by Sarah Dreher
"I think you should eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"Irrelevant," Fran said. She got up and headed toward the kitchen. "I'm going to make you something."
"You don't have to..."
"Oh, be quiet. Get out of your work clothes. I think I can handle this."
It was only canned soup and crackers, but it helped. Her headache receded. Or maybe it wasn't the food. Maybe it was having a sane conversation with a sane individual. Fran shared more Army stories. Shelby said it sounded wretched, with the hours and the lines and people yelling at you all the time and marching in rain and sleeping in mud.
Fran said it was only hard for the first couple of weeks. After that, you had no mind left and didn't care what happened to you.
Then she changed the subject. "Look," she said, "I know it's none of my business, but I really am worried about those headaches of yours."
"It's just tension," Shelby said quickly. "And fatigue. I don't sleep well. Haven't for months. Years. I think maybe it's a personality trait."
"Do you have any odd sensations, like tingling or seeing things or strange smells?"
Shelby shook her head.
"Ever feel sick to your stomach?"
"Sometimes."
"And you have them a couple of times a week?"
"At least."
"Any particular time of day?"
"No," Shelby said, and laughed.
"How long do they usually last?"
“A while. It varies."
"Does drinking help?"
"Sometimes. Really, it's just tension."
"Maybe it is, and maybe not. I wouldn't worry about it if they didn't make you sick. There could be something seriously wrong. Like early migraines, or even the start of more sinister things."
She started to toss it off, then realized her hands were shaking. She folded them, but Fran had probably noticed. "I know," she said.
"I'm surprised Ray hasn't gotten on you about it."
"I haven't told him," she said before she realized how that would sound. She wanted to stop talking about this. Right now. Every time she had to look at it, every time she went below the level of aspirin and tension, she wanted to run.
Fran's hands closed over hers. "Have you talked with anyone? Someone who could tell you what's going on?"
Shelby shook her head.
"Why not?"
Shelby shrugged.
"Afraid of what you'll find out?"
"I guess so." Be honest, she told herself. She wants to help. "Yes."
"I figured," Fran said gently. "But, Shelby, the worst that can happen is finding out what you fear is true. The best is that you'll find out there's nothing to worry about. This way you're living with the worst."
"You're very sensible."
"And probably insensitive," Fran said. "If I were in your shoes, I wouldn't want me being sensible. I'd want me running in circles and screaming hysterically."
Shelby smiled. "Don't do it. There's a two-month old baby upstairs. You really don't want to wake him."
"So what do you say?" Fran squeezed her hands.
"I just hate the idea of everyone knowing, and talking, and asking all the time..."
"Nobody has to know. You make an appointment with a neurologist. You find out what there is to find out, and then do whatever you want with the information."
She could feel anxiety rising.
"Do you know a neurologist?"
Shelby shook her head. The inside of her face felt brittle.
"That's no problem," Fran said. "I can get some names from work..."
"I don't know, Fran. I don't think I can cope with that right now, making appointments, going through it, on top of everything. It seems like too much."
"I'll make the appointment for you, and come with you if you want. You won't have to do anything." She released her hands. "When you're ready, just tell me. I won't mention it again. I promise."
"Yeah, but every time I look at you I'll be thinking about it."
"Well, I won't. The subject is closed." Fran got up and started clearing the table. "Are you tied up Saturday and Sunday?"
Shelby carried dishes to the sink. "No, Ray has to work."
"Ever been camping?"
"Only summer camp. But that was pretty fancy. Cabins and plumbing, music lessons. They didn't even have mosquitoes. Not like camping with a tent and cooking over a fire and animals crashing through the underbrush."
"Want to try it?" Fran ran hot water in the sink.
As long as she could remember, she'd wanted to go camping. Real camping. "I sure do."
"Great. It'll give me a chance to show off what the Army taught me."
"Really? You want me to go camping?"
"Saturday morning. We can come back Sunday evening."
"I'll probably be completely useless."
