By the refrigerator, Mrs. Rose Reynolds poised and leaned forward, arms folded, watching her daughter pour herself a bowl of Post Toasties. Mary Anne dribbled milk into the bowl. As the cornflakes sank into a mass, she stirred her coffee and buttered a piece of dry toast.
"Dear," Mrs. Reynolds said. "Let's have it."
"Let's have what?" She spooned up her breakfast. "I can't sit around here talking; I have to be down at the record shop by nine."
The woman said steadily: "Tell me who you're sleeping with."
"What makes you think that? Why do you say that?"
"Just so it isn't a jig. I couldn't stand that."
"It isn't."
Mrs. Reynolds pursed her lips. "Then you are sleeping with somebody. Did he throw you out? Is that why you came home?" Her voice dimmed to a monotone. "Your life's your own, of course. You moved out of here to be with him; then he got tired of you. May I ask you something? When did you start? You were living under this roof when you started. I say that because I've noticed you feel yourself, poking around inside your pants. That's been several years at least."
"Shout away," Mary Anne said. She had finished breakfast and now she carried her dishes to the sink.
"I'd like to discuss it with you," Mrs. Reynolds said. "People, good friends of mine, tell me there's a singer at a bar you've been with. I don't recall the particular name of the bar-it's not important. The singer is colored, isn't he? People have a way of finding out; it's surprising. I was reading in the paper about that jig who killed the white man, the one they arrested. I'm surprised they let him out on bail. They must have a good deal of influence in California, especially down in Los Angeles." Her arms folded, she followed after Mary Anne. "When you and I were discussing marital relations earlier this year, I mentioned to you the difficulty of an unmarried woman obtaining a diaphragm. However, through friends a girl is sometimes able to-" She ceased talking.
In his leather jacket and work trousers, a lunch pail under his arm, Ed Reynolds appeared in the doorway; he was on his way to the plant. "How's my girl?" he said. "Where have you been the last few months, and let's have a straight answer."
"I have an apartment-you know that." She retreated from her father, turning her back to him.
"Where'd you come from last night?"
"They say she's been bedding down with a colored fellow," Mrs. Reynolds said. "You ask her. I can't get a respectful answer; maybe you can."
"Has she started to swell? Have you looked at her?"
"I didn't have the opportunity last night."
"Keep away from me," Mary Anne said, leaving the kitchen and hurrying into what had been her bedroom. "I have to get to work!" she shouted apprehensively as her mother scuttled after her. Starting to close the door, Mary Anne wailed: "You keep your goddamn hands off me!"
"Better let me," her mother said. "Or he will; you don't want him to, so for your own good let me." She pushed the door open. "When was the last time?"
"The last time what?" Pretending to ignore her, Mary Anne searched through her closet, getting out a dark red suit. From the dresser she took her old purse; the forty dollars was still there, where she had stuffed it. They hadn't found it.
"Your period," Mrs. Reynolds said. "Or can't you remember?"
"No, I don't remember. Last month sometime." Rapidly, nervously, Mary Anne shed her jeans and T-shirt, the clothes she had worn when she appeared at her family's house the night before. As she began getting into a clean slip, Rose Reynolds leaped from the door and ran toward her.
"Let go of me!" Mary Anne screeched, clawing and scratching at her mother. Ed Reynolds appeared in the doorway and fixedly witnessed.
Catching the girl around the waist, Rose Reynolds pulled her underpants down and dug her hand into the girl's hard belly. Mary Anne, shrieking, struggled to tear her mother's hand away. Finally satisfied, Mrs. Reynolds released her and strode back to the doorway.
"Get out of here!" Mary Anne screamed, grabbing up a shoe and hurling it. Her face collapsed in furious tears. "Get out!" She ran, shoved her mother and father out of the room, and slammed the door.
