figure. But then there is more under there. We all know it. That’s his gift, the underneath he seems to know for no good reason. Like lunatics, the way they can sense stuff. Even though Pauly’s not nuts.
“Shut up,” she repeats. “You were not talking about me. Liar.” Mary Martha leans way far out over her safe little counter and stares straight down at me, Oakley, who for whatever reason has developed a sort of rep for telling the truth.
“Hi, Mary Martha,” I say.
Which seems to be enough for her. “Liar,” she says to him, in such a coy way that she really could have said any number of finer things.
“Just two days,” Pauly says. “Think about it … think about it … Trains, y’know? Of course you know. Who knows better than you do what can happen to people on trains? They take you places even before you get there, don’t they? You see people coming and going all the time. Shit definitely happens to those folks, don’t you think, Mary Martha formerly known as Penelope?”
Mary Martha has a rabbit look about her, as if she will bolt right from her little post right this second.
“Pauly.” I reach over and tug on his shirt sleeve. “What are you doing, numbnuts? Lilly, remember? Lilly. Lilly , for crying out loud. What do you have to be doing this to Mary Martha for?”
I think I have accomplished this much: I have stalled the process long enough for Mary Martha to regain her balance, if not her sanity.
She waves him off. “Some of us work, you know.” Pause. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
He leans toward me and whispers. “We’re just playing with each other. She understands. I’m not really trying to make her go.” Then, with hardly a flicker of a channel change, he turns it on, on Mary Martha. “Girl, I am not crazy. I am a poet.”
She wags a finger at him. “Wait a sec, I think I heard about this.”
“Stand back,” Pauly says dramatically.
Mary Martha #7
Destination
Desperation
From her little
choo choo station
She watches the goer
and comer
Will you be a singer
or sad scared little
hummer?
She takes a step back from the counter and claps her hands three times. “Hah,” she says. “Cute. And, ah, number seven ? You’re trying to tell me you perpetrated seven of those things on me?”
He nods solemnly, bows.
“So great, you’re a liar and a loon.”
“Hey,” Pauly says, “don’t forget, liar plus loon equals poet.”
He is backing away. He stops backing away, approaches the counter once more. “Fascination/Inspiration/The poet’s muse/the girl at the station. Why did you change your name, Mary Martha?” He asks sincerely.
She has no intention of answering, or speaking at all, judging from the look on her face. Narrow-eyed. Blushing. Then, just as quickly, different. Opening. Ready …
“No,” Pauly says, as if he too has had a very abrupt change of heart. “No, tell me later, when we meet again. And maybe I’ll trade you …‘Mary Martha #3,’ ‘Mary Martha #9 …’”
“Nine,” she repeats dubiously.
Then, as he suggested, she stops, but hangs there, on the edge of something. There is a kind of dewey look to her now, and I think, as I stand and get more of a full-on angle, that Mary Martha is not the least attractive person in Whitechurch. She’s not, in fact, unpretty at all.
We back away, smiling, waving. We board the train and start heading to the rear.
“What you doing that for, Pauly?” I ask. “All that with Mary Martha. Teasing her up like that. What’s she ever done to you?”
“What are you talking about?” Pauly is distracted as he talks, looking all over the place. “I didn’t do anything bad.”
“You did. You got a girlfriend. And you’re going to see her, and you’re gonna see her in Boston, even though you’re not even invited and it’s gonna make shitloads of trouble for all parties.”
“You know, Oakley, did it ever occur to you that I wouldn’t be nuts if only you would show a little more
“Shut up,” she repeats. “You were not talking about me. Liar.” Mary Martha leans way far out over her safe little counter and stares straight down at me, Oakley, who for whatever reason has developed a sort of rep for telling the truth.
“Hi, Mary Martha,” I say.
Which seems to be enough for her. “Liar,” she says to him, in such a coy way that she really could have said any number of finer things.
“Just two days,” Pauly says. “Think about it … think about it … Trains, y’know? Of course you know. Who knows better than you do what can happen to people on trains? They take you places even before you get there, don’t they? You see people coming and going all the time. Shit definitely happens to those folks, don’t you think, Mary Martha formerly known as Penelope?”
Mary Martha has a rabbit look about her, as if she will bolt right from her little post right this second.
“Pauly.” I reach over and tug on his shirt sleeve. “What are you doing, numbnuts? Lilly, remember? Lilly. Lilly , for crying out loud. What do you have to be doing this to Mary Martha for?”
I think I have accomplished this much: I have stalled the process long enough for Mary Martha to regain her balance, if not her sanity.
She waves him off. “Some of us work, you know.” Pause. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
He leans toward me and whispers. “We’re just playing with each other. She understands. I’m not really trying to make her go.” Then, with hardly a flicker of a channel change, he turns it on, on Mary Martha. “Girl, I am not crazy. I am a poet.”
She wags a finger at him. “Wait a sec, I think I heard about this.”
“Stand back,” Pauly says dramatically.
Mary Martha #7
Destination
Desperation
From her little
choo choo station
She watches the goer
and comer
Will you be a singer
or sad scared little
hummer?
She takes a step back from the counter and claps her hands three times. “Hah,” she says. “Cute. And, ah, number seven ? You’re trying to tell me you perpetrated seven of those things on me?”
He nods solemnly, bows.
“So great, you’re a liar and a loon.”
“Hey,” Pauly says, “don’t forget, liar plus loon equals poet.”
He is backing away. He stops backing away, approaches the counter once more. “Fascination/Inspiration/The poet’s muse/the girl at the station. Why did you change your name, Mary Martha?” He asks sincerely.
She has no intention of answering, or speaking at all, judging from the look on her face. Narrow-eyed. Blushing. Then, just as quickly, different. Opening. Ready …
“No,” Pauly says, as if he too has had a very abrupt change of heart. “No, tell me later, when we meet again. And maybe I’ll trade you …‘Mary Martha #3,’ ‘Mary Martha #9 …’”
“Nine,” she repeats dubiously.
Then, as he suggested, she stops, but hangs there, on the edge of something. There is a kind of dewey look to her now, and I think, as I stand and get more of a full-on angle, that Mary Martha is not the least attractive person in Whitechurch. She’s not, in fact, unpretty at all.
We back away, smiling, waving. We board the train and start heading to the rear.
“What you doing that for, Pauly?” I ask. “All that with Mary Martha. Teasing her up like that. What’s she ever done to you?”
“What are you talking about?” Pauly is distracted as he talks, looking all over the place. “I didn’t do anything bad.”
“You did. You got a girlfriend. And you’re going to see her, and you’re gonna see her in Boston, even though you’re not even invited and it’s gonna make shitloads of trouble for all parties.”
“You know, Oakley, did it ever occur to you that I wouldn’t be nuts if only you would show a little more
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