Philip Dick - Mary And The Giant

Maybe the driver was right. With growing horror she surveyed her room; it was clean, dark, and smelled of mold. There was one small window over the iron, high-posted bed and one larger window on the far wall over the dresser. The carpet was frayed. A mended rocking chair occupied one corner. There was a tiny closet, a sort of upright drawer constructed of plywood by some amateur handyman long since gone.

The smaller window overlooked a path that led to the garbage cans and back porch of the building. The larger window overlooked the street; she was facing a neon sign:

DOCTOR CAMDEN CREDIT DENTIST

On the wall of the room was a cheap framed religious print showing the young Jesus with lambs. She took it down and stuck it away in a drawer; she had enough to bear.

Perhaps she was crazy, as the driver said. But at least she had her own place, paid for with her own money. She had found the place herself-not counting Eaton-and, very soon, she would be painting and furnishing it by herself, with paints and objects she herself selected. And she would have time to think.

It was ten o'clock. He would have to be told. She had left; she had given up the apartment. And, anyhow, he would find out. So she had no choice.

While she was thinking, wondering how to tell him, the door opened and Carleton Tweany peeked cautiously in. Horrified, she said: "How did you find this place?"

"Eaton gave us the address." He entered, and Beth Coombs followed him. "And I know this house; quite a few people have lived here at one time or another." He wore his best doublebreasted suit; his cheeks were scrupulously shaved; his hair was combed and oiled; and the odor of cologne billowed from him. Beth, as usual, wore her heavy coat and carried her bag.

"Hi," she said, smiling her dazzling smile.

Mary Anne nodded curtly. Going to the bed, she opened her suitcase and began to unpack.

"Looks like you're busy," Tweany said.

With quick interest, Beth prowled around the room, inspecting the still-packed cartons.

"Who's helping you?"

"Nobody," she said. "And I have to leave; I have to be at work."

Beth perched on the edge of the bed; it gave protestingly and she arose again at once. "We had some trouble finding you ... you've moved around so much."

Abandoning her suitcase, Mary Anne picked up her coat and started toward the door. A lot she cared how the hell much trouble they had, either of them.

"Wait a minute, Mary," Tweany said, blocking her way. "What's this all about?" Her mind scurried in fright. "Did you just happen by?"

"We stopped at the store," Beth said, "thinking maybe you were there. But Joe said you didn't come in today."

"I'm going there," she said. "I'm on my way there now. I had some things to do."

Beth said: "Then we stopped by that-apartment Joe fixed up for you; you weren't there. We stopped by your old place, the room you had with that waitress. The room Carleton found for you."

"Phyllis," Mary Anne murmured.

"She had no idea where you were. It was Carleton's idea to ask Eaton; I never would have thought of it."

"We want to talk to you about the inquest," Tweany said. He looked solemn and doleful, and his face grew long at the mention of grave matters.

She had totally forgotten about it. "Jesus," she said. "Of course."

"You got served with a subpoena, didn't you?" Beth asked. "You have to testify. If you got served with a subpoena, you have to show up."

She had indeed been served. The paper was somewhere in one of the pasteboard cartons; she had accepted it and put it out of her mind. It simply was not her concern. This was why they had tracked her down; they were worried about their own skins.

"When is it?" She tried to recall; the inquest was sometime soon, in a few days.

"It's Wednesday," Tweany said, scowling.

"Well," she said, "you might as well sit down. You figure out where." Turning away from the door, she removed her coat. She had time for this, at least; it was trivial. She, herself, sank down on a cane-bottomed chair. Beth and Tweany, after a brief exchange of glances, settled themselves on the bed, neither quite touching the other but very close together.

"What do you think of my pad?" Mary Anne asked.

"Terrible," Tweany said.

"Yes, I agree."

"Why aren't you living with Phyllis?" Tweany inquired. "What happened to that?"

"I got tired of Oregon apples."

Beth said: "It seemed to me that setup of Joe's was halfway decent. We only saw it for a second, of course. You were painting; you hadn't even finished. The door was unlocked ... you must have just left."

"This morning," Mary Anne said.

"So." Beth compressed her lips. "I see."

"You see what?"

"That's what I thought it was. You were right the first time." Warily, Mary Anne said, "What time?"

"When you didn't take the job. You were afraid something would happen, weren't you?"

She nodded.

"I could have told you," Beth said, gazing around the room.

"Then why didn't you?" she demanded with venom. "I tried to pry it out of you-all you did was spout about his wonderful record collection and his vivid personality."

To Tweany, Beth said: "Be a sweet-go down and get us some beer."

Disgusted, Tweany rose to his feet. "We came here to discuss the inquest."

Beth located a five-dollar bill in her purse and pushed it to him. "Go on, and don't mumble. There's a grocery store on the corner."

Sullen and grumbling, Tweany walked out of the room and down the hall. The measured vibration of his footsteps subsided.

For a protracted interval, Beth and Mary Anne sat facing each other. Finally Beth lit a cigarette, leaned back, and asked: "Did you ever find a bra you could wear?"

"No," Mary Anne said. "But it's my fault. I'm too thin."

"Don't be silly. In another couple of years you won't feel that way.

"Really?"

"Of course not. I felt the same way-everybody does. You get over it; you'll put on more weight than you care to drag around like me."

"You look okay," Mary Anne said.

"I looked better in '48."

"Was that when it happened?"

"It was in Washington, DC. In the dead of winter. I was twenty-four years old, not much older than you. So you're not the first."

"He told me," Mary Anne said. "About the cabin on the canal."

Across from her, the heavy blonde stiffened. "Did he?"

Why did you go with him? Did you love him?"

"No," Beth said.

"Then I don't understand it."

"I was laid," Beth said. "Like you. So let's face it: we have something in common."

"Thanks," Mary Anne said.

"You want to know the circumstances? We can compare notes."

"Go ahead," she said.

"Maybe you'll learn something." Beth put out her cigarette.

"I don't know what he used with you. The job, probably. But in those days, Joe didn't have a record shop; he was in the publishing end."

"Allison and Hirsch."

"He told you that, too? In those days I-but you heard one of them. My songs."

"'Where We Sat Down,'" Mary Anne said with aversion.

"Well, there's not a lot more to tell. I wanted them published.

One day Joe showed up at the apartment. I was painting a chair in the kitchen-I remember that. He stood around and we had a couple of drinks and talked. We talked about art, music, that sort of thing."

"Get to the point."

"He had looked over my songs. But he couldn't publish them. Not enough water had gone under the bridge, he said."

"What did he mean?"

"At first I couldn't imagine. Then I saw how he was looking at me. Do you understand what I mean?"

"Yes," Mary Anne said.

"Well, that was it. He said something about not doing it there in the apartment; he had a cabin he liked to use, a few miles out of town. So nothing could interfere."