Mary And The Giant

"Hey," Nitz said, without conviction. "Sit."

Tweany halted. "I got to go make a phone call."

"One second, man."

"No, I got to go call." There was weary importance in his voice. "You know I have matters on my mind."

To Mary A

She started to her feet, resting the palms of her hands on the piano top, leaning forward. "Sit down."

He contemplated her. "Problems," he said, and at last found an empty chair at a nearby table; dragging it over with one scoop of his hand, he sat beside her. She settled slowly back, aware of his closeness, aware, in a kind of controlled hunger, that he had stopped because of her. So the coming here had not been wasted, after all. She had got him; for a little, at least.

"What problems?" Nitz inquired.

The magnitude of Tweany's preoccupation increased. "I'm on the third floor. The hot water heater's up there, the one for the whole building." Studying his manicured nails, he said, "The bottom rusted through and sprang a leak. It's leaking water down on the gas jets and on my floor." Indignation entered his voice. "It'll ruin my furnishings."

"Did you call the landlady?"

"Naturally." Tweany scowled. "A plumber was supposed to show up. The usual runaround." He lapsed into moody silence.

"Her name's Mary A

"How do you do, Miss Reynolds," Tweany said, with a formal nod.

Mary A

The man's dark eyebrows moved. "Oh? Thank you."

"I come here every chance I get."

"Thank you. Yes, I believe I've noticed you. Several nights, in fact." Tweany stirred. "I have to go phone. I can't have my sofa ruined."

"Imported Tasmanian mohair," Nitz murmured. "The extinct, primitive, fuzzy-haired mo."

Tweany was on his feet. "Glad to have met you, Miss Reynolds. I hope I'll see you again." He departed in the direction of the phone booth.

"The green fuzzy-haired mo," Nitz added.

"What's the matter with you?" Mary A

"You read that in an ad, a Prudential ad. Seven danger signs of cancer. Why didn't I insure my roof?" Nitz yawned. "Use aluminum pipe ... deters garden pests."

Mary A

"You're wrong," Nitz said.

She started. "What?"

"About him. I can tell the way you're looking ... there you go again. Another plan."

"What plan?"

"Always. You in your coat, and your hands in your pockets. Standing around somewhere, with that worried, plotting look on your face. Waiting for somebody to show. What's the trouble, Mary? You're smart enough; you can take care of yourself. You don't need brave Sir Noodlehead to protect you."

"He's got poise," she said. She was still watching; he was bound to reappear. "I respect that. Poise and bearing."

"What's your father like?"

She shrugged. "None of your business."

"My father," Nitz said, "used to sing me good-night songs."

"So," she said. "Fine."

"They do that," Nitz murmured. "Mum, mum, mum," he trailed off sleepily. "Oh, I see my coffin comin' , mamo. Whump, whoo-whoo." He tapped on the piano with a coin. "Now play it. Yah."

Mary A

In her mind appeared the remnant of a long-ago rhythm, a terrifying lullaby. She had never forgotten it.

... If I should die before I wake ...

"Don't you believe in God?" she said to Nitz.

He opened one eye. "I believe in everything. In God, in the United States, in power steering."

"You're not much help."

In the corner of the bar Carleton Tweany had reappeared. He was chatting with groups of patrons; tolerant, superior, he moved from table to table.

"Pay no attention to him," Nitz mumbled. "He'll go away." The shape of Carleton Tweany neared, and again she tensed herself. Nitz radiated disapproval, but she was far above caring; she had made up her mind. Now, in a quick single motion, she was on her feet. "Mr. Tweany," she said, and apparently her feeling was there in her voice, because he paused.

"Yes, Miss Mary A

She was suddenly nervous. "How's-your hot water heater?"

"I don't know."

"What did the landlady say? Didn't you call her?"

"I called, yes. But I couldn't get hold of her."

Breathlessly, afraid he would start on, she demanded: "Well,

what are you going to do?"

The man's lips twitched, and, gradually, his eyes filmed behind shadow. Turning to Paul Nitz, who was still slumped at the piano bench, he said: "Is she always like this?"

"Most of the time. Mary lives in a universe of leaky pots."

She flushed. "I'm thinking of the people downstairs," she said defensively.

"What people?" Tweany asked.

"You're on the top floor, aren't you?" She hadn't lost him yet, but he was begi

Tweany started off. "They can sue the landlady," he said, dismissing the subject.

"How long before you're through singing?" Mary A

"Two hours." He gri

"Two hours! Maybe they'll be dead by then." She had a vision of chaos; erupting geysers of water, splintered boards, and, behind everything else, the sound of fire. "You better go over right now. You can sing later. It isn't fair to those other people. Maybe there're children downstairs. Are there?"

Tweany's amusement faded to exasperation; it did not please him to be bossed. "Thank you for Your interest."

"Come on." She had decided.

He gaped at her with dense vacantness. "What's that, Miss Mary A

"Come on!" She caught hold of his sleeve and tugged him toward the door. "Where's your car?"

Tweany was indignant. "I'm perfectly capable of handling the situation."

"In the lot? Is your car in the lot?"

"I don't have a car," he admitted sulkily; his cream and yellow Buick convertible had recently been repossessed.

"How far is it?"

"Not far. Three or four blocks."

"We'll walk." She was determined to keep within physical reach of him; and, in this urgency, she had swallowed his problem whole.

"You're coming along?" he was asking. "Certainly." She started off.

Tweany reluctantly followed. "Your interest is not necessary." He seemed to expand behind her, to become even taller and more upright. He was a troubled commonwealth. He was an empire plagued at its borders. But she had stirred him into action; she had, in her need of him, prodded him into awareness of her. Holding the street door open, she said: "Stop wasting time. We'll be back; you can sing later."