joe is where he always wanted to be: he’s finally got a little store of his own where he has plenty of time to talk records, touch records, live records.”

  “He’ll stay here, then?”

  “Certainly. He’s looked for this for years—a peaceful town, off the mainstream, where he can settle down. He’s getting old; he wants to retire somewhere. He used to keep himself in the middle of things, running around to parties, concerts, social gatherings, traveling here and there. I suppose that’s over… I don’t know. He’s always had a strong need for people; he’s never liked being alone. He’s not a naturally solitary person. He likes to talk and share his experiences. That keeps him reaching out…he can’t be content.”

  “He sounds wonderful,” Mary Anne said caustically.

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “I almost went to work for him.”

  “In many ways,” Beth said, “it’s hard for us to judge Joe Schilling. I once believed he was—well, ruthless.”

  “And he’s not?”

  “His needs are so strong. He hits you with such an impact.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I don’t see why I should. Maybe some other time.”

  “Would it make a difference if I told you that something did happen in the store?”

  “I know something happened. And I have a good idea what it was. Remember, you and I are the same age…we have similar problems. Similar experiences.”

  “You’re twenty-nine,” Mary Anne said reflectively. “I’m twenty. You’re nine years older than I am.”

  Pained, Beth said: “But for all intents and purposes we’re in the same group.”

  Subjecting the woman to her calm, pitiless scrutiny, Mary Anne said: “Would you help me pick out a bra sometime? I don’t want to look so thin. I wish I had a good bustline, like yours.”

  “You poor kid,” Beth said. She shook her head. “You just don’t know what it’s all about.”

  “I would, very much,” Lemming was saying enthusiastically, “Here, you mean?”

  “No,” Nitz answered, “we’ll have to go over there. It’s been arranged by higher powers.” He inspected his wristwatch. “He’s probably home by now.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about him,” Lemming said.

  Rousing himself from his lethargy, Coombs protested, “The point escapes me. What are we going over there for?”

  “Don’t be a pill,” Beth said.

  “I don’t wan
t to see him. None of us want to see him. Just you.”

  “I’d sort of like to,” Lemming said. “It might be a good thing professionally.”

  “It’s almost two in the morning,” Coombs said. “I’m ready for bed.”

  “Just for a while,” Beth said, unrelenting. “Go get your camera—be a good boy. We told him we’d show up; he asked us to.”

  Coombs snickered. “He asked us?” He located his camera and tugged the strap on. “You mean, you asked him. The same old business—only this is the first one with a touch of the tarbrush. What’s the matter, are you tired of—”

  “Shut up,” Beth said, walking away. “We’re going; we said we’d go. Stop acting like a neurotic.”

  “I’m warning you,” Coombs said. “If we go over there, no monkey business. You behave.”

  “Christ,” Beth said.

  “I mean it.”

  “Sure, you mean it,” Beth said. “You always mean it. Come on,” she said to Nitz and Mary Anne. “There’s no point in sticking around here.” She waved Lemming toward the door. “That’s right, Chad. Just turn the knob.”

  Resignedly, Mary Anne had begun searching for her coat. “I’ll show you how to get there,” she murmured.

  “Why, how sweet,” Beth said with a lingering smile. “How very sweet of you, dear.”

  10

  • • • • • • • •

  Tweany’s house, when they arrived, showed only a faint blue haze in the region of the top floor.

  “He’s in the kitchen,” Mary Anne said, pushing open the car door. The others followed, and, in a moment, they were tramping up the long flight of stairs.

  There was no immediate response to Mary Anne’s tap. Finally she opened the door and entered. Down the hallway glowed a pittance of light. The sounds of movement were audible; Mary Anne hurried in that direction and appeared breathlessly in Tweany’s high-ceilinged kitchen.

  Tweany, still wearing his pink shirt and hand-painted tie, was sitting at the table eating a sardine sandwich and drinking a bottle of Rheingold beer. In front of him, spread out among the litter of food, was a smeared copy of Esquire, which he was reading.