Stepping into the street, Mary Anne waved down a pickup truck loaded with sacks of kindling. The driver, a Pole, gaped in astonishment as she opened the door and clambered in beside him.
“Take me into town,” she ordered. Resting her elbow on the windowsill, she covered her eyes with her hand. After some hesitation, the truck started; she was on her way.
“You sick, miss?” the Pole asked.
Mary Anne didn’t answer. Jogging with the motion of the truck, she prepared to endure the trip back to Pacific Park.
In the slum business section she made the Pole let her off. It was approaching noon, and the hot midsummer sun beat down on the parked cars and pedestrians. She passed the cigar shop and came to the padded red door of the Lazy Wren. The bar was closed and locked; going to the window, she began tapping with a quarter.
After an interval a shape made its appearance in the interior gloom: a paunchy, elderly Negro. Taft Eaton put his hand to the glass, surveyed her hostilely, then unlocked the door.
“Where’s Tweany?” she asked.
“He’s not here.”
“Where is he, then?”
“Home. Anywhere.” As Mary Anne started to push past him, he slammed the door and said through it: “You can’t come in; you’re a minor.”
She listened to the door latch slide into place, stood indecisively, and then entered the cigar shop. Squeezing by the men clustered at the counter, she found the pay telephone. With difficulty, balancing the heavy phone book, she located his number and then dropped a dime into the slot.
There was no response. But he might be there asleep. She would have to go over. Right now she needed him; she had to see him. There was nothing else she could turn to.
The house, the great three-story house of gray fluting and balconies and spires, jutted from its yard of weeds, broken bottles, rusting tin cans. There was no sign of life; the shades on the third floor were down and inert.
Fear overtook her and she hurried up the path, across the cracked cement, past a bundle of newspapers and dying potted plants at the foot of the stairs. She climbed two steps at a time, holding fast to the banister. Gasping, she turned the corner of the long flight, felt the rotten slats sag under her, tripped on a broken step and pitched forward, scrabbling at the railing. Her shin struck the jagged old wood; pain made her scream and fall onto her open palms. Her cheek brushed a heap of dust-impregnated cobwebs that had caught over the green knit sleeve of her suit. A family of spiders clicked excitedly away; dragging herself to her feet, Mary Anne crept up the last steps, cursing and weeping, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Tweany!” she screamed, “let me in!”
There was no response. From a long way off came the jangle of a traffic signal. And from the milk plant at the edge of the slums a clatter drifted up and spread over the town.
In a blind haze she reached the door. Below her the distant ground wheeled; for an interval she lay against the door, her eyes shut, trying not to let go and fall.
“Tweany,” she gasped, her face against the closed door. “Goddamn it, let me in.”
Through her suffering came reassuring noise: a person was stirring. Mary Anne settled in a heap on the top step, bent over, knees pulled up, rocking from side to side, the contents of her purse dribbling from between her fingers onto the steps, coins and pencils rolling out into the sunlight and dropping to the grass far below.
“Tweany,” she whispered as the door opened and the dark, faintly luminous shape of the Negro appeared. “Please help me. Something’s happened to me.”
Frowning with annoyance, he bent down and gathered her up. With his bare foot—he had on only his pants—he kicked the door shut behind them. Carrying her, he padded down the hall, his blue-black face fragrant with shaving soap, his chin and furry chest dripping beads of lather. Around the girl’s body his hands were brusque; she closed her eyes and clung to him.
“Help me,” she repeated. “I quit my job; I don’t have a job anymore. I met an awful old man and he did something to me. Now I don’t have any place to stay.”
7
• • • • • • • •
At the corner of Pine and Santa Clara Streets was a swank hat shop. After the hat shop came Dwelley’s Luggageware, and after that the Music Corner, the new phonograph record shop opened by Joseph Schilling in the early weeks of August 1953.
It was toward the Music Corner that the man and woman moved. The shop had been open two months: it was now the middle of October. In the display window was a photograph of Walter Gieseking and two long-playing records half-slid from their bright covers. Customers were visible inside the shop, some at the front counter, others in the listening booths. The Saint-Satins Organ Symphony echoed through the open doorway.
“Not bad,” the man admitted. “But he’s got the loot; it should look okay.”
In his thirties, he was dapper and fragile-looking, with shiny black hair, a bird-chested man who walked daintily. His eyes were quick and alive, and his hands, as he guided the woman into the store, fluttered against her coat.
The woman turned to see the sign over the doorway. It was a square of hardwood, with hand-carved fretwork, on which had been painted the words THE MUSIC CORNER, 517 PINE STREET. MA3-6041. OPEN 9-5. RECORDS AND CUSTOM-BUILT SOUND EQUIPMENT.
“It’s cute,” she said. “The sign, I mean.”
She was younger than the man, a heavy, round-faced blonde who wore slacks and carried an immense leather bag which hung from her shoulder by a strap.
There was nobody behind the counter. Two young men were studying a record catalogue; they were involved in controversy. The woman did not see Joseph Schilling, but every aspect of the store’s interior reminded her of him. The pattern of the wall-to-wall carpeting was characteristic of his taste, and many of the pictures on the walls—prints by contemporary artists—were familiar. The little vase on the counter—it held California wild iris—had been designed and fired by her. And the catalogues behind the counter were bound in a fabric of her choosing.
