Mary And The Giant

"I guess it's pretty terrible," Mary Anne said as the racket finally subsided. She made no move to pick up any more money from the little heap, and Schilling asked:

"Aren't you going to play any others?"

"They're no good."

"Don't say that. Those men are artists in their field. I don't want you to give up what you enjoy in favor of what I like."

"But what you like is better."

"Not necessarily."

"If it isn't better, then why do you like it?" Mary Anne reached eagerly for a paper napkin. "Here comes the food. I'm going to ask Harry to sit down and eat with us." She explained, "That's Harry carrying the food."

"How do you know his name is Harry?"

"I just know; all Greeks are named Harry." When the man had reached the table and his long arms were beginning to push out the platters of food, Mary Anne announced: "Harry, please sit down; we want you to join us."

The Greek grinned. "Sorry, Miss."

"Come on. Whatever you want; we'll pay for it."

"I'm on a diet," the Greek told her, wiping off the table with his damp rag. "I can't eat anything but orange juice."

"I don't believe he's really a Greek," Mary Anne said to Schilling as the counter man went off. "I'll bet his name isn't even Harry."

"Probably not," Schilling agreed, starting to eat. The food was good and he ate a great deal. Presently, across from him, the girl finished the last of her coffee, pushed away her plate, and said:

"I'm through."

She had already finished, and completely so. Lighting a cigarette, she sat smiling at him across the yellow-moist table. "Still hungry?" he asked. "Want more?"

"No. That's enough." Her attention wandered. "I wonder what it's like to run a little cafe ... you could get all you wanted to eat, any time of the day. You could live in the back ... do you suppose he lives in the back? Do you suppose he has a big family?"

"All Greeks have big families."

The girl's fingers drummed restlessly on the surface of the table. "Could we take a walk? But maybe you don't like to walk."

"I used to walk all the time, before I got the car. And I didn't find that it hurt me." He finished his food, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and got up. "So let's go take our walk."

He paid Harry, who lounged at the cash register, and then they strolled outside onto the dark street. Fewer people were visible and most of the stores had shut off their lights for the night. Hands in her pockets, purse under her arm, Mary Anne marched along. Schilling followed behind her, letting her choose her own direction. But she had no particular course in mind; at the end of the block she halted.

"We could go anywhere," she declared.

"That's so."

"How far do you suppose we could walk? Would we still be walking when the sun came up?"

"Well," Schilling said, "probably not." It was eleven-fifteen. "We'd have to walk for seven hours."

"Where would we be then?"

He calculated. "We might make it to Los Gatos, if we kept on the main highway."

"Have you ever been in Los Gatos?"

"Once. That was back in 1949, when I was still working for Allison and Hirsch. I had a vacation, and we were on our way to Santa Cruz."

Mary Anne asked: "Who is 'we'? "

"Max and myself."

Walking slowly across the street she said: "How close were you and Beth?"

"At one time we were very close."

"As close as you and I?"

"Not as close as you and I." He wanted to be honest with her, so he said: "We spent a night together at a cabin up along the Potomac, in a little old lock-keeper's cabin on the old canal. The next morning I brought her back to town."

"That was when Danny Coombs tried to kill you, wasn't it?"

"Yes," he admitted.

"You weren't telling me the truth before." But there was no rancor in her voice. "You said you hadn't been with her."

"Beth-wasn't his wife then." This time he couldn't tell her the truth, because he couldn't expect her to understand. The situation had to be experienced.

"Did you love her?"

"No, absolutely not. It was a mistake on my part-I always regretted it."

"But you love me."

"Yes," he said. And he meant it very much.

Satisfied, the girl strolled on. But after a time she seemed to fall back into worry. "Joseph," she said, "why did you go with her if you didn't love her? Is that right?"

"No, I suppose not. But with her it was a regular event ... I wasn't the first, nor the last." So he had to explain anyhow. "She was-well, available. Physical acts of that sort happen. Tensions build up. .. they have to be expiated in some fashion. No personal element is involved."

"Did you ever love anybody before me?"

"There was a woman named Irma Fleming who I loved a great deal." He was silent for a moment, thinking back to his wife, whom he hadn't seen in years. He and Irma had legally separated in-good God-1936. The year Alf Landon ran for president. "But," he said, "that was a long time ago." It certainly was.

"How long ago?" Mary Anne asked.

"I'd rather not say." There were a lot of things, related things, he would rather he didn't have to say.

"If I asked, would you tell me your age?"

"I'm fifty-eight years old, Mary."