Sobbing, fumbling with her clothing, she managed to dress. She could hear them outside the closed door, conferring about her. "Shut up!" she wailed, wiping at her face with the back of her hand; and, as she hurried, planning out what she was going to do.
At nine o'clock she put in her appearance at the Lazy Wren. Taft Eaton, somber in his dirty apron and work trousers, was sweeping the sidewalk. When he saw her he pretended first to ignore her. "What do you want?" he demanded finally. "You always mean trouble."
"You can do me a favor," Mary Anne said.
"What kind of favor?"
"I want to rent a room."
"I'm not in the rooming business."
"You know all the property around here. Where's a vacant place? Just a room-something cheap."
"This is colored around here."
"I know. It's cheaper." And, in her state of mind, she needed the comforting presence of Negroes.
"What's the matter with what you got?"
"None of your business. Come on-I don't have all day. I'm not going to tramp around looking; I don't have time."
Eaton considered. "No kitchen. And you know it's colored. Yeah, that's right; you like to hang around with colored. What for? What sort of kicks do you get out of it?"
Mary Anne sighed. "Do we have to go into that?"
"On account of you, Carleton's in trouble with the law."
"It's not my fault."
"You're his girl. Anyhow, you were, once. Now it's that big blonde. What'd he do, get the taste?"
Patiently, Mary Anne waited.
Eaton picked up his broom and began tugging bits of fluff from it. "There're a lot of rooming houses around here. I know one place; it's not so hot, though. One of the fry cooks lives there."
"Fine. Give me the address."
"Go ask him; he's inside. No," Eaton said, changing his mind as the girl started toward the door. "I'd be just as happy if you kept out of my place." He wrote a note, tore it from the imitation-leather pad, and presented it to her. "It's a dump; you won't stay there. Full of drunks and sewer rats. You ever seen those big sewer rats? They swim in from the bay." He indicated with his hands. "As big as dogs."
"Thanks," Mary Anne said, pocketing the note.
"What's the matter?" Eaton said as the girl started off. "Don't you have somebody to pay your bills? A nice girl like you?"
He shook his head and resumed sweeping.
The building, she discovered, was as Eaton had described. Narrow and tall, it was wedged between two stores: a surgical supply house and a television repair shop. A flight of unpainted steps led up to the front porch. There she found a chair and an overturned wine bottle.
She rang the bell and waited.
A tiny, dried-up old colored woman with sharp black eyes and a long, beaked nose opened the door and inspected her. "Yes," she shrilled, "what did you want?"
"A room," Mary Anne said. "Taft Eaton said maybe you had one."
The name meant nothing to the old woman. "A room? No, we don't have any room."
"Isn't this a rooming house?"
"Yes," the old woman said, nodding and barring the door with her skinny arm. She wore a gray, shapeless dress and bobby socks. Behind her was the dim interior of a hallway: a dank and gloomy cavity that contained a table and mirror, a potted plant, the origin of a staircase. "But they're all full."
"Great," Mary Anne said. "What do I do now?"
The old woman started to close the door, then stopped, reflected, and said: "How soon did you have to have it?"
"Right away. Today."
"Usually we rent only to colored."
"That makes no difference to me."
"You don't have many boyfriends, do you? This is a quiet house; I try to keep it decent."
"No boyfriends," Mary Anne said.
"Do you drink?"
"No."
"Are you positive?"
"I'm positive," Mary Anne said, tapping her heel against the porch and gazing over the woman's head. "And I read the Bible every night before I go to bed."
"What church do you belong to?"
"The First Presbyterian." She picked it at random.
The old woman pondered. "I try to keep this a quiet home, without a lot of noise and goings-on. There are eleven people living here and they're all decent, respectable people. All radios are expected to be off by ten o'clock in the evening. No baths are to be taken after nine."
"Swell," Mary Anne sighed.
"I have one vacant room. I'm not certain if I can rent it to you or not ... I'll show it to you, though. Do you care to step inside and see it?"
