Mary recalled what took place that day. She was resting on her favorite sidewalk bench when a man stopped his car and called out to her for a newspaper, but she gave him one with saliva hanging off a corner. He didn’t buy any papers, and for some reason Mary believed Mr. McCracken must have found out.

            “I know, Mr. McCracken, you’re nice to me,” she said with a childlike innocence. “I can’t help anything. They don’t want to buy the newspapers from me.” Her eyes pleaded. “They see me, and they look away.” Mary also looked away.

            McCracken watched as she smacked and licked her lips, an involuntary and irreversible side effect of the older medicines. She was mentally ill in her mid-forties, short and overweight with rumpled clothing, a smudge of white foam that often collected in one corner of her mouth and bulging blue eyes gazing sorrowfully at him.

            “Do you have to let me go?” Mary began to choke up. “You have to let me go, I know, I’m right, I’m hurting your business. I know what you’re saying...but, I’m sor-ry!” she suddenly blurted out. “Mr. McCracken, I’m so sorry...” She wept. “What will I do? I have to get everyone something for Christmas. I really need the money.”

            Her shoulder-length hair was messily arranged, held by barrettes and streaked with grays sticking out. She also had a fine mustache fuzz sprinkled with darker hairs around her large trembling mouth.

            He looked flustered, wanting to comfort her somehow, not wanting to drive her over the edge where she would explode in rage or nose-dive into despair. There was little room in between with Mary.

            McCracken pushed his glasses straight back to the bridge of his nose. “Mary.” He sounded reassuring.

            “Yes, yes, Mr. McCracken?” She hesitated to sound hopeful.

            “I’ll make a deal with you, Mary.” He sat on the desktop. “Just sell twenty—no, make that fifteen papers, tomorrow.”

            “Then can I keep my job, Mr. McCracken?”

            “Let’s see, Mary. Why don’t you start bright and early? Give yourself lots of time. Maybe wear something bright.” He had an encouraging smile. “Let’s see how it goes.”

            “You think it’s what I wear?” she raised her voice accusingly.

            He seemed to weigh any response about her appearance. No one knew how she was going to react at any moment, and he chose to say nothing except, “No, Mary. It’s probably not what you wear.”

***