There was a sheaf of grubby typed pages in his hand. All his own work. He laid it on the desk and ran his finger along the lines, reading aloud. Ralph Waldo Emerson's Philosophy of Life, by Roland Granville-Galsworthy, Oxford University.
What a charlatan. Mary nodded as though she believed it, and then Roland Granville-Galsworthy asked for the complete works of Emmanuel Kant. In German. "I'm afraid we have it only in English," said Mary.
"Thet's quoite all roight. Thet will dew," said Granville-Galsworthy. What a show-off. Mary bet he couldn't read German anyway, the way he had pronounced Kant. She found him a watered-down version of the Critique of Pure Reason, and settled him down in the reference room. As she went out she could feel his eyes on her back like two dirty greyish-white balls. For the rest of the afternoon he kept coming to the doorway and staring at her, or going to the Men's Room, gaping at her over his shoulder. He went to the Men's Room twice, getting the key from her and returning it with his damp hand. Before he left he thrust his opus on Mary, writing on it graciously, "With the compliments of Arthur." Mary showed it to Alice Herpitude.
"But it's cribbed straight from that book by Claridge," said Miss Herpitude. "What an incredible man."
Mary started to laugh. "When I was in the sixth grade we had a health play, and I was supposed to be 'Malnutrition, First Cousin to Death.' I tried to make myself look just like that, with that same droopy posture and big lipstick pimples. I was a smash hit, too. I suppose I shouldn't be so hard on the poor fellow. He probably can't help being a wretch, a dolt and a fool."
"But surely," said Miss Herpitude, "he should have medical advice. I feel truly sorry for the poor man."
*28*
Lectured in basement ... of the orthodox church, and I trust helped to undermine it. —Henry Thoreau
Poor Mary. The sham graduate of Oxford, having once set his googly eyes on her, would not take them off. He showed up everywhere. He came every day to the library, asked for some ponderous work and read picture magazines instead, like a boy with a comic book folded in his speller. When Mary didn't appear at the library on Thursday, he asked Miss Herpitude where she was and followed her to the Police Station, bobbing his Adam's apple up and down like a yo-yo. Mary couldn't understand him at all. His repellent skin was part of a hide so thick that he was sensitive to no hints and boggled at no excuses. Mary loathed the sight of him. When he began waiting for her at lunchtime, Jimmy Flower started to kid her about her boyfriend. Mary took to ducking out the back door, but Granville-Galsworthy caught on to that trick, too, and she had no peace. Homer Kelly, shaking his head, would lift the corner of the shade and watch the two of them go off together, Mary marching firmly in advance, Roland Granville-Galsworthy skulking in the rear.
Even when one was trapped, one had to be polite. Mary, wedged into a corner behind a small restaurant table, would rack her brain for something to talk about. It was no good talking about Emerson. Roland knew nothing at all about Emerson. She had tried reminiscing about the colleges at Oxford, where she and Gwen had once spent a summer. Oh yes, he knew so-and-so, and he had met so-and-so. Mary made up a few preposterous people, and he was old friends with them, too. The ass. Why did he bother? What on earth was the man doing in Concord anyway? How was he supporting himself? He paid only for his own lunch, always, and ate an unvarying diet of Coke, potato chips and fried clams. Over the weeks his pimples roved from one part of his physiognomy to another, changing the lunar topography. The Apennines receded, Eratosthenes rose up in splendor.
And then one Sunday he showed up in church. He had seen Mary striding across the grass with her black choir robe billowing behind her, and he followed her in. She didn't see him, because she was looking up at the giant elm trees that stood on the lawn like old grandees, putting on new leaves like airs. Her transcendental jukebox was grinding...
Wasn't this church a copy of the one that had burned down? So it must have looked much the same to Waldo Emerson. He had retreated from Unitarianism, of course, or vaulted over it, one or the other, but he had been a gracious friend of the First Parish, as a good neighbor and fellow townsman. And, old hedonist of sight that he was, how he must have relished the domed spire and the heavy Doric columns, part of his daily horizon down the road. Mary climbed the steps to the balcony and sat down with the choir. The bell began to ring, and she cranked up Emily—
How still the Bells in Steeples stand
Till swollen with the Sky
They leap upon their silver Feet
In frantic Melody!
Then she apologized to the shade of Lidian Emerson, who had thought it wicked to go to church Sundays, and began to indulge in back-worship, her own private form of idolatry.
There came Alice Herpitude, a sufficiently splendid icon in her Easter outfit. In the library Alice wore garments that were modest and retiring, but in church she glorified God. Her hair was a fountain of rosy feathers, erupting to the sky, her coat was white with cabbage roses. She was a paean of joy and praise. Mary felt like cheering. But then she leaned forward and looked more carefully. What was wrong? Within her finery Miss Herpitude looked frail and old. She was clinging to the pew backs as she walked along the aisle. Now she was collapsing into an empty pew. Was she ill? Mary half rose to go and see. But then Miss Herpitude squared her shoulders and sat up straight. She picked up her hymn book and started leafing through it. Mary sat down again. She would try to speak to Alice afterwards. Here came the Hands, led down the aisle by the genial usher, Howard Swan. (He was a member of the Prudential Committee, too—everyone worked him hard.) Tom would be having his mind on spraying the orchard. His hose was clogged and giving him a terrible time. Gwen would be thinking about dinner, wishing she could peel potatoes in church.
Oh, damn. What was that NINcompoop Roland doing here? Couldn't she find sanctuary anywhere? Mary pretended not to see his dank salute, but he turned back when he saw her and climbed up into the balcony nearby, gaping at her. He was probably an Anglican or something. People should stay in the church they were born in, they had no right to go fishing around. She could see his pimples from here.
There was Charley Goss. Poor Charley. He was putting on a good front, coming to church. But he couldn't seem to face the whole congregation, so he headed for the balcony, too. Women and children in the balcony, please, and suspected murderers. Charley sat down in front of Roland Granville-Galsworthy. Roland gave him his adenoidal stare. Mary, feeling intensely sorry for Charley, attempted to catch his eye and smile at him. But Charley had folded his arms and he was looking fixedly at the pew back in front of him. Granville-Galsworthy caught her look instead, and he wriggled all over with joy. Mary turned away angrily and looked down again at the congregation on the floor. She watched as Philip Goss came in with Rowena and Edith and Homer Kelly and sat down smack in the middle of the rows of pews. There was nothing on his conscience apparently. Edith rather stupidly waited to let Rowena go first, but Rowena frowned at her, and Edith, her heavy eyebrows lifting, scuttled in beside her brother. Rowena went in next, in her sensational black, and Homer sat solidly on the outside. Where had he got that outlandish haircut? His lank brown hair was shingled in layers. He probably did it himself, reaching around in back with the scissors. Mary had caught a glimpse of his tie as he sat down. It was one she had found in Woolworth's, with zebra stripes and horseshoes tipped in with glitter. Oh, go on, Homer Kelly, get along with you. Boston policemen are all Catholics anyway. Mary stared at Rowena instead. Rowena had a little itch behind her ear, and she scratched it daintily. She had one of those clean little necks.