Solitaire and Brahms

by Sarah Dreher

  "Twenty-five."

  Fran nodded. "Definitely too young."

  "How old do you think a person should be before they get married?"

  "Ninety," Fran said.

  Shelby laughed. "I take it you don't think a lot of marriage."

  "It's OK, if you're the type."

  "Are you?"

  She seemed to hesitate. "Not at the moment. But I'm not the one who's about to get engaged."

  "Yeah." Shelby took a swallow of coffee and stared down into the cup. "I wish I knew what to do."

  "Well," Fran said, "as Davy Crockett once said, 'Be sure you're right, then go ahead.'"

  Shelby had to laugh.

  “I'm sorry,” Fran said, running her hands over her face. “I've spent too much time around the Alamo. Tell me something. Is there anything you don't have mixed feelings about?"

  "Very little. How about you?"

  Fran stretched. "Actually, things are always disgustingly clear for me. Too damn clear. I'd welcome a little ambivalence."

  "You're welcome to some of mine," She was beginning to feel depressed. "Can we talk about something else?"

  "To be perfectly honest," Fran said. "I'm just about to become obsessive about unpacking. Since you've provided me with this delightful caffeine buzz, I should go put things away."

  Shelby pushed back her chair. "I'll help you."

  "Thanks, but I haven't known you long enough to let you see me obsessive." She looked up at Shelby and smiled. "Nothing personal, but I' d really rather be alone. I have to make the place mine, and I can only do that if I do it myself."

  "I understand," Shelby said. She walked her to the door. "I'll help you another time, OK?"

  "No doubt about it." Fran draped her blazer over one shoulder. "It's been real, as they say."

  "I appreciate the hand with the mess."

  "I appreciate the dinner. And the company."

  Shelby smiled. "I have to tell you this. When I realized you'd been watching me, out in the shed... well, for a moment there I was really embarrassed."

  Fran cocked her head to one side.

  "At being seen," Shelby said. "The way I was brought up, nice girls don't chop wood."

  "What do nice girls do," Fran asked, "if they're lost in the wilderness? Freeze to death?"

  "Nice girls don't go out in the wilderness without nice boys."

  "Poor nice girls." She reached for the door knob. "So I guess I don't have to worry about you being too nice."

  "Probably not," Shelby said. "And we already know you're not too nice, what with your military career and all."

  "Correct." Fran opened the door. "Thanks again, and if you need anything, you know where to find me."

  "And you me." She laughed. "You know, we might be the two most helpful people on the face of the earth."

  Fran reached over and rested her hand on Shelby's arm. "Could be. Goodnight, Shelby." The door closed behind her.

  * * *

  "Well," Connie said over coffee on Monday morning, "you must have had quite a time after we left Saturday."

  Shelby added milk to her coffee. "What?"

  "You're positively glowing."

  "I am?"

  "You are."

  She felt her face grow pink.

  Connie noticed it. "Hah!" she said, and grabbed for Shelby's left hand. She looked down, then up again, puzzlement slipping over her face. "Where's the ring?”

  "There's no ring," Shelby said, and extricated her hand from Connie's.

  "In that case," Connie said, giving Lisa a nudge in the ribs with her elbow, "there must be another reason for that glow." She almost leered. "Come on, Shel. Tell all. With details."

  "There's nothing," Shelby said firmly. "Ray stayed for a little while after you left, we talked, and he went home."

  "Oooh," Connie said, and rolled her eyes. "You talked." Her glance demanded that Lisa and Penny and Jean back her up in the teasing.

  Penny and Lisa grinned. Jean looked at the floor.

  "We had an argument."

  "Oh, no," Lisa said.

  "It was an argument. Not the end of the world."

  "Did you make up?”

  Yes, Lisa, we made up." Your dreams are safe, she thought. The world is the marvelous, romantic, picture-book place you want it to be. Life according to The Magazine for Women.

  "Listen," Connie said. "Want to flick out tonight?" It was Connie's way of inviting them to a movie.

  Shelby shook her head. "You'll have to go without me. I promised the new tenant I'd help her move in." Which wasn't a total lie. She'd promised herself she'd help Fran move in.

