Mary And The Giant

"Yeah, she shows up and cleans. She likes to." Tweany made his way into the bedroom and halted. "Well, I'll be damned."

"What is it?" Beth came and looked over his shoulder.

Mary Anne lay asleep on the bed. On her face was a troubled, unhappy frown. Beth and Tweany stood in the doorway, dumb with astonishment.

Then, very quietly, Tweany began to titter. He tittered in a high-pitched falsetto, his teeth showing in a broad, flashing grin. The laughter spread to Beth; she chuckled in low, short barks.

"Poor Miss Mary Anne," Tweany said, trying not to laugh, trying to hold it back. But it couldn't be held back. The laughter spread across his face-and then he and Beth were shrieking in spasms of merriment. On the bed Mary Anne stirred; her eyelids fluttered.

"Poor Miss Mary Anne," Tweany repeated, and the laughter bubbled out in gusts.

While the two of them stood rocking back and forth, the door flew open and Daniel Coombs bounded into the apartment.

Tweany, identifying him, pushed between him and Beth, as Coombs, his head down, raised the Remington .32 and aimlessly fired. The noise awakened Mary Anne; sitting up, she saw Coombs hurry past the doorway of the bedroom toward Tweany and Beth.

"I'm going to kill you, nigger!" Coombs raved, trying to shoot once more. He tripped over a heap of magazines and stumbled; Tweany, pushing Beth out of the hall, caught him around the neck. Arms flailing, Coombs struggled to get his head loose. Without emotion, Tweany dragged him down the hall to the kitchen.

"Tweany!" Mary Anne shrieked. "Don't!"

Then she and Beth were clawing at him. Tweany continued to drag his burden, paying no attention. Coombs's face could not be seen; it was buried in Tweany's coat. Feet scraping the floor, Coombs was yanked against the kitchen table-it spilled salt shaker and sugar bowl to the floor-and over to the sink.

"For God's sake," Mary Anne pleaded, kicking at the Negro's shins; Beth's long red nails gouged into his face. "Don't do it, Tweany, they'll put you in jail the rest of your life; they'll string you up and lynch you and burn your body in gasoline and spit on you; spit on your body. Tweany, listen to me!"

Holding Coombs with one arm, Tweany snatched open the drawer under the sink and fumbled among the silverware until he found an ice pick. Coombs managed to jerk free. He skittered away, reached the door, and then the hall. His thrashing sounds diminished as he vanished out the door, onto the flight of wooden steps.

Coombs squealed, a shrill, high-pitched bleat, followed by the sound of old wood splintering. After that, a distant plop, as if some wad of organic waste, voided, had dropped a long way.

"He fell," Beth whispered. "My husband."

Mary Anne ran down the hall to the door. The railing was intact, but at the bottom of the steps lay Daniel Coombs. He had plunged the length; he had, along the stairs, missed his footing.

Beth appeared. "Is he dead?"

"How would I know?" Mary Anne said frigidly.

Shoving her aside, Beth scampered down to the ground level beside her husband. Mary Anne watched for a moment, and then turned back to the apartment. Tweany was still in the kitchen; he emerged, straightening his shirt and smoothing his tie. He looked disconcerted but not apprehensive. "Those cops," he said, "they're going to be mad."

"Want me to call them?"

"Yes, maybe you better."

She picked up the phone and dialed. When she had finished she hung up and faced the man. "You were going to kill him." It was, for her, the final straw.

Tweany said nothing.

"It's lucky for you he got loose." A lethargy lay over her. "Now you don't have to worry."

"I guess not," Tweany agreed.

Mary Anne seated herself. "You better put something on your face." The side of his head was bleeding where she and Beth had clawed him. "What did you do with the ice pick?"

"Put it back in the drawer, naturally."

"Go down and make sure she won't say anything about it. Hurry-before they get here." She could already hear sirens.

Obediently, Tweany went off down the hall. Mary Anne remained, rubbing the instep of her right foot; she had twisted it floundering after Tweany. After a time she got to her feet and went into the bedroom. She had changed back into her skirt and blouse and was stepping into her heels when the police arrived.

The first policeman---one she remembered from the other night-studied her searchingly as she descended the stairs.

"I don't remember you," he said.

Mary Anne didn't answer. She stopped to glance at Coombs's body ... thinking, in a corner of her mind, that it would not be possible to get to her job today.

13

On a morning in early December, Joseph Schilling stood inspecting his window display. The sun was shining brightly, and he frowned, thinking of the records warping in their envelopes. Then he remembered that he had, before setting up the display, taken the records out and used the envelopes alone. Heartened, he unlocked the door and entered the shop.