Mary And The Giant

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?"