  "You mean they finally rented that apartment?" I.isa asked. "Who is it?"

  "A woman about our age. I only spent a few minutes with her."

  "What's she doing here?" Connie wanted to know.

  "Finishing college."

  "Where's she from?" Penny asked.

  She found herself not wanting to tell. As if she were protecting Fran from them. "She didn't say."

  "Well, what did she say?" Connie demanded.

  "She said 'hello.'"

  Jean took a large swallow from her coffee mug, but not before Shelby saw the smile that trickled over her face.

  Shelby quickly looked away from her. Meeting Jean's eyes right now could lead to a serious breakdown into conspiratorial giggles.

  "Other than that," Connie pressed on in an unamused tone, "what did she say?"

  "Nothing, really. We discussed the weather, I offered to help her unpack, she refused. She offered to help me clean up, I accepted. End of story." She turned to Jean. "I need to go over some stuff with you. About that last story you sent on. OK?"

  "Sure," Jean said. "Want to do it now?"

  “I’ll come along," Penny broke in. "I'll bet I'd learn something."

  Penny was still being the eager beaver. In the weeks that she'd been there, she'd dogged Shelby's footsteps, asking questions, probing into the why's and wherefore's of every editorial decision Shelby made. If Shelby was busy, or beginning to appear frayed, she transferred her attention to another of the lunch bunch. She was like a mental street-sweeper, sucking up every grain of information she could find. "Not this time," Shelby said. 'This is simple and routine."

  "We can work at my desk," Jean offered as she got up.

  "All my stuff's in the office. It'd be quicker to go there." She did her best imitation of Woman Oblivious of the Tension She Has Just Created, and gave them a short smile. "See you at lunch."

  She flicked the switch that turned on the fluorescent ceiling lights. Charlotte, her officemate, who was older and vividly remembered World War II and rationing, had a fetish about turning out lights. The first time Shelby had left them on, Charlotte was in such a state over it that Shelby decided it was simpler to develop the same mania than to risk her own life and Charlotte's mental health.

  The office was small but comfortable. The desks faced one another, separated by a few inches. Charlotte's was directly beside the window, and covered with drawings, photographs, and layouts. On the bulletin board behind her swivel chair she had hung sketches of the new fall designs from the more conservative houses. The Magazine for Women shied away from the unconventional and exotic. "Elegance and good taste," Charlotte was fond of saying, "are what our consumers expect of us."

  Charlotte liked to think of their readers as "consumers." Shelby pictured upper-middle-class housewives all over the country, sitting in their sunny breakfast nooks, calmly shredding and eating The Magazine for Women.

  Her own desk was more shadowed, and stacked with manuscripts. Her telephone sat squarely on the corner of the desk. Pencils were lined up in meticulous rows beneath the reading lamp. There was nothing on her blotter, and her written notes were carefully filed in folders.

  "It's so neat," Jean said. «You could perform surgery on your desk."

  Shelby laughed a little self-consciously. "Unlike my apartment. I'm trying not to be too intrusive. After we know each other better, I'
ll let Charlotte see the real me."

  "What's she like?" Jean wandered over to the bulletin board and studied the sketches.

  "I don't really know yet. She's out of the office a lot. Very career-minded. I don't know much about her line of work, and she doesn't know much about mine. I think she tolerates me."

  "You need a bulletin board," Jean said.

  "What would I put on it?"

  "Newspaper clippings about serial killers. Do you like her?"

  "Charlotte?" Shelby shrugged. "Sure. She's OK. I mean, she's not nasty or anything."

  Jean finished her tour of the office and perched on the window sill. "What'd I do wrong, boss?"

  "Nothing. I just wanted to talk to you..." She held up one hand quickly. "Not like the other day. I really needed to apologize again. It was a cowardly and unkind thing to do, and I feel terrible about it."

  "It's OK," Jean said.

  "I think it's created a wall between us. At least it seemed that way at the party. I don't want that to happen."

  "Hey, I'm over it. I probably would have done the same thing in your place. Connie's a scary lady when she wants something."