Fran laughed. "Beginners are excellent people to camp with."
"How come?"
"They do all the boring things and don't even know they're boring."
Shelby took the washed and rinsed plate Fran handed her and reached for the towel. "What should I bring?"
"Just yourself. I have everything we need, compliments of Uncle Sam." She looked Shelby up and down. "Do you have any knock-around clothes, or do you always dress as if you were about to meet the public?"
"I was wearing knock-around clothes when you met me."
"This is true. It was what I liked about you right off. You should have rain gear, just in case. I haven't heard any forecasts, but I wouldn't trust them, anyway. There's a good Army surplus store over in West Sayer. I checked them out."
"I know the place."
"Just be comfortable. Especially your shoes. If you have hiking boots, fine. But don't bring new ones. Believe me, next to the Army, camping is the worst possible place to break in new boots."
Shelby smiled. She was very glad she knew this woman.
* * *
"Camping?" Connie asked with a puzzled frown.
Shelby laughed. "What, you think I'm a hot-house flower? You think I can't rough it?"
"I'm sure you can," Connie said. "You've just never expressed any interest in camping."
"I went to summer camp. I told you that, didn't I?”
"Yes," Lisa said. "But you said it was like boarding school, and you were homesick the whole time."
"Yeah, I was. But that was different, and I was just a kid." And an unhappy kid, who didn't know where she belonged but knew it wasn't with four hundred gleeful, well-adjusted girls who weren't afraid of horses and could dive like Olympians before they even got there, and who were always running around organizing chamber music ensembles. Even the little ones cared more for their violins and flutes than their pocket knives. Once, one of the other girls, someone she'd never even met, someone younger than herself, had caught her out behind the dining room, crying, and had lectured her on how she should appreciate the opportunities her parents were giving her, not sit around crying like a baby. There was only one girl in the camp who seemed to like her, but she was older and Shelby couldn't remember her name.
“So are you going with a bunch of people, or what?” Lisa asked.
"Just Fran and me."
Lisa looked terrified. "What if something happens?"
Shelby had to smile. Lisa firmly believed that the safest place to be when faced with natural disaster, civil disorder, or act of God was in the middle of a crowd.
"I guess we'll handle it," Shelby said. “or die.”
"I want you to call me the minute you get back," Lisa said. "No matter what hour of day or night."
She knew Lisa was really frightened, and it touched her. "I will. I promise."
"I'm going to be a wreck the whole weekend."
"We're not leaving until Saturday," Shelby said.
"She'll be all right," Jean said to Lisa. "I've been camping. The worst that can happen is severe discomfort."
"It can't be any more dangerous than being a white girl living in Ken
ya during the Mau Mau uprisings," Penny said.
Shelby looked at her. "You did that?"
“For a couple of weeks, then we were called Stateside and reassigned to Europe.”
"It must have been hideous," Connie said, leaning forward eagerly, loving a grisly story. "Weren't you terrified?"
"I was too young to get what was really going on. Our cook disappeared one night. My mother said she'd gone back to her village. And one of the chauffeurs was beheaded."
Lisa gasped.
"I didn't see it. I just heard about it. But I was scared enough to be glad to get out of there."
With a twinge of guilt, Shelby realized how much she didn't know about Penny, She'd meant to spend more time with her outside of work, and now that Connie had taken that ridiculous attitude about her... But the time had slipped away. As Libby was fond of saying, the road to Hell was paved with Shelby's good intentions.
"What do you do," Lisa asked with a little shudder, "camping?"
"I don't know," Shelby said. "Read and hike and cook over a fire, I guess."
"What if it rains?" Connie put in.
"Fran said she'd teach me to play gin rummy."
"You sit in a tent, on the ground..."
"On sleeping bags," Shelby said.
"And play gin rummy?"
"That's what she said."
Lisa shrieked and pulled fistfuls of her hair. "I will never," she said, "commit a sin so heinous that I'm forced to do penance by going camping."
