Mary and the Giant

by Philip K. Dick

  “Would I?” The girl reflected and then shrugged her shoulders. “Well, it’s up to them. I could help them. Sometimes they want help.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mary Anne Reynolds.”

  He liked the sound of it. “I’m Joseph Schilling.”

  The girl nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

  “The ad,” he said, “gave only a phone number. But you found your way here. Had you noticed my store?”

  “Yes,” she said. There was tension surrounding her. He understood that this was of great importance.

  “You were born here?” he asked. “It’s a nice town; I like it. Of course, it’s not large. It’s not active.”

  “It’s dead.” Her face lifted, and he was confronted with her judgment. “Be realistic.”

  “Well,” he said, “maybe it’s dead to you; you’re tired of it.”

  “I’m not tired of it. I just don’t believe in it.”

  “There’s a lot here to believe in; go sit in the park.”

  “And do what?”

  “And listen!” he said with vigor. “Come out and hear…it’s all around you. Sights to see, sounds, rich smells.”

  “What do you pay a month?” she asked.

  “Two-fifty to start.” Now he was annoyed. “Back to the practical?” It didn’t fit his impression of her, and he thought now that it wasn’t really practical: she was trying to find a reference point. Somehow he had upset her. “That’s for a five-day week. It isn’t bad.”

  “In California a woman can’t work more than a five-day week. What about later? What does the salary go up to?”

  “Two-seventy-five. If things work out.”

  “And if they don’t? I have a pretty good job right now.”

  Schilling paced around the office, smoking and trying to recall when and if a situation of this sort had come up before. He was disturbed…the girl’s intensity affected him. But he was too old to treat the world as ominous, and he enjoyed too many small things. He liked to eat good food; he loved music and beauty and—if it was really funny—a dirty joke. It pleased him to be alive, and this girl saw life as a threat. But his interest in her had grown.

  She might well be the girl he wanted. She was alert; she would be an efficient worker. And she was pretty; if he could get her to relax she would freshen up the store.

  “You’d like to work in a record store?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “It would be interesting.”

  “By fall you’d know the ropes.” He could see that she learned rapidly. “We might work out a trial basis. I’d have to see…after all, you’re the first girl I’ve talked to.” From the hall came the jangle of the phone, and he smiled. “That must be another job applicant.”

  The girl said nothing. But she seemed even more absorbed in her worry; she was like certain little concerned animals he had seen, those that huddled silently for hours.

  “I tell you what,” Schilling said, and even in his own ears his voice sounded rough and clumsy. “Let’s go across the street and get something to eat. I haven’t had breakfast. Is that restaurant all right?”

  “The Blue Lamb?” Mary Anne moved to the door. “All right, I suppose. Expensive. I don’t know if they’re open this early.”

  “We’ll see,” Schilling declared, following her up the hall. A light-headedness seized him, a sense of adventure. “If not, then we can go somewhere else. I can’t hire you without knowing more about you.”

  In the main part of the store the carpenters were hammering and pounding above the jangle of the phone. The electrician, surrounded by turntables and speaker systems, was trying vainly to hear the response of his amplifiers. Schilling caught up with the girl and took hold of her arm.

  “Be careful,” he warned her genially. “Watch out for that tangle of phono lead.”

  Her arm was firm within his fingers. He was conscious of her clothing, the dry rustling of the green knit suit. Walking beside her, he could catch the faint edge of her perfume. She was really surprisingly small. She plodded along, eyes on the floor; all the way to the street she failed to speak. He could tell she was deep in thought.

  When they had reached the sidewalk, the girl halted. Awkwardly, Schilling released her arm. “Well?” he asked, as they faced each other in the bright morning glare. The sunlight smelled of moisture and freshness; he took a deep breath of it and found it better than cigar smoke. “What do you think? How will it look?”

  “It’s a nice little store.”

  “You think it’ll be a financial success?” Schilling stepped agilely aside for workmen carrying in a cash register and carton of paper tapes.

  “Probably.”

