Solitaire and Brahms

by Sarah Dreher

  "Dishes. I've been living off paper plates. And I want a step-on can for the garbage."

  "Speaking as an old, long-settled lady," Shelby said, and stretched one arm across the back of the couch, "let me give you some advice. Step-on cans are definitely overrated."

  "I don't care, I want one. Nothing says 'home' like a place to put the garbage."

  "That sounds like a metaphor for something."

  "It does, doesn't it?" Penny tilted her head against the back of the sofa. It rested on Shelby's hand. She didn't seem uncomfortable with that. "May I ask you something?"

  “Sure.”

  “You don't have to say if you don't want to.”

  "All right."

  “Well…” Penny hesitated. “You're sure it's all right to ask?"

  Shelby tugged at the younger woman's hair. “How do I know, for Pete's sake? Ask the question."

  “OK. Do you... do you think they'll like me? There," she added quickly, "I asked."

  "Of course they'll like you."

  “You're sure?"

  “More than sure. I know."

  Penny glanced at her. "How?"

  "Connie passed the word when you weren't looking."

  Penny's face broke out in a grin. "No kidding."

  "No kidding. So you can stop worrying."

  "Who was worried?" the girl asked. Then she bit her lip. "You don't think someone'll be jealous, do you?"

  “I can't imagine it.”

  "I'd hate that, if someone got jealous because you all like me."

  Shelby laughed. "Penny, is there anything in the world, anything at all, that you don't worry about?"

  Penny looked over at her, eyes sparkling. "I don't worry about the weather much."

  "You live in New England now. Weather's one thing you should worry about."

  "Are you hungry?"

  "I will be, by the time we finish these stories."

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  "I can't cook for us. At the moment, I only have one pot."

  "You're impossible." She retrieved her hand and picked up the folder. "You criticize, I'll take notes."

  When they had finished and eaten at the diner across the street, and Shelby had made the trip to Bass Falls, it was nearly bed time. She wasn't sleepy, but it was too late to call Ray. Too late for anything but the news on television, and the eleven o'clock news was usually an endless parade of school board meetings and the retirements and installations of local priests and bishops. Weather reports which, at this time of year, were completely predictable. Spring training with the Red Sox. Followed by the inanity of Jack Paar. She thought about reading, and couldn't bear the sight of one more printed word.

  Which left a bath and bed. She could deal with that. She ran the water hot, added some lavender bubble bath to counteract the odor of greasy food that always hung around one like an aura after eating at the diner. Sliding down into the steaming water, she felt her muscles relax and realized for the first time that she was exhausted. Exhausted from tension, and trying to make the day go smoothly, trying to make everyone comfortable, to explain how the office worked and how to criticize a story and what the editors wanted and...

  She went over it in her mind. Except for awkward moments of little importance, it had gone pretty well. If there was one thing Shelby Camden could do, it was make things go well.

  Chapter Three

  The promotion came through on the last day of March. It was a Friday, and raining.

  Above the lunchroom's hum and clatter Shelby heard her name, and there was Lisa swirling toward her like straw blown in the wind, like a storm-whipped willow, all bones and interminable motion. Her elbows grazed the backs of chairs. Her hips skimmed table-tops. Her curly black hair bounced and flew.

  "Shelby!" the other woman squealed, and grasped Shelby in a jerking, puppet-on-a-string embrace. “It's just that great!"

  Shelby forced a smile. "Thanks."

  "We want to know everything Spurl said. In massive detail." Lisa tossed laughter to the ceiling. It burst and tinkled through the room, and she swirled back to her table.

  Shelby watched her go, touched. Lisa was incapable of real envy. Other people's triumphs were her delights. Other people's victories brightened her days. She would be unreservedly, genuinely happy for Shelby's success, because she liked her friend and wished her well.

  As she neared the table Connie jumped up and took her tray. "So you do still want to eat with your old friends after all," she said with an edge.

  Shelby glanced at her sharply, feeling her familiar instinctive caution. "We've already plowed this field, haven't we?"

  Connie laughed, a fraction of a second too slowly, a shade too lightly. Or so it seemed. “You know me," she said, tossing it off.

