Gordon muttered: "Don't get sore."

"Why do you hang around with those fairies?"

"What fairies?"

"Tate and that bunch."

"They're not fairies. They just dress good."

She blew smoke at him. "Working in a gas station-that's no job for an adult. Jake; you're another Jake. Jake and Dave, the two pals. Be a Jake, if you want. Be a Jake until the army gets you."

"Lay off talking about the army. They're blowing on my ass."

"It wouldn't do you any harm." Restlessly, Mary Anne said: "Drive me out to Readymade. I have to be back at work; I can't sit around here."

"Are you sure you ought to go back? Maybe you ought to go home and rest."

The girl's eyes shrank with wrath. "I have to go back; it's my job. Take some responsibility, once in a while; can't you understand responsibility?"

...

On the trip Mary Anne had little to say. She sat bolt upright, gripping her purse and staring out the truck window at the countryside. Under her arms moist circles had formed, giving off the scent of rosewater and musk. She had wiped away most of her makeup; her face was white and expressionless.

"You look funny," Dave Gordon said. "No kidding."

With a show of determination, he said, "How about telling me what's going on with you, these days? I never see you anymore; you always have some excuse. I guess what it is, is I'm getting the brush."

"I went by your house last night."

"And when I go by your house you're not there. Your family doesn't know where you are. Who does?"

"I do," Mary Anne said succinctly.

"Are you still hanging around that bar?" There was no rancor in his voice, only forlorn concern. "I even went down there, to that Wren Club. And sat around thinking maybe you'd show up. I did that a couple times."

Mary Anne softened minutely. "Did I show up?"

"No."

"I'm sorry." With a stir of longing, she said, "Maybe this will all clear away."

"You mean your job?"

"Yes. I suppose." She meant a great deal more than that.

"Maybe I'll become a nun," she said suddenly.

"I wish I could understand you. I wish I saw more of you; I'd settle for that. I sort of miss you."

Mary Anne wished she missed Gordon. But she didn't. "Can I say something?" he asked. "Say away."

"I guess you don't want to marry me after all."

"Why?" Mary Anne asked, her voice rising. "Why do you say a thing like that? My God, Gordon, where'd you get an idea like that? You must be crazy; you better go to a psychoanalyst. You're neurotic. You're in bad shape, baby."

Sulkily, Dave Gordon said: "Don't make fun of me."

She was ashamed. "I'm sorry, Gordon."

"And for Christ's sake, do you have to call me Gordon? My name's Dave. Everybody else calls me Gordon-you ought to be able to call me Dave."

"I'm sorry, David," she said contritely. "I wasn't really making fun of you. It's this whole awful business."

"If we got married," Gordon said, "would you keep on working?"

"I haven't thought about it."

"I'd prefer it if you stayed home."

"Why?"

"Well," Gordon said, twisting with embarrassment, "if' we had kids, you ought to be home taking care of them."

"Kids," Mary Anne said. She felt strange. Her kids: it was a new idea.

"Would you like kids?" Gordon asked hopefully. "I like you."

"I'm talking about real little kids."

"Yes," she decided, thinking about it. "Why not? It'd be nice." She contemplated at length. "I could stay home ... a little boy and a little girl. Not just one kid; two at the least, and maybe more." She smiled briefly. "So they wouldn't be lonely. One kid is too lonely ... he has no friends."

"You've always been lonely."

"Have I? I guess so."

"I remember when we were in high school," Dave Gordon said. "You were always by yourself ... you never hung around with the group. You were so pretty; I used to see you sitting out there at lunchtime, with your bottle of milk and your sandwich, eating all by yourself. You know what I wanted to do? I wanted to go up and kiss you. But I didn't know you then."

With affection, Mary Anne said: "You're a pretty nice person." Then, urgently, she drew away. "I hated high school. I couldn't wait to get out of there. What did we learn there? What did they teach us we could use?"

"Nothing, I guess," Dave Gordon said.

"A lot of phony junk. Phony! Every word of it."

Ahead of them, to the right, was California Readymade. They watched it approach.

"Here we are," Dave Gordon said, pulling the truck to a stop at the edge of the road. "When'll I see you?"

"Sometime." She had already lost interest in him; stiff and tense again, she was preparing herself.

"Tonight?"

Climbing down, Mary Anne said over her shoulder: "Not tonight. Don't come around for a while. I have to do a lot of thinking."

Hurt, Gordon prepared to leave. "Sometimes I think you're riding for a fall."

"What do you mean?" She halted defiantly.

"Some people think-you're stuck up."

With a shake of her head Mary Anne dismissed him and trotted up the path to the factory office. Behind her, the sound of the truck motor faded as Gordon drove glumly back to town.

She felt no particular emotion as she opened the office door. She was a little tired, and her stomach was still upset; but that was all. As Mrs. Bolden got to her feet, Mary Anne began removing her gloves and coat. She could feel the mounting oppressiveness, but she continued, matter-of-factly, without comment.

"Well," Mrs. Bolden said, "you decided to come after all." At his desk, Tom Bolden peered around, listening and scowling.

"What do you want done first?" Mary Anne asked.

"I got to looking at the calendar," Mrs. Bolden continued, blocking the girl's way as she started toward her typewriter. "This isn't your period at all is it? You just made that up to get time off. I marked the date down last time. My husband and I have been talking it over. We-"

"I quit," Mary Anne said suddenly. She tugged her gloves back on and started toward the door. "I have another job."

Mrs. Bolden's mouth fell open. "You sit down, young lady. Don't you walk out of here."

"Mail my check," Mary Anne said, tugging open the door. "What's she saying?" Tom Bolden muttered, rising to his feet. "Is she leaving again?"

"Good-bye," Mary Anne said; without stopping she hurried out onto the porch and down the stairs to the path. Behind her, the old man and his wife had come to the doorway in bewilderment.

"I quit!" Mary Anne shouted back at them. "Go back inside! I have another job! Go away!"

The two of them remained there, neither of them knowing what to do, neither of them stirring until, to her own surprise, Mary Anne crouched down, swept up a chunk of loose concrete, and threw it at them. The concrete landed in the soft dirt by the porch; fumbling at the edge of the path, she found a handful of concrete fragments and showered them at the old couple.

"Go back in!" she shouted, beginning to laugh in amazement and fear at herself. Workmen had come out on the loading platform and were staring, openmouthed. "I quit! I'm not coming back!"

Then, clutching her purse, she ran down the sidewalk, stumbling in the unfamiliar heels, on and on until she was gasping and winded, blinded by red specks that swam in front of her.

Nobody had followed. She slowed down and stopped to lean against the corrugated iron side of a fertilizer plant. What had she done? Quit her job. All at once, in an instant. Well, it was too late to worry about it now. Good riddance.

Stepping into the street, Mary Anne waved down a pickup truck loaded with sacks of kindling. The driver, a Pole, gaped in astonishment as she opened the door and clambered in beside him.