Mary And The Giant

Cold night air billowed around them as they painted; all the windows and doors were wide open to let out the fumes. Standing on chairs, each of them labored at the ceiling, one person in each room, saying very little to one another as they worked. Occasionally, beyond the windows, a car passed along the street, its headlights flashing. The inhabitants of the downstairs flat were out; there was no sound and no light showing.

"I'm out of paint," Schilling said once, halting.

"Come and get more," Mary Anne answered from the living room. "There's a lot left in the bucket."

Wiping paint from his arms and wrists with a rag, Schilling stepped from his chair and walked toward the sound of her voice. There she was, standing on tiptoe, reaching above her head with both hands. Her short brown hair was tied in a bandana; drops of pale yellow paint streaked her cheeks and forehead and neck; moist trails of paint had slithered down her arms and down her clothes and across her bare feet. She wore jeans, rolled up at the bottom, and a T-shirt; that was all. She seemed tired but cheerful.

"Help yourself," she gasped, indicating the bucket of paint in the center of the floor. Newspapers, sloppy and yellow, were spread everywhere. The redwood paneling oozed globs of rubber-based paint, but a rag dipped in water would remove them.

"How's it coming?" he asked her.

"I'm almost done in here. Do you see any places I missed?"

She had, of course, missed no places; her work was thorough and scrupulous.

"I'm anxious to get my stuff unpacked," she said to him, painting vigorously away. "Will we have time tonight? I don't want to sleep over there ... anyhow, all my bedding and personal stuff, all my clothes, are here."

"We'll get you unpacked," Schilling promised. He headed back toward his own room and resumed his work. In the bedroom Paul Nitz labored in isolation; Schilling halted long enough to pay him a visit.

"This stuff really covers," Nitz said, dropping from the chair onto the floor. He got a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket and, offering Schilling the pack, lit up himself. Schilling, accepting the cigarette, felt a disturbing flow of memory. Five years ago he had stood in Beth Coombs's apartment watching her paint a kitchen chair. He, in his vest and wool tie, his briefcase under his arm, had come to visit her officially: he was a representative for the music publishers Allison and Hirsch, and she had submitted a group of songs.

There she had been, crouched on the kitchen floor in halter and shorts, her bare flesh streaked with paint. He had wanted her furiously: a healthy blonde who had chatted with him, poured him a drink, rubbed up against him as the two of them examined drafts of her songs. The pressure of her living, woman's body; breasts to be kneaded and gripped .. .

"She's a hard worker," Nitz said, indicating the girl.

"Yes," Schilling agreed, startled back to the present. He was confused; old images blurred with new ones. Beth, Mary Anne, the girl with long red hair he had lived with in Baltimore. He wished he could recall her name. Barbara something. She had been like a field of wheat ... a dancing orangeness around him and beneath him. He sighed. He hadn't forgotten that.

"What do you think of her?"

"Well," Schilling said. For a moment he wasn't certain who Nitz meant. "Yes, I think a lot of her."

"So do I," Nitz said, with a shade of emphasis that eluded Schilling. "She's a nut, but she's okay."

Schilling said: "How do you mean, nut?" It didn't sound gallant, and he wasn't sure he approved.

"Mary takes things too seriously. You ever in your life heard her laugh?"

He tried to remember. "I've seen her smile." He had her very clearly, now. Which was a good thing.

"None of the kids laugh anymore," Nitz said. "It must be the times. All they do is worry."

"Yes," he agreed, "she always worries."

"Are you talking about me?" Mary Anne's voice came in. "Because if you are, cut it out."

"She'll tell you what to do," Nitz said. "She's got a mind of her own. But-" he began painting again- "in some ways she's two years old. It's easy to forget that. She's a little kid wandering around lost, looking for somebody to find her. Some kindly cop with brass buttons and a badge to lead her home."

"Stop it!" Mary Anne ordered, leaping down and padding into the bedroom, the paint roller leaking a trail of yellow after her. Rubbing her cheek with her wrist, she reminded them: "This is my house, you know; I could throw both of you out."

"Little Miss Wise," Nitz said to her.

"You shut up."

Handing Schilling his cigarette, Nitz jumped forward and grabbed the girl around the waist. Sweeping her up, he carried her to the open window and lifted her over the sill. "Out you go," he said.

Screaming and clutching at him, Mary Anne kicked wildly, her arms around his neck, her bare feet thumping against the wall. "You let me down! You hear me, Paul Nitz?"