Mary And The Giant

She stood out of reach for a moment, panting, and then she turned and walked away from the table. There was nothing in her mind, no thoughts, no tensions, only the awareness of the candles, the shape of the waiter, the watching patrons. She seemed to be in a hazy, noiseless medium that was all around her. The patrons, the curious bystanders, were transformed into fish-faces, grotesque and expanded until they filled the room. And she was cold, very cold. A numb and frigid quiet crept into her mind and lodged there; with a great effort she shook her head and saw around her, saw where she had come.

She was by a solitary chair in the corner of the restaurant, a straight-backed chair, varnished and shiny, set apart, isolated. There she seated herself, and folded her hands in her lap. She saw the entire restaurant. She was a spectator to it. And there, far off, distorted and shrunken, a wizened shape crouched at the table, was Joseph Schilling. He did not follow.

Joseph Schilling remained at the table. He did not follow her, and now he tried not to look toward her. The restaurant had returned to normal; the patrons were eating, and the waiter was circulating around. The kitchen doors swung open and shut; busboys pushed their carts out, and the clatter of dishes issued noisily.

At the entrance of the restaurant, by the cashier's desk, a young couple was preparing to leave. The man was putting on his topcoat, and his wife was before the mirror, straightening her hat. Their two children, a boy and a girl, both about nine years old, were wandering down the stairs to the parking lot.

Getting to his feet, Joseph Schilling walked over to the young couple. "Pardon me," he said. His voice sounded gruff, hoarse. "Are you driving back to town?"

The husband eyed him uncertainly. "Yes, we are."

"I wonder if you'd mind doing me a favor," he said. "See that girl sitting there in the corner?" He did not point; he made no motion. He did not even look. The husband had seen her, and he now turned slightly. "I wonder if you'd mind taking her back to town with you. I'd appreciate it."

The wife had now come over. "That girl?" she said. "You want us to take her back with us? Is she all right? She's not sick, is she?"

"No," Schilling said. "She'll be all right. Would that be too much trouble?"

"I guess not," the husband said, exchanging glances with his wife. "What do you say?"

The wife, without answering, went over to Mary Anne and, bending down, talked to her. Schilling stood with the husband, neither of them speaking. Presently Mary Anne arose and went with the man's wife out of the restaurant.

"Thanks," Schilling said.

"Not at all," the man said, and departed after his family, puzzled but compliant.

After paying the check, Joseph Schilling walked across the deserted parking lot to his Dodge. As he started it up, he looked for the young couple and their children and Mary Anne, but there was no sign of them.

Presently he drove alone back to town.

21

The young family let her off in the downtown business section, and from there she walked through the evening darkness to her own room. On the front porch the empty wine bottles of the colored women remained, a heap of glitter and smoothness near her feet as she pushed open the front door.

The hall, narrow and dank, unwound ahead of her as she walked toward her door; she fumbled in her purse, found her key, and stopped at her own door.

Somewhere in a nearby room, a radio thundered out a jump record. Outside, along the dark street, a sweeper made its complicated route among the stores and houses. She put her key in the lock, turned it, and entered.

Shapes outlined themselves in the light from the hall: the pasteboard cartons of her possessions. They had never been unpacked. She closed the door and the weak light cut off; the room dwindled into itself and became a solid surface.

She leaned against the door for a long, long time. Then, removing her coat, she walked to the bed and sat down on its edge. Springs groaned, but she could not see them; she could only hear. She pushed the covers aside, kicked off her shoes, and crept into bed. Pulling the covers over her she lay on her back, her arms at her sides, and closed her eyes.

The room was still. Below, in the street, the sweeper had gone on. The floor vibrated from the sounds of other people, other rooms, but even that was a motion rather than a sound. She could no longer see and now she could no longer hear. She lay on her back and thought of different things, good things, pleasant things, clean and friendly and peaceful things.

In her darkness nothing moved. Time passed, and the darkness departed. Sunlight streamed through the frayed curtains, into the room. Mary Anne lay on her back, her arms at her sides, and heard the sounds of cars and people outside the window. Toilets were flushed; noise vibrated among the other rooms.

She lay, staring up at the patterns of sunlight on the ceiling. She thought of many different things.