Philip Dick - Mary And The Giant

"Certainly not," Tweany agreed.

Grinning, with a wink at Mary Anne, Nitz said, "Tough luck. Anyhow, this Lemming might start singing folk songs."

With his usual profound gravity, Tweany turned back to the blonde. She was still standing, still smiling at him, on the verge of leaving. "Perhaps," Tweany said, in a tone Mary Anne well recognized, "you could bring him over to my place. I'll be there directly I complete this final set."

"Then it's settled." A little quiver of her hips-a quite visible undulation of triumph-and then the blonde prodded her still-seated companion, saying: "Let's be going."

--My address," Tweany began artfully, but Nitz interrupted him.

"I'll take them over." Under the table he gave Mary Anne a comradely kick. "I'll be along; I want to have a look at this bird."

"Glad to have you," the blonde said.

"Just a moment," Taft Eaton began. "Paul, it seems strange to hear you talk about leaving."

"I don't have to accompany him," Nitz said. "I'm intermission pianist. He can sing some of those stomps and chain-gang hollers."

"Can I come?" Mary Anne asked, in a flurry of misery. She didn't want to be left out; she was helpless to prevent Tweany and the blonde from mingling, but at least she could be there, too.

"And my girl," Nitz said, rising. "I have to have her with me."

"Bring her." The blonde was already moving toward the street door.

"A party," her companion murmured, glancing at Nitz and Mary Anne. "Got any more friends?"

"Don't be rude." Halting beside Tweany, the blonde said: "My name's Beth, and this is my husband, Danny. Danny Coombs."

"How do you do," Tweany said.

"You can't leave," Taft Eaton repeated stubbornly, still there. "Somebody has to do something around here."

"I'm not leaving," Tweany said. "I explained it fully. I'll do the final set and then leave."

Putting his hand on Mary Anne's shoulder, Nitz said to her, "Don't feel bad."

She followed morosely after Beth and Danny Coombs, her hands in her pockets. "I don't want to go. But I have to."

"You'll live through it," Nitz said. He held the red-padded door open as Mary Anne stepped out onto the sidewalk. The Coombses had begun climbing into a parked Ford. "We'll give this guy a hotfoot."

He crawled into the backseat of the Ford and helped Mary Anne in. Hugging her comfortingly to him, he reached into his coat and got out his drink glass.

"Ready'?" Beth inquried cheerfully over her shoulder. "Here we go," Nitz said, settling back and yawning.

When they arrived at the Coombses' apartment, there was no sign of Chad Lemming.

"He's in the bathroom," Beth said. "Taking a bath." The sound of running water could be heard. "He'll be out in a few minutes."

The apartment was a single huge room with a grand piano at one end, two tiny bedrooms, and a kitchen no larger than a pea. The bathroom, in which Lemming was contained, was across the hall; it was a community bathroom, shared with the family downstairs. The walls of the apartment were spotted with prints, mostly by Theotocopuli and Gauguin. The floor, except at the extreme edges, was covered by a gray-green mat of woven fiber. The curtains were burlap.

"Are you an artist?" Mary Anne asked Beth.

"No. But I used to be."

"Why'd you stop?"

Glancing at Coombs, Beth strolled into the kitchen and started fixing drinks. "I got more interested in music," she answered. "What do you want to drink?"

"Bourbon and water," Nitz said, prowling around. "If you have some."

"How about you?" she asked Mary Anne.

"Anything's okay."

Four bourbons and water were brought out; each of them took his awkwardly. Beth had tossed off her coat; now her figure emerged, mature and expanded. She wore a T-shirt and slacks. Seeing her, Mary Anne reflected on her own small bust. She wondered how old Beth was.

"How old are you?" she asked.

Beth's blue eyes widened with dismay. "Me? Twenty-nine."

Satisfied, Mary Anne dropped the subject. "Is this your piano?" She wandered over to the grand piano and plunked a few random notes. It was the first time she had ever touched a grand piano; the great blackness of it awed her. "How much do they cost?"

"Well," Beth said, a little amused, "you can pay up to eight thousand dollars for a Bosendorfer."

Mary Anne wondered what a Bosendorfer was, but she said nothing. Nodding, she approached one of the wall prints and scrutinized it. Suddenly from the hall came a swirl of motion; Chad Lemming, having completed his bath, was returning.

Lemming, a slender young fellow, dashed through the living room in a flapping cotton robe and vanished into the bedroom. "I'll be directly out," he fluttered. "I won't be long." He sounded, to Mary Anne, like a fairy. She resumed her examination of the print.

"Listen, Mary," Nitz said, close beside her. Beth and Danny Coombs were following Lemming into the bedroom, telling him at length what to sing. "Stop sticking nails in yourself. It's not worth it."

At first she couldn't imagine what he meant.

"Carleton Tweany," he said, "is a conceited posturer. You've been at his house; you've seen his jars of hair oil and his silk shirts. And his cravats. Those cravats."

Very thinly Mary Anne said: "You're jealous of him because he's big and you're a tiny-man."

"I'm no tiny-man, and I'm telling you the truth. He's stupid; he's snobbish; he's a fake."

Mary Anne floundered. "You don't understand him."

"Why? Because I haven't slept with him? I've done everything else; I've been up close to his soul."

"How?"

"By accompanying his 'Many Brave Hearts,' that's how." Wavering, Mary Anne said: "He's a great singer. No, you don't think so." She shook her head. "Let's drop it."

"Mary Anne," Nitz said, "you're a hell of a sweet person. You realize that?"

"Thank you."

"Take your pal, that punk who chauffeurs you around. Dave something."

"Dave Gordon."

"Re-create him along useful lines. He's basically sound, just too young."

"He's dumb."

"You're way ahead of your pals ... that's one of your troubles. You're too old for them. And you're so darn young it's pitiful."

She glared at him. "Keep your opinions to yourself."

"Nobody can tell you anything." He rumpled her hair, and she jerked away. "You're too smart for Tweany. And you're too good for all of us. I wonder who'll finally snare you ... not me, I guess. Not very likely. You'll wind up with some donkey, some hulking pillar of bourgeois respectability you can admire and have faith in. Why can't you have faith in yourself?"

"Lay off, Paul. Please."

"Are you even listening?"

"I can hear you; don't shout."

"You're listening with your ears only. You don't even see me standing here, do you?" Befuddled, Nitz rubbed his forehead.

"Forget it, Mary. I feel tired and sick and I don't make sense." Beth rushed over to them, bright-eyed and excited, breasts wagging. "Chad is going to sing! Everybody shut up and listen!"

...

The young man had now emerged. His hair was crew-cut; he wore horn-rimmed glasses; a bow tie dangled under his protruding Adam's apple. Beaming at the people, he picked up his guitar and began his monologue and song.

"Well, folks," he said cheerily, "I guess you read in the papers a while back about the President going to balance the budget. Well, here's a little song about it I figured you might enjoy." And, with a few strums at his guitar, he was off.

Listening absently, Mary Anne roamed about the room, examining prints and furnishings. The song, in a bright metallic way, glittered out over everything, spilling into everyone's ears. A few phrases reached her, but the main drift of the lyrics was lost. She did not particularly care; she was uninterested in Congress and taxes. She had never seen anybody like Chad Lemming and the impression of him dulled against the closedness of her mind ... she had her own problems.