"Sure," Mary Anne said, stepping past the old woman and into the hall. "Let's have a look."
At nine-thirty she arrived at the redwood apartment that Joseph Schilling had acquired for her.
With her key she unlocked the door, but she did not go inside. The smell of new paint drifted around her, a bright, sickening smell. Cold morning sunlight filled the apartment; bands of pale illumination spread over the crumpled, paint-smeared newspapers scattered across the floor. The apartment was utterly lonely. Her possessions, still in pasteboard cartons, were stacked in the center of each room. Cartons, newspapers, sodden rollers still oozing from the night before ...
Going downstairs to the companion apartment, she rapped sharply on the door. When the owner-a middle-aged man, balding-appeared, she asked: "Can I use your phone? I'm from upstairs."
She called the Yellow Cab people and then went outdoors to wait.
While she was supervising the loading of the cab, the landlady showed up. The meter ticked merrily as she and the driver carried the pasteboard cartons downstairs and piled them in the luggage compartment; both of them were perspiring and gasping, glad to get the job finished.
"Good grief," the landlady said. "What does this mean?"
Mary Anne halted. "I'm moving."
"So I see. Well, what's the story? I think I have a right to be informed."
"I've changed my mind; I'm not renting it." It seemed obvious.
"I suppose you want your deposit back."
"No," Mary Anne said. "I'm realistic."
"What about all that trash upstairs? All those newspapers and paint; and it's half-painted. I can't rent it in that condition. Are you going to finish?" She followed after Mary Anne as the girl took an armload of clothes from the cab driver and stuffed it among the cartons. "Miss, you can't leave under these circumstances; it isn't done. You have a responsibility to leave a place in the same condition you rented it."
"What are you complaining about?" The woman annoyed her. "You're getting a free fifty bucks."
"I've got a good mind to call your father," the landlady said.
"My what?" Then she understood, and at first it seemed funny. After that it didn't seem so funny, but she had already begun to laugh. "Did he tell you that? Yes, my father. Father Joseph, the best father I could hope for. The best goddamn old father in the world." The landlady was astonished at her outburst. "Go jump in the creek," Mary Anne said. "Rent your apartment-get busy."
Sliding into the front of the cab, she slammed the door. The driver, having loaded the last carton in the back, got in behind the wheel and started up the motor.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," the landlady said.
Mary Anne didn't answer. As the cab pulled away from the curb she leaned back and lit a cigarette; she had too much on her mind to pay attention to the landlady's complaints.
When the cab driver saw the room she was moving into, he shook his head and said: "Girlie, you're nuts."
"I am, am I?" She put down her armload and started back out of the room into the dusty, water-stained hall.
"You sure are." He plodded alongside her, down the hall and down the stairs to the sidewalk. "That was a swell apartment you left-all those redwood panels. And in a classy neighborhood."
"You go rent it, then."
"Are you really going to live here?" He picked up two cartons and began lugging them up the steps. "This job is going to cost you plenty, girlie. What's on the meter is only the down payment."
"Fine," Mary Anne said, struggling after him. "Lay it on as heavy as you can."
"It's the custom. We're not in the moving business, you know. This comes under the heading of a favor."
"Nobody's in any business," Mary Anne said. From her doorway, the tiny dried-up old colored woman-her name was Mrs. Lessley-watched with suspicion. "I guess I'm lucky; you're so kind."
When the last carton had been carried upstairs she paid him. It wasn't as tough as she had expected; the meter read a dollar seventy and the tip-when he finally named it-was two dollars more. Three seventy wasn't so much to get herself moved. And, of course, the twenty dollars for the room: a month's rent in advance.
Maybe the driver was right. With growing horror she surveyed her room; it was clean, dark, and smelled of mold. There was one small window over the iron, high-posted bed and one larger window on the far wall over the dresser. The carpet was frayed. A mended rocking chair occupied one corner. There was a tiny closet, a sort of upright drawer constructed of plywood by some amateur handyman long since gone.
