Solitaire and Brahms

by Sarah Dreher

  "You were crying, weren't you?”

  "Not really."

  "A little?" Fran was silent. Shelby took her hand. "I wish you could talk to me."

  "Well, I can't," Fran said, sad and angry at the same time. "So can we just get off it?"

  "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed."

  "I'd hate it if you weren't concerned about me." Fran smiled ruefully. "Guess I'm hard to please."

  Shelby laughed. "You're not hard to please. I've dealt with professionals."

  "Ah, yes, the famous Libby. I don't want to make you feel unexceptional, but my mother had her moments, too."

  "Had? Isn't your mother alive?"

  "She's alive," Fran said, and took a sip of water. "I'm the one who's dead, in her opinion."

  “Really?"

  "Really." She looked in the general direction of the north window, avoiding Shelby's eyes. "She gave away or burned all my stuff. When people ