Mary And The Giant

With a shake of her head Mary Anne dismissed him and trotted up the path to the factory office. Behind her, the sound of the truck motor faded as Gordon drove glumly back to town.

She felt no particular emotion as she opened the office door. She was a little tired, and her stomach was still upset; but that was all. As Mrs. Bolden got to her feet, Mary Anne began removing her gloves and coat. She could feel the mounting oppressiveness, but she continued, matter-of-factly, without comment.

"Well," Mrs. Bolden said, "you decided to come after all." At his desk, Tom Bolden peered around, listening and scowling.

"What do you want done first?" Mary Anne asked.

"I got to looking at the calendar," Mrs. Bolden continued, blocking the girl's way as she started toward her typewriter. "This isn't your period at all is it? You just made that up to get time off. I marked the date down last time. My husband and I have been talking it over. We-"

"I quit," Mary Anne said suddenly. She tugged her gloves back on and started toward the door. "I have another job."

Mrs. Bolden's mouth fell open. "You sit down, young lady. Don't you walk out of here."

"Mail my check," Mary Anne said, tugging open the door. "What's she saying?" Tom Bolden muttered, rising to his feet. "Is she leaving again?"

"Good-bye," Mary Anne said; without stopping she hurried out onto the porch and down the stairs to the path. Behind her, the old man and his wife had come to the doorway in bewilderment.

"I quit!" Mary Anne shouted back at them. "Go back inside! I have another job! Go away!"

The two of them remained there, neither of them knowing what to do, neither of them stirring until, to her own surprise, Mary Anne crouched down, swept up a chunk of loose concrete, and threw it at them. The concrete landed in the soft dirt by the porch; fumbling at the edge of the path, she found a handful of concrete fragments and showered them at the old couple.

"Go back in!" she shouted, beginning to laugh in amazement and fear at herself. Workmen had come out on the loading platform and were staring, openmouthed. "I quit! I'm not coming back!"

Then, clutching her purse, she ran down the sidewalk, stumbling in the unfamiliar heels, on and on until she was gasping and winded, blinded by red specks that swam in front of her.

Nobody had followed. She slowed down and stopped to lean against the corrugated iron side of a fertilizer plant. What had she done? Quit her job. All at once, in an instant. Well, it was too late to worry about it now. Good riddance.

Stepping into the street, Mary Anne waved down a pickup truck loaded with sacks of kindling. The driver, a Pole, gaped in astonishment as she opened the door and clambered in beside him.

"Take me into town," she ordered. Resting her elbow on the windowsill, she covered her eyes with her hand. After some hesitation, the truck started; she was on her way.

"You sick, miss?" the Pole asked.

Mary Anne didn't answer. Jogging with the motion of the truck, she prepared to endure the trip back to Pacific Park.

In the slum business section she made the Pole let her off. It was approaching noon, and the hot midsummer sun beat down on 'the parked cars and pedestrians. She passed the cigar shop and came to the padded red door of the Lazy Wren. The bar was closed and locked; going to the window, she began tapping with a quarter.

After an interval a shape made its appearance in the interior gloom: a paunchy, elderly Negro. Taft Eaton put his hand to the glass, surveyed her hostilely, then unlocked the door.

"Where's Tweany?" she asked.

"He's not here."

"Where is he, then?"

"Home. Anywhere." As Mary Anne started to push past him, he slammed the door and said through it: "You can't come in; you're a minor."

She listened to the door latch slide into place, stood indecisively, and then entered the cigar shop. Squeezing by the men clustered at the counter, she found the pay telephone. With difficulty, balancing the heavy phone book, she located his number and then dropped a dime into the slot.

There was no response. But he might be there asleep. She would have to go over. Right now she needed him; she had to see him. There was nothing else she could turn to.

The house, the great three-story house of gray fluting and balconies and spires, jutted from its yard of weeds, broken bottles, rusting tin cans. There was no sign of life; the shades on the third floor were down and inert.