Charmaine Morris

At work, Mary Martin was known as efficient, dependable and the best team leader in a crisis. The old clock in the lobby was nothing compared to Mary's precise timing for everything she did. Some called her the ice princess because, despite her stone-like manner, she was an extremely attractive woman. Her juniors found her intimidating. Always expecting the latest mishap to be the straw to break the camel's back.

At dance, which she did every day, her teacher said she was like a mime or an exotic robot, able to recreate any move with an unlikely ease and efficiency, except her face was that of a coma victim.

Of course the comments were made behind Mary's back. Whispered at water coolers and during cigarette breaks. No one had been brave enough to say this to her face, until her boyfriend, Peter, let it slip that, just once, he wished she would call his name while they made love.

Mary's response had been a simple 'Why?'

But Peter had become too embarrassed to explain.

Mary and Peter met one evening after dance class when Mary stopped at Juan's for an Evian and a salad before heading home to her condominium near Central Park. Peter, then a visitor to New York, was having difficulty understanding Juan, whose English was yet to include more than the cash register total 'Thanks.' Mary translated with a quick and flawless accent. She ordered Peter's Mexican chicken in black bean sauce, no rice, bread, three sprigs of lettuce and two slices of tomato. When she was finished, she made a comment that it was rare to find a man who was so specific about his vegetable. Peter thought it funny and laughed for a whole minute before realizing neither Mary nor Juan had gotten the joke. He'd felt a right fool then, too. Still, it got them talking, and in defense of his silly behaviour he explained he wasn't from New York. Merely visiting to explore a job offer. They walked together to her building, which, Mary learned, was near his hotel.

The next morning, Mary saw Peter as she set off on her early-morning jog through the Park. She had the slightest suspicion that his standing on the street corner reading the Times was more deliberate than he let on. She was flattered but couldn't find the proper way to express her feelings. 'It's better for your legs if you sit and read in the Park rather than help support the building,' she said. Her comments reddened him, but, nevertheless, Peter went to the Park. He remained on the bench near the jogging trail long after he'd finished the paper and Mary, her laps.

A few weeks later, Peter moved to New York.

Peter's comments about her not calling his name sparked an argument which resulted in him leaving in the middle of the night. Mary insisted he explain. He refused, saying no man should have to explain something like that to his woman. In truth Peter was chagrined to think Mary - who was no virgin when they met - had no idea how her lovemaking - as enjoyable as it was - came across as practised. It was the type of sex described in any erotic novel. Sometimes, when the mood was right, Mary was slightly pornographic. As effective as it was, Peter was a bit disconcerted by the suspicion that it wouldn't have mattered if it were him or another man in her bed. It made him sad to know he wasn't special to her.

On the other hand, Mary was perplexed by Peter's comment and lack of explanation. She thought she always gave him what he wanted and that he was happy with it. She approached the matter of sex with Peter as she would any project. She'd watched him, worked out what he enjoyed, put them together with enough variety to often surprise. She'd even gone as far as to purchase special underwear and night gowns. She'd gone out and bought a whip, for Christ's sake! A whip! No mind it'd frightened him near death but still, she'd done it for him. To hear him express doubt or displeasure was unexpected.

So unnerved was Mary, she took an inordinately long time in the shower, pondering Peter's words, and was late arriving at work.

A few days later, Mary missed a step in dance and fell. It stopped the class cold. There was an audible gasp as everyone watched her gather her things and calmly leave the room. Another person would have probably exited in hysteria, but for Mary, silently padding down the passage and the stairs was her hysterics. She went into Juan's for supper and stood before the glass case, not feeling like having the green salad, neatly arranged in the plastic container. She left without ordering and knew then that she was beginning to unravel. Furthermore, she hadn't heard from Peter, despite her telephoning his work and home and leaving messages at both.

As soon as she got home, she tried again. This time she thought some conciliation would be encouraging and left a message saying, 'Peter, this is Mary Martin, we must talk about this.' She hung up, but frowned and shook her head. The message was too formal. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she felt this was what probably prompted Peter's comment. She would leave another. 'Peter, this is Mary. I'll wait up for you to call.' But Peter never did return the call.

At two in the morning, Mary went to bed. She thought she had experienced her first break-up and was particularly sad she was unable to say exactly when it had happened. As the tears silently rolled down her face, she cursed herself for not remembering her golden rule, for it was obvious, even to her, that she'd fallen in love with Peter.