The smaller window overlooked a path that led to the garbage cans and back porch of the building. The larger window overlooked the street; she was facing a neon sign:
DOCTOR CAMDEN CREDIT DENTIST
On the wall of the room was a cheap framed religious print showing the young Jesus with lambs. She took it down and stuck it away in a drawer; she had enough to bear.
Perhaps she was crazy, as the driver said. But at least she had her own place, paid for with her own money. She had found the place herself-not counting Eaton-and, very soon, she would be painting and furnishing it by herself, with paints and objects she herself selected. And she would have time to think.
It was ten o'clock. He would have to be told. She had left; she had given up the apartment. And, anyhow, he would find out. So she had no choice.
While she was thinking, wondering how to tell him, the door opened and Carleton Tweany peeked cautiously in. Horrified, she said: "How did you find this place?"
"Eaton gave us the address." He entered, and Beth Coombs followed him. "And I know this house; quite a few people have lived here at one time or another." He wore his best doublebreasted suit; his cheeks were scrupulously shaved; his hair was combed and oiled; and the odor of cologne billowed from him. Beth, as usual, wore her heavy coat and carried her bag.
"Hi," she said, smiling her dazzling smile.
Mary Anne nodded curtly. Going to the bed, she opened her suitcase and began to unpack.
"Looks like you're busy," Tweany said.
With quick interest, Beth prowled around the room, inspecting the still-packed cartons.
"Who's helping you?"
"Nobody," she said. "And I have to leave; I have to be at work."
Beth perched on the edge of the bed; it gave protestingly and she arose again at once. "We had some trouble finding you ... you've moved around so much."
Abandoning her suitcase, Mary Anne picked up her coat and started toward the door. A lot she cared how the hell much trouble they had, either of them.
"Wait a minute, Mary," Tweany said, blocking her way. "What's this all about?" Her mind scurried in fright. "Did you just happen by?"
"We stopped at the store," Beth said, "thinking maybe you were there. But Joe said you didn't come in today."
"I'm going there," she said. "I'm on my way there now. I had some things to do."
Beth said: "Then we stopped by that-apartment Joe fixed up for you; you weren't there. We stopped by your old place, the room you had with that waitress. The room Carleton found for you."
"Phyllis," Mary Anne murmured.
"She had no idea where you were. It was Carleton's idea to ask Eaton; I never would have thought of it."
"We want to talk to you about the inquest," Tweany said. He looked solemn and doleful, and his face grew long at the mention of grave matters.
She had totally forgotten about it. "Jesus," she said. "Of course."
"You got served with a subpoena, didn't you?" Beth asked. "You have to testify. If you got served with a subpoena, you have to show up."
She had indeed been served. The paper was somewhere in one of the pasteboard cartons; she had accepted it and put it out of her mind. It simply was not her concern. This was why they had tracked her down; they were worried about their own skins.
"When is it?" She tried to recall; the inquest was sometime soon, in a few days.
"It's Wednesday," Tweany said, scowling.
"Well," she said, "you might as well sit down. You figure out where." Turning away from the door, she removed her coat. She had time for this, at least; it was trivial. She, herself, sank down on a cane-bottomed chair. Beth and Tweany, after a brief exchange of glances, settled themselves on the bed, neither quite touching the other but very close together.
"What do you think of my pad?" Mary Anne asked.
"Terrible," Tweany said.
"Yes, I agree."
"Why aren't you living with Phyllis?" Tweany inquired. "What happened to that?"
"I got tired of Oregon apples."
Beth said: "It seemed to me that setup of Joe's was halfway decent. We only saw it for a second, of course. You were painting; you hadn't even finished. The door was unlocked ... you must have just left."
"This morning," Mary Anne said.
"So." Beth compressed her lips. "I see."
"You see what?"
"That's what I thought it was. You were right the first time." Warily, Mary Anne said, "What time?"