  Schilling hesitated. Was he making a mistake? Once he spoke it would be too late to back out. But he didn’t want to back out. “The job is yours,” he said.

  After a moment Mary Anne said: “No, thanks.”

  “What?” He was shocked. “What’s that? What do you mean?”

  Without a word, the girl started off down the sidewalk. For an interval Schilling remained inert; then, tossing his cigar into the gutter, he hurried after her. “What is it?” he demanded, barring her way. “What’s wrong?” Passersby gazed at them with interest; ignoring them, he caught hold of the girl’s arm. “Don’t you want the job!”

  “No,” she said defiantly. “Let go of my arm or I’ll call a cop and have you arrested.”

  Schilling released her and the girl stepped back.

  “What is it?” he begged.

  “I don’t want to work for you. When you touched me, I could tell.” Her voice trailed off. “The store’s lovely. I’m sorry—it started out fine. You shouldn’t have touched me.”

  And then she was gone. Schilling found himself standing alone; she had slipped off into the stream of early-morning shoppers.

  He made his way back into the store. The carpenters were banging mightily. The telephone shrilled. During his absence Max had appeared with a ham sandwich and a pasteboard carton of coffee (one lump of sugar).

  “Here it is,” Max said. “Your breakfast.”

  “Keep it!” Schilling retorted with fury.

  Max blinked. “What’s bothering you?”

  Schilling fished in his coat pocket for a fresh cigar. His hands, he discovered, were shaking.

  6

  • • • • • • • •

  Whistling to himself, David Gordon parked the Richfield service truck and jumped to the pavement. Lugging a damaged fuel pump and a handful of wrenches, he entered the station building.

  Sitting in the one chair was Mary Anne Reynolds. But something was wrong; she was too quiet.

  “Are—” Gordon began. “What is it, honey?”

  One single tear slid down the girl’s cheek. She wiped it away and got to her feet. Gordon reached to take hold of her, but she drew back.

  “Where were you?” she said in a low voice. “I’ve been here half an hour. The other man said you’d be right back.”

  “Some people in a Buick. Broke down on the old Big Bear Pass Road. What happened?”

  “I went job hunting. What time is it?”

  He located the wall clock; when anybody asked the time he could never seem to find it. “Ten.”

  “Then it’s been an hour. I walked around for a while before I came here.”

  He was completely baffled. “What do you mean, you went job hunting? What about Readymade?”

  “First,” Mary Anne said, “can I borrow five dollars? I bought a pair of gloves over at Steiner’s.”

  He got out the money; she accepted the bill and put it in her purse. He noticed that she had on nail polish, which was unusual. In fact, she was all dressed up; she had on an expensive-looking suit, and high heels, and nylon stockings.

  “I should have known,” she said. “The way he first looked at me. But I wasn’t sure until he touched me. Then I was sure, and I got out of there as quickly as I could.”

  “Explain,” he d
emanded. Her thoughts, like her activities, had become closed to him.

  “He wanted to have relations with me,” she said stonily. “That was what it was all for. The job, the record store, the ad. ‘Young woman, must be attractive.’”

  “Who?”

  “He owns the store. Joseph Schilling.”

  Dave Gordon had seen her upset before, and sometimes he could calm her down. But he did not understand what was wrong; a man had made a pass at her—so what? He had made passes at girls himself. “Maybe he didn’t have that in mind,” he said. “I mean, maybe the shop is on the level, but when he saw you—” He gestured. “You’re all dolled up; look at you. That suit, all that makeup.”

  “But an older man,” she insisted. “It’s not right!”

  “Why not? He’s a man, isn’t he?”

  “I thought I could trust him. You don’t expect that from an older man.” She got out her cigarettes, and he took her matches to light up for her. “Think of it—a respectable man like that, with money and education. Coming here to this town, picking this town for a thing like that.”

  “Take it easy,” he said, wanting to help her but not really knowing how. “You’re okay.”

  She paced around in a tight, aimless circle. “I feel sick. It’s so—infuriating. I worked so damn hard fixing myself up. And the store…” Her voice faded. “It was so pretty. And the way he looked at first. He was so impressive.”

