Tales of the City 08 - Mary Ann in Autumn

Her brain is fried. I’m surprised you’ve never seen her.”
    “Or heard her, at least.”
    “THAT’S RIGHT YOU, YOU FUCKIN’ BASTARD. I’M ONTO YOU. THE WORM WILL TURN, YOU SCUMMY SON OF A BITCH! THE WORM WILL TURN! EAT SHIT AND DIE, MOTHERFUCKER! YOU HEAR THAT?”
    By now Roman had abandoned the treats altogether and moved between Ben’s legs for protection. The men in the circle of chairs all had nervous smirks on their faces, but they were obviously trying not to look toward the big canvas wall.
    “Who’s she talking to?” Ben asked.
    The old man shrugged. “Somebody in her head, I suppose. Whatever you do, don’t make eye contact or she’ll try to come in. She’s got a hunting knife strapped to her leg. I’ve seen her pull it on people.”
    “I can’t see her anyway,” said Ben.
    “Nah, look … she’s pulled the canvas back.”
    Ben shot a quick furtive glance in that direction. The sidewalk was lower than the fence at that point, so all he could see was the woman’s head and upper body: a beet-red fist of a face above what appeared to be a filthy red tracksuit.
    Then she dropped the canvas and disappeared from sight again.
    B EN HAD AN ARMFUL OF groceries when he returned to the house, so, as soon as the door was open, Roman wriggled past him and bolted toward the human who was dozing in the window seat. He licked her face extravagantly, causing her to wake with a small cry of alarm. “Roman, no!” Ben yelped, though the damage was already done.
    Mary Ann sat up, swiping at her face. “It’s okay,” she said. “That’s more action than I’ve had in months.” She had changed into sweats, Ben noticed, and her face was completely free of makeup. Her short silver hair suited the shape of her head, he thought, and her fine-boned prettiness had carried her gracefully to the brink of sixty.
    “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have been here.”
    “Why not?”
    “I have my own perfect little house, for heaven’s sake.” She reached for one of the grocery bags. “Let me help with that.”
    “No,” he said. “I’ve got it. And you sleep wherever you want.”
    She followed him into the kitchen. “Let me help unload, at least.”
    “Sure,” he said, since her need to feel useful was obvious. He wondered, somewhat guiltily, if she had sensed his reluctance about this new living arrangement. “The pantry’s right there,” he told her. “All of this packaged stuff goes on the top two roller shelves. It’s sort of free-for-all, so don’t worry about placement.”
    “Man after my own heart,” Mary Ann replied with strained jocularity. She removed the pasta bags and packaged soups from the canvas carryall and began to transfer them to the pantry. They were both silent for a while, grateful for the chance to bury their awkwardness in mindless activity.
    Finally, Ben said: “I’m sorry about … all of it.”
    She gave him a wan smile. “Thanks.”
    “I think you’re being remarkably strong.”
    “Either that. Or I’m in shock.”
    “Have you found a doctor?”
    “Not yet. I’ve got a friend working on it.”
    “Do you have many of those here?”
    “What? Friends?” She shook her head. “Not anymore. I mean … it’s been a long time. I wouldn’t even know how to find them.”
    “You should get on Facebook.”
    “Oh … God no, Ben. I hate the Internet.”
    “Why?”
    “People get so ugly. I used to read the Chronicle online back in Darien, just to … you know … because I liked seeing the names of familiar places. But I was always tempted to read the … What’s that part where the readers write in?”
    “The comment board?”
    “Yeah. They’re so depressing. All those bitter people gloating about someone else’s death or calling someone ugly or just being really hideous to each other. I couldn’t handle it. It wasn’t the San Francisco I remembered.”
    Ben handed her a bundle of kale. “That’s because they’re from Chico.”
    She laughed. “Not all of them, surely. Where does this go?”
    “Bottom bin in the fridge. The thing about Facebook is that it’s friendly. Most people use their real names, and you can block anyone who’s being an asshole. In my experience people are usually nice … even a little bit corny sometimes.”
    She squatted to stuff the kale into the vegetable bin, then looked up at him with a crooked smile. “Perfect for the old lady, in other words.”
    He chuckled. “I didn’t mean you were corny. I just