Mary And The Giant

"Here." He located the overhead light and pulled it on. Grunting, he limped to the door, pulled down the shade, and released the lock. The heavy bolt jumped into place.

"Yes," she agreed. "Lock it. I forgot. Can I turn on the heater in the office?"

"Certainly." Sitting down on the window ledge, he rested and rubbed his knee. Mary Anne had already vanished into the office; the soft blue shimmer of the fluorescent lamp above his desk became visible. He could hear her stirring around, lifting out the electric heater, lowering the window shade.

"Find it?" he asked, when she reappeared.

"It's on; it's getting warm." She came up and dropped beside him, crouched against the counter, half-kneeling, half-leaning against the upright surface behind her. "Joseph," she said, "why did you kiss me?"

"Why?" he echoed. "Because I love you."

"Do you? I wondered if that was why." She settled down and sat gazing at him with a worried, preoccupied frown. "Are you sure that's it?" Then she had scrambled up to her feet. "Let's go in the office where it's warm."

The little electric heater beamed and radiated, creating a nimbus of heat around itself. "Look at it," Mary Anne said. "Getting itself warm ... nothing else."

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked her.

"No." Harassed, she paced around the office. "I don't think so, at least. Why should I be afraid of you?"

Outside the store a car rushed along the empty street, its headlights spilling across the display tables and racks, the shelves of records behind the counter. Then the car was gone; the store returned to darkness.

"I'm going downstairs," she announced, already starting out into the hall.

"What for?"

There was no response; she had turned on the basement light and was hurrying down the stairwell.

"Come on back up here," he ordered.

"Please don't shout at me," she said in a clipped voice. But she had paused on the stairs. "I can't stand being shouted at."

"Look at me," he said.

"No."

"Stop this damn neurotic business and look at me."

"You can't order me around," she said. But gradually her head turned. Eyes dark, lips pressed tight, she faced him.

"Mary Anne," he said, "what's the matter?"

The darkness in her eyes blurred. "I'm afraid something will happen to me." One small hand came up; frail and trembling, she was holding onto the banister. "Oh, hell," she said, her lips twitching. "It goes back a long way. I'm sorry, Joseph."

"Why?" he repeated. "Why do you want to go downstairs?"

"To get the coffeepot. Didn't I say?"

"No, you didn't say."

"It's still down there ... I was washing it out today. It's drying on the packing table by the gummed tape. On some pieces of cardboard."

"Do you want coffee?"

"Yes," she said eagerly. "Then maybe I wouldn't be so cold."

"All right," he said. "Go on and get it."

Gratefully, she let go of the banister and hurried down into the stockroom. Schilling followed after her. When he reached the basement he found her sitting on the edge of the rickety packing table, fitting the Silex coffeepot together. A few drops of water shone on her wrist; she had filled the coffeepot up and it was sloshing over.

For a moment he thought of getting the tin of Folger's coffee down for her; she was starting to search the shelves behind her, reaching up and pushing aside the boxes of twine and Scotch tape. He went over, half-intending that and half-intending something else, something that remained diffused in his mind until he had almost reached her and she was lifting the Silex up for him to take. He took it and then, without hesitation, set it down again, this time on the edge of the table, and put his arms around the girl's shoulders.

"How thin," he said aloud.

"I told you." She shifted until more of her weight rested on the table. "What is it they call it when you want to run? Panic? That sounds like the word. But I always wanted a place I could run to, a place I could hide ... but when I got there, nobody would let me in, or it wasn't where I wanted to be after all. It never worked out; there was always something wrong. And I gave up trying."

"Have you been coming down here at night?"

"A couple of times."

"Doing what? Just sitting?"

"Sitting and thinking. I never worked where they gave me a key before. I played a few records ... I tried to remember what you told me about them, what I was supposed to listen for. There was one I liked very much; I put it on the machine and then I went in the office and listened from there because it was warmer. Are you mad at me?"

"No," he said.

"I'll never be able to figure all that out, all the things you know. But that wasn't why I came down, anyhow. I just wanted to listen and be in here by myself, with the door locked. One night-last night, I think-the cop came around and shone his flashlight on me. I had to go and unlock the door and prove who I was."

"Did he believe you?"

"Yes, he had seen me working during the day. He asked me if I was okay."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him I was about as okay as I had ever been. But not really okay enough."