Solitaire and Brahms

by Sarah Dreher

  "It doesn't necessarily mean anything." The headache she was nursing had moved front and center.

  Connie rolled her eyes and sighed heavily. "It means," she said with infinite and weary patience, "you're being primed for a move, and the new girl's your replacement."

  "It means I'm being watched, I suspect."

  "For God's sake, Camden..."

  Let it go, she told herself, unless you want to spend the rest of your lunch hour arguing.

  Because this kind of argument was exactly what Connie liked best, one that could get heated and stubborn and wasn't about anything that could possibly matter to anyone.

  "You're probably right," she said agreeably, ruining Connie's lunch.

  She realized then why she still thought so often of college. It was because nothing had really changed. The people she shared her work with and ate lunch with and relaxed with on the weekends were nearly identical to the people she had studied with and roomed with and eaten with back then. There had been a Connie, only her name had been Suzanne, nicknamed Sukie, and she even had the big teeth (wealthy Philadelphia teeth, Shelby called them). There was a Lisa, aka Maggie, who was from Oklahoma and didn't notice that the Sukies looked down on her, laughing at her behind her back and showing their big Philadelphia teeth and Ipana-pink gums. And there was a Jean, Nancy in those days, who hovered around the edges of the group and was always quietly serious.

  "Oh, Gawd, Sheffield!" Connie wailed. She was staring at lean's lunch. "What's that stuff?"

  "It's called tabbouleh," lean said, her face reddening a little. "I found the recipe in a cook book. It's really good. Want to try it?"

  ”It looks disgusting. Like something from the slums of India,"

  "It's no worse than that Jello thing we're eating," Shelby observed.

  "So she might as well eat what we have,"

  lean had put down her fork and was looking at her hands.

  For God's sake, Jean, stand up for yourself.

  Sometimes she wanted to grab Jean by the shoulders and give her a good shake. She was too deferential, too soft. People like Connie could chew her up and spit her out. Not out of cruelty—she couldn't imagine Connie being deliberately cruel—but Connie was congenitally insensitive and needed to be reminded of the limits from time to time.

  Shelby liked Jean. She didn't really know her well, even though she'd been at the magazine for two months now and had lunch with them every day. Jean faded into the background, which wasn't hard with Connie and Lisa around. But she seemed to fit in. Marginally.

  She remembered the day she'd met Jean. She'd forgotten her lunch money, and gone back to her desk for it. The readers' room was silent and empty except for the dust motes that slid and danced down a winter sunbeam. And there she'd been, sitting at her desk—where she'd been all morning, only no one had taken the time to notice.

  Jean had spread out a paper napkin for a place mat, and was eating some strange, yellowish, lumpy-looking gruel-like substance from a cottage cheese container. As she reached into her brown paper bag and pulled out a bottle of orange juice, she glanced up. Her eyes met Shelby's. She glanced down.

  "Well, hi," Shelby said, and hoped she didn't sound as guilty as she felt. She started to say, "Don't you want to join us!" but realized it would sound as if she thought the fault were Jean's rather than her own. All of their collective own, really, the way all fifteen readers had jumped up the minute a distant chime announced the cafeteria was open, and stampeded down the stairs like cattle, never giving a thought to the new reader. She could say, "I'm sorry, I completely forgot about you because my head was in this unusually intriguing story I've been reading...," Or she could come clean and say, "I'm an insensitive clod, I hope you won't take it personally," which would be the most accurate...

  "Is something wrong?" the woman was asking.

  "No, I… uh..." She stuck out her hand. "I'm Shelby Camden."

  Jean took it and shook it. "Jean Sheffield. We already met. This morning."

  "Right," Shelby said heartily, feeling foolish now as well as guilty. "Listen, do you prefer to eat alone, or…?”

  Now Jean looked as flustered as Shelby felt. "Not really... but..."

  Their mutual discomfort stretched until Shelby heard herself laugh. "This is ridiculous. I'm a jerk, I apologize, come with me, and what is that you're eating?"

  "Polenta," Jean said as she stuffed the napkin and spoon into the brown paper bag. "I found the recipe, but I don't remember where. Maybe on the bus or something. Want to try it?"

