Mary And The Giant

"Some do. You should-if you get one, or ever think of getting one-try looking at light coupes. Say, 1951 to 1953. A Ford or a Chevrolet. A little two-door Olds would be nice; you could get the hydramatic shift. It can be plenty of fun."

"I'd have to save up," she said presently.

"What you might do is this," Schilling said. He had stopped eating and so had she. "Your biggest decision will be whether you want to marry and raise a family, or go into some profession that makes use of your highest abilities-medicine, law, one of the big commercial arts such as advertising, fashion, or even television."

"I hate clothes," she said. "I couldn't ever see dress designing." Then she said: "I was interested in medicine. I took a course in nursing in school."

"What else have you been interested in?"

"I thought I might-you'll laugh."

"No," he said.

"For a little while I thought of being a nun."

He didn't laugh. He felt deeply troubled. "Did you? Do you still feel that way?"

"A little."

"Don't withdraw," he said. "You should be active; you should be with people, doing something. Not off somewhere, isolated, in contemplation."

She nodded.

"What about art? Have you ever taken any aptitude tests?"

Mary Anne said, "They gave us tests in the twelfth grade. I had ability in-" She counted on her fingers. "I was good in manual skills: typing, and sewing, and working with objects."

"Object manipulation," he said.

"I showed ability at clerical things, like filing and handling forms, using office equipment. I didn't have much artistic ability, like painting or drawing or writing. On the IQ test I did pretty good. In sociology we had to do a paper on what we wanted to be. I chose social welfare work. I did a lot of research on it in the library. I'd like to help people ... slums and alcoholism and crime. Race relations-I made a speech in assembly on race relations. It went over good."

"If you were in a big city," Schilling said, "you could get training in some field. You can't really get that here. You have a college, but it isn't much. Stanford, up at Palo Alto, would be another matter. Or even San Francisco City College. Or the university at Berkeley."

"Stanford costs a lot. I looked it up once, when I was about to graduate from high school. But-" Her voice clouded and diminished-"I never got anything out of school."

"You wouldn't be going to school," he said. "You'd be getting training in a particular line. It would be something to use, not just facts to know. It would be your job, your life's work."

"How would I live?"

Schilling said: "You could work in the evening. Or you could take your courses in the evening and work during the day. In a city like San Francisco, you'd have opportunity to do both. Or, here's a suggestion. You might be able to get a scholarship. What kind of grades did you get in school?"

"Mostly B's."

From his coat pocket Schilling brought his black leather notebook and fountain pen. He began to make clear, large lines on the paper. "Let's look at this in order. First," he made a note, "you should leave this town."

"Yes." She was watching the pen write; leaning forward, she followed the black lines. But still she showed no emotion, no expression; he couldn't tell how she felt. The tightness was still there; she had not let go. Perhaps, he thought, she never would.

"You'll have to live somewhere. Now, you could move in with a bunch of girls, or one girl, or at the Y, or at a boardinghouse. But I think you'd be happier if you lived by yourself, so you had a place to withdraw to. You should have some sort of a retreat, a place to hide." He put down his pen. "You need that. You have to have a way out. Isn't that so?"

"Yes," she said.

He went on writing. "You might look for a place in North Beach, around Telegraph Hill. Or you might go out toward the Marina. Or even around Fillmore. That's the colored section; bars and shops, lots of noise. Or, if you have enough money, you could rent a swank apartment in one of the new suburbs, like Stones-town. I've never seen it, but they say it's right out of the future."

"I've seen it," she said. "Some insurance company built it, the whole town. It's near the ocean."

"Now the job." He sipped his coffee. "I've been doing a lot of thinking about that. As I see it, you have two good choices. Where have you worked? Go over that again for me."

Mary Anne said: "I worked for a loan company, as a receptionist. And then I worked at a furniture factory."

"Doing what?"

"Stenographer and typist. I hated that."

"And then the phone company?"

"Yes," she said. "And then for you."

"Don't get a job in a small office. Don't get in with six other girls and a messenger. Do one of two things. Either go to work for a private professional man, a doctor or a lawyer or an architect, somebody with a modern office where there's nobody else around you, where you can be in charge. One of those small modern places, with glass and bricks and recessed lighting, a place that's clean and bright."

"What's the other?"