  "She doesn't mean to be," Shelby said. "She's just kind of single-minded."

  "It's not her motives that can hurt you. It's her methods."

  "I know," Shelby said. "I'm sorry."

  "Please stop being sorry. You're probably just an agent of her karma."

  "Her what?"

  "Fate, destiny. It's an Eastern religious concept."

  Shelby laughed. "You know the strangest things."

  "Food and religion. It doesn't get much stranger than that." She looked out the window. "This is the kind of day that fools you. The sun comes out and you think it's warm, but it isn't. The air even looks cold.”

  Curious, Shelby went to look out. There was a crystalline clearness to the air. It made the sunlight lemon yellow. The trees across the street, the edges and windows of houses, even the cars going by seemed to have been drawn by a compulsively meticulous artist with a pin-sharp pencil. "It does," she said. "I never noticed that before."

  "My trouble is," Jean said with a glance up at her, "I notice everything. It drives me crazy."

  "I can imagine."

  "Like during the party. You were tense from the minute Ray got there. I'm not surprised you had an argument."

  Shelby felt a familiar impulse to hide. She fought it. "He wants to get married," she said. "I'm not sure I'm ready. I feel kind of... well, pushed. I mean, I do want to marry him, someday. But things are just too new right now."

  "He can understand that, can't he?"

  She nodded, then gave a little laugh. "But you know Ray."

  "Do you love him?"

  "Of course.”

  "Then it doesn't matter, does it, whether you marry him this year, or next year, or the year after?"

  "I guess it doesn't." Shelby leaned against the wall and felt the first low hum of a headache. "But he doesn't see it that way. I'm meeting him tomorrow night, and I know he'll push for an engagement."

  "So let him. You can say 'no,' or you can have the longest engagement known to mankind."

  "Yeah." Shelby kneaded the back of her neck with her hand. "But you know what it means if we get engaged tomorrow night."

  Jean grinned. "Sure do. Another damn..."

  "Party," they said together.

  "I get so sick of parties," Shelby said.

  "Me, too. At least you sometimes enjoy them. It's my idea of Hell."

  "Always?"

  "Usually. It's easier when your mother's there. You don't have to worry about making conversation."

  "That's the truth," Shelby said with a laugh. "Once Libby gets going, you can't get a word in edgewise."

  Jean jumped down from the window sill. "I'd better get the show on the road. See you at lunch."

  She nearly collided with Charlotte May, who carne bustling through the door in a trim light wool suit, gloves, and hat. Charlotte was a short, sturdy, no-nonsense woman in her late forties. It was a widely appreciated joke in the office that Charlotte May had two speeds: bustle and sit. She sat.

  "Good morning," Shelby said as she returned to her desk. "You're looking festive."

  Charlotte plucked off her hat and tossed it on the desk. She stripped the gloves from her hands. "Through no choice of my own, thank you. This is one of those days. Breakfast meeting, you can't imagine the quality of the food. And that is not a recommendation. Avoid the Breakstone as if your life depended on it. It does."

  "I'll remember that." She leafed through her pile of folders and decided to read Penny's submissions. "Is it sunny in Hartford?"

  "It is not." Charlotte reached into her desk drawer and drew out a box containing a new pair of white gloves. She placed it under her hat. “And I have to go back this afternoon for a fashion show at Jordan's. With photographer in tow. Don't ask me why, I don't know. I hope they don't give me that foul-mouthed child... what's his name... Jerry." She gave Shelby a quick smile. "What's your life like today?"

  "Same as ever." She picked out a story, read a few paragraphs, then put it down. “Charlotte, tell me something. You've been married..."

  "Early and often," Charlotte said.

  "Well, do you think it's a good move or a bad move, as far as career goes."

  "Best move a man can make, worst for a woman." Charlotte glanced up from her notes. "Why? Thinking of tying the knot?"

  "Maybe."

  "Then you can kiss the publishing world good-bye. They're convinced any married woman will quit in a minute to have children. No matter what you promise, they won't believe it. That makes you a liability." She tapped the desk. "This is as far as you'll go, kiddo."