  Shelby looked down into the cottage cheese container and lost her nerve. "Later, maybe." It smelled like corn, and had streaks of something resembling ketchup running through it. Shelby was reminded of Port Salut cheese. She grabbed her wallet from her desk drawer.

  Later it was discovered that Jean could play bridge, which made her a valuable addition to the lunch bunch, since their previous fourth had gone off to get married. This meant she was also included in after-work and weekend activities. Shelby was glad for her company. Connie was always chattering and laughing, because she wanted the attention. Lisa was always chattering and shrieking because that was how she was. Shelby was always chattering because it was expected of her. Having quiet Jean on the periphery was like having a Guardian Angel. When everything got to be too much, Shelby could exchange sympathetic looks with her.

  Sometimes they went to Jean's apartment for a quick Friday evening cocktail, since she lived in West Sayer, just a few blocks from the office. But her place was small and dark and full of old furniture, which Connie claimed gave her claustrophobia. Shelby liked it.

  "So what we ought to do,” Connie was saying, "is have a party."

  "A party?" Shelby asked.

  "To celebrate."

  "Celebrate?"

  "You."

  Shelby laughed. "You'd have a party to celebrate waking up in the morning if you could."

  "So?"

  "So if you want to have a party, have a party. But don't use me for an excuse. It's too much pressure."

  Connie rolled her eyes. "Camden..."

  "I mean it." She was surprised at the irritation in her voice.

  "You know you're going to get the promotion."

  "No, I don't know it, so just stop pushing, ok?"

  "Sheesh," Connie grumbled as she turned back to her lunch. "What a grouch."

  Now she'd done it. Now she'd probably end up not only agreeing to have the damn party, she’d end up having it at her apartment, just to prove she wasn't a bad sport. She was fed up with parties. She was fed up with activities. Every weekend it was something—a concert, a movie, theater. Active, busy social life, as they said in the magazines. Today's up-and-coming young woman leads an active, busy social life.

  Trouble was, today's up-and-coming young woman just wanted to crawl into bed and pull the covers over her head for about a hundred years.

  "Is Ray working this weekend?" Lisa asked.

  "I don't think so," Shelby said. "Unless something came up."

  "Hope he's not planning on a good time," Connie grumbled. "The mood you're in…"

  She could feel herself losing control. "Connie..."

  Jean leaned forward suddenly, breaking between them. She flashed a shy smile. "Salt?" she said, and pointed to the shaker.

  Shelby handed it to her.

  "Thanks. You look pale. Do you have a headache?"

  As a matter of fact, she did. By now it had grown to a real brain-squeezer. She nodded.

  Jean rummaged in the college book bag she always carried as a pocket book, and pulled out a bottle of aspirin. She passed it to Shelby.

  "Another headache?" Connie said. all concern now. "Well, no wonder you're in such a funk."

  She felt a flare of anger and was about to snap at her when Jean stepped softly on her foot. She settled for, "Guess so."

  "You really should see a doctor, you know," Lisa said, as she scraped the remnants of the Jello from the lettuce leaf. "You get them a couple of times
a week, don't you?"

  "She's engaged to a doctor," Connie said.

  "He's not a doctor yet, and we're not engaged yet."

  "Matter of time on both counts." Lisa licked the Jello-mayonnaise mixture from her fork. "What does he say about it?"

  "Not much." She wasn't about to confess she hadn't told him. She didn't know why she hadn't, and it was bound to be construed as an act of treason.

  Connie leaned back in her chair and tossed her napkin onto her plate. "Well, back to the salt mines. Hand of bridge first?"

  Shelby shook her head. "Sorry, I have to clear up that pile of manuscripts."

  “Do it tomorrow.”

  "The new girl's coming tomorrow."

  Lisa and Connie exchanged a look. "Maybe we can grab a drink after work..." Connie stared pointedly at Shelby. "...if you're not too busy and important to drink with your old friends."

  Shelby drew a very deep breath.

  Connie flapped a hand at her. "Joke, joke." She gathered up her tray. "Talk to you later.”

  She marched off, Lisa trotting along beside her.

  "She's in rare form," Jean said as she watched them go.

