Philip Dick - Mary And The Giant

Tweany's house, when they arrived, showed only a faint blue haze in the region of the top floor.

"He's in the kitchen," Mary Anne said, pushing open the car door. The others followed, and, in a moment, they were tramping up the long flight of stairs.

There was no immediate response to Mary Anne's tap. Finally she opened the door and entered. Down the hallway glowed a pittance of light. The sounds of movement were audible; Mary Anne hurried in that direction and appeared breathlessly in Tweany's high-ceilinged kitchen.

Tweany, still wearing his pink shirt and hand-painted tie, was sitting at the table eating a sardine sandwich and drinking a bottle of Rheingold beer. In front of him, spread out among the litter of food, was a smeared copy of Esquire, which he was reading.

"We came," Mary Anne said, her heart aching to see him there, big and sturdy, his sleaves rolled up, his arms thick and heavy and powerful. "We brought what's-his-name along."

Nitz materialized in the doorway. "Get ready to be showed up," he announced, and then vanished back into the hall. The others, Beth and Lemming and Coombs, followed him into the disorderly living room, leaving Mary Anne and Tweany alone.

"He's no good," Mary Anne said loyally. "All he does is talk."

A placid superiority spread across the man's features. He shrugged and resumed his reading. "Help yourself. You know where the refrigerator is."

"I'm not hungry," Mary Anne said. "Tweany-"

Beaming, Chad Lemming entered the kitchen carrying his guitar. "Mr. Tweany, I've wanted to meet you for a long time. I've heard a lot about your style."

Untouched by the young man's flattery, Tweany looked slowly up. "You're Chad Lemming?"

Self-consciously, Lemming fingered his guitar. "I do a sort of political monologue."

Tweany studied him. Lemming, still grinning with embarrassment, started to speak and then changed his mind. A few plaintive squawks drifted from his guitar, as if it were getting away from him.

"Go ahead," Tweany said.

"Sir?"

Tweany inclined his head toward the guitar. "Go on. I'm listening."

Completely ill at ease, Chad Lemming began to tell the stories and sing the ballads he had produced at the Coombses' apartment. "Well," he croaked halfheartedly, "I suppose you read in the newspapers the other day about President Eisenhower going to cut taxes. That caused me to do some thinking." Stammering, his voice faint, he began to sing.

Tweany, after watching a moment, imperceptibly returned to his magazine. There was no particular instant when he did so; the change was so gradual that Mary Anne could not follow it. Suddenly there was Tweany eating his sardine sandwich and studying an article on big-league baseball.

The others, filling up the doorway, listened and peeped into the kitchen. Lemming, with a shudder of abandon, knowing that he had failed, did a final raucous number about a library that either burned all its books or never had any books-Mary Anne couldn't tell. She wished he would stop; she wished he would go.

He was making a fool of himself and it goaded her to a fever pitch. By the time he had finished she wanted to scream aloud.

The silence that followed Lemming's performance was total. In the sink the monotonous dripping of a leaky faucet increased the sense of futility that hung over the room. Finally, with a grunt, Coombs elbowed his way in, swinging his flash camera.

"What's that?" Tweany asked, taking an interest.

"I want to get some pictures."

"Of what?" Tweany's voice took on a formal edge. "Of myself and Mr. Lemming?"

"That's correct," Coombs said. "Chad, get over beside him. Tweany, or whatever your name is, get up so you're both in the picture."

"I'm sorry, but I can't oblige," Tweany said. "My agent won't permit me to pose for publicity shots without his consent."

"What the hell agent is that?" Nitz demanded.

There was an uncomfortable pause, while Tweany went on with his meal and Chad Lemming stood unhappily beside the table.

"Forget it," Beth said to her husband. "Do as Mr. Tweany says."

Coombs, staring down at Tweany, suddenly complied. He flipped the lens cover over his camera, turned his back, and walked off. "The hell with it," he said, and mumbled a few words that nobody caught.

Hoisting up his guitar, Lemming departed from the room. Presently they heard the mournful noises from a long way off; he was curled up in the living room, playing to himself.

"Tweany," Mary Anne said, exasperated. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

Tweany raised an eyebrow, shrugged, and finished the remains of his sandwich. Brushing crumbs from his trousers, he arose and went over to the sink to rinse his hands. "What would you people care to drink? Beer? Scotch?"

They accepted scotch and, with their drinks, joined Lemming in the living room. The young man didn't look up; absorbed in his playing, he continued to crouch over his guitar.

"You play that pretty good," Nitz said sympathetically.

Lemming muttered a grateful, "Thanks."

"Maybe you ought to concentrate on that," Beth said, having ingested her cue from Tweany. "Maybe just the guitar would be better."

"I like that a lot better," Mary Anne said. "I can't see that talking."

In a quandary, Lemming protested: "But that's the whole point."

"Let it go," Beth said. Stalking around the untidy living room, she came upon the piano. No larger than a spinet, the piano was lost under heaps of magazines and clothing. "Do you play?" she asked Tweany.

"No. Sometimes Paul accompanies me. Practice."

"Not very often," Nitz said, wiping dust from the keyboard with his handkerchief. He struck a chord, expertly diminished it, and then lost interest. "You're going to have trouble getting this out of here," he remarked.

Instantly Mary Anne said: "Tweany isn't going anywhere."

"We got it up with ropes," Tweany said. "And we can get it down the same way. Through the kitchen window, if we have to."

"Where are you going?" Mary Anne demanded, panicstricken.

"Nowhere," Tweany answered.

"Tell her," Nitz said.

"There's nothing to tell. It's just an ... idea."

"Tweany's planning his big-time," Nitz said to the petrified girl. "He's moving along to L.A. Got an offer from Heimy Feld, the character who handles those jump concerts. Trial run at a bunch of test spots on Heimy's circuit."

"The word 'trial' never came up," Tweany corrected.

Seating herself at the piano, Beth started tapping out the G minor scale. A little island of sound came into being around her.

"Tweany," she said, with a toss of her hair, "I used to write songs. Did you know that?"

"No," Tweany said.

"She brought one along," Coombs said sourly. "She's going to trot it out and ask you to sing it."

At this, Tweany puffed up until he was even larger than usual. A bluish, steely nimbus shone out: a massive conceit. "Well," he said, "I'm always interested in new material."

Nitz belched.

As the sheet music was brought out of Beth's giant bag, Mary. Anne said to Nitz: "You should have told me."

"I waited."

"What for?" She couldn't understand.

"Until he was here. So he could answer."

"But," she said helplessly, "he didn't answer." She felt swamped by what was happening; her reality was drifting and she was unable to stop it. "He didn't say anything."

"That's what I mean," Nitz said. His voice sank down as Beth began to play. Tweany, standing behind her, leaned forward to catch the words. He had already entered a stage of rigid concentration; to him, music was a serious matter. Whatever trifle Beth had concocted was going to receive his full attention. There was an, innate grace that Mary Anne could not forget or ignore; belief in what he was doing added measure to the man's style.