by Sarah Dreher
"Listen, if you want to play hooky, I'll go." Jean started to get up. "I won't tell. I can make up illnesses; it'd make you sick just to listen."
Shelby touched her hand. "I'm only kidding. By the time I made all those phone calls, the day'd be over, anyway."
"I could do it. You can be too sick."
"I appreciate the thought, Jean," Shelby said with a smile. "But I do want to do this."
"I don't know, it seems to me this is a party by default."
Shelby held out her hand for Jean's coat. "You might be right."
"Why are you doing it?"
She turned away quickly and hung the coat over the back of a chair in front of the fireplace. "I want to, really. I'm just in a mood."
"What can I...?"
"Nothing," she said. "I like to suffer."
The other woman held up her hands. "I make it a policy never to interfere with suffering." She sat more easily on the couch and curled her legs beneath her.
This was all right. In fact, it was nice. "How about it, coffee or tea?"
"Coffee. But don't we have to shop or something?"
"It won't take long.” She went to the kitchen and plugged in the coffee pot. "I already made the list," she called into the other room. "All we have to do is pick things up."
"God, you're independent," Jean said.
"Am I?" She reached for cups, then changed her mind and opted for left-over-from-graduate-school mugs.
"I came here to help you, and you've done all the hard part."
"The hard part?"
"Making the lists."
The coffee perked and bubbled and smelled wonderful. Shelby leaned against the entryway and looked into the living room. "I guess independence comes from living alone."
"I think it's a character trait," Jean said. She ruffled her hands through her hair, sending droplets of rain flying. "I'm trying to develop it, but I'm not sure it's a good one."
Shelby smiled. "Is Barry coming tonight?"
"I hope not. We broke up."
"You did? When?"
“Last weekend.”
"Whose idea was that?"
"Mutual. I think." Jean shrugged. "It just kind of petered out. It bothered me a little, but not as much as I thought it would."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"To the lunch bunch? Give me a break."
“To me."
Jean combed her hair into place with her fingers. "There wasn't much of a chance, really. You've been pretty busy."
"Not that busy. You could have gotten my attention at work, or called me here..."
"I did, but your line was tied up."
"You called once?"
"I tried at least three times, at least half an hour apart."
Shelby frowned. "When was that?"
"Tuesday, I think."
Tuesday. Of course. Tuesday night her mother had gotten back from that late-winter cruise to Bermuda and had kept her on the phone endlessly with stories of every shipboard event, every person she'd met, every...
As she recalled, Shelby had listened politely, the TV on and the sound turned off, and polished off at least two scotch and sodas.
"It was Libby," she said.
"I figured something like that. Anyway, it didn't matter." She looked at her. "Honest, Shelby, it didn't." Jean hesitated. "May I ask you something personal?"
"Sure," she said with more enthusiasm than she felt.
"Sometimes it seems as if—well, you're not real pleased with the promotion."
Shelby felt herself withdraw. "It's fine, really."
"Really?"
She wanted to tell the truth, but the truth was Jean was right. Oh, she was glad, in a way. But not the way she'd expected to be. Sometimes the thought of it made her tired.
You couldn't go around telling people that. It was crazy.
"It's a lot of responsibility," she said. "Terrifying,"
Jean nodded. "Sticking your head over the edge of the foxhole."
"Exactly. You never know what might be flying around out there."
The coffee was ready. She pushed herself away from the wall, poured it, added a teaspoon of sugar to Jean's.
OK, the opportunity had presented itself. They had time, and the mood was casual. Not that it made it any easier. Not that she wanted to do this at all.
She got out a plate and carried the mugs to the living room and put them down and reached for the cookies. "There's something I have to talk to you about," she said as she arranged the cookies on the plate.
The silence in the room went cold.
Shelby glanced up. "Come on, Jean, I'm not going to bite."
"OK," Jean said stiffly.
"We're friends, aren't we?"
“Yes.”
"So don't be afraid of me."
"It's not you," Jean said. "It's that ‘have to talk to you' thing. It's all too familiar, and never good news."
Shelby had picked up a cookie. She put it down. "Look, don't make too much of this, but... I mean, it's not a criticism..." The words felt like stones in her throat. "Help me out."
"Go ahead and talk," Jean said quietly and tightly. "It's your dime."
She took a deep and slightly exasperated breath. "All right, it's about how you're so quiet when we're all together."
"I thought that didn't bother you."
"It doesn't, not really. I just wish... well, is there any way we could make it more comfortable for you?”
Jean hunched her shoulders with an ironic smile. "Well, I figured that was coming, sooner or later."
"Please," Shelby said, "don't do this."
"I just don't have anything to say."
"But you do. When we're alone it's easy for us to talk. You're smart, and fun." God, that sounded condescending. "I like talking to you."
"Thank you," Jean said tightly.
"Jean..."
“By the time I have something to say in a crowd, the conversation's changed."
"So change it back. Nobody else cares about changing the subject. You don't have to be brilliant."
