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, indicating 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 to 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.
"Looks like a fair crowd," Schilling said as the fat red doors of the Wren were pushed aside to admit a couple. It was the first time he had seen this place, the girl's old hangout. Suddenly he said to her: "Want to go in for a while?"
"Not like we are."
"Who cares?" Nitz said, stepping from the car onto the pavement.
"No," she decided, with a glance at Schilling. "Some other time; I want to get back. There's too much to do."
"It'll keep," Nitz said, halting by the car. "Take it easy, Mary."
"I'm taking it easy."
"You can't do everything in one day, baby doll."
"That's easy enough for you to say," Mary Anne said. She moved closer to Schilling, and he was grateful. "You don't have to sleep there."
Nitz said: "Neither do you."
"I-want to sleep there."
"Be careful where you sleep," Nitz said, and Schilling leaned forward because he could see what was coming. But he heard it now; Nitz was saying it already. "It's no good. I'm sorry, Mary. I wish to hell it was. He's just too old."
"Good night, Paul." She didn't look at him. "I've got to say."
"It is good," she said tightly.
"What's good about it? Well, a lot of things, maybe. But not enough. Go ahead and hate me."
"I don't hate you." Her voice was faint, aloof. She seemed to be watching something a long way off. Nitz reached out to tweak her nose, but she pulled away.
"We can talk about it some other time," Schilling said.
"We're all tired. This isn't the best time."
"Not the best time," Nitz agreed. "Nothing's best. Nothing's as good as you think, Mary. Or want."
Schilling started up the motor. "Leave her alone."
"Sorry," Nitz said. "I really am sorry. You suppose I enjoy this?"
"But you have your duty," Schilling said. He let out the clutch and the car moved forward. Reaching past Mary Anne, he slammed the door. She made no motion, no protest. Behind them, on the sidewalk, Nitz stood clutching the brown paper bag. Then he turned and vanished inside the bar.
After a time, Schilling said: "Some of the nicest people in the world strung Jesus up on the cross."
Mary Anne murmured: "What does that mean?"
"I mean, Nitz is a nice guy, but he has certain preconceptions and ideas. And he wants certain things like everybody else does. He isn't outside, looking down. He has deep feelings toward you, deep personal feelings."
"Good," she said. "I'm glad to hear it."
He was aware that talking was a mistake. She was in no shape to listen, to be rational, to decide. But he couldn't help himself. "I'm sorry," he began.
"About what?"
"That we had that run-in."
"Yes." She nodded. She gazed out the window.
As they drove along the dark street he said suddenly: "Are you really sure you want to do this?"
"Do what? Yes, I want to. I'm sure."
"You heard what he said. And you trust him. What about your roommate? Can she find somebody else? Will she be able to handle the rent on your old place?"
"Don't worry about her," Mary Anne said with a gesture of dismissal. "She's got plenty of loot."
"This all happened so fast. There wasn't time to plan." She shrugged. "So?"
"You should have more time, Mary." Nitz had forced him to say it. "You should be absolutely certain what you're getting into. He has a point. I don't want you to be-well, involved in something.
"Don't be silly. I love the apartment. I intend to get prints and mats to fill it up. You can drive me around and help me pick everything out. And clothes ..." Her eyes shone as ideas and schemes passed through her mind. "I want to get clothes I can wear, so when we go to another-"
"Maybe that was a mistake, too," he said. "Maybe I shouldn't have taken you up there." Although it was a little late to think of that.
"Oh-" She shoved against him. "You're talking like a moron."
"Thanks," he said.
Mary Anne leaned around, cutting off his view of the street ahead. "Are you mad at me?"
"No," he said, "but get back so I can see."
"See what?" She waved her hands in front of his face.
"Phooey-run over somebody. Wreck us-see if I care." In a burst of taunting nihilism she grabbed the steering wheel and spun it back and forth. The heavy car wandered from side to side, until Schilling pried her hand loose.
Slowing the car, he demanded: "Do you want to walk?"