  Shelby frowned. "But you made editor."

  "Because I'm a bully. You're a nice person, Shelby, and nice people have to run twice as fast just to stand still."

  "Isn't that kind of cynical?"

  "No, lamb, it's based entirely on experience." She got up and opened the window and lit a Tareyton with her silver lighter. "I've seen good women come and go in this office. Talented, smart women. And the minute they start talking about marriage..." She poked at the air with her cigarette." ...it's out with the garbage. You look around. How many married women are there in this office? Not counting the readers, trainees, and underlings. Women with a bit of power and authority."

  "I don't know," Shelby said. "You. And Harriet Palmer in the Art department..."

  "Widow," Charlotte corrected her.

  "Mary Birnbaum in advertising."

  "Divorced."

  Shelby thought. "That's all I can come up with."

  "That's about it." An ash fell from the tip of Charlotte's cigarette onto the bosom of her blouse. She swiped at it angrily. "Well, there's that rattle-brained redhead in Circulation, but she's the publisher's daughter and probably a spy from Redbook." She stopped pacing and gesturing and fixed Shelby with a hard gray-eyed gaze. "I'm not saying you're doomed. From what I've seen of your work, you can run twice as fast. I'm just trying to tell you, you need to think long and hard about it. If marriage is what you want in your heart of hearts, then get married and leave the rest of it in the laps of the gods. But if you want to go as far as you can in this business—and that can be pretty darned far, in my opinion—for God's sake take a long, thorough, realistic look at the situation before you make a decision." She stubbed out her cigarette and sat. "And that's the end of Mother May's lecture for today."

  Shelby had to smile. There was no one she could think of who exemplified Motherhood less than Charlotte May. "Well, thanks for the advice. I really will think about it." She wanted to thank her for the compliment, too, but if she did Charlotte would probably think Shelby didn't take it seriously. "Thank you" to a compliment always had an undertone of “I know it's not true, but thank you for trying to make me feel better."

  She squirreled it away, to be taken out later and enjoyed like a gift.

  It was a miracle she made it home
that evening. She'd been working on a headache since lunch, and by the time she left the office she began to wonder if she could drive. On top of that, the two-lane bridge across the Mashentucket River that divided West Sayer from Bass Falls was jammed with traffic. Gasoline and diesel fumes hovered over the road. At least they didn't blow their horns. Nobody blew their horns around here. After all, this was New England.

  She swore as a bus cut in front of her and enveloped her in the stench of its exhaust. At the next red light, she dragged her pocketbook from the back seat and rummaged through it, searching for aspirin. She was even willing to chew them up without water if she had to. This was an emergency.

  Her pocketbook wasn't helpful. Neither was the glove compartment, or the shelf behind the back seat. She searched the floor, as much as she could see without losing control of the car—not that it would matter, they were practically standing still. No luck there, either. "I'm too damn organized," she muttered.

  She thought about turning off onto a side road, making a loop, and pulling into the A&P lot. But in the time it would take to do that, she could be home. Sighing, she flicked on the radio and sat back to suffer.

  It was another half hour before she got to her apartment. They were driving rusty nails into her head. Flashes of light burst in front of her eyes. She went into her apartment, tossed her pocketbook and jacket in the general direction of the couch, kicked off her shoes, and headed for the medicine cabinet.

  No aspirin. Nothing to substitute, either.

  Shelby clenched her jaw.

  A drink might help. Or it might make it worse. And she hated using alcohol for a headache. She had so many, she'd be addicted before summer.

  She had to go out to the market. The thought made her feel sick in her stomach. Moving at all seemed nearly impossible. Standing still helped a little, but even turning her head set off waves of throbbing pain.

  Fran. Fran would have an aspirin.

  Not bothering to put shoes on, she eased her way down the hall.

  "Hey," Fran said brightly. "Come on in. I'd apologize for the mess, but I don't want to draw your attention to it." She looked hard at Shelby. "Are you OK? You look as if someone punched you."

  "Just a headache," Shelby said, forcing a smile. "I'm out of aspirin. Do you…"