Jean looked at her, her eyes hurt and angry. "This isn't fair, Shelby."
"I know it isn't..."
"I thought I was safe with you."
"It is. This wasn't my idea."
“What, you're doing Connie's dirty work now?"
She wanted to stop this. Wished she'd never gotten into it. Serious damage was being done, and she wasn't handling it well. She should have told Connie to mind her own business, to take her concern and shove it, to...
"You just said you didn't mind, how I am."
"Oh, Jean, I don't," she said. "I really don't. I just thought you were unhappy."
"Sure, I'm unhappy, sometimes. But I've tried to change. I can't, that's all. There's something missing in me,"
"It's just a trick, making conversation," Shelby heard herself say, and was surprised at the edge of anger in her voice. "You don't have to give a damn what people think. They're going to think what they think no matter what you do. It doesn't matter who you are or what you're doing, they only see themselves. If they say you're too quiet, it's just because they want more attention from you. If you make noise, and stop now and then to let them make noise back, they'll think you're wonderful."
"Shelby," Jean said.
"Conversation's easy. Just make fun of something or someone." There was bitterness in her voice. "Be critical. That always impresses them. That makes you look good."
"Shelby," Jean said again.
She caught herself, realized she was on the verge of raving and she wasn't altogether sure of what might come out.
She tried to smile. "You're right, I'm doing Connie's dirty work. I like your quietness. I like you, and I don't care how you are in public. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done this."
Jean glanced down at her hands, frowning a little.
"What are you thinking?"
"I never realized," Jean said, looking up directly into her eyes, "that you're afraid of he
r, too."
Shelby was stunned. "Well," she said shakily, "you have to admit she's a force to be reckoned with."
Jean laughed a little, things all right on the surface. But Shelby couldn't shake the feeling she'd betrayed Jean, and that it had driven a wedge between them.
* * *
She knew, by the way Ray parked the car and turned off the motor and left the key in the ignition that he wanted to talk. Oh, God, she thought. Not tonight, please not tonight.
The party had gone well. I.isa and Connie and Penny and their clutch of boyfriends had arrived together. Then Ray. Then Libby, late as usual, after declaring as usual that she might not be able to make it, cuing Shelby to express disappointment and beg her, as she always did. Then going on to declare she was too old for Shelby's friends and probably bored them. At which point Shelby was required to say, "No, they really like you, it wouldn't be the same without you." Which was true, it wouldn't be the same and they did like her, and saying it always worked. Libby could be charming and slightly risqué, the kind of qualities people liked in a mother. She was always interested in what "the kids" were up to, asked lots of questions, listened intently, and fractured the current slang in an endearing manner.
Libby arrived in her light wool Davidow suit and bouffant Jackie Kennedy hair style, too young for her but everyone told her how wonderful she looked. Bearing cheer and her famous silver decanter (she called it her "jug") of whiskey sours.
Dinner had been mushroom caps and lobster tails and peas cooked in lettuce leaves, with a touch of nutmeg. She'd gotten the recipe for the peas from Betty Crocker, but she doubted anyone would know. Her friends tended to divide their culinary efforts between "TV dinners and The Joy of Cooking. Betty C. was too middle-of-the-road.
They sat around after dinner while Libby told cruise stories, the same cruise stories Shelby had already heard. Not that she minded. It gave her a chance to relax, to recover from the relentless attention that had come her way over the meal and the relentless attention she'd had to pay to everyone else, and to become intimately acquainted with this evening's headache. All in all, it was a pretty successful time, and she might have almost enjoyed it, if Jean had ever looked her way.
Ray was wound up now and talking non-stop, about his favorite topic, the evils of drug use among the 'beatniks' as he called them. Ray didn't approve of the new drug culture. Drugs made people messy and difficult to deal with. And it was getting worse, he said. Even adults, who should know better, were gobbling up something called LSD and claiming to find the meaning of life in a raindrop.
Mystical experiences. He gave a sharp, contemptuous laugh. It sounded like spitting.
Shelby thought she wouldn't mind having a mystical experience herself. The sooner the better.
He wouldn't notice if her thoughts wandered. He demanded nothing more from her than an audience. But her eyes were burning, her face felt hot, her skin so sensitive that even her soft cotton dress grated like sandpaper. Half-turned toward her, Ray draped one arm carelessly over the steering wheel and cushioned her neck with the other. In the glow of the street light, his angular features were softened, the creases that ran both ways diagonally from the corners of his mouth shadowed by darkness. His hair and eyes, vivid in daylight, seemed to blend with the shadows. Shelby could feel his hand moving back and forth, back and forth over the curve of her shoulder. The gesture annoyed her, but she knew he did it unconsciously.
The car clock ticked. Fine mist fell through yellow circles of light that hung suspended in night beyond the dampened windshield. In the car the air had turned cool, and Shelby shivered, while Ray's voice rolled on, and on, and on, rumbling in her ears, her headache throbbing to the rhythm of his words.
"So what do you think, babe?" he asked.
She'd been drifting. She didn't know what he was referring to. "I don't really have an opinion," she said. "What do you think?"