  "Did you do that on purpose? With the salt?"

  Jean smiled. "I'll never tell."

  “Well, you saved my life.”

  "Wonder what's gotten into her," Jean said. "Professional jealousy?"

  Shelby was surprised. "Connie? She's just Connie."

  "She's usually a little more subtle."

  "Yeah." She rubbed at her forehead, just above her nose where pressure was gathering.

  Jean looked at her, a serious and worried look creasing the skin at the corners of her eyes. "The headaches are bad, aren't they?"

  Shelby felt herself go defensive. "Sometimes. Not often. It's just tension."

  "Tension?"

  "And sinus," Shelby said quickly. "No big deal. You live in New England, you get sinus headaches. It's a fact of life."

  "In other words," Jean said kindly, "butt out."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way."

  “Sure, you did. You hate all this attention."

  "I guess I do. I don't know why."

  "Probably something deep and neurotic."

  She smiled. "Neurotic and incurable."

  "No doubt about it," Jean said. She forked her tabbouleh. "Terribly sad about Shelby Camden, really. She was quite a pleasant person, before the trouble started."

  "Well," Shelby said, "you know how it is. Once the trouble starts..."

  "It just never ends."

  Shelby laughed. "What's gotten into you today?"

  "You mean because I'm not sitting quietly with my hands folded and my knees together?" Jean glanced around. "Are the nuns watching?"

  "You're Catholic?"

  "My parents are. But I lapsed, except I never caught on to it enough to have anything to lapse from. The only lasting influence they had on me was the book bag. Nuns really know how to carry stuff."

  "From carrying the world's sins and sorrows,"

  Jean made a face. "Are you going to take that aspirin, or did I attract attention for nothing?"

  "Yeah, sure." Shelby shook a couple of pills from the bottle and washed them down, glancing at the woman who sat beside her. At lunch Jean rarely said more than "Please pass..." and "Thank you." At their regular bridge games, her conversation was limited to play-relevant statements like "three no trump" and "nice play, partner" and "down one, doubled and redoubled." Once, during a particularly clever and risky finesse, when she had captured Lisa's trump king, she had said, "Got you, you little devil." Shelby had remembered it because it was so unusual. And she hardly ever made anyone laugh.

  "You're looking at me funny," Jean said.

  "I'm not used to you... well..."

  Jean gave a mock-serious frown. "I'm not on drugs, if you're wondering. At least I don't think I am."

  "That never occurred to me."

  "I did take them, once, for a while. Dexamyl. Back in college. My roommate's father got them for us. I don't know where. We didn't ask. We took them to study for finals. That stuff can really focus your attention. Trouble is, you can't un-focus.”

  "I get that way when I'm tired," Shelby said. "Particularly if I'm driving the car. I'm falling asleep at the wheel, but I can't stop. Some day I'm going to drive straight into the Atlantic Ocean."

  "Except you don't feel tired. You feel great, like you could do anything. Excuse me, 'as if you could do anything. But it turned on my roommate. She was flying, and all of a sudden the bottom fell out from under her. Depressed, but she couldn't calm down. We had to take her to the infirmary. We were afraid she'd kill herself. After that everyone was awkward around her. She left school before the end of the semester." Jean took a swallow of water. "Certainly helped her pass her finals, didn't it? I can't believe I was that stupid only three years ago."

  Shelby hesitated. "Did you… I mean, were you awkward around her?"

  "Not really. Maybe a little. I'm not proud of that. But she had gone a little strange, too, in that time. She wouldn't let anyone mention what had happened. Not even me. I did try, but she changed the subject. I guess that hurt my feelings."

  "I can imagine," Shelby said.

  "Most people were perfectly happy not to talk about it, except behind her back. They probably thought it was catching."

  "It might be. Are you sure you're not on drugs?"

  Jean balled up her napkin and tossed it at her. "No, I'm not on drugs. If I'm running on like a fool, it's just that you're easy to talk to."

  Shelby felt a flare of self-consciousness. "I wasn't fishing for a compliment."

  "I know that," Jean said. "But it's true. What's also true, and maybe odd, is that this is the first time in two months Lisa and Connie have left us alone."

  "I made her mad," Shelby said.