  Shelby slid the plates from her tray and placed it on the nearby stand. She raised her perfectly square serving of firmly packed, congealed macaroni and cheese and peered at it from the side. "Now I know why I think I'm still in college. It's the institutional food."

  "Food," said Connie, "is putting it nicely."

  "Weren't you just floored?" Lisa squeaked.

  "I guess."

  "Really?" Connie raised one eyebrow in Lisa's direction. "We knew it was coming. It's never been any secret what David Spurl thinks of Shelby Camden."

  There it was again, a subtle innuendo. Or was it? Shelby looked at her questioningly. "What he thinks?"

  "Greatest thing since the printing press." Connie chuckled in a goodnatured way. "And always modest." She turned to Jean with a condescending smile. "Aren't you going to congratulate her?"

  Jean blushed. "Yeah, I..."

  "She already has," Shelby said. It wasn't true, but it would drive Connie crazy. Shelby usually tried not to bait Connie. It caused prickly energy in the room. But today she couldn't resist. “I told her earlier.”

  “Oh?” said Connie tightly. She turned to Jean. "How come you didn't say anything?"

  "She asked me not to," Jean said.

  Connie looked back and forth between them.

  Now Lisa was talking, oblivious to the undercurrents. "We have to do something to celebrate."

  Another party. Oh, God, another party. This was getting as bad as the Thanksgiving-to-New Year's Eve Fest-a-Thon. And this one would be even worse than most. Connie'd invite the entire office, at least everyone between the editors and the janitorial staff. She'd probably invite Miss Myers. She'd probably rent the American Legion Hall and invite everyone she'd ever met. Her entire high school graduating class. And all their relatives. Everyone Shelby'd ever mentioned, whether Shelby liked them or not. Connie'd been working up to a Real Blast for weeks, ever since The Camden Birthday fell on a weekday and Shelby convinced them to keep it simple. You could see it in her eyes. She was restless and a little feisty, like an alcoholic about to fall off the wagon.

  "Come over to my place tomorrow night," Shelby said quickly and firmly, in what she hoped was a No Nonsense tone of voice. "Ray's not on call this weekend."

  Connie shook her head. She knew if they had a party in Shelby's small apartment, the guest list would be limited. "That's not right. We should do something for you.”

  "You would be. Save me the drive."

  "Great," Lisa said. "I'll come early and help."

  Shelby shuddered inwardly. Out of the frying pan, into the fire.

  "Better lock up the good china," Connie said. "Here comes Hurricane Macaroni."

  Lisa looked hurt but tried to pass it off with a smile.

  At least Connie hadn't volunteered. But Connie wouldn't volunteer. Connie'd work her tail off for an event the size of a Presidential Inauguration. But, in Connie's own words, she didn't "sweat the small stuff." Which was OK, really. Small stuff in Connie's expansive hands could very quickly become big stuff.

  "Let me do it," Jean said. "I have to be in Bass Falls, anyway."

  "That makes sense." Saved again. “Lisa, do you want to join us?"

  "Thanks, I'l
l pass."

  "Early afternoon?" Shelby asked jean. "It'd give us time to shop."

  "Great."

  Connie and Lisa exchanged what were obviously meant to be quick but significant looks and brief nods.

  Jean didn't seem to notice.

  "Dinner party?" Lisa asked. "Or after?"

  If they came for dinner it meant more work. It also meant they'd leave earlier. "Dinner."

  Jean pushed her chair back. "I have to go. Appointment with my senior reader." She piled up her dishes and stood, looking at Shelby in a noncommittal way. "Talk to you later?"

  "You bet."

  Jean hesitated. "I'm really glad for you, you know."

  "I know. You said.”

  Balancing her tray on one arm, Jean slipped her book bag over the other shoulder and picked her way through the lunchroom crowd.

  Lisa watched her enviously. "Do you think she used to be a waitress?"

  "If she was," Connie declared, "she didn't get tips for her personality."

  That made Shelby angry. "What's your problem with her?"

  "No problem," Connie said. "She's just really quiet. Isn't she?"

  "Yes, she's quiet."

  "I wasn't judging her. I was just stating the obvious,"

  Let it go, Shelby told herself. "Where's Penny?" she asked to put the conversation on less touchy ground.

