“Here it is,” Max said. “Your breakfast.”
“Keep it!” Schilling retorted with fury.
Max blinked. “What’s bothering you?”
Schilling fished in his coat pocket for a fresh cigar. His hands, he discovered, were shaking.
6
Whistling to himself, David Gordon parked the Richfield service truck and jumped to the pavement. Lugging a damaged fuel pump and a handful of wrenches, he entered the station building.
Sitting in the one chair was Mary Anne Reynolds. But something was wrong; she was too quiet.
“Are—” Gordon began. “What is it, honey?”
One single tear slid down the girl’s cheek. She wiped it away and got to her feet. Gordon reached to take hold of her, but she drew back.
“Where were you?” she said in a low voice. “I’ve been here half an hour. The other man said you’d be right back.”
“Some people in a Buick. Broke down on the old Big Bear Pass Road. What happened?”
“I went job hunting. What time is it?”
He located the wall clock; when anybody asked the time he could never seem to find it. “Ten.”
“Then it’s been an hour. I walked around for a while before I came here.”
He was completely baffled. “What do you mean, you went job hunting? What about Readymade?”
“First,” Mary Anne said, “can I borrow five dollars? I bought a pair of gloves over at Steiner’s.”
He got out the money; she accepted the bill and put it in her purse. He noticed that she had on nail polish, which was unusual. In fact, she was all dressed up; she had on an expensive-looking suit, and high heels, and nylon stockings.
“I should have known,” she said. “The way he first looked at me. But I wasn’t sure until he touched me. Then I was sure, and I got out of there as quickly as I could.”
“Explain,” he demanded. Her thoughts, like her activities, had become closed to him.
“He wanted to have relations with me,” she said stonily. “That was what it was all for. The job, the record store, the ad. ‘Young woman, must be attractive.’ ”
“Who?”
“He owns the store. Joseph Schilling.”
Dave Gordon had seen her upset before, and sometimes he could calm her down. But he did not understand what was wrong; a man had made a pass at her—so what? He had made passes at girls himself. “Maybe he didn’t have that in mind,” he said. “I mean, maybe the shop is on the level, but when he saw you—” He gestured. “You’re all dolled up; look at you. That suit, all that makeup.”
“But an older man,” she insisted. “It’s not right!”
“Why not? He’s a man, isn’t he?”
“I thought I could trust him. You don’t expect that from an older man.” She got out her cigarettes, and he took her matches to light up for her. “Think of it—a respectable man like that, with money and education. Coming here to this town, picking this town for a thing like that.”
“Take it easy,” he said, wanting to help her but not really knowing how. “You’re okay.”
She paced around in a tight, aimless circle. “I feel sick. It’s so—infuriating. I worked so damn hard fixing myself up. And the store . . .” Her voice faded. “It was so pretty. And the way he looked at first. He was so impressive.”
“It happens all the time. All you have to do is walk along the street, by the drugstore. Guys hang out, watch.”
“You remember when we were in high school? That bus incident?”
No, he didn’t remember. “I—” he began.
“You weren’t there. I was sitting next to a man, a salesman. He started talking to me; it was awful. Whispering to me, and everybody else just sitting there jiggling with the bus. Housewives.”
“Hey,” Gordon said. “I get off in half an hour. Let’s drive over to Poster’s Freeze and have a hamburger and a shake. That’ll make you feel better.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” she said, infuriated. “Grow up, will you? You’re not a boy—you’re a grown man. Can’t you think of anything else? Milk shakes—you’re a high school boy; that’s all you are.”
Gordon muttered: “Don’t get sore.”
“Why do you hang around with those fairies?”
“What fairies?”
“Tate and that bunch.”
“They’re not fairies. They just dress good.”
She blew smoke at him. “Working in a gas station—that’s no job for an adult. Jake; you’re another Jake. Jake and Dave, the two pals. Be a Jake, if you want. Be a Jake until the army gets you.”
“Lay off talking about the army. They’re blowing on my ass.”
“It wouldn’t do you any harm.” Restlessly, Mary Anne said: “Drive me out to Readymade. I have to be back at work; I can’t sit around here.”
“Are you sure you ought to go back? Maybe you ought to go home and rest.”
The girl’s eyes shrank with wrath. “I have to go back; it’s my job. Take some responsibility, once in a while; can’t you understand responsibility?”
. . .
On the trip Mary Anne had little to say. She sat bolt upright, gripping her purse and staring out the truck window at the countryside. Under her arms moist circles had formed, giving off the scent of rosewater and musk. She had wiped away most of her makeup; her face was white and expressionless.
“You look funny,” Dave Gordon said. “No kidding.”
With a show of determination, he said, “How about telling me what’s going on with you, these days? I never see you anymore; you always have some excuse. I guess what it is, is I’m getting the brush.”
“I went by your house last night.”
“And when I go by your house you’re not there. Your family doesn’t know where you are. Who does?”
“I do,” Mary Anne said succinctly.
“Are you still hanging around that bar?” There was no rancor in his voice, only forlorn concern. “I even went down there, to that Wren Club. And sat around thinking maybe you’d show up. I did that a couple times.”
Mary Anne softened minutely. “Did I show up?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.” With a stir of longing, she said, “Maybe this will all clear away.”
“You mean your job?”
“Yes. I suppose.” She meant a great deal more than that.
“Maybe I’ll become a nun,” she said suddenly.
“I wish I could understand you. I wish I saw more of you; I’d settle for that. I sort of miss you.”
Mary Anne wished she missed Gordon. But she didn’t. “Can I say something?” he asked. “Say away.”
“I guess you don’t want to marry me after all.”
“Why?” Mary Anne asked, her voice rising. “Why do you say a thing like that? My God, Gordon, where’d you get an idea like that? You must be crazy; you better go to a psychoanalyst. You’re neurotic. You’re in bad shape, baby.”
Sulkily, Dave Gordon said: “Don’t make fun of me.”
She was ashamed. “I’m sorry, Gordon.”
“And for Christ’s sake, do you have to call me Gordon? My name’s Dave. Everybody else calls me Gordon—you ought to be able to call me Dave.”
“I’m sorry, David,” she said contritely. “I wasn’t really making fun of you. It’s this whole awful business.”
“If we got married,” Gordon said, “would you keep on working?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“I’d prefer it if you stayed home.”
“Why?”
“Well,” Gordon said, twisting with embarrassment, “if—we had kids, you ought to be home taking care of them.”
“Kids,” Mary Anne said. She felt strange. Her kids: it was a new idea.
“Would you like kids?” Gordon asked hopefully. “I like you.”