Nothing stirred. In the living room stood a card table heaped with beer bottles and ashtrays. A chair, one leg broken, was over turned; she righted it. On the piano, among the clothes and newspapers, was a plate of sandwich crumbs; something small dived out of sight as she approached.

In the kitchen the remains of a meal were drying on the table. A man's hand-painted necktie lay over the back of a chair, and a pajama top was on the floor beside the table; with it was a cigarette lighter-Tweany's-and two wire coat hangers. The sink was filled with dishes, and sacks of garbage spilled out from below.

Removing her coat, Mary Anne wandered into the bedroom. The shades were still down and the room was amber dark, slightly damp with the presence of sheets. There, in the gloom, she began listlessly removing her clothing. She folded her skirt and blouse across the bed and, opening the closet, rummaged among the mothball-clouded fabrics.

Soon she had what she wanted: women's jeans and a heavy checked shirt that reached to her knees as she buttoned it around her. In a pair of moccasins, she padded over to the windows and let up the shades. For the other rooms she did the same, lifting, in addition, the windows she could budge.

First, before anything else, she washed the dishes. After that came scrubbing down the wooden drainboard with steel wool and soap. Rivulets of grime dripped from her bare arms as she worked; pausing, she pushed her hair from her eyes, rested, and then searched the cupboards for rags. In the closet she found a heap of clean shirts; she ripped them up, filled a bucket with soapy water, and began scrubbing the kitchen floor.

When that was done, she got a broom and swept down the cobwebs from the walls and ceiling. Bits of soot rained on the newly scrubbed floor; panting, she halted and examined the situation. Of course she should have done the ceiling first, but it was too late now.

She gathered up the garbage and made her way downstairs to the backyard. The can was full; she heaped her armload on top and started back. Cans and bottles lay everywhere; in the weeds under her foot a light bulb burst, sending fragments of glass flying. Wearily, she climbed the stairs, glad to be away from the shrub-sized weeds; there was no telling what lived in the wet boards and litter.

Now she began dragging out the decrepit vacuum cleaner. Clouds of dust rolled from it as she snapped it on; she spread out newspapers and located the catch that opened it. A vast ball of dust bloomed in her face, and she scrambled back miserably. It was just too damn much. It wasn't worth it.

Through a blur of exhaustion she surveyed what she had accomplished. Virtually nothing. How could she put in order the corruption of years? It was too late, and it had been too late as long as she had been alive.

Giving up, she forced the vacuum cleaner together and carried it back to its place in the closet.

The hell with Tweany's pigsty. The hell, she thought, with Tweany. Let him clean up his own mess. She went into the bedroom and began searching the dresser for clean sheets and blankets. The dirty sheets she threw out into the hall, stumbling as she did so, and then began turning the mattress.

When she had finished making the bed, she smoothed a coverlet over it and threw herself down. She kicked off her moccasins, stretched out, and closed her eyes. It was peaceful and quiet. The hell with you, Carleton Tweany, she thought again. Paul is right: you are a jerk. A great big grinning jerk. But, she thought, that isn't all. Not at all it isn't all. Daddy, she thought, you could have done a lot better by me, but what the hell, who ever has?

She had come to a dead end. Belief in Tweany was no longer possible. She couldn't go on pretending he was what she wanted him to be: a great, kindly man whom she could count on. He had let her fall back into her old fear and isolation.

Thinking that, she fell asleep.

At two o'clock in the afternoon the stairs shook with the sound of people; a moment later the door burst open and Carleton Tweany, his arm around Beth, appeared.

"Jesus," Beth said, wrinkling her nose. "What's all the dust?" She halted at the pile of dirty sheets lying in the hall. "What's going on?"

"Somebody's been here," Tweany grumbled, letting go of her and peering into the living room. "Probably Mary Anne; she shows up all the time."

"Does she have a key?"

"Yeah, she shows up and cleans. She likes to." Tweany made his way into the bedroom and halted. "Well, I'll be damned."

"What is it?" Beth came and looked over his shoulder.

Mary Anne lay asleep on the bed. On her face was a troubled, unhappy frown. Beth and Tweany stood in the doorway, dumb with astonishment.

Then, very quietly, Tweany began to titter. He tittered in a high-pitched falsetto, his teeth showing in a broad, flashing grin. The laughter spread to Beth; she chuckled in low, short barks.

"Poor Miss Mary Anne," Tweany said, trying not to laugh, trying to hold it back. But it couldn't be held back. The laughter spread across his face-and then he and Beth were shrieking in spasms of merriment. On the bed Mary Anne stirred; her eyelids fluttered.

"Poor Miss Mary Anne," Tweany repeated, and the laughter bubbled out in gusts.

While the two of them stood rocking back and forth, the door flew open and Daniel Coombs bounded into the apartment.

Tweany, identifying him, pushed between him and Beth, as Coombs, his head down, raised the Remington .32 and aimlessly fired. The noise awakened Mary Anne; sitting up, she saw Coombs hurry past the doorway of the bedroom toward Tweany and Beth.

"I'm going to kill you, nigger!" Coombs raved, trying to shoot once more. He tripped over a heap of magazines and stumbled; Tweany, pushing Beth out of the hall, caught him around the neck. Arms flailing, Coombs struggled to get his head loose. Without emotion, Tweany dragged him down the hall to the kitchen.

"Tweany!" Mary Anne shrieked. "Don't!"

Then she and Beth were clawing at him. Tweany continued to drag his burden, paying no attention. Coombs's face could not be seen; it was buried in Tweany's coat. Feet scraping the floor, Coombs was yanked against the kitchen table-it spilled salt shaker and sugar bowl to the floor-and over to the sink.

"For God's sake," Mary Anne pleaded, kicking at the Negro's shins; Beth's long red nails gouged into his face. "Don't do it, Tweany, they'll put you in jail the rest of your life; they'll string you up and lynch you and burn your body in gasoline and spit on you; spit on your body. Tweany, listen to me!"

Holding Coombs with one arm, Tweany snatched open the drawer under the sink and fumbled among the silverware until he found an ice pick. Coombs managed to jerk free. He skittered away, reached the door, and then the hall. His thrashing sounds diminished as he vanished out the door, onto the flight of wooden steps.

Coombs squealed, a shrill, high-pitched bleat, followed by the sound of old wood splintering. After that, a distant plop, as if some wad of organic waste, voided, had dropped a long way.

"He fell," Beth whispered. "My husband."

Mary Anne ran down the hall to the door. The railing was intact, but at the bottom of the steps lay Daniel Coombs. He had plunged the length; he had, along the stairs, missed his footing.

Beth appeared. "Is he dead?"

"How would I know?" Mary Anne said frigidly.

Shoving her aside, Beth scampered down to the ground level beside her husband. Mary Anne watched for a moment, and then turned back to the apartment. Tweany was still in the kitchen; he emerged, straightening his shirt and smoothing his tie. He looked disconcerted but not apprehensive. "Those cops," he said, "they're going to be mad."

"Want me to call them?"

"Yes, maybe you better."

She picked up the phone and dialed. When she had finished she hung up and faced the man. "You were going to kill him." It was, for her, the final straw.