Mary and the Giant

by Philip K. Dick

  “We can haul over my things in the car,” she said. “I don’t have anything very large.” Rushing ahead of him, turning and skipping back, she exclaimed: “It doesn’t seem possible—look what we’ve done!”

  “Before you unpack your things,” Schilling said practically, but experiencing the same spur of excitement, “the ceilings should be painted, wherever there isn’t the wood paneling. I noticed the paper’s beginning to decay.”

  “That’s so,” Mary Anne agreed, sliding into the car. “But where can we get paint on Sunday?” She was prepared to start work at once; he had no doubt of that.

  “There’s paint in the back of the store,” he said as they drove toward the business section. “Left over from the redecorating. I kept it for touch-up. There’s probably enough, if you don’t object to the limited assortment. Or if you’d prefer to wait until Monday—”

  Mary Anne said. “Could we start today? I want to move; I want to get in there right away.”

  While Mary Anne wrapped dishes in newspaper, Joseph Schilling carried the loaded cardboard cartons down the stairs and put them into the back of the Dodge. He had changed from his suit to wool work pants and a heavy gray sweatshirt. It was a shirt he had owned for years, given to him as a birthday present by a girl living in Baltimore. Her name was long forgotten.

  In the back of his mind was the realization that, customarily, he should be in the store providing his Sunday afternoon record concert. But, he said to himself, the heck with it. He found it hard to concentrate on records or business; it was impossible to imagine himself going through the motions of lecturing on Renaissance modality.

  They had dinner together at Schilling’s apartment. Mary Anne, rummaging in the refrigerator, found a veal roast and prepared it for the oven. It was now six o’clock; outside, the evening street was fading. Standing by the window, Schilling listened to the sounds of the girl fixing dinner. Busily she opened drawers and brought out his various pots and pans and bowls.

  Well, a lot had happened. He had gone a long way since the previous Sunday. He wondered what he would be doing in another week. He now had a certain life to lead, and a certain person to be. That person had to be careful of what he did and said; he had to be careful to keep on being that person. Could he keep it up? Anything could happen. He recalled his lecture to Mary Anne on the responsibility of opening up whole new fields for someone…smiling at the irony, he turned from the window.

  “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 grinning.”

  “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 funny. He teases me. 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 Anne hauled out the small stepladder and got down plates and cups. “They’re all here in town: my family, my friends. Dave Gordon—”

  “Who is Dave Gordon?”

  “My fiancé. 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 Anne said, catching up a pot holder and kneeling to peer into the oven. “Dinner’s ready.”

  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 Anne’s possessions and piled them in the redwood-paneled kitchen. Presently they were stirring cans of paint and softening brushes. An unlit cigarette between his lips, Paul Nitz poured rubber-based paint into a roller pan and began sloshing it with a broken coat hanger.

  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, indicati
ng 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?”

  “Can’t hear you.” Grinning, he lowered her to the floor. Shaky and winded, Mary Anne sank down in a heap; pulling her knees up, she rested her chin on them and clasped her arms around her ankles.

  “All right,” she grumbled, panting for breath, “I think you’re just funny as hell.”

  Stooping over her, Nitz untied her bandana. “That’s what you need,” he told the indignant girl, “a good taking-down. You’re getting too uppity.”

  Mary Anne sneered at him and then climbed to her feet. “Look,” she proclaimed. “I’m going to have a bruise on my arm where you grabbed me.”

  “You’ll live,” Nitz said. He picked up his roller and climbed back on his chair.

  Momentarily, Mary Anne glowered up. Then, all at once, she smiled. “I know something about you.”

  “What?”

  “You’re no good at painting.” Her smile increased. “You can’t see well enough to tell where it’s uneven.”

  “That’s true,” Nitz admitted fatalistically. “I’m nearsighted as hell.”

  Pivoting on her bare heel, Mary Anne padded back to the living room and resumed her toil.

  At ten-thirty Schilling went downstairs to the parked car and got the fifth of Glayva scotch from the glove compartment. At the sight of it, Nitz’s face turned an avid, delighted gray. “Jesus,” he said, “what do you have there, man? Is that on the level?”

  Schilling rummaged among the cartons of dishes and pots until he found tumblers. Half-filling each with tap water, he placed the three of them on the tile sink and then opened the bottle.

  “Hey, hey, man,” Nitz protested. “Don’t put any of that dirty old water in mine.”

  “That’s your chaser,” Schilling said, passing him the bottle. “It’s good stuff…see how it strikes you.”

  Nitz’s throat expanded as he drank from the bottle. “Whooo-ee,” he gasped, snorting and shaking his head. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he returned the bottle to Schilling. “Man, oh, man. You know what I call that? That’s angel pee, pure and simple.”

  Curious, Mary Anne appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Where’s mine?”

  “You can have a tablespoonful,” Schilling said.

  The girl’s eyes blazed. “Tablespoonful, nothing! Come on—” She grabbed at the bottle. “You gave me some of that other stuff, that wine.”

  “This is different.” But he found a plastic measuring cup among the dishes and poured an inch or so for her. “Don’t choke,” he warned her. “Sip it, don’t drink it. Pretend it’s cough medicine.”

  Mary Anne glared at him and then cautiously lifted the rim of the cup. Wrinkling her nose, she said: “It smells like gasoline.”

  “You’ve had scotch before,” Nitz said. “Tweany drinks scotch—you’ve had it over there.”

  Each deep in his own thoughts, the two men watched her gulp down a mouthful of scotch. Mary Anne made a face, shuddered, and then reached for her glass of water.

  “You see?” Schilling chided. “You didn’t want it after all; you didn’t like it.”

  “It ought to be mixed with something,” she answered speculatively. “Fruit juice, maybe.”

  Nitz shook his head. “You better stay away from me awhile.”

  “Oh, you’ll recover.” Mary Anne disappeared into the living room; clambering back up on her chair, she resumed work.

  The men each had a go at the scotch once more. “It’s superb stuff,” Schilling said.

  “I already told you my opinion,” Nitz said. “But it’s not for kids.”

  “No,” Schilling agreed, feeling uneasy. “I didn’t really give her any.”

  “Okay,” Nitz said, and walked off, leaving Schilling standing alone. “Well, back to the salt mine.”

  “Maybe we better call it quits,” Schilling said, looking after him. With a kind of sorrow he felt the man’s deep jealousy of him-and knew also that it was just and right. He had come in and taken the girl away from her world, her town, away from Nitz. He couldn’t blame him.

  “Not quite quits,” Nitz said. “I want t
o finish the bedroom.”

  “All right,” Schilling said, resigned.

  The three of them worked until eleven-thirty. Schilling, as he crept along the floor, touching up the baseboard, found himself almost unable to straighten his legs. And the bruise on his knee, where the store counter had struck him, was swollen and sore.

  “I’m getting old,” he said to Nitz, halting and throwing down his paintbrush.

  “Are you stopping?” Mary Anne called anxiously. “Both of you?”

  Apologetically, Nitz entered the living room. He was tugging on his frayed sports coat; he was departing. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’ve got to get to the Wren; Eaton’ll fire me.”

  Schilling sighed with secret relief. “I’ll drive you over. It’s time we knocked off anyhow; we’ve done all we can for one night.”

  “My God, I’ve still got to play.” Nitz displayed his paint-stained fingers. “Some of these should be replaced.”

  Walking into the kitchen with Nitz, Schilling said, “Do me a favor?”

  “Sure,” Nitz said.

  “Take the scotch with you.” It was a gesture of propitiation…and he wanted now to get rid of the thing.

  “Hell, I didn’t do that much painting.”

  “I meant for us to drink it up, but I lost track of the time.” He placed the bottle in a brown paper bag and presented it to Nitz. “Is it a deal?”

  Mary Anne came pattering into the kitchen. “Can I ride along?” she begged. “I want to go along with you.”

  “Better wipe the paint off your face,” Schilling said.

  She blushed and began searching for a damp rag. “You don’t mind, do you? It’s so lonely here…no furniture, and everything messy and confused. Nothing finished.”

  “Glad to have you,” Schilling murmured, still a little upset by Nitz’s behavior.

  She cleaned the paint from her face, and he helped her into her jacket. Then she followed the two men out the door of the apartment; together they descended the stairs to the dark street. The drive took only a few moments.