Mary And The Giant

It was eleven-forty-five. They walked two hours, neither of them saying much, concentrating instead on the cars that rushed past them every now and then, stepping off the highway, standing on the weedy ground, and then starting back again when each car was gone.

Shortly before two o'clock they neared an island of lights growing by the highway. Presently the lights resolved into a Shell station, a closed-up fruit stand, and a tavern. A pair of autos were parked in the lot outside the tavern. A GOLDEN GLOW neon sign gleamed in the window; the sound of voices and laughter drifted out into the night.

Walking across the lot, Mary Anne threw herself down on the steps of the tavern. "I can't go any farther," she said.

"No," Schilling agreed, halting beside her. "Neither can I."

He went inside and telephoned the Yellow Cab people. Fifteen minutes later a cab drove into the lot and slowed to a stop beside them. The driver threw open the door and said: "Hop in, folks."

As they rode back toward Pacific Park, Mary Anne lay watching the dark highway move past. "I'm tired," she said once, very softly.

"You must be," Schilling said.

"These weren't the proper shoes." She had lifted her feet up and tucked them under her. "How do you feel?"

"I'm fine," he said, which was true. "I don't even think I'll be stiff tomorrow," he added, which was probably not true.

"Maybe we could go hiking again sometime," Mary Anne said. "When we have the proper shoes and all the rest. There's a nice place over toward the mountains ... it's up high, and you can see for miles."

"That sounds wonderful." It really did, tired as he was. "If you want, we could drive part of the way, park the car, and walk on from there."

"Here you are, folks," the driver said cheerfully, drawing to a stop in front of Mary Anne's apartment building. "You want me to wait?" he asked, opening the door.

"Yes, wait," Schilling instructed him. He and the girl climbed the stairs; he held the door open for her and she glided on inside, under the arch of his arm.

In the lobby she halted. She still had tight hold of her blue dish. "Joseph," she said, "good night."

"Good night," he said. Leaning forward, he kissed her on the cheek. Smiling, she raised her face expectantly. "Take care of yourself." he said to her. That was all he could think of.

"I will," she promised and, turning, hurried up the stairs.

Schilling found his way back out onto the porch of the building. There was the cab, its parking lights on, waiting for him. He had descended the concrete steps and was starting to climb into it when he remembered his own car. The Dodge, moist and dark, was parked only a few yards up the street; it had completely slipped his mind.

"I'll walk," he said to the taxi driver. "How much do I owe you?"

The driver slammed the meter arm down and tore off the paper receipt. "Nine dollars and eighty-five cents," he said with benign pleasure.

Schilling paid him and then walked stiffly to his own car. The upholstery, as he got in, was cold and repellent. And the motor sputtered unevenly when he started it. He allowed it to warm for several minutes before he released the parking brake and drove out into the silent, empty street.

17

The next morning, Sunday morning, she telephoned him at ten o'clock.

"Are you up?" she asked.

"Yes," Schilling said; having shaved, he was now dressing. "I was up at nine."

"What are you doing?"

Truthfully, he answered: "I was about to go downtown and have breakfast."

"Why don't you drop over here? I'll fix breakfast for you." Her voice ebbed. "Maybe you could pick up the Sunday paper."

"I'll do that." He was afraid to ask if her roommate would be there. Instead, he said: "Anything else I can get for you? How do you feel today?"

"I'm fine." She sounded lazy and contented. "It looks like a nice day."

He hadn't, as yet, looked. "I'll see you in a short while," he said. Hanging up, he began finding his overcoat.

The door to her apartment, when he arrived, was standing open. A warm, sweet smell of frying bacon and eggs drifted out into the hall, along with the sound of the New York Philharmonic. Mary Anne met him in the living room; she had on brown slacks and a white shirt, and her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows. Face shiny with perspiration, she greeted him and hurried back into the kitchen.

"Did you drive over?"

"I drove," he answered, laying the Sunday Chronicle down n the couch and removing his overcoat. He went over and closed the door to the hall. There was no sign of the roommate.

"The blimp-my roommate-is out," Mary Anne explained, noticing his prowling. "She's at church, and then she's having lunch with some girl friends, and then she's going to a show. She won't be back until late this afternoon."

"You don't like her very much," he said, lighting a cigarette. He had decided to stop smoking cigars.

"She's a drip. Why don't you come into the kitchen? You could set the table."