"I ask you to marry me, and you don't have an opinion?"
Oh, God. "I mean," she said quickly, "I just got promoted, and you're not through your residency. It seems sort of, well, premature."
Now he was annoyed. "I'm not talking about a wedding next week. But we could announce the engagement, couldn't we?"
"What if there's a war?"
He looked at her as if she were slightly insane. "There's not going to be a war. What's with you tonight?"
"I think I don't feel too well."
"Too much to drink?"
"No, just not well."
He was silent for a moment. She could feel his disappointment. "I guess you don't want to talk about marriage, then."
"I want to talk about it, Ray. Just not tonight."
"All right." He lapsed into silence.
She'd hurt his feelings. She hadn't meant to do that.
She took his hand and brushed her cheek against it. "I'm sorry. I know I'm cranky. It's just that people have been talking at us all night. I'm worn out from it."
He squeezed her hand. "It's OK, Shel. I didn't realize." He slipped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her to him.
Reluctantly, she let her head rest against his neck. He held her.
After a moment it felt good. If they could just sit like this for a while... Ray was strong, protective. For now she was safe, though she didn't know from what. "We should do this more often," she said.
He kissed the top of her head, then tilted her face upward and kissed her mouth.
She forced herself to kiss him back.
He didn't even notice she didn't mean it.
Of course she meant it. She loved Ray. She just didn't happen to feel anything at the moment.
There were a lot of moments when she didn't happen to feel anything.
He was kissing her again. Harder.
She followed his lead. It was an act.
His breath turned shallow and quick.
Shelby wanted to run. She made herself stay with him.
"Forgive me," he murmured. "I'm a clod."
"What?"
"I should have realized this was what you wanted."
She felt tears spring into her eyes. It isn't what I want Jesus, can't you tell?
No, he couldn't tell. Not if she didn't tell him.
But she couldn't tell him.
Now he was touching her breast, fumbling with the buttons on her dress.
Her body wanted to go limp. Lifeless. She couldn't let it.
You can do this, she told herself. You've done it a hundred times before.
She was swept with a wave of loneliness so terrible she wanted to die.
"I love you," he whispered, and slipped his hand beneath her skirt.
"I love you, too.”
It didn't mean anything. Or she didn't know what it meant. But she was expected to say it. She hated herself for saying it.
Hated herself.
But maybe, when he said it, it wasn't anything more than it was when she said it.
Maybe.
If it wasn't, he wouldn't be grabbing at her. Or she'd be grabbing at him. Wouldn't she?
She pulled his shirt out from beneath his belt. As if she couldn't reach his skin fast enough.
Ray sighed and shuddered when she touched his nipple. "Oh, Shel…"
She pressed against him harder, and felt his body tighten. Something strange and warm ran down her face, and she realized she was crying.
He didn't notice.
"Oh, God, I love you, babe," he said again.
No. You don't love me. I'm sitting here crying, and pretending to want you, and feeling absolutely nothing. If you loved me you'd know that.
"Well," she heard her mother say in her head, "if it isn't one thing with you, it's another."
It won't always be like this, she told herself. When we're married. When we've gotten to know each other better. When we're settled into a life together, instead of this hit-or-miss way of being. Then I'll love him. Really, I will.
Then he'll really know me, too. After we've been together for a
while. He'll know when I'm crying, and when I'm pretending. It'll be all right then.
It won't be so lonely then.
He was becoming aroused. His body felt heavier, stronger. He pulled at her clothes, trying to touch her everywhere at once.
She had to get out of the car.
"Ray," she said softly, "we can't do this here."
He went limp for a second, then pulled back. "What?"
"We're right in the middle of the street."
"No, we're not. We're in my car."
She tried to keep her voice light. "Someone could see us."
"It's the middle of the night... Who's going to be driving around at this hour?"
"We were."
He sighed heavily. "OK, we'll go inside."
"You have to work tomorrow. You'll be a wreck. Probably make a fatal mistake and the hospital will be sued."
He was silent.
"Come on, Ray. We can do this... another time." Take a rain check, like at a baseball game. Later we'll have a double header.
Now she honestly did feel sick. "I have to go in."
Even in the dim light she could see his wounded look.
"OK," he said in a flat voice, "if you really have to."
He waited for her to deny it, but she opened the door and got out. She leaned toward him through the window and gave him a quick, sisterly kiss. "Call me tomorrow?"
"All right."
She started up the walk. For a split second the street was quiet and then she could tell, by the way the car motor roared, that Ray's bewilderment had turned to anger.
She didn't care. All she wanted was to be alone.
* * *
He wouldn't wait for tomorrow. She knew that. In an hour and a half, two hours at the most, the phone would ring.
Shelby checked her watch. After midnight.
The fire had dwindled down to hard, charred knots of log that wouldn't burn. The wood box was empty. It was cold and damp in the apartment. She thought about closing the flue, but the ashes were smoldering, creating all kinds of opportunities for death by asphyxiation.
