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, you’re nice to me,” she said with a childlike innocence. “I can’t help it. They won’t buy the papers from me.” Her eyes pleaded. “They see me, and look away.”

Mary smacked and licked her lips, an involuntary side effect of her medicines. She was mentally ill, 41, short and overweight with rumpled clothing, whitish foam collecting in one corner of her mouth and bulging blue eyes gazing sorrowfully at him.

“You have to let me go?” Mary began to choke up. “I know I’m hurting your business. I know what you’re saying...but, I’m sor-ry!” she suddenly blurted out. “I’m sorry....” She wept. “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. A fine mustache fuzz was highlighted by 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 on the bridge of his nose. “Mary.” He sounded reassuring.

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

“I’ll make a deal with you,” he said. “Sell 15 papers tomorrow?”

“Then can I keep my job?”

“Let’s see. Start early, give yourself lots of time. Maybe wear something bright.” He had an encouraging smile.

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

He seemed to weigh any response. 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.”