  “It happens all the time. All you have to do is walk along the street, by the drugstore. Guys hang out, watch.”

  “You remember when we were in high school? That bus incident?”

  No, he didn’t remember. “I—” he began.

  “You weren’t there. I was sitting next to a man, a salesman. He started talking to me; it was awful. Whispering to me, and everybody else just sitting there jiggling with the bus. Housewives.”

  “Hey,” Gordon said. “I get off in half an hour. Let’s drive over to Poster’s Freeze and have a hamburger and a shake. That’ll make you feel better.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” she said, infuriated. “Grow up, will you? You’re not a boy—you’re a grown man. Can’t you think of anything else? Milk shakes—you’re a high school boy; that’s all you are.”

  Gordon muttered: “Don’t get sore.”

  “Why do you hang around with those fairies?”

  “What fairies?”

  “Tate and that bunch.”

  “They’re not fairies. They just dress good.”

  She blew smoke at him. “Working in a gas station—that’s no job for an adult. Jake; you’re another Jake. Jake and Dave, the two pals. Be a Jake, if you want. Be a Jake until the army gets you.”

  “Lay off talking about the army. They’re blowing on my ass.”

  “It wouldn’t do you any harm.” Restlessly, Mary Anne said: “Drive me out to Readymade. I have to be back at work; I can’t sit around here.”

  “Are you sure you ought to go back? Maybe you ought to go home and rest.”

  The girl’s eyes shrank with wrath. “I have to go back; it’s my job. Take some responsibility, once in a while; can’t you understand responsibility?”

  On the trip Mary Anne had little to say. She sat bolt upright, gripping her purse and staring out the truck window at the countryside. Under her arms moist circles had formed, giving off the scent of rosewater and musk. She had wiped away most of her makeup; her face was white and expressionless.

  “You look funny,” Dave Gordon said.

  “No kidding.”

  With a show of determination, he said, “How about telling me what’s going on with you, these days? I never see you anymore; you always have some excuse. I guess what it is, is I’m getting the brush.”

  “I went by your house last night.”

  “And when I go by your house you’re not there. Your family doesn’t know where you are. Who does?”

  “I do,” Mary Anne said succinctly.

  “Are you still hanging around that bar?” There was no rancor in his voice, only forlorn concern. “I even went down there, to that Wren Club. And sat around thinking maybe you’d show up. I did that a couple times.”

  Mary Anne softened minutely. “Did I show up?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry.” With a stir of longing, she said, “Maybe this will all clear away.”

  “You mean your job?”

  “Yes. I suppose.” She meant a great deal more than that. “Maybe I’ll become a nun,” she said suddenly.

  “I wish I could understand you. I wish I saw more of you; I’d settle for that. I sort of miss you.”

  Mary Anne wished she missed Gordon. But she didn’t.

  “Can I say something?” he asked.

  “Say away.”

  “I guess you don’t want to marry me after all.”

  “Why?” Mary Anne asked, her voice rising. “Why do you say a thing like that? My God, Gordon, where’d you get an idea like that? You must be crazy; you better go to a psychoanalyst. You’re neurotic. You’re in bad shape, baby.”

  Sulkily, Dave Gordon said: “Don’t make fun of me.”

  She was ashamed. “I’m sorry, Gordon.”

  “And for Christ’s sake, do you have to call me Gordon? My name’s Dave. Everybody else calls me Gordon—you ought to be able to call me Dave.”

  “I’m sorry, David,” she said contritely. “I wasn’t really making fun of you. It’s this whole awful business.”

  “If we got married,” Gordon said, “would you keep on working?”

  “I haven’t thought about it.”

  “I’d prefer it if you stayed home.”

  “Why?”

  “Well,” Gordon said, twisting with embarrassment, “if we had kids, you ought to be home taking care of them.”

  “Kids,” Mary Anne said. She felt strange. Her kids: it was a new idea.