  "The Boston workshop, remember?" Connie managed to make even that momentary forgetfulness sound like a breach of morality.

  "I thought that was next week.”

  "Well, it isn't," Connie said smoothly. "It's all she's talked about. Her first workshop. A kind of rite of passage." She smiled. "But you've had a lot on your mind.”

  "True," Shelby said. "I have." She'd have to think up something for Penny in honor of the occasion. She remembered how excited she'd been at all the firsts. First pay check, first story to be printed that she'd sent forward, first workshop, first convention. It made the job seem almost real. It made growing up seem almost real.

  "So," Lisa said, and leaned forward eagerly, "do you get your own office?"

  "Part of an office, really. A desk. But it's better than being in the Pit with the men. I'm sharing the room with Charlotte May."

  "Uh-oh," Lisa said. "Fashion. You'll have to be careful how you dress."

  "Better still," Connie said, "watch how she dresses and report back."

  Shelby grinned, glad to be on smooth ground, glad they were all going in the same direction again, the way friends should. "Anything in particular you want me to find out?"

  "A girdle," Lisa said. "See if she wears a girdle with her panty hose. I say she doesn't."

  "I say she does," Connie said. "Don't ask," she added to Shelby. "She might not tell you the truth. Personal observation, preferably with supporting photographs."

  "How am I going to do that? Follow her into the stall in the ladies' room? She's hardly the type to prop her feet on the desk so I can peek up her dress."

  "You'll think of something," Connie said. "I have great faith in you." She turned to Lisa. "Five bucks?"

  "You're on," Lisa said.

  They shook hands across the table.

  "This is great," Shelby said with a laugh. "Now, whoever offers me the best bribe wins."

  Connie looked at her in genuine surprise. "You? Take a bribe?"

  "No way," Lisa said.

  "What?" Shelby said in mock horror. "I have a reputation for honesty? No wonder I'm always in trouble." She took a bite of macaroni and cheese, then poked it with her fork. "They could stuff sofa cushions with this food item."

  "Are you nervous? About the job?" Lisa asked.

  Shelby exercised her jaw on the macaroni for a moment. "A little, I guess.”

  "How come?" Connie asked. "If anyone knows what they're doing, you do.”

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

  "It's true."

  Maybe. But there was more than that involved. She'd be making decisions. Not final decisions at first, but her opinions would carry more weight, and sooner or later... Decisions about whose work got published. Decisions about who was 'good enough' for The Magazine for Women.

  "Honest," Lisa was saying. "You have the instincts."

  She wished they'd stop. Enough attention. She wanted to pretend nothing had happened, that everything was the way it had always been and in a minute Connie would crumple her paper napkin, toss it on her plate, and say, "OK, who's for bridge?"

  Instead, Connie said, "Come on, Camden, you know you're hot stuff."

  "I'm not, Connie. I only..." know there's more to getting ahead than bridge and parties, she thought.

  "What's wrong?" Lisa was asking.

  "Wrong?"

  "You look as if you don't feel well."

  Shelby forced a laugh. "I forgot where I was for a minute, and let myself taste the lunch. Bad idea."

  "I guess we don't have to worry about you serving macaroni and cheese Saturday night," Connie said.

  "You never have to worry about that."

  "Listen," Connie said in a lowered voice, although no one in their vicinity was showing the slightest interest in their conversation, "about Saturday. When you get together with Jean... well, this is just great. It's the perfect time for a little chat."

  Shelby was puzzled. "Little chat?" She hated the expression "little chat." In Connie's vocabulary, that usually meant big trouble.

  "About her..." Connie paused pointedly, “…problem.”

  "Jean has a problem? What? Is she pregnant?"

  Lisa jumped in, leaning across the table conspiratorially. "She's really a sweet person, but so withdrawn."

  "Yes," Shelby said. "Sometimes."

  "Well, we have to do something about it."

  "We do?"

  "She's obviously unhappy," Connie pointed out. "I'm sure she feels she doesn't fit in. She doesn't, of course, but nevertheless... She talks to you. You could encourage her to make more of an effort."

  "I'm not sure that's a good idea," Shelby said. "Who are we to say she's unhappy?"

