Mary And The Giant

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" she said, infuriated. "Grow up, will you? You're not a boy-you're a grown man. Can't you think of anything else? Milk shakes-you're a high school boy; that's all you are."

Gordon muttered: "Don't get sore."

"Why do you hang around with those fairies?"

"What fairies?"

"Tate and that bunch."

"They're not fairies. They just dress good."

She blew smoke at him. "Working in a gas station-that's no job for an adult. Jake; you're another Jake. Jake and Dave, the two pals. Be a Jake, if you want. Be a Jake until the army gets you."

"Lay off talking about the army. They're blowing on my ass."

"It wouldn't do you any harm." Restlessly, Mary Anne said: "Drive me out to Readymade. I have to be back at work; I can't sit around here."

"Are you sure you ought to go back? Maybe you ought to go home and rest."

The girl's eyes shrank with wrath. "I have to go back; it's my job. Take some responsibility, once in a while; can't you understand responsibility?"

...

On the trip Mary Anne had little to say. She sat bolt upright, gripping her purse and staring out the truck window at the countryside. Under her arms moist circles had formed, giving off the scent of rosewater and musk. She had wiped away most of her makeup; her face was white and expressionless.

"You look funny," Dave Gordon said. "No kidding."

With a show of determination, he said, "How about telling me what's going on with you, these days? I never see you anymore; you always have some excuse. I guess what it is, is I'm getting the brush."

"I went by your house last night."

"And when I go by your house you're not there. Your family doesn't know where you are. Who does?"

"I do," Mary Anne said succinctly.

"Are you still hanging around that bar?" There was no rancor in his voice, only forlorn concern. "I even went down there, to that Wren Club. And sat around thinking maybe you'd show up. I did that a couple times."

Mary Anne softened minutely. "Did I show up?"

"No."

"I'm sorry." With a stir of longing, she said, "Maybe this will all clear away."

"You mean your job?"

"Yes. I suppose." She meant a great deal more than that.

"Maybe I'll become a nun," she said suddenly.

"I wish I could understand you. I wish I saw more of you; I'd settle for that. I sort of miss you."

Mary Anne wished she missed Gordon. But she didn't. "Can I say something?" he asked. "Say away."

"I guess you don't want to marry me after all."

"Why?" Mary Anne asked, her voice rising. "Why do you say a thing like that? My God, Gordon, where'd you get an idea like that? You must be crazy; you better go to a psychoanalyst. You're neurotic. You're in bad shape, baby."

Sulkily, Dave Gordon said: "Don't make fun of me."

She was ashamed. "I'm sorry, Gordon."

"And for Christ's sake, do you have to call me Gordon? My name's Dave. Everybody else calls me Gordon-you ought to be able to call me Dave."

"I'm sorry, David," she said contritely. "I wasn't really making fun of you. It's this whole awful business."

"If we got married," Gordon said, "would you keep on working?"

"I haven't thought about it."

"I'd prefer it if you stayed home."

"Why?"

"Well," Gordon said, twisting with embarrassment, "if' we had kids, you ought to be home taking care of them."

"Kids," Mary Anne said. She felt strange. Her kids: it was a new idea.

"Would you like kids?" Gordon asked hopefully. "I like you."

"I'm talking about real little kids."

"Yes," she decided, thinking about it. "Why not? It'd be nice." She contemplated at length. "I could stay home ... a little boy and a little girl. Not just one kid; two at the least, and maybe more." She smiled briefly. "So they wouldn't be lonely. One kid is too lonely ... he has no friends."

"You've always been lonely."

"Have I? I guess so."

"I remember when we were in high school," Dave Gordon said. "You were always by yourself ... you never hung around with the group. You were so pretty; I used to see you sitting out there at lunchtime, with your bottle of milk and your sandwich, eating all by yourself. You know what I wanted to do? I wanted to go up and kiss you. But I didn't know you then."

With affection, Mary Anne said: "You're a pretty nice person." Then, urgently, she drew away. "I hated high school. I couldn't wait to get out of there. What did we learn there? What did they teach us we could use?"

"Nothing, I guess," Dave Gordon said.

"A lot of phony junk. Phony! Every word of it."

Ahead of them, to the right, was California Readymade. They watched it approach.

"Here we are," Dave Gordon said, pulling the truck to a stop at the edge of the road. "When'll I see you?"

"Sometime." She had already lost interest in him; stiff and tense again, she was preparing herself.

"Tonight?"

Climbing down, Mary Anne said over her shoulder: "Not tonight. Don't come around for a while. I have to do a lot of thinking."

Hurt, Gordon prepared to leave. "Sometimes I think you're riding for a fall."

"What do you mean?" She halted defiantly.

"Some people think-you're stuck up."