by Sarah Dreher
"Don't worry about that. When it dries, it vacuums right up."
"Assuming one has a vacuum."
"I do." Shelby led the way into her apartment and tossed her logs into the wood box. "What were you doing out there, anyway? Exploring?"
"Being nosy." Fran lowered her wood to the hearth. "I was tired of my own company, and your door was open so I knew you were around here somewhere so I came looking." She brushed the sawdust from her hands into the fireplace. "I stopped in here first—didn't come in, just made polite noises." She looked around. "Nice place you've got here."
"We like it," Shelby quoted.
"Gordon Jenkins, Seven Dreams."
"Manhattan Tower, I think. Maybe Seven Dreams. I always mix them up. Care for coffee?"
"If it's not too much trouble."
"No trouble at all. Shove the papers aside and have a seat."
When she came back into the room with the coffee and cream and sugar and Jean's cookies on a tray, Fran had taken off her jacket and was on her knees in front of the hearth, nursing the first tiny flames of a fire.
Shelby watched her for a moment. She liked the way the woman's hands moved, surely and firmly, like an artist's hands.
"You're staring," Fran said, back to her. "I can feel it."
“Well, you stared at me.”
"True." She tossed a few wood splinters to the fire.
"You do that very well," Shelby echoed Fran's earlier remark.
Fran laughed. "I've had some experience."
"In Texas?"
Fran turned and looked at her with those amazing eyes. "Texas?"
"You said you were from Texas."
"I was in Texas for a while. Actually, I'm a native of California."
"Nobody's a native of California," Shelby said, and handed her a mug of coffee. "Around here, we say the first real sign of spring are California license plates. Transplants coming home to visit."
Fran laughed again. Her laughter reminded Shelby of a cello. "Spoken like a true easterner." She set her coffee aside and fed a few larger twigs to the flames.
Shelby watched her.
"What are you staring at?"
"Your hands," Shelby found herself saying. "The way you use them. Kind of like an artist, or an auto mechanic."
"My God," Fran said, and held her hands up and looked at them.
"I don't mean that in a bad way. Did you ever notice how really good mechanics use their hands? There's something almost holy about it."
"I never thought of it like that, but I know what you mean." Fran slipped her hands into her back pockets. "Unfortunately, now that you've pointed this out, I will never again be able to use my hands in public."
"I'm sorry," Shelby said.
"Maybe, if I stick my finger in a light socket, I'll experience a kind of electroshock therapy and forget you said it."
Shelby laughed and went to Fran and pulled her hands from her pockets and pressed them together between her own. "That's enough. I'll feel terrible."
Fran glanced over at the fire. "I'd better put on a log." she said as she gently extricated her hands. "Don't want all my skill and expertise to go up in smoke."
Shelby groaned and rolled her eyes. She settled on the sofa. "Are you sure it's not Manhattan Tower? The cocktail party sequence? Or was it the Seven Dreams cocktail party? Some cocktail party, anyway."
"Actually, no, I'm not sure." She tossed more sticks on the fire and added a couple of logs. "I have the record... Cancel that. If it's in my apartment, it's gone for good."
"Need some help settling in?"
“Another time, thanks. I've spent the last four days in a rental van with that load. I'm not interested in relating to it at the moment."
"You drove up here yourself?"
"Sure." Fran took a cookie.
"Was it hard?"
"Not as hard as unpacking's going to be. I can't believe how much stuff l had stored."
"If your place is a mess and you don't want to deal with it," Shelby said, "I could offer you the bed or the couch. Granted, the apartment smells like a dead party, but..."
"That's OK. I think I can find a bed, two came with the apartment."
"I have extra sheets."
“I'm used to roughing it, but thanks."
Shelby laughed. "And people criticize me for being too independent."
"Do they?" Fran asked, and looked straight at her with those cornflower eyes. "You, too?"
“Constantly.”
“Isn't it annoying?"
“It certainly is.”
