Mary And The Giant

"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 gri

"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 fu

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 A

"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 A

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 A

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 A

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 A

"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."