Shelby laughed. "Lisa, you're one of a kind."
"The whole idea strikes terror into my extroverted heart."
"Well," Shelby said, "I have to admit I'm a little nervous. I don't want to make a fool of myself."
"A fool of yourself! You'll be lucky to get back alive, much less with your dignity intact. This thing has ‘fool of yourself’ written all over it."
"Oh, come on," Jean said with a laugh. "It's a camping trip. People do it all the time."
"I don't like the woods at night," Lisa said.
"What's the matter?" Connie asked. "Afraid someone will jump out at you?"
"Yes!" Lisa insisted. "Me!"
They all laughed at that. "Lisa's a city kid," Connie explained to Penny. "She grew up in New York. When she first came here, she didn't even know how to drive a car."
"I still don't," Lisa said, "very well."
"Of all the things I associate with New York," Connie said in a teasing way, "understatement was never one of them." She pushed her chair back. "Anybody want anything from the trough?"
"Not me," Shelby said, looking down at her half-finished lunch, at the wilting lettuce and overcooked canned peas and gray-brown meat of unknown origin. "I've punished my gastro-intestinal system enough for one day." She plucked the corner of a slice of meat with her fork and examined its underside. "Have any of you seen the papers lately?"
"No," Connie said. "Why?"
She let the meat flop back onto the plate. "I wondered if there was a serial killer in the area."
Lisa shrieked and knocked over her glass of water with her elbow.
"You know," Jean said as she picked up her brown paper bag and mopped at the spill, "if word ever gets out about the cooking at The Magazine for Women, our credibility is shot."
"Maybe they should fire the food editor and hire you," Connie said with a wink.
Jean shook her head. "I just want to run the kitchen here. And make all you slaves eat my cooking."
"The magazine would save a mint on lunches," Penny said, "Everyone would bring their own."
They loaded their dishes onto trays, clearing the table for the bridge game. Shelby caught Penny's arm. "Listen, I have some shopping to do over here after work. Do you want to have a drink?"
Penny blushed deeply. "Of course. Would you like to come to my place? I'll make us some supper."
"That'd be great." Penny could go on ahead to cook, while she shopped. She didn't want anyone with her on this trip to the Army Surplus store. She wanted to be alone, to take it all in and enjoy it without being watched.
Her friends would probably be shocked. She was more excited about a trip to a camping store than she would be over the Christmas "Messiah" sing-along.
Connie was coming back to the table, cards in hand. "Bridge time," she said. "You in?"
"Sure. Just let me clear my stuff." She pulled her dishes together. "Who's out?"
"Lisa. She offered to help clean out the supply cabinet."
"There's trouble."
"Tell me about it," Connie said with a heavenward roll of her eyes. "She's such a... a..."
"Klutz?" Shelby offered.
"Klutz. Sometimes I worry about her."
"You worry about everyone, Con. Your maternal instincts are out of control."
"Well, just remember," Connie said, "Mother's Day is nearly here. Don't go to any trouble. Something extravagant will do."
"Oh, God, what am I going to get Libby?"
"Libby's easy to buy for."
"Not for me. I always get the wrong thing."
"Set a price limit and give me carte blanche, and I'll pick up something."
"You would? Really?"
"Easy as pie," Connie said, and snapped her fingers. "So put it out of your mind."
"I had."
"Random forgetting is not wise. Getting someone else to do it and then forgetting is wise."
"Yes, Mother."
"Respect and obedience," Connie said approvingly. "Excellent qualities."
"Seriously," Shelby said, "I really do appreciate it."
"I know." Connie patted her arm. "When it comes to your mother, your IQ drops fifty points." She sighed. "Next time I create the world, I'm going to do away with the whole parental thing. When it's time to breed, we'll lay eggs by a spring and wander off into the desert." She leaned close to Shelby. "By the way, you're doing a great job with Jean." She shuffled the cards. "Now, get rid of your dishes and prepare to be humiliated."
