. . . If I should die before I wake . . .
“Don’t you believe in God?” she said to Nitz.
He opened one eye. “I believe in everything. In God, in the United States, in power steering.”
“You’re not much help.”
In the corner of the bar Carleton Tweany had reappeared. He was chatting with groups of patrons; tolerant, superior, he moved from table to table.
“Pay no attention to him,” Nitz mumbled. “He’ll go away.” The shape of Carleton Tweany neared, and again she tensed herself. Nitz radiated disapproval, but she was far above caring; she had made up her mind. Now, in a quick single motion, she was on her feet. “Mr. Tweany,” she said, and apparently her feeling was there in her voice, because he paused.
“Yes, Miss Mary Anne?” he said.
She was suddenly nervous. “How’s—your hot water heater?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did the landlady say? Didn’t you call her?”
“I called, yes. But I couldn’t get hold of her.”
Breathlessly, afraid he would start on, she demanded: “Well, what are you going to do?”
The man’s lips twitched, and, gradually, his eyes filmed behind shadow. Turning to Paul Nitz, who was still slumped at the piano bench, he said: “Is she always like this?”
“Most of the time. Mary lives in a universe of leaky pots.”
She flushed. “I’m thinking of the people downstairs,” she said defensively.
“What people?” Tweany asked.
“You’re on the top floor, aren’t you?” She hadn’t lost him yet, but he was beginning to slide away. “It’ll drip down on them—it’ll ruin their walls and ceilings.”
Tweany started off. “They can sue the landlady,” he said, dismissing the subject.
“How long before you’re through singing?” Mary Anne asked, hurrying after him.
“Two hours.” He grinned with superiority.
“Two hours! Maybe they’ll be dead by then.” She had a vision of chaos; erupting geysers of water, splintered boards, and, behind everything else, the sound of fire. “You better go over right now. You can sing later. It isn’t fair to those other people. Maybe there’re children downstairs. Are there?”
Tweany’s amusement faded to exasperation; it did not please him to be bossed. “Thank you for Your interest.”
“Come on.” She had decided.
He gaped at her with dense vacantness. “What’s that, Miss Mary Anne?”
“Come on!” She caught hold of his sleeve and tugged him toward the door. “Where’s your car?”
Tweany was indignant. “I’m perfectly capable of handling the situation.”
“In the lot? Is your car in the lot?”
“I don’t have a car,” he admitted sulkily; his cream and yellow Buick convertible had recently been repossessed.
“How far is it?”
“Not far. Three or four blocks.”
“We’ll walk.” She was determined to keep within physical reach of him; and, in this urgency, she had swallowed his problem whole.
“You’re coming along?” he was asking. “Certainly.” She started off.
Tweany reluctantly followed. “Your interest is not necessary.” He seemed to expand behind her, to become even taller and more upright. He was a troubled commonwealth. He was an empire plagued at its borders. But she had stirred him into action; she had, in her need of him, prodded him into awareness of her. Holding the street door open, she said: “Stop wasting time. We’ll be back; you can sing later.”
4
The two of them trudged through the closed-up slum business district, neither having much to say. Presently dark stores gave way to houses and apartment buildings. The houses were old.
“This is the colored section,” Tweany said.
Mary Anne nodded. Her emotion had waned; now she felt tired.
“I live in the colored section,” Tweany said. “No kidding.”
He glanced curiously at her. “Don’t you ever take it easy, Miss Mary Anne?”
“I’ll take it easy,” she said. “When I’m good and ready.”
He laughed loudly. “I never met anybody like you.” Now that they had left the Wren some of his formality was eroding. An expansiveness replaced it; roaming along the deserted evening side walk, Tweany began to enjoy himself. “You love music, don’t you?” he said. She shrugged. “Sure.”
“There has been some conflict between I and Nitz. He prefers to play the usual line of popular jazz. As you’ve probably noticed, it’s my desire to bring in a more refined musical form.”
Mary Anne listened without really hearing the man’s words. His deep voice reassured her; it dissipated some of her uneasiness, and that was enough.
The presence of Negroes had always lulled her. In the Negro world there seemed more warmth, and less of the struggle she had known at home. She had always been able to talk to Negroes; they were like herself. They, too, were on the outside, in a separate world of their own.
“You can’t go a lot of places either,” she said aloud.
“What’s that?”
“But you have so much ability. How does it feel to be able to sing? I wish I could do something like that.” She remembered the ad tucked away in her purse, and her restlessness increased. “Did you study somewhere? Some school?”
“At the conservatory,” Tweany said. “My ability was noted at an early age.”
“Did you belong to the Baptist Church, too?”
Tweany laughed tolerantly. “No, of course not.”
“Where were you born?”
“Here in California. I’ve made California my permanent home. California is a rich state . . . it has boundless possibilities.” To certify his point, he indicated his coat sleeve. “This suit was tailored for me personally. Designed and fitted by an expert firm in Los Angeles.” His fingers strolled over his silk hand-painted necktie. “Clothes are important.”
“Why?”
“People can tell you have taste. Clothes are the first thing people notice. As a woman you must be aware of that.”
“I suppose so.” But she didn’t care; clothes, to her, were a civic duty interwoven with cleanliness and posture.
“It’s a nice evening,” Tweany observed. He had got around to the street side of her, a gesture of gentlemanly alertness. “We have excellent weather here in California.”
“Have you been in other states?”
“Of course.”
Mary Anne said: “I wish I could travel.”
“When you’ve seen the various big cities you’ll know one fundamental thing. They’re all alike.”
She accepted his words, but the longing was untouched. “I’d like to go somewhere, to some better place.” That was the most she could summon; the idea was no clearer. “What would be a better place? Name a real nice place, where the people are nice.”
“New York has its charms.”
“Are people nice, there?”
“New York has some of the finest museums and opera houses in the world. The people are cultured.”
“I see.”
Guiding the girl from the pavement, Tweany said: “This is it. My house.” His expansiveness soured as the old house loomed up before them. “Not much to look at, but . . . good music lacks commercial appeal. A person has to choose between riches and artistic integrity.”
A dark outside staircase led from the yard to the third floor. Mary Anne felt her way through the gloom; ahead of her was Tweany and to her left was the house itself. A rain barrel glided by; it was filled with soaked and decomposing newspapers. Next came a line of rusting oil drums, and then the steps. Under her feet the wood groaned and gave; she clung to the banister and stayed close behind Tweany.
The apartment was a blur of shadows as Tweany led her down the hall to the kitchen. She gazed around her in wonder; she was seeing a vast clutter of furniture and shapes, nothing distinct, nothing she could properly make out. And then the light was on.