  “Would you like kids?” Gordon asked hopefully.

  “I like you.”

  “I’m talking about real little kids.”

  “Yes,” she decided, thinking about it. “Why not? It’d be nice.” She contemplated at length. “I could stay home…a little boy and a little girl. Not just one kid; two at the least, and maybe more.” She smiled briefly. “So they wouldn’t be lonely. One kid is too lonely…he has no friends.”

  “You’ve always been lonely.”

  “Have I? I guess so.”

  “I remember when we were in high school,” Dave Gordon said. “You were always by yourself…you never hung around with the group. You were so pretty; I used to see you sitting out there at lunchtime, with your bottle of milk and your sandwich, eating all by yourself. You know what I wanted to do? I wanted to go up and kiss you. But I didn’t know you then.”

  With affection, Mary Anne said: “You’re a pretty nice person.” Then, urgently, she drew away. “I hated high school. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. What did we learn there? What did they teach us we could use?”

  “Nothing, I guess,” Dave Gordon said.

  “A lot of phony junk. Phony! Every word of it.”

  Ahead of them, to the right, was California Readymade. They watched it approach.

  “Here we are,” Dave Gordon said, pulling the truck to a stop at the edge of the road. “When’ll I see you?”

  “Sometime.” She had already lost interest in him; stiff and tense again, she was preparing herself.

  “Tonight?”

  Climbing down, Mary Anne said over her shoulder: “Not tonight. Don’t come around for a while. I have to do a lot of thinking.”

  Hurt, Gordon prepared to leave. “Sometimes I think you’re riding for a fall.”

  “What do you mean?” She halted defiantly.

  “Some people think—you’re stuck up.”

  With a shake of her head Mary Anne dismissed him and trotted up the path to the factory office. Behind her, the sound of the truck motor faded as Gordon drove glumly back to town.

  She felt no particular emo
tion as she opened the office door. She was a little tired, and her stomach was still upset; but that was all. As Mrs. Bolden got to her feet, Mary Anne began removing her gloves and coat. She could feel the mounting oppressiveness, but she continued, matter-of-factly, without comment.

  “Well,” Mrs. Bolden said, “you decided to come after all.” At his desk, Tom Bolden peered around, listening and scowling.

  “What do you want done first?” Mary Anne asked.

  “I got to looking at the calendar,” Mrs. Bolden continued, blocking the girl’s way as she started toward her typewriter. “This isn’t your period at all is it? You just made that up to get time off. I marked the date down last time. My husband and I have been talking it over. We—”

  “I quit,” Mary Anne said suddenly. She tugged her gloves back on and started toward the door. “I have another job.”

  Mrs. Bolden’s mouth fell open. “You sit down, young lady. Don’t you walk out of here.”

  “Mail my check,” Mary Anne said, tugging open the door.

  “What’s she saying?” Tom Bolden muttered, rising to his feet. “Is she leaving again?”

  “Good-bye,” Mary Anne said; without stopping she hurried out onto the porch and down the stairs to the path. Behind her, the old man and his wife had come to the doorway in bewilderment.

  “I quit!” Mary Anne shouted back at them. “Go back inside! I have another job! Go away!”

  The two of them remained there, neither of them knowing what to do, neither of them stirring until, to her own surprise, Mary Anne crouched down, swept up a chunk of loose concrete, and threw it at them. The concrete landed in the soft dirt by the porch; fumbling at the edge of the path, she found a handful of concrete fragments and showered them at the old couple.

  “Go back in!” she shouted, beginning to laugh in amazement and fear at herself. Workmen had come out on the loading platform and were staring, openmouthed. “I quit! I’m not coming back!”

  Then, clutching her purse, she ran down the sidewalk, stumbling in the unfamiliar heels, on and on until she was gasping and winded, blinded by red specks that swam in front of her.

  Nobody had followed. She slowed down and stopped to lean against the corrugated iron side of a fertilizer plant. What had she done? Quit her job. All at once, in an instant. Well, it was too late to worry about it now. Good riddance.