The woman seated herself and began reading a copy of High-Fidelity, which she found lying on a table. The man, less relaxed, inspected display racks and turned revolving wheels of records. He was poking at a Pickering cartridge when a familiar shuffling sound caught his attention. Up the flight of steps from the basement stockroom, his arms filled with records, came Joseph Schilling.
Tossing down the magazine, the woman rose to her feet. Plump and smiling, she advanced toward Schilling. The man joined her.
“Hi,” the man muttered.
Joseph Schilling came to a stop. He was not wearing his glasses and, for a moment, he had trouble making them out. He imagined they were customers; their clothing informed him that they were fairly well off, fairly educated, extremely arty people. Then he recognized them.
“Yes,” he said, in an unsteady, hostile voice. “The line forms…amazing, how fast.”
“So this is it,” the woman said, glancing around. Her smile, fixed and intense, remained; a frozen smile, made up of heavy lips and teeth. “It’s lovely! I’m so glad you finally got it.”
Stiffly, Schilling set down his records. He wondered where Max was; they were afraid of Max. Probably down at the corner cocktail lounge, sitting in a booth constructing a tower of matches. “It’s not a bad location,” he said.
Her blue eyes danced. “This is what you always wanted, all these years. Remember,” she said to her companion, “how he always talked about his store? The record store he was going to open up someday, when he got the money.”
“I decided not to wait,” Schilling said.
“Wait?”
“For the money.” It didn’t sound convincing; he was bad at games. “I’m broke. Most of this stuff is on consignment. My capital went into the remodeling.”
“You’ll struggle along,” the woman said.
From his coat pocket Schilling got a cigar. As he lit up, he said: “Seems to me you’ve gained weight.”
&nbs
p; “I suppose so.” The woman searched her mind. “How long has it been?”
“It was 1948,” her companion said.
“We’ve all gotten older,” the woman said.
Schilling went to wait on a middle-aged customer. Presently he returned. They were still there; they hadn’t left. He hadn’t really expected them to. “Well, Beth,” he said, “what brings you here?”
“Curiosity. We haven’t seen you in so long…when we read in the paper about your store, we said, ‘Let’s hop in the car and drive up there.’ So we did.”
“What paper?”
“The San Francisco Chronicle.”
“You don’t live in San Francisco.”
“Somebody sent us the clipping,” she said vaguely. “They knew we’d be interested.”
It had certainly been his mistake, five years ago, to mix with these people. He would never shake them, not now. They had found him and his store: he was a duck in a rain barrel. And he had tangible assets.
“Did you come out from Washington?” he asked. “Getting away from the winter?”
“God,” Beth said, “we haven’t lived in Washington in years. We lived in Detroit and then we moved to Los Angeles.”
Following me, Schilling thought. Coming west with their noses to the ground.
“We stopped by to see you,” Beth said, “when you were living in Salt Lake City. But you were having some sort of business meeting, and we couldn’t stay.”
“That was a nice spot you had there,” Coombs, the man, said. “Did you own that place?”
“I had an interest.”
“That wasn’t a store, was it? Not that big brick building? It looked like a warehouse.”
“Wholesalers,” Schilling said. “We jobbed for a number of labels.”
“And you built up capital for this shop?” Coombs was skeptical. “You were better off there; you won’t do any business in a town this size.”
“I guess you haven’t seen the duck,” Schilling said. “The duck in the park. He doesn’t buy much, but he’s fun to watch. What are you two doing these days? For a living, I mean.”
“Different things,” Beth said. “I taught for a while; that was in Detroit.”
“Piano?” he asked.
“Oh, certainly. I stopped playing the cello years ago. I had stopped when—I met you.”
“That’s so,” Schilling said. “There was one around your apartment, but you didn’t play it.”
“Two busted strings. And I lost the bow.”
“It seems to me I had an old joke about lady cello players,” Schilling said. “It had to do with their psychological motives.”
“Yes,” Beth agreed. “It was really a terrible joke, but I always thought it was funny.”
Schilling felt himself mellow, remembering. “Freudian analysis…a popular indoor pastime, in those days. Not so popular now. What was it I said?”
“Women cello players. They have a subconscious need for something large between their legs.” Beth laughed. “You were delightful. You really were.”
It was hard to believe he had ever wanted this hefty girl, had carted her off for a weekend, found his way into that wonderfully avid cunt, and then returned her to her husband more or less in tact. But she had not been hefty then; she had been small. Beth Coombs was still attractive—her skin was quite smooth and her eyes, as always, were clear. The affair had been brief and intense, and he had enjoyed it. If only there had been no aftereffects.
“What now?” he said, including the both of them. “Going to hang around town?”
Beth nodded, but Coombs pretended he hadn’t heard.
“Oh, come on, Coombs,” Schilling said. “Let’s face it. You’re that by which vinegar got from the bucket to Our Savior’s mouth.”
Coombs was still not hearing, but Beth laughed merrily. “It’s good to hear you again, Joe. I’ve missed conversation.”