"When you didn't take the job. You were afraid something would happen, weren't you?"
She nodded.
"I could have told you," Beth said, gazing around the room.
"Then why didn't you?" she demanded with venom. "I tried to pry it out of you-all you did was spout about his wonderful record collection and his vivid personality."
To Tweany, Beth said: "Be a sweet-go down and get us some beer."
Disgusted, Tweany rose to his feet. "We came here to discuss the inquest."
Beth located a five-dollar bill in her purse and pushed it to him. "Go on, and don't mumble. There's a grocery store on the corner."
Sullen and grumbling, Tweany walked out of the room and down the hall. The measured vibration of his footsteps subsided.
For a protracted interval, Beth and Mary Anne sat facing each other. Finally Beth lit a cigarette, leaned back, and asked: "Did you ever find a bra you could wear?"
"No," Mary Anne said. "But it's my fault. I'm too thin."
"Don't be silly. In another couple of years you won't feel that way.
"Really?"
"Of course not. I felt the same way-everybody does. You get over it; you'll put on more weight than you care to drag around like me."
"You look okay," Mary Anne said.
"I looked better in '48."
"Was that when it happened?"
"It was in Washington, DC. In the dead of winter. I was twenty-four years old, not much older than you. So you're not the first."
"He told me," Mary Anne said. "About the cabin on the canal."
Across from her, the heavy blonde stiffened. "Did he?"
Why did you go with him? Did you love him?"
"No," Beth said.
"Then I don't understand it."
"I was laid," Beth said. "Like you. So let's face it: we have something in common."
"Thanks," Mary Anne said.
"You want to know the circumstances? We can compare notes."
"Go ahead," she said.
"Maybe you'll learn something." Beth put out her cigarette.
"I don't know what he used with you. The job, probably. But in those days, Joe didn't have a record shop; he was in the publishing end."
"Allison and Hirsch."
"He told you that, too? In those days I-but you heard one of them. My songs."
"'Where We Sat Down,'" Mary Anne said with aversion.
"Well, there's not a lot more to tell. I wanted them published.
One day Joe showed up at the apartment. I was painting a chair in the kitchen-I remember that. He stood around and we had a couple of drinks and talked. We talked about art, music, that sort of thing."
"Get to the point."
"He had looked over my songs. But he couldn't publish them. Not enough water had gone under the bridge, he said."
"What did he mean?"
"At first I couldn't imagine. Then I saw how he was looking at me. Do you understand what I mean?"
"Yes," Mary Anne said.
"Well, that was it. He said something about not doing it there in the apartment; he had a cabin he liked to use, a few miles out of town. So nothing could interfere."
"He was using his job to get girls?"
"Joe Schilling," Beth said, "is a very kindly, very thoughtful man. I like him. But I'm realistic. He has a weakness: he wants his women.
Thoughtfully, Mary Anne said: "So you went to bed with him to get your songs published."
Beth flushed. "I-suppose you could put it that way. But I-"
"Danny was a photographer, wasn't he? I remember that night ... you were jumping around naked and he was snapping pictures of you. I never worked it out; it didn't make sense. You used to pose for him, didn't you?"
"I was a professional model," Beth said, her cheeks blazing.
"I explained it to you; I was an artist."
Suddenly Mary Anne said: "It serves Tweany right."
"What do you mean?"
"I just realized what you are." Matter-of-factly, she said, "You're a whore."
Beth stood up. Her face was pale, and little lines, like cracks, spread between her eyes and radiated from her mouth. "And what do you suppose you are? Going to bed with him to keep your job-isn't that being a whore?"
"No," she said. "That's not what happened." It had not been that at all.
"And now you've suddenly become fastidious," Beth said rapidly. "Why? Because he's older than you? Be realistic-you're being kept in grand style, continental style. You have a lover who knows how to do it right. It sounds ideal; you're lucky."