"Don't threaten me."
Goaded by fatigue, he said: "Somebody ought to paddle you.
With a leather strap."
"You sound like my parents."
"They're right."
"Drop dead," she said, unruffled, but subdued. "Would you hurt me? You wouldn't do that, would you?"
"No," he said, driving carefully.
"Maybe you would ... it's possible. All kinds of things are possible. Nothing and everything." She slid down on the seat and meditated. "Do you feel like stopping and having something to eat?"
"Not really."
Neither do I. I don't know what I want-what do I want?"
"Nobody can tell you that."
"Do you believe in anything?"
"Of course," he said.
"Why?"
They had reached her new apartment. Upstairs on the second floor, lights blazed out into the darkness. The newly painted ceilings could be seen, glittering and sparkling, still moist.
Looking up, Mary Anne shivered. "It's so barren. No curtains, no anything."
"I'll help you get your things unpacked," he said. "Whatever you need for tonight."
"That means we're not going to do any more painting."
"Go to bed and get some sleep. You'll feel better tomorrow."
"I can't stay here," she said, with a mixture of loathing and fear. "Not half-finished, this way."
"But your things-"
"No," she said. "It's absolutely out. Please, Joseph; honest to God, I can't stand it like this. You understand what I mean, don't you?"
"Certainly."
"You don't."
"I do," he said, "but it's awkward. Your stuff is up there-clothes, everything. Where else can you stay? You can't go back to your old place."
"No," she agreed.
"Do you want to go to a hotel?"
"No, not a hotel." She pondered. "Jesus, what a mess. We shouldn't have started painting. We should have just moved the stuff." Wearily she hunched over and covered her face with the palms of her hands. "It's my own fault."
"Do you want to stay at my place?" he asked. It was something he would not normally have suggested; the idea was created by fatigue and the need of rest, and this blank wall at which they had arrived. He could not cope with it; he was too tired. It would have to wait until tomorrow.
"Could I? Would it bring on a lot of trouble?"
"Not that I know of." He started up the car. "You're sure it's okay?"
"I'll take you over there and then come back here for your things."
"You're sweet," she said dully, leaning against him.
He drove her to his own apartment, parked the car, and led the girl inside.
Sighing, Mary Anne dropped into a deep chair and sat staring at the rug. "It's peaceful here."
"I'm sorry we didn't' finish your place."
"That's okay. We'll finish it tomorrow night." She had nothing to say as Schilling removed his coat and then came over to receive her red jacket.
"What would cheer you up?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"Something to eat?"
Irritably, she shook her head. "No, nothing to eat. Christ, I'm just tired."
"Then it's time for bed."
"You're going back there now?"
"It won't take long. What are the essential items?" He searched for a pencil and paper, then gave up. "I can remember, if you tell me."
"Pajamas," she murmured. "Toothbrush, soap ... oh, the hell with it. I'll go over with you." Rising to her feet, she started toward the door. Schilling stopped her; she stood leaning against him, saying nothing, doing nothing, simply resting there.
"Come along," he said. His arm around her, he led her into the bedroom and showed her his big double bed. "Climb in and go to sleep. I'll be back in half an hour. What I forget I can pick up for you tomorrow morning, before work."
"Yes," she agreed. "That's so." Mechanically, she began to unfasten her belt. Schilling paused at the door, concerned. She was stepping out of her shoes; without a word she grasped hold of her paint-streaked T-shirt and tugged it over her head. At that point despair overwhelmed her; she stood mutely in the center of the bedroom in her bra and jeans, making no progress in any direction.
"Mary Anne," he began.
"Oh, what?" she demanded. "Leave me alone, will you?"
Tossing her T-shirt on the bed, she unbuttoned her jeans and dragged them off. Then, paying no attention to the man at the door, she finished undressing, padded naked to the bed, and climbed in.
"Turn out the light, please," she said.
He did so. There was no comment from the darkness. He lingered, not wanting to leave. "I'll lock you in," he said finally.
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.