Mary And The Giant

Sid Hethel was involved in conversation. Legs stuck out, cane resting against his fleshy groin, he was jabbing a ponderous finger at his circle of listeners. Hethel was a continent of tissue; from deep fat his eyes, black and sharp, peered out. It was the Hethel that Schilling remembered; he had, to accommodate his belly, unsnapped the two top buttons of his fly.

"... oh, no," Hethel was sputtering, wiping his mouth with a wad of white handkerchief, which he held in his hand, close to his chin. "You've got me wrong; I never said anything like that. Frankenstein's a good reviewer, a good music reviewer; the best in the area. But he's a chauvinist; if you're local talent, you're the cream of the crop; if you're Lilly Lombino from Wheeling, West Virginia, however, you can play the violin like Sarasate and Alf won't give you a tumble."

"I hear music and art reviewing don't keep him occupied," a member of Hethel's circle supplied. "He's going to kick out Koltanowski and do the chess column."

"Chess," Hethel said. "This is possible; with Alf Frankenstein it could be everything but cooking." He caught sight of Partridge, and a wicked gleam sparkled in his eyes. "Now, this binaural business. If only Mahler were alive today ..."

"With binaural," Partridge broke in gravely, "Mahler would have been able to listen to his music as it really sounded."

"You have a point," Hethel conceded, turning his attention to his host. "Of course, we must remember that to Mahler his music sounded good. Is there a knob or dial on your system that makes Mahler sound good? Because if there is-"

"Sid," Schilling said, feeling the potency of their years of friendship, "you realize you're drinking Leland's liquor and you're insulting him at the same time."

"If I wasn't drinking his liquor," Hethel said rapidly, "I wouldn't be insulting anybody. What brings you up here, Josh? Still trying to put Maurice Ravel under contract?" His vast pulpy hands, both of them, snaked out; Schilling accepted them and the two men gripped each other warmly. "It's good to see you," Hethel said, equally moved. "Still carry a box of contraceptives around in your briefcase?"

"What you call a briefcase," Schilling said, "is a large, leather, custom-appointed douche bag."

"Once," Hethel confided to his group, "I saw Josh Schilling sitting in a bar ..." His voice trailed off. "Good God, Schilling! I want to see the woman who goes with that douche bag!"

A little embarrassed, Schilling glanced at Mary Anne. How was she weathering the spectacle of Sid Hethel, the great contemporary composer?

Standing with her arms folded, she listened and did not seem amused nor offended. It was impossible to tell what she thought; her face was expressionless. In her black silk trousers she was remarkably slender ... there was balance in her straight back and elongated neck, and above her folded arms her breasts were very small, very sharp, quite visibly uptilted.

"Sid," Schilling said, bringing the girl forward, "I've opened a little new record shop down in Pacific Park. Remember, I always wanted to? One day when I pried up the lid of a shipping carton this elf popped out."

"My dear," Hethel said to her, the banter all at once gone from his voice, "step over here and tell me why you're working in that old man's record shop." He put his hand out and closed his fingers around hers. "What's your name?"

She told him, quietly, with the innate dignity Schilling had come to expect of her.

"Don't be elusive," Hethel said, smiling around at the circle of people. "Doesn't she look elusive to you?"

"What's that mean?" Mary Anne asked him.

Hethel scowled. "Mean?" He sounded baffled. "Well," he said, in a cross, overly loud voice, "it means-" He turned to Schilling. "Tell her what it means."

"He means you're a very pretty little girl," Edith Partridge said, appearing with a tray of drinks. "Who's run dry?"

"Here," Hethel muttered, groping at the tray for a glass. "Thanks, Edith." He focused his attention on her, letting go of Mary Anne's hand. "How're the kids?"

"How does he strike you?" Schilling asked the girl as he maneuvered her back through the ring of people, away from Hethel. "He didn't upset you, did he?"

"No," she said, shaking her head.

"He's had too much to drink, as usual. You find him repulsive?"

"No," she said. "He's like Nitz, isn't he? I mean, he's not like most people ... whatever it is about them. The hard part. The part I'm afraid of. I wasn't afraid of him."

"Sid Hethel is the gentlest man in the world." He was gratified by her reaction. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, thanks." Suddenly, with a rush of pessimism, she said; "They all can tell how old I am, can't they?"

"How old are you?"

"I'm young "

"That's good. Think of yourself and then think of us-Partridge and Hethel and Schilling, three old dodderers, reminiscing about the days of the cylinder record."

"I wish I could talk about that," Mary Anne said fervently. "What have I got to say? All I can do is tell people my name . . isn't that wonderful?"