  "You should try it more often."

  Shelby sipped her coffee. "Don't you..." She tried to think of how to phrase it. "Don't you like Connie?"

  "Sure, I like her. It's not as if she's nasty or unpleasant... well, maybe a little unpleasant sometimes, but who isn't? She's just a bit much once in awhile, if you know what I mean."

  Shelby knew exactly what she meant.

  "I think her heart's in the right place," Jean went on. "And I think she'd be loyal to you…"

  “You do?”

  Jean nodded. "She likes you. She's like a mother hen, and you and Lisa are her brood." She laughed a little. "I'm getting there. Give me another couple of months. She's still trying to figure me out."

  "To be perfectly honest," Shelby said, "so am I."

  "Me, too," Jean said with a sigh. “I’ll probably spend the rest of my life trying to figure me out. Now, there's a depressing thought."

  "The trouble with life is, it doesn't come with an owner's manual."

  "It'd be unintelligible and inaccurately translated from the Japanese."

  According to the large, round, serviceable brown and white school house clock with the striking black Roman numerals that hung on the cafeteria wall over the steam table, it was time to get back to work. Shelby was sorry. She was actually enjoying a conversation. It had been weeks, months... maybe forever... since she'd enjoyed a conversation. But there were all those manuscripts.

  Jean was packing up her lunch things, putting her fork and spoon on the tray to be taken to the busing station. She hesitated before covering the cottage cheese container that held her tabbouleh, and offered it to Shelby. "Last chance."

  "Thanks," Shelby said with an involuntary shudder. "I think I'll pass."

  "Don't blame you," Jean said as she covered the container and put it in her brown paper bag and rolled the top shut tight.

  Nearly everyone had left. The cafeteria workers, gray women with gray hair plastered to the sides of their faces in perspiration-wet curls, were clearing away the leftovers. "Tomorrows chef’s special," Shelby said, and nodded toward the steam table. “I’m beginning to understand why you bring you
r lunch."

  "I do it to get attention," Jean said without a moment of hesitation. "And to annoy Connie."

  Jean had deep brown eyes with little flecks of gold surrounding the pupils. She'd never noticed that before.

  "You're a phenomenon," Shelby said with a laugh.

  "Yeah. Party this weekend, do you think?"

  Shelby shook her head. "I don't know. I really don't feel like it, but Connie..."

  "Whatever Connie wants, Connie gets," Jean said. "Well, boola boola." She pushed back her chair and started for the door. "See you around the campus." She turned back. "Congratulations again, by the way. You must be excited."

  She started to say, "Not really." But she was expected to be excited. Everyone expected her to be excited. Even Jean.

  "Sure," she said.

  She tried to concentrate, but her mind kept wandering. The stories she was reading were pretty bad. She had to smile at herself, remembering how she'd once believed this job would give her the chance to read hundreds of well-written, interesting pieces of near-literature. It had taken exactly one week for her to realize she'd been mistaken on that count. Oh, now and then there was a gem buried deep in the coal pile. But for the most part the writing was terrible, awkward, trite, stilted, predictable... The saddest were the stories that were submitted with such hope, almost with a prayer. The most annoying were the terrible ones whose authors' overwhelming, self-righteous egos pushed themselves at you from the pages. She particularly enjoyed rejecting those. With a form letter, no personal touch.

  If she really was going to be an assistant editor, she probably wouldn't see too many truly bad stories any more. They'd be weeded out before they got to her. She'd miss that. "Truly bad stories I have read" was always a useful conversation-filler.

  Things might really be different, after all. Maybe Connie was right. Maybe they wouldn't have so much in common any more.

  The way home to Bass Falls led through seven miles of cornfields. Not cornfields now, of course. Now they were seven miles of dark, wet earth dotted with last year's rotting stubble. There was still a little pale blue sky in the west, visible in her rear-view mirror. The days were growing longer. Before she knew it, she'd be driving home in the light, even if she stayed in West Sayer for a drink after work. Soon the fields would take on a mossy green look, ready to be broken by the plows. Then the air would be heavy with the rich brown odor of ripe, damp earth. She'd feel better then. She always felt better when the days were longer and she could smell the earth.