"Maybe we could start a club for independent women," Fran said.
Shelby shook her head. "Too independent for clubs."
Fran sat on the hearth and faced her and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Birthday?"
“What?”
"The party. Was it your birthday?"
"No, it was..." She felt herself turning self-conscious again. "Actually, we were celebrating because I... well, I got a promotion at work."
"Congratulations," Fran said. She cocked her head to one side. "You don't seem overjoyed."
"Well, I'm glad, of course." Shelby thought about it. "I guess I have mixed feelings. I mean, I'm glad but not as glad as I thought I'd be." She frowned. "That doesn't make any sense, does it?"
"Sure," Fran said enthusiastically, but she had a strange look on her face. A half-embarrassed sort of look. The sort of look people get when they're lying to be polite.
Shelby laughed. "I hope your line of work doesn't require acting. You don't do it very well.”
"I know," Fran said with a heavy sigh. "It limits my opportunities. So why the mixed feelings?"
"Well... It's not that I don't want it. Not that at all. It's... I guess I thought it would make more of a difference."
"Ah," Fran said. "Kind of like Christmas."
"Christmas?"
"You never feel quite the way you thought you would. It can even be all right on the surface, but something's always a little flat." Fran shrugged. "I guess it just doesn't live up to its advertising." She glanced up at Shelby with a sudden uneasy look. "I'm sorry. I hope I didn't offend you."
"Offend me?"
"Talking about Christmas like that."
Shelby laughed. "But you described it perfectly."
"Christmas was sacred in my home," Fran said. "Even the name was sacred. My mother once threatened to throw me out of the house for saying Christmas didn't live up to its advertising."
"Mine would, too. Did she ever?"
"Throw me out of the house? Not really."
"Sort of?"
Fran nodded. "Sort of. I needed to be on my own. Sometimes it's like that. What kind of work do you do?"
"I'm with The Magazine for Women. I'm what they call a reader." She caught herself. "Or was. Now I'm an assistant editor. We decide what articles and stories go into the magazine from the ones the readers pass along to us. Not the final decisions, those are made by the editors. I'm in fiction."
"I'll bet you have to be careful about your English."
"I should," Shelby said. "Though sometimes, after work hours, I have an overwhelming desire to say things like 'ain't."
"I seldom want to say 'ain't.' I heard enough of it in the Army."
Shelby looked at her. "You were in the Army?"
"Nobody ever believes a woman could possibly want to be in the Army," Fran said with a sigh. "Not even the Army."
Shelby wanted to ask her what it was like, but that seemed kind of trite. "Do you think we'll have a war?"
“We're always about to have a war, aren't we?" Fran said. She tossed a scrap of wood onto the fire. "This is a bloodthirsty country, but they'll have to have the next one without me.”
"I take it you weren't too crazy about it."
Fran gave a little gesture of dismissal. "Parts of it were OK. Parts of it were great. Parts of it were God-awful."
"I don't believe I could stand it," Shelby said. "It seems so... controlled."
&nbs
p; "It is, but you get used to that. After a while you even start to like not having to think or make decisions. Until you join the Army, you don't know how much of civilian life is made up of decisions."
"I think I do. When to get up, what to wear, whether to stop for gas now or wait until after work, and what would be the consequences of either course of action. What to eat, what to say, whether to get married…"
"You've got it," Fran said. "I hope I can adjust. I'll probably just sit on the edge of my bed waiting for someone to tell me what to do."
“If I don't see you for a few days," Shelby said, "I'll come in and order you to get up.”
"Thank you."
"Listen, tell me if this is too personal, but... well, why did you join the Army?”
"Most people want to know that—with varying degrees of horror. Even the Army wanted to know. You'd think they'd have been satisfied to get me, wouldn't you?"
"So why did you?"
"The reasons change. I guess I'm not really sure, myself. For the experience. For the G.I. Bill. To do something different. Mostly I suppose I wanted to get away from home."
