Polly was full of it. She was bustling around Hungry Jim's kitchen, breezing close by Mary; her nose stuck in the air -- self-importance dripping like fat from a chicken, only half hiding a smirk.
“Well, what is it?” Mary wanted to know.
“Took you to the trestle, didn't he?”
Mary was silent.
“Thought I didn't see you, didn't you? Did you let him do it? You're not the first, you know. He's had plenty.” Mary turned and fled, on the pretext of bringing water to the gentleman in the corner booth. She tried to avoid Polly the rest of the day, but Polly's knowing eyes bored into her; followed her. When she turned a corner, Polly was there. While she was making salad, she felt a presence, looked up into Polly's wicked smile.
Joe would never want to see her again. How could she be such a ninny? All the other girls did it. She could at least have let him, you know -- a little around the edges. Now she had ruined her chances with him; him, the prize catch of Centreville, and all those other girls he had known all his life, who had a head start, and then she had her chance, and blew it.
The day dragged by like a coon dragging a log. Every minute was agony; every hour an eternity. And Jim was in a particularly foul mood. Naturally he picked this day of all days, to ask her to stay and work late. No, not ask -- demand. Jim was a classic bully, and took advantage of anybody weaker than himself; anybody who was at a disadvantage physically, financially, or mentally. Lucky for the residents of Centreville, not many were Jim's mental inferiors.
Finally, Polly was ready to leave. “I'm goin' now, ya'll. Don't do anythin' I wouldn't do, you two -- which don't leave outa whole hell of a lot!” Bam went the cafe door. Mary and Jim were alone; the last customer had gone home an hour before.
With a sigh, Mary started cleaning up. She was so tired and preoccupied thinking about last night's fiasco that she didn't hear Jim come up behind her.
Her skin felt covered with fuzz. She stiffened as if an electric shock had gone through her body, head to toe, hot flushing, prickling, jolting electricity. Jim's hands were mashing her breasts, then they were all over her, under her, around her; probing, groping, ghastly. The stench of his garlic breath smothered her.
She gasped for air and struggled to get away. But Jim's right arm held her fast, all the way around her body; right hand locked on her left breast, while his left hand shamelessly explored; explored areas it had no business being: Awful, awful, don't -- stop!
Mary wanted to faint. She wanted to die -- anything to get away from groping, pawing, filthy-making. She twisted furiously, but Jim was a large, powerful man.
“Now, just settle down, honey, this won't hurt a bit,” Jim garlic-gurgled, his voice thick with grease and lust. He started dragging her back into the kitchen, away from the windows.
Mary's breath was coming in short, desperate heaves. The fight to breathe left her with no reserve air for speaking, let alone screaming. This isn't real. Don't let it be real.
Mary's feet flailed wildly in midair as big Jim lifted her off the ground. She tried to stomp on his feet, kick his shins, anything. Jim just laughed and laughed: “Come on, now honey; be easy; let uncle Jim show you.” His words were grunted due to the physical exertion. Desperation made Mary strong. She wasn't winning, but she was delaying the inevitable. She was making Jim work hard.
Jim changed his mind; or rather his body instinctively stopped dragging her toward the kitchen, and pulled her sideways through the low swinging door that led behind the counter. Mary caught her foot under the swinging door and held on for dear life. Jim jerked her several times, brutally and ferociously, pulling the skin off the top of her foot.
Mary's brain was too busy to record the pain; that would come later. There were more important things to consider now -- like how to escape from this grunting, sweating, swearing maniac. Jim was swearing now: obscene, ferocious, guttural noises that curdled her blood. In a strange way, his offensive language seemed more horrible than the deed he was committing. “What’s the matter? Ain’t I good enough fer ya? You let that snot-nosed aristocrat, didn’tja?”
Jim sank heavily to the floor, crushing Mary beneath his weight. Feverishly, he swatted away her hands and fumbled with her skirt.
The restaurant door clanged open and everything stopped. Mary could hear and feel Jim's hot, hassling breath. They were frozen in eternity.
Jim lifted his head and struggled to his feet. As his head came up above the counter, he saw it was old Mr. Patterson, come for his late cup of coffee. Jim cursed under his breath; he had forgotten to lock up and put up the “Closed” sign!
“Evenin' Mr. Patterson,” he managed to croak, “Be right with you; just trying to fix this damn stuck door.” He leaned down and hissed at Mary, “Don't you tell, y'hear? I'll squash your face like a bug.”
Then he straightened up and grinned at Mr. Patterson. “Hot enough to fry a Frenchman, eh, Mr. Patterson?” Then he told a slightly off-color joke and laughed too loudly. Jim's voice droned on as he bantered and recited and expounded, endlessly. One sentence flowed into another, a seamless stream of disorganized anecdotes, strung together in a way that made it seem a connection existed, where in none in fact did.
Slim the barber came to Jim's cafe for the latest gossip and jokes. Everybody thought Slim was the fountainhead of knowledge and news, but it was Jim, all right. He could talk, that guy could, and no way could you get a word in edgeways, sideways, or any other ways. In fact, you were doing good if you could even get out the door. If you shifted your feet or tried to pull away, Jim failed to notice. Instead, he would launch into a new story, which just flowed naturally out of the one you hoped he was about to finish.
Mary just lay there and shook. She shivered like it was 40 below. It was winter in her soul. She just lay there, hating herself, hating Jim, hating the world. Hating. She should have seen it coming; why didn't she see it coming; what did she do? Why did he try that with her? What was wrong with her? Why? Why? She couldn't stop shivering.
Shivering...Mary was cold. The muscles over her rib cage danced like enchanted dancing shoes;
funny but awful. She couldn't stop shivering, and it was starting to hurt. Mommy, why don't you come? I'm cold, so c-cooold!
She liked the snow; waited for it, hoped for it every year. It was magic, and would make everything all right. More than mere frozen particles of precipitation, the white potion had the power to transform everything dark and ugly into shining purity. How Mary wanted to be clean. Don't make me do it, Mommy, Mommy please! The snow will come, and Santa Claus will bring you a nice new dolly. Won't that be nice, Mary, won't that be nice? Then we will be happy, when the snow comes. And Sanat. And Satan -- I mean Santa. Don't you like Jack? Be nice to him, Mary please. No, Mommy, no! I don't like him! Make him go away!
But Mommy didn't make Jack go away, and the snow never came -- not this far South. A snowball's chance in Hell. Mary could feel herself melting, her real, true self slipping away from her; lost.
Mary was shivering with the cold -- in July. She didn't know how long she had lain there. Suddenly she felt a terrible hot pain in her foot. She reached down and touched it, and gasped.
Big Jim was back. He leaned over the counter and looked down at her, towering over her like a huge bear. “Are you gonna lay there all night? Git up and git out. It's closing time.”
Mary stumbled to her feet, drawing the wreckage of her clothes around her. Slowly she limped to the door, stopping to look in Jim's direction. Jim busied himself with closing up. He didn't return her questioning gaze. Should she? Was she? Did it? The door closed behind her with a clangety clang clang of its metal blinds.