  Connie spread her hands.

  "You could listen harder," Shelby suggested.

  "Oh, really," said Connie.

  Shelby sighed.

  “She bas to learn,” Connie insisted. "The whole world isn't going to accommodate itself to her shyness."

  "I could try," Shelby said.

  Connie folded her napkin and placed it carefully beside her plate. A bad sign. Her face took on a resigned, determined look. "All right, if you don't want to do it, I will."

  Which would be the worst thing that could happen. Jean might seem all right with how she was, but criticism was criticism, and never nice to hear. Besides, Shelby sensed in Jean a vulnerability that could leave her very, very hurt. It was Connie's style to wade in with the best of intentions and leave carnage in her wake.

  "Never mind," Shelby said. "I'll see what's up." She glanced around the table and counted heads. Good news. Only the three of them. "No bridge today, I guess."

  * * *

  It was cold on Saturday. Depression moved through her consciousness like an oily fog. She was going to have a headache any minute. The thermometer hovered above freezing, but a damp wind blew from the east, searching out cracks and door sills with icy fingers. Shelby knew the chill deep below her skin, knew she wouldn't be warm again until the wind died. Beyond the walls a light drizzle turned now and then to pellets of snow, then back again to rain. Tree limbs, bare against the flat gray sky, were softened and dripping in the curtain of mist. Looking like black skeletons, the trees clung miserably to the earth.

  She turned from the window and gazed without passion around the living room. On days like this she was always drawn to the thought of small dark places with heavy drapes and old chairs that seemed to reach out and wrap you in their softness. There should be a roaring fire and a glass of sherry and the smell of apples faintly in the air. There should be the sound of a clock ticking in the hallway, and a dog stretching and sighing bef
ore the fire.

  This house had once had rooms like that. A massive, red brick building with weathered trim, it had endured behind its iron spike fence for a hundred and fifty years, and would probably endure a hundred and fifty years longer. Giant maples shaded the porch, and deep within the recesses of the house the hidden hallways and closets and carved oak woodwork held secrets.

  Her apartment had been the original living and dining rooms, but only the fireplace and high ceilings remained. The owners had knocked out and rebuilt walls, installed plumbing, scraped and enameled over shiny varnished woodwork, and carpeted old floors. Shelby had painted the walls an unbroken chalk white, had hung a few abstract paintings. Her mother was steadily replacing the landlord's eclectic taste with Danish Modern. She knew her friends enjoyed her apartment and found it comfortable. For herself, she regarded it with indifference and thought at times, on days like this, of small dark places and soft, worn couches.

  At least she could have a fire. The wood was damp, but caught and burned smokily, and as she dressed she could hear the soft hiss and pop of the steaming logs. When Jean came and saw it her eyes went wide with delight. "Oh," she said simply. "A fire."

  Shelby smiled. Jean's hair was wet, and clung to her face in sodden clumps. Her eyes were hazel and deep, and sparkled in the dim light. She was tall but not overly thin, and standing there with the rain dripping from her coat, clutching a paper bag and gazing ingenuously into the flames she seemed as delicate as a fawn.

  Suddenly Jean remembered herself, and ducked her head in embarrassment. "I'm sorry," she said, holding out the package. "Here."

  "What's this?"

  "Just some stuff I made. Cookies." Jean shrugged. "You know... not for tonight... for you."

  Shelby was touched. "Thank you," she said, and felt inadequate. "It was sweet of you."

  Jean fidgeted uncomfortably. "Tell me what to do."

  She closed the door. "Sit down. Dry off. We have plenty of time."

  "Know what I'd have done today if I were you?" Jean asked. "I'd have called everybody and told them I had the flu and just curled up in front of the fire with a ghost story."

  "I was thinking the same thing." The afternoon was quiet, the fire warm and comforting. But in a few hours the room would be heavy with small talk and cigarette smoke, and everyone would be straining to be funny and clever until they had drunk enough to think they were funny and clever without straining. The fire would die unnoticed, and after it was over she would probably go out for a cup of coffee or a drink with Ray while the apartment aired, and then come home and drop into bed too tired to hang up her clothes or wash the glasses, and tomorrow would wake to the smell and taste of stale liquor.