Deep in thought, Mary Anne scarcely heard her. "Good God, and you like all that junk-all those 'White Christmas' tunes. What a joke. What a joke on Tweany."
"What is it?" Beth said. "How about letting me in on it? I think I deserve to be let in on it."
"Jesus," Mary Anne said. "It's true; it's really true. 'Where We Sat Down.' 'Sleigh Ride at Christmas.' My God, you're a sentimental whore."
"I see," Beth said. "Well, perhaps from your standpoint, from a cynical adolescent's standpoint-" She ceased, as the door opened and the great brooding figure of Carleton B. Tweany appeared. He carried three cans of Golden Glow beer and a can opener. "So soon?" she said briskly.
"They're warm," Tweany muttered.
"I'm feeling a little ill," Beth said, picking up her purse and moving toward the door. "Nothing serious, just a sick headache. Come along, Carleton. Please take me home."
"But we-" he began.
Beth opened the door and went out into the hall. Without looking back, she said:
"This is certainly the dirtiest building I have ever been in." Then she was gone, and, after a moment of hesitation, Tweany put down the beer cans and followed after her. The door closed, and Mary Anne was alone.
She looked around for her coat. She waited until she was sure Beth and Tweany had gone, and then she dropped the door key into her purse, slammed the door, and started down the hall.
On the front porch sat two obese colored women; they were reading movie magazines and drinking wine. Mary Anne edged past them, descended the steps to the sidewalk, and joined the midmorning crowd.
Music flowed around her, the outpourings of a symphony orchestra. She halted in the entrance, and then she walked two slow steps, studying her feet and seeing, at the same time, the pattern of the floor. She saw the suddenness of the counter, and it surprised her; she opened her mouth in an exclamation of bewilderment. Had she come that far into the store? Lifting her head, then, she saw Joseph Schilling stationed behind the counter. He was discussing records with a young man who seemed to be a student. At the front of the store, Max Figuera was sweeping the floor with a push broom, and she had walked past him.
"Hello," she said.
"Well," Max said, eyeing her grumpily. "Look who showed up.
"I'm sorry," she said.
Turning, Max said across the store to Schilling: "Look who decided to drop in for a few minutes and say hello." Schilling glanced instantly up. He put down the record he was holding and said: "I was beginning to worry."
"I'm late," she said. "I'm sorry."
"Not too late, though." He returned to his customer.
Removing her coat, she carried it carefully downstairs. When she returned, the young man had left, and Joseph Schilling was alone at the counter. Max was outside sweeping off the sidewalk.
"I'm glad to see you," Schilling said. He was sorting records, a new Victor shipment. "Are you back for good?"
"Naturally," she answered, going behind the counter. "I'm sorry you had to call Max to come down."
"No harm done."
"You haven't had your morning coffee, have you?"
"No." His face was lined and drawn; he seemed especially ponderous today. When he bent down to rummage in a carton, he lowered himself with care.
"Are you stiff?" she asked.
"Like a steel plank."
"My fault, again," she said. "I'll check the shipment; you go back and get your coffee."
Schilling said: "I was getting the idea you weren't going to show up at all."
"Didn't I tell you I'd be in?"
"You did." He concentrated on the records. "But I wasn't positive."
"Go drink your coffee," she said. Suddenly she said: "Why is it up to me?"
He stared at her with emotion; his eyes were intense and he cleared his throat to speak.
"Go drink your coffee," she repeated, wanting him to stop confronting her. He had forced her to leave; or, at least, he had not made it possible for her to stay. She felt frightened, and now she went away from him toward the front of the store. A customer had entered and was examining a display rack.
Behind her, Joseph Schilling changed his mind and did not speak. He moved in the direction of his office. She could hear him going. So she didn't have to tell him now; she could tell him later. Or perhaps not at all.
"Yes, ma'am," she said, turning quickly to the customer. "What can I do for you?"