Philip Dick - Mary And The Giant

From the darkness stirring sounds were audible. She turned over, adjusted the covers, tried to make herself comfortable. "Whatever you want," her voice came.

Schilling crossed the darkened room to the bed. "Can I sit?" he asked.

"Go ahead."

He did so, on the very edge of the bed. "I feel guilty. About not finishing." And more, too. Much more.

"It's my own fault," she murmured, staring up at the ceiling. "We'll collect some help, maybe not Nitz. And finish up, perhaps around the middle of the week." When she didn't respond, he went on: "You can stay here until then. How's that?"

Presently she nodded. "Fine."

He drew a little away. In the bed beside him, Mary Anne seemed already to have drifted into sleep. He watched, but he couldn't be sure.

"I'm not asleep," she stated.

"Go ahead."

"I will. This is a nice bed. It's wide."

"Very wide."

"Do you notice how the rug looks like water? It looks as if the bed's floating. Maybe it's because of the light ... I had to work with it shining in my face. I'm dizzy." She yawned. "Go on and get my things."

He left the room on tiptoe. Closing the front door of the apartment, he tried the knob to be certain it was locked, and then strode off down the front steps.

The lights still burned in Mary Anne's new apartment. The air, as he entered, was heavy and unpleasant with the reek of paint. As quickly as possible, he collected her possessions, snapped off the heat and lights, and backed out.

When he unlocked the front door of his own place there was no response from the darkened bedroom. He laid down his armload and removed his coat. Hesitating, he announced:

"I've got your stuff."

There was no answer. Probably she was asleep. Or, on the other hand, there was an alternate possibility. Locating a flashlight, he stalked into the bedroom. She was gone, and so was her discarded clothing. His bed, rumpled and recently occupied, was still warm.

In the living room he found a note lying on top of his record cabinet.

"I'm sorry," the note read; it was a carefully prepared pencil scrawl, composed of blunt, direct letters in Mary Anne's hand. "I'll see you tomorrow in the store. I've thought it over, including the business with Paul, and I've decided it's better if I stay with my family tonight. I don't want to create any kind of situation. Until we're really sure, anyhow. You know what I mean. Don't be mad at me. Sleep tight. Love, Mary."

He crumpled the note and shoved it in his pocket. Well, better it should happen now than later. He felt a measure of relief, but it was flat and unconvincing.

"Oh, Christ," he said. "Christ!" He had failed; he had let them drag her away.

Anguished, he went back into his bedroom and began smoothing out the empty bed.

By the refrigerator, Mrs. Rose Reynolds poised and leaned forward, arms folded, watching her daughter pour herself a bowl of Post Toasties. Mary Anne dribbled milk into the bowl. As the cornflakes sank into a mass, she stirred her coffee and buttered a piece of dry toast.

"Dear," Mrs. Reynolds said. "Let's have it."

"Let's have what?" She spooned up her breakfast. "I can't sit around here talking; I have to be down at the record shop by nine."

The woman said steadily: "Tell me who you're sleeping with."

"What makes you think that? Why do you say that?"

"Just so it isn't a jig. I couldn't stand that."

"It isn't."

Mrs. Reynolds pursed her lips. "Then you are sleeping with somebody. Did he throw you out? Is that why you came home?" Her voice dimmed to a monotone. "Your life's your own, of course. You moved out of here to be with him; then he got tired of you. May I ask you something? When did you start? You were living under this roof when you started. I say that because I've noticed you feel yourself, poking around inside your pants. That's been several years at least."

"Shout away," Mary Anne said. She had finished breakfast and now she carried her dishes to the sink.

"I'd like to discuss it with you," Mrs. Reynolds said. "People, good friends of mine, tell me there's a singer at a bar you've been with. I don't recall the particular name of the bar-it's not important. The singer is colored, isn't he? People have a way of finding out; it's surprising. I was reading in the paper about that jig who killed the white man, the one they arrested. I'm surprised they let him out on bail. They must have a good deal of influence in California, especially down in Los Angeles." Her arms folded, she followed after Mary Anne. "When you and I were discussing marital relations earlier this year, I mentioned to you the difficulty of an unmarried woman obtaining a diaphragm. However, through friends a girl is sometimes able to-" She ceased talking.

In his leather jacket and work trousers, a lunch pail under his arm, Ed Reynolds appeared in the doorway; he was on his way to the plant. "How's my girl?" he said. "Where have you been the last few months, and let's have a straight answer."

"I have an apartment-you know that." She retreated from her father, turning her back to him.

"Where'd you come from last night?"

"They say she's been bedding down with a colored fellow," Mrs. Reynolds said. "You ask her. I can't get a respectful answer; maybe you can."

"Has she started to swell? Have you looked at her?"

"I didn't have the opportunity last night."

"Keep away from me," Mary Anne said, leaving the kitchen and hurrying into what had been her bedroom. "I have to get to work!" she shouted apprehensively as her mother scuttled after her. Starting to close the door, Mary Anne wailed: "You keep your goddamn hands off me!"

"Better let me," her mother said. "Or he will; you don't want him to, so for your own good let me." She pushed the door open. "When was the last time?"

"The last time what?" Pretending to ignore her, Mary Anne searched through her closet, getting out a dark red suit. From the dresser she took her old purse; the forty dollars was still there, where she had stuffed it. They hadn't found it.

"Your period," Mrs. Reynolds said. "Or can't you remember?"

"No, I don't remember. Last month sometime." Rapidly, nervously, Mary Anne shed her jeans and T-shirt, the clothes she had worn when she appeared at her family's house the night before. As she began getting into a clean slip, Rose Reynolds leaped from the door and ran toward her.

"Let go of me!" Mary Anne screeched, clawing and scratching at her mother. Ed Reynolds appeared in the doorway and fixedly witnessed.

Catching the girl around the waist, Rose Reynolds pulled her underpants down and dug her hand into the girl's hard belly. Mary Anne, shrieking, struggled to tear her mother's hand away. Finally satisfied, Mrs. Reynolds released her and strode back to the doorway.

"Get out of here!" Mary Anne screamed, grabbing up a shoe and hurling it. Her face collapsed in furious tears. "Get out!" She ran, shoved her mother and father out of the room, and slammed the door.

Sobbing, fumbling with her clothing, she managed to dress. She could hear them outside the closed door, conferring about her. "Shut up!" she wailed, wiping at her face with the back of her hand; and, as she hurried, planning out what she was going to do.

At nine o'clock she put in her appearance at the Lazy Wren. Taft Eaton, somber in his dirty apron and work trousers, was sweeping the sidewalk. When he saw her he pretended first to ignore her. "What do you want?" he demanded finally. "You always mean trouble."

"You can do me a favor," Mary Anne said.

"What kind of favor?"

"I want to rent a room."

"I'm not in the rooming business."

"You know all the property around here. Where's a vacant place? Just a room-something cheap."

"This is colored around here."