Mary And The Giant

Now she sat alone, picking without enthusiasm at the keys of the piano and wishing Paul would return. He was, at least, a benign presence; she could consult him because he made no demands on her. Withdrawn into his private obsessions, he ambled between the Wren and his one-room apartment, reading Western novels and constructing bop tunes on his piano.

"Where's your pal?" he said, plodding back and settling himself beside her. "That kid, the one with the clothes."

"Gordon. At the Junior Chamber of Commerce meeting."

"Did you know that I was once a member of the First Baptist Church of Chickalah, Arkansas?"

Mary Anne was not interested in the past; burrowing in her purse she produced the ad she had cut from the Leader. "Look," she said, pushing it to Nitz. "What do you think?"

He examined the ad at great length and then returned it to her. "I already have a job."

"Not you. Me." Restlessly, she put the ad away and closed her purse. It was, of course, the new record shop on Pine Street; she had noticed the remodeling. But she couldn't go there until tomorrow, and the strain was wearing her down.

"I was a member in good standing," Nitz said. "Then I turned against God. It happened all of a sudden; one day I was saved and then-" He shrugged fatalistically. "Suddenly I was moved to get up and denounce Jesus. It was the strangest thing. Four other church members followed me to the altar. For a while I traveled around Arkansas converting people away from religion. I used to follow those Billy Sunday caravans. I was sort of a Blue-Monday Nitz."

"I'm going over there," Mary Anne said. "Tomorrow morning, before anybody else does. They'll have to call, but I know where it is. I'd be good on a job like that."

"Sure," Nitz agreed.

"I'd have a chance to talk to people ... instead of sitting in an office typing letters. A record store's a nice place; something's always going on. Something's always happening."

"It's lucky for you," Nitz said, "that Eaton stepped out." Taft Eaton was the owner of the Wren.

"I'm not afraid of him." A Negro was crossing the room, and she sat suddenly very upright on the piano bench. And she forgot Nitz beside her, because there he was.

He was a large man, with blue-black skin, very shiny, and-she imagined-very smooth. He stooped, a slump of his muscular body; that was an unbending of his personality, and she, watching him, could feel it flowing across and reaching her even where she sat. His hair glowed oilily, thick, rippled; important hair, elaborately attended to. He nodded to several couples; he inclined his head toward the people waiting at the bandstand, and then he passed on, massive in his dignity.

"There he is," Nitz said.

She nodded.

"That's Carleton B. Tweany," Nitz said. "He sings."

"He's big," she said, and watched fixedly. "Jesus," she said. "Look at him." It made her ache to see him, to imagine him. "He could lift a truck."

It had been a week, now; she had first spotted him on the sixth, the day his stand at the Wren opened. He had, they said, come down from the East Bay, from a club in El Cerrito. In this interval she had measured him, gauged him, absorbed from a distance as much as possible.

"Still want to meet him?" Nitz asked.

"Yes," she said, and shuddered.

"You're sure hopped tonight."

She poked Nitz with her elbow, urgently. "Ask him if he'll come over. Come on-please."

He was approaching the piano. He identified Nitz, and then his great dark eyes took in the sight of her; she felt him noticing her and becoming aware of her. Again she shuddered, as if she were rising through cold water. She closed her eyes for an instant-and when she looked again he was gone. He had started on, his hand around his drink.

"Hey," Nitz said, without conviction. "Sit."

Tweany halted. "I got to go make a phone call."

"One second, man."

"No, I got to go call." There was weary importance in his voice. "You know I have matters on my mind."

To Mary Anne, Nitz said: "Golf with the President."

She started to her feet, resting the palms of her hands on the piano top, leaning forward. "Sit down."

He contemplated her. "Problems," he said, and at last found an empty chair at a nearby table; dragging it over with one scoop of his hand, he sat beside her. She settled slowly back, aware of his closeness, aware, in a kind of controlled hunger, that he had stopped because of her. So the coming here had not been wasted, after all. She had got him; for a little, at least.

"What problems?" Nitz inquired.

The magnitude of Tweany's preoccupation increased. "I'm on the third floor. The hot water heater's up there, the one for the whole building." Studying his manicured nails, he said, "The bottom rusted through and sprang a leak. It's leaking water down on the gas jets and on my floor." Indignation entered his voice. "It'll ruin my furnishings."

"Did you call the landlady?"

"Naturally." Tweany scowled. "A plumber was supposed to show up. The usual runaround." He lapsed into moody silence.