"Because of your attitude toward Christmas?"
"Something like that. My family and I are basically incompatible," Fran said. "I suspect I was left on their door step by invaders from Mars."
"Lucky you. There's no question in my mind that I was born into my family. There's no way out."
"Join the Army," Fran said with a sudden smile. "You'd be amazed at the number of people who won't speak to you after that."
Shelby laughed. She sipped her coffee. "Why did you leave?"
She took a long, thoughtful moment to answer. "It was time," she said at last. "They wanted me to..."
She reached for the word. Something she'd heard in World War II movies. "To re-up?”
Fran looked at her with surprise. "Re- up?"
Shelby felt herself blush. "God, that sounds stupid. I was trying to be cool."
"It was very cool," Fran said, and tried not to laugh, and failed. "Why would you want to be cool?"
"To impress you," she began, and knew immediately she'd just made it worse. "I do that with everyone. It's a habit."
"Well," Fran said, "in that case I'll try not to take it personally."
Shelby buried her face in her hands. "I can't believe I'm doing this."
"Doing what?"
"Making a fool of myself. If this were your apartment, I'd leave in disgrace and never come back."
“Then I'm glad it's yours.”
Shelby looked at her.
"I mean it," Fran said.
She found herself feeling shy. "Thank you. So... uh... what are you doing in New England?"
"College." Fran reached for another cookie. "I have about two years to go to finish up. I was in pre-med, which makes it absolutely amazing that the Army assigned me to the medical corps, since they usually give you what you're least interested in or qualified for. I guess it keeps us humble. Anyway, now I'm not sure I want to stay with that. I'll look around a little, I guess. Nothing but opportunities ahead, right?"
"Right," Shelby said.
"That's why I came early. To get a job, and sort of wander around the University and see what looks interesting and what I have to catch up on and what I can maybe test out of."
"You're going to have a busy few months."
"I'm used to being busy." She looked around the apartment. "Hey, why don't I help you with KP? At the risk of being rude, it looks as if you could use some.”
"I can do it later. You're probably tired."
Fran got up. "The only thing I'm tired of is sitting." She reached a hand down to Shelby. "Come on. Let's see if I remember how to act in a civilian kitchen.
She didn't realize how late it was until she heard the phone. They'd cleaned up the party debris—which Shelby kept apologizing for, until Fran said she couldn't possibly understand the meaning of "mess" until she'd seen the inside of an enlisted men's rec hall. They'd considered going out to dinner, but rummaged through the refrigerator and decided there were plenty of leftovers to satisfy.
Fran told about her Army days. Shelby found herself fascinated and horrified to about equal degrees, but for the most part couldn't imagine having the courage to join the Army in the first place. She could just hear what her parents would say.
"If they're anything like mine," Fran said, “their nastiness would reach levels previously unknown to humankind."
Shelby folded her dish towel. "What did yours do?"
"Well, since I already had a rough idea of the depths to which they could sink, I made sure I was on the base, in barracks before I called and told them. They tried to get me out, but I was over legal age so they couldn't touch me. Mostly they were restricted to threats and name-calling. But I'd grown up with that, and it was safe in the Army. Believe me, if someone wants to get to you there, even on the phone, it can take an act of Congress."
"Now that you're out, will they try to find you?"
Fran shook her head. "They pretty much gave up on me. We don't even exchange Christmas cards. I suspect they're just glad I'm out of their life."
"Does that bother you?"
"Only on Hallmark card occasions." She smiled to herself. "But then it's not my real family I miss, it's some kind of ideal movie family I never really had. I mean, how can you really miss a bunch of people you left home to escape?"
"Why did you leave..." Shelby began to ask, and that was when the phone rang. "Damn," she said. "It's Ray." She started for the living room.
"Who's Ray?"
"My... uh... boyfriend." She glanced back. "Fiancé, almost. I guess."
Fran just raised one eyebrow in a quizzical way.
"Hey, babe," Ray said.