Defeated, Schilling gave up. “Want an armload of records? Want the cash register?” He made a resigned, giving motion. “Want the diamond needles out of the cartridges? They’re worth ten bucks apiece.”
“Very funny,” Coombs said. “Our business here is legitimate.”
“You’re still in the photography business?”
“Off and on.”
“You didn’t come here to photograph people.”
After a pause, Beth said: “Well, we’ve been depending mostly on the music teaching.”
“You’re going to teach here?”
“We thought,” Beth said, “that you could give us some help. You’re fairly well settled. You have your store; you’ve probably built up contacts with the musical people in town. You’re going to sell sheet music, aren’t you?”
“No,” Schilling said. “And I’m not going to give you a job. And I’m not going to fool around with this thing; I’m operating on a limited budget and I have all the expenses I can stand.”
In a sputter of excitement, Coombs said: “You can give us a plug; that won’t cost you anything. All the old ladies come around asking who’s a piano teacher. What are you going to do at Christmas? You can’t run your record store alone; you need somebody to help you.”
“Surely you’re going to hire somebody,” Beth persisted. “I’m surprised you haven’t already.”
“I never was good at hiring.”
“You don’t feel you could use some help here?”
“I just said—I don’t get that many customers. And I don’t have that much money.” Schilling kept his eye on the browsers among the display racks. “I’ll paste a card over the cash register with your name and address. When someone wants a piano teacher, I’ll send them around. That’s all I can do.”
Coombs said: “You don’t feel you owe us something?”
“Good God, what?”
“No matter what you do,” Coombs said rapidly, stumbling over his words, “you can never make up for the terrible harm you did us. You ought to get down on your knees and beg God to forgive you.”
“You mean,” Schilling said, “that because I didn’t pay her then, I should pay her now?”
For a moment Coombs stood blinking, and then he melted altogether in a puddle of frenzy. “You should be destroyed,” he said, his teeth chattering. “You’re—”
“Let’s go,” Beth said, starting toward the door. “Come on, Danny.”
“I heard a good one,” Schilling said to Danny Coombs. “Right up your line. Somebody installed one of those one-way mirrors in a women’s shower, one of those big mirrors, full-length. Maybe you can tell me how those work; one side is a mirror but the other is a window.”
Pale but composed, Beth said: “Good luck with your store. Maybe we’ll see you around.”
“All right,” he said. Reflexively he gathered an armload of records and began filing them.
“I don’t see why we have to quarrel,” Beth continued. “There’s no reason why Danny and I can’t come here; the Los Angeles job fizzled, and we were driving up the coast.”
“But the same town,” Schilling said. “And within a couple of months.”
“Music is booming here. We’re letting you do the groundwork.”
“My grave or yours? Or all of ours?”
“Don’t be nasty,” Beth said.
“I’m not being nasty,” Schilling answered. Well, this was his punishment for having lost—for a day or so—his better judgment. For having been weak enough to go to bed with another man’s wife, and improvident enough to let the man find out. “Just being nostalgic,” he said, and went on filing records.
8
• • • • • • • •
On the fall of 1953 Mary Anne Reynolds lived in a small apartment with a girl named Phyllis Squire. Phyllis was a waitress at the Golden State lunch counter, which was next door to the Lazy Wren, and Carleton Tweany himself had selected her. Thereby he had solved, in his own mind, Mary Anne’s problems. He did not now have much to do with her. For Mary Anne there was little more than the passage o
f his presence; back and forth, not stopping, he went by and beyond her.
The telephone company job she had taken required her to work a split shift. At twelve-thirty at night she reached the apartment, and ate, and changed her clothes. As she changed, her roommate, in bed, read aloud from a copy of the sermons of Fulton Sheen.
“What’s the trouble?” Phyllis asked, her mouth full of apple. In the corner, her white-enamel radio played a Perez Prado mambo. “You’re not listening.”
Ignoring her, Mary Anne slipped into her red culottes, stuffed in the tails of her shirt, and went to the door. “Don’t go blind,” she said over her shoulder, and closed the door behind her.
Noise and the movement of people flashed out into the dark street as she entered the Wren. Tables crowded with people, the line of men squeezed together at the bar…but Tweany was not singing. She was aware of it instantly. The upraised platform in the center was bare; he was nowhere in sight, and even Paul Nitz was absent.
“Hey,” Taft Eaton said from behind the bar. “You get out of here; I’m not serving you.”
Avoiding him, she began threading among the tables, searching for a place to sit.
“I mean it. You’re a minor; you’re not supposed to be in here. What do you want, you want me to lose my license?”
His voice faded as she reached the platform. Slouched at a table was Paul Nitz, conversing with a pair of patrons. He had apparently left his piano to talk to them; straddling a chair, leaning his bony chin against his arms, he was orating. “…but you have to make a distinction between folk songs and folk-type songs. Like jazz, and music in the jazz idiom.”
The couple glanced up as she brought over a chair and seated herself. Nitz broke off what he was saying long enough to greet her. “How are you?”
“Fine,” she said, “where’s Tweany?”
“He just sang. He’ll be back.”
She felt a surge of tension. “Is he in the rear?”