Mary And The Giant

They had dinner together at Schilling's apartment. Mary Anne, rummaging in the refrigerator, found a veal roast and prepared it for the oven. It was now six o'clock; outside, the evening street was fading. Standing by the window, Schilling listened to the sounds of the girl fixing dinner. Busily she opened drawers and brought out his various pots and pans and bowls.

Well, a lot had happened. He had gone a long way since the previous Sunday. He wondered what he would be doing in another week. He now had a certain life to lead, and a certain person to be. That person had to be careful of what he did and said; he had to be careful to keep on being that person. Could he keep it up? Anything could happen. He recalled his lecture to Mary Anne on the responsibility of opening up whole new fields for someone ... smiling at the irony, he turned from the window.

"Need any help?" he asked.

She appeared, a very slim, very high-breasted little figure, outlined in the kitchen doorway. "You could mash the potatoes," she said.

Watching her scurry about the kitchen, he was impressed. "You must have helped your mother a lot."

"My mother's a fool," she said.

"And your father?"

"He-" The girl hesitated. "Little shrimp. All he does is drink beer and watch TV. I hate TV because of him; every time I see it, I see him and his black leather jacket. And his glasses, his steel glasses. Watching me. And grinning."

"Why?"

She seemed unable to speak. Her face was dark and strained, convoluted with tiny lines of worry that pulled her features together. "Teasing me," she said.

"About what?"

Struggling, she said: "Once-I guess I was fifteen or sixteen. I was still in high school. One night I came home late, around two o'clock. There was a dance, a club dance, up in the hills. When I opened the door I didn't see him. He was in the living room, asleep. Not in their room. Maybe he had been drinking and passed out; he had his clothes on, even his shoes. Lying on the couch, spread out. Newspapers and beer cans."

"You don't have to tell me," he said.

She nodded. "I went by him. And he woke up. He saw me; I had on my long gown. I think he was confused, and he didn't realize it was me. Anyhow." She shuddered. "He-grabbed hold of me. It happened so fast I didn't understand. I didn't realize it was him at first. Two other people." She smiled mournfully. "So, anyhow, he put me down on the couch. In just a second. I couldn't even yell or anything. He used to be very good-looking. I've seen pictures of him when he was young, when they were first married. He was a lot of times with different women. They talked about it openly. They yell about it, back and forth. Maybe it was reflexive; you know?"

"Yes," he said.

"He certainly moved fast. And he's still strong; he works in a pipe factory, with big sections of pipe. Especially his arms. There wasn't anything I could do. He got my dress up over my face and he held my hands. You want me to tell you?"

"If you want," he said.

"That's about all. He didn't-really do it. My mother must have heard or something. She came in and turned on the living room light. He hadn't had time. Then he saw it was me. I guess he didn't know. Every once in a while I think about that. But-it's a joke, as far as he's concerned. He thinks it's funny. He teases me.

He sneaks up and grabs me, and gets a big charge out of it. Like a game or something."

"Your mother doesn't mind?"

"She does, but she never stops him. I guess she can't."

"Christ," Schilling said, deeply disturbed.

Mary Anne hauled out the small stepladder and got down plates and cups. "They're all here in town: my family, my friends. Dave Gordon-"

"Who is Dave Gordon?"

"My fiance. He works over at the Richfield station, driving a truck. His idea of getting somewhere is borrowing the truck for the weekend."

"That's so," Schilling admitted. "You did mention him." He felt uncomfortable.

"Go sit down," Mary Anne said, catching up a pot holder and kneeling to peer into the oven. "Dinner's ready."

18

At eight o'clock, after they had eaten, Schilling drove the girl to the closed-up record shop. Together they loaded cans of paint into the trunk compartment of the Dodge, both of them feeling fearful and intimidated by what was happening.

"You're so quiet," he said to her.

"I'm scared."

"Where does your friend Paul Nitz hang out?" It seemed like a good idea. "Let's go pick him up."

Nitz, with his usual amiability, was glad to drop what he was doing and tag along with them. "I got to be at the Wren before twelve, though," he warned them. "Eaton says I have to show up once in a while."

"We're not going to work much later than that," Schilling said. "Tomorrow's Monday."

The three of them trudged up the stairs with Mary Anne's possessions and piled them in the redwood-paneled kitchen. Presently they were stirring cans of paint and softening brushes. An unlit cigarette between his lips, Paul Nitz poured rubber-based paint into a roller pan and began sloshing it with a broken coat hanger.