"Hi," Shelby said.
"How' re you doing?"
Since yesterday? "Fine. How about you?"
"Good. Listen, that was a great party, wasn't it?"
"Yes, it was."
"But not as great as Tuesday's going to be."
Tuesday? Oh, God, Tuesday. Tuesday they were going to discuss getting engaged. Or get engaged. Or something. She hoped he wasn't going to make it a party. Anything but a party. "Ray, you're not planning anything lavish for Tuesday, are you?"
"Not lavish, just special. Cocktails at the Carousel, dinner at the Copley. Sound good?"
"Sounds wonderful," she forced herself to say. "I'll have to make it an early night, though. Work on Wednesday."
"I know. Unless you want to... " He chuckled suggestively. "...stay over and call in sick from here."
"Oh, sure." Shelby put on her best teasing voice. "And just what are you trying to do to my good name, Dr. Raymond Curtis Beeman?"
"Once I get you in my power, my sweet," he said, and she could almost see him twirling his invisible moustache, "your reputation will be as naught."
"Listen," she said quickly, "I have company right now and..."
"You have company?"
"The new tenant, across the hall. I'm helping her get organized..."
"Oh."
"So I have to get back to it. I'll take the bus in and meet you at Park Square. Or would you rather I drove?"
"Take the bus," Ray said. "If you miss the last one out, I can run you home."
"Good. See you at seven. Love you."
"Love you, too, babe."
She hung up the phone.
"Did something happen?" Fran asked as Shelby entered the kitchen.
"No, why?"
"The last time I looked like that, I was on my way to a root canal."
Shelby poured herself another cup of coffee. "He wants me to come in to Boston Tuesday."
"Is that a problem?"
“He wants to discuss getting married."
"That's a problem, all right."
Shelby loaded her coffee with sugar.
"Go easy on that stuff," Fran said. "You'll never sleep tonight."
Shelby tossed her spoon into the sink. "I never sleep, anyway."
Too busy listening to my heart beat, she wanted to say. Too busy contemplating suicide. Too busy being depressed, or angry, or...
"Look," Fran said, "it's probably none of my business, but... well, when a girl gets engaged, isn't there usually a whole lot of squealing and shrieking with joy?”
"We're not engaged yet," Shelby pointed out.
"I've seen a lot of women on the brink of engagement, and you strike me as a few points south of ambivalent."
Shelby ran her hand across her face. "I'm just tired."
"Is that my cue to leave?"
She didn't want her to go. "No, please." Shelby sipped her coffee and tried to think of something that would explain her mood. "I guess I feel pressured. There've been a lot of changes lately. The promotion..." Which he probably hates. "Learning a whole new job..." Which I probably won't be allowed to keep. "I feel as if I need some breathing room."
Fran touched the back of her hand with a fingertip. "If you ever need to let off steam, I'm right across the hall."
"Thank you," Shelby said. She gave a little smile. "You know how men are. Once they get an idea in their heads, they shift into overdrive and plow forward.”
"I know," Fran said.
"And I'm the type that likes to settle in and feel comfortable with things before they start changing." She shrugged. "We'll probably be good for each other.”
"Or kill each other," Fran said.
Shelby laughed. It felt good to be able to laugh about this. It felt good to talk about it. "The thing that really drives me crazy is that he's so precise. He calls me every night. At exactly the same time. I can set my watch by it. I have set my watch by it. I don't know if he wants me to marry him because he loves me, or because we've been going together for two years, and that's when we should start making plans."
"What does he do?"
"He's a doctor. Well, almost. This is his last year of residency."
"I guess precision is a good thing in a doctor. And a tax accountant. Is it what you're looking for in a husband?"
"I don't know," Shelby said. "I never gave it much thought."
Fran gave her that quizzical look again.
"I know. I should. One of these days."
"Sounds like a good idea to me," Fran said.
"Maybe I'm too young to get married."
“Maybe you are. How old are you?"
