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"It'll keep," Nitz said, halting by the car. "Take it easy, Mary."
"I'm taking it easy."
"You can't do everything in one day, baby doll."
"That's easy enough for you to say," Mary A
Nitz said: "Neither do you."
"I-want to sleep there."
"Be careful where you sleep," Nitz said, and Schilling leaned forward because he could see what was coming. But he heard it now; Nitz was saying it already. "It's no good. I'm sorry, Mary. I wish to hell it was. He's just too old."
"Good night, Paul." She didn't look at him. "I've got to say."
"It is good," she said tightly.
"What's good about it? Well, a lot of things, maybe. But not enough. Go ahead and hate me."
"I don't hate you." Her voice was faint, aloof. She seemed to be watching something a long way off. Nitz reached out to tweak her nose, but she pulled away.
"We can talk about it some other time," Schilling said.
"We're all tired. This isn't the best time."
"Not the best time," Nitz agreed. "Nothing's best. Nothing's as good as you think, Mary. Or want."
Schilling started up the motor. "Leave her alone."
"Sorry," Nitz said. "I really am sorry. You suppose I enjoy this?"
"But you have your duty," Schilling said. He let out the clutch and the car moved forward. Reaching past Mary A
After a time, Schilling said: "Some of the nicest people in the world strung Jesus up on the cross."
Mary A
"I mean, Nitz is a nice guy, but he has certain preconceptions and ideas. And he wants certain things like everybody else does. He isn't outside, looking down. He has deep feelings toward you, deep personal feelings."
"Good," she said. "I'm glad to hear it."
He was aware that talking was a mistake. She was in no shape to listen, to be rational, to decide. But he couldn't help himself. "I'm sorry," he began.
"About what?"
"That we had that run-in."
"Yes." She nodded. She gazed out the window.
As they drove along the dark street he said suddenly: "Are you really sure you want to do this?"
"Do what? Yes, I want to. I'm sure."
"You heard what he said. And you trust him. What about your roommate? Can she find somebody else? Will she be able to handle the rent on your old place?"
"Don't worry about her," Mary A
"This all happened so fast. There wasn't time to plan." She shrugged. "So?"
"You should have more time, Mary." Nitz had forced him to say it. "You should be absolutely certain what you're getting into. He has a point. I don't want you to be-well, involved in something.
"Don't be silly. I love the apartment. I intend to get prints and mats to fill it up. You can drive me around and help me pick everything out. And clothes ..." Her eyes shone as ideas and schemes passed through her mind. "I want to get clothes I can wear, so when we go to another-"
"Maybe that was a mistake, too," he said. "Maybe I shouldn't have taken you up there." Although it was a little late to think of that.
"Oh-" She shoved against him. "You're talking like a moron."
"Thanks," he said.
Mary A
"No," he said, "but get back so I can see."
"See what?" She waved her hands in front of his face.
"Phooey-run over somebody. Wreck us-see if I care." In a burst of taunting nihilism she grabbed the steering wheel and spun it back and forth. The heavy car wandered from side to side, until Schilling pried her hand loose.
Slowing the car, he demanded: "Do you want to walk?"
"Don't threaten me."
Goaded by fatigue, he said: "Somebody ought to paddle you.
With a leather strap."
"You sound like my parents."
"They're right."
"Drop dead," she said, unruffled, but subdued. "Would you hurt me? You wouldn't do that, would you?"
"No," he said, driving carefully.
"Maybe you would ... it's possible. All kinds of things are possible. Nothing and everything." She slid down on the seat and meditated. "Do you feel like stopping and having something to eat?"
"Not really."
Neither do I. I don't know what I want-what do I want?"
"Nobody can tell you that."
"Do you believe in anything?"
"Of course," he said.
"Why?"
They had reached her new apartment. Upstairs on the second floor, lights blazed out into the darkness. The newly painted ceilings could be seen, glittering and sparkling, still moist.
Looking up, Mary A
"I'll help you get your things unpacked," he said. "Whatever you need for tonight."
"That means we're not going to do any more painting."
"Go to bed and get some sleep. You'll feel better tomorrow."
"I can't stay here," she said, with a mixture of loathing and fear. "Not half-finished, this way."
"But your things-"
"No," she said. "It's absolutely out. Please, Joseph; honest to God, I can't stand it like this. You understand what I mean, don't you?"
"Certainly."
"You don't."
"I do," he said, "but it's awkward. Your stuff is up there-clothes, everything. Where else can you stay? You can't go back to your old place."
"No," she agreed.
"Do you want to go to a hotel?"
"No, not a hotel." She pondered. "Jesus, what a mess. We shouldn't have started painting. We should have just moved the stuff." Wearily she hunched over and covered her face with the palms of her hands. "It's my own fault."
"Do you want to stay at my place?" he asked. It was something he would not normally have suggested; the idea was created by fatigue and the need of rest, and this blank wall at which they had arrived. He could not cope with it; he was too tired. It would have to wait until tomorrow.
"Could I? Would it bring on a lot of trouble?"
"Not that I know of." He started up the car. "You're sure it's okay?"
"I'll take you over there and then come back here for your things."
"You're sweet," she said dully, leaning against him.
He drove her to his own apartment, parked the car, and led the girl inside.
Sighing, Mary A
"I'm sorry we didn't' finish your place."
"That's okay. We'll finish it tomorrow night." She had nothing to say as Schilling removed his coat and then came over to receive her red jacket.
"What would cheer you up?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"Something to eat?"
Irritably, she shook her head. "No, nothing to eat. Christ, I'm just tired."
"Then it's time for bed."
"You're going back there now?"
"It won't take long. What are the essential items?" He searched for a pencil and paper, then gave up. "I can remember, if you tell me."
"Pajamas," she murmured. "Toothbrush, soap ... oh, the hell with it. I'll go over with you." Rising to her feet, she started toward the door. Schilling stopped her; she stood leaning against him, saying nothing, doing nothing, simply resting there.
"Come along," he said. His arm around her, he led her into the bedroom and showed her his big double bed. "Climb in and go to sleep. I'll be back in half an hour. What I forget I can pick up for you tomorrow morning, before work."
"Yes," she agreed. "That's so." Mechanically, she began to unfasten her belt. Schilling paused at the door, concerned. She was stepping out of her shoes; without a word she grasped hold of her paint-streaked T-shirt and tugged it over her head. At that point despair overwhelmed her; she stood mutely in the center of the bedroom in her bra and jeans, making no progress in any direction.