* * *
Except for the clerk with the voice that would register on the Richter scale, the Army Surplus store was everything she'd hoped. Foot lockers piled halfway to the ceiling. Cardboard boxes spilling olive drab web belts into the aisles. Metal canteens and mess kits. Compasses and knapsacks. Ammunition cases. Topographic maps. Bandanas. Boot laces. Cookstoves. Wool socks. Gas masks. Worn Army jackets, some with names still on them. Spray cans of waterproof- ing for canvas. Collapsible aluminum drinking cups and water purification kits. Lanyards and whistles. Tight metal cases holding water proof matches. Sentry first aid kits in red and white metal boxes. Zippo windproof lighters. Service ribbons. Handbooks teaching wilderness survival. Army shoes and paratroopers' high black boots. Trench shovels and hatchets and axes. Navy blue balaclavas. Machetes. Wood and canvas cots. Everything looked and smelled sturdy, clean, and useful.
It was a good thing she'd made a date with Penny. She might be tempted to stay here forever. Simply being here, surrounded by forbidden treasures, made her feel calm. Her mother would be horrified. Maybe she should pick up a little something for Libby while she was here. An olive drab flashlight that hooked over your belt would make a nice accessory. She could wear it to the country club. Or how about a nested stainless steel knife-fork-and-spoon kit in its own olive drab case? Always in good taste. Or a floppy olive drab fatigue hat with sewn-on mosquito netting. Or a lovely pair of worn olive drab slacks that had once belonged to a soldier who was probably killed on Guadalcanal.
She was losing control of herself, never a good idea when dealing with matters Libby-esque. Libby just didn't have a sense of humor about some things. Especially things involving her daughter doing or owning anything masculine, crude, or "unladylike." In fact, Libby would not have a happy attitude about this entire camping trip.
She ran her finger down the sharp blade of a Bowie knife. You could do serious damage with this knife. Skin a rabbit, cut branches from trees, slice meat, open a vein...
She put the knife down and found the po
nchos, chose an olive drab one. She took the poncho and a knapsack to the counter and paid for them, and—telling herself it was an afterthought even though it really wasn’t—picked up a Swiss Army knife. At least, with a pocketknife, she wouldn't look like a total novice.
Chapter Six
"Where's your stuff?" Penny asked as she opened the door.
"I left it in the car."
"Didn't you want to show me? Connie always wants to show everything she buys. So does Lisa. Jean doesn't, but I don't think Jean buys things. She makes them."
Shelby went to the sofa and kicked off her shoes. "This wasn't anything special. Just some rain gear."
"For the camping trip?" She poured Shelby a whiskey sour and handed it to her.
"Yep. Thanks." She took a sip. "This is great."
"It's your mother's recipe."
"My mother, the cocktail queen."
Penny poured herself a drink and settled beside her. "I hope you'll have nice weather this weekend. I haven't heard any forecasts."
"They never commit themselves this far in advance. How's it going in the readers' room?"
"OK, I guess." Penny propped her feet on the coffee table and frowned into her drink. "I miss having you there, though."
"Hey," Shelby said with a little laugh. "I haven't left the planet. My door's always open."
Penny looked at her shyly. "It isn't just because of work."
"A problem of any kind. I'm always glad to see you."
"Darn it." Penny kicked at the table and jumped up and scurried into the kitchen. "That's not what I mean." If the kitchen had had a door, she'd have slammed it.
Shelby started to get up, then thought better of it. The kitchen was tiny. She didn't want Penny to feel trapped. Trapped people often did things that were out of character and a humiliation to themselves for the rest of their lives.
"I just miss having you around," Penny said, coming back to the living room with big eyes and onion dip.
"I miss seeing you, too. Things get hectic." Shelby turned the glass in her hands. "Time gets away."
Penny looked down at the onion dip. "I don't know why I made this. If we don't have dinner soon, it'll be midnight, for God's sake."
"Would you like to go out?"
"No! I've been slaving over a hot meatloaf all evening."