The next morning, Mary called in sick. Immediately as she hung up her boss telephoned to find out if she was dying. It was meant to be a joke, as evidenced by the man's chuckling. Mary cut him off by saying she would be fine in the morning and would attend work.

Mary dressed and made her way to Peter's apartment. She'd hoped to catch him before he went to work, but not having much experience in taking cabs during rush hour - she often walked - Mary arrived ten minutes after Peter had left. Marty, the doorman said so.

'I'll just go up and wait,' Mary said.

'All day?'

'Oh. I see what you mean.' Mary bit her lip. 'I'll just go leave him a note then.'

'Maybe not, Miss Mary. I'll be happy to give Mr. Drew a note upon his return.' Marty, who was always as nearly controlled as Mary and who was immaculate in his manners, shifted. He cleared his throat and didn't observe Mrs. Walcott from 7b waiting for him to open the door until Mary gestured at the woman behind the glass. Marty was quick with his apologies. Mary took the opportunity to make her way to the elevators. She was aware of Marty calling out, but she ignored him.

Mary counted the floors as the old elevator crunched its way to the 10th. She wondered about Marty and why her going up to Peter's apartment would cause him such concern. It wasn't as if this was the first time she waited for Peter. Though, with a slight rise to her lips, she had to admit that eight hours seemed a bit 'stalkish'. She stepped into the passage and turned left to walk the length to Peter's apartment at the far end. She had the key ready and was about to use it when the door opened.

Mary was faced with a young lady wearing

nothing but the tiniest of underwear and a camisole which might very well have been a fabulous breakthrough for the invention of the thinnest fabric. The girl's enhanced breasts were in salute and her nipples ready for picking. Her lips were plump the way Mary's were after a long kissing session with Peter. The woman's eyes held that raunchy expression one would see on pin-up girls. Her hair was after-sex tussled. And she smelt of Peter.

Seeing Mary, the girl placed one hip against the door jamb. She held a glass of something clear in her hand, which angled at the end of a smooth arm supported by the other across her waist. She said, 'You must be Mary.'

Mary was at a loss for words. She still held the key as if to insert it in the door, if only it would shut again. She struggled for the right thing to say, or the right expression, but found when she opened her mouth, nothing came.

'Mary, Mary, quite contrary. Can't keep her man. Can't leave her man.' The girl made a tisking sound and shook her head. The girl's voice was scratchy, as if she smoked too much, and her tone was that of a woman who knew she'd latched onto something good.

Mary glanced at the door to her left to make sure she was at 10e.

'I wish you would stop leaving messages on the phone. Take a hint and take a hike.' The woman shut the door.

Mary jumped at the sound of the closing door. She knocked but then remembered she had a key. She jammed it in the lock and was about to turn it when the door flew open. The woman shoved Mary to the floor. She threw the contents of the glass on Mary and slammed the door.

Mary screamed. She brushed at the liquid which had wet her face and coat. She was still screaming and wiping when the neighbours came running.

The paramedics were forced to strap Mary to the gurney and give her a sedative. Marty was beside himself when he tried to explain to Peter that it seemed his 'house guest' had thrown a glass of water on Miss Mary. But he couldn't understand why Miss Mary had reacted the way she did. Marty said it was as if Mary was being attacked by killer ants and couldn't get them off. She'd clawed her face and neck and had ripped her coat. Marty was angry when he told Peter that, despite the commotion outside his door, his house guest hadn't bothered to investigate.

At the hospital, Mary was asleep when Peter arrived. She was still strapped to the bed. Her cheeks and neck showed the evidence of her attack on herself.

Peter stayed until the next morning. When Mary woke, recognition wasn't immediate, but he understood it to be the drug. He then tried to explain that the woman - Julia, he said her name was - meant nothing. He'd met her on the streets the night he left Mary's apartment. He'd needed someone and Julia had been there. He said it was a rash affair and it was over. He'd thrown Julia out.

Mary turned away her head.

A few days later Mary was released from the hospital after the resident psychiatrist determined she was not suicidal. At home, she stood before the mirror and examined the cuts she'd made in her face. She placed her fingers along the lines and slowly drew them downward. She knew her reactions had been overboard, for what was an attack by a glass of water? A simple glass of water. But she'd seen the liquid coming at her and remembered another glass. Another type of liquid. Vodka. Mary's fingers moved to her neck. She touched each scar. Vodka was what her stepfather had used when he put her to stand quietly in the tub. He would throw the remains of his drink in her face and then lick the liquid from her body as he mumbled 'Mary Mary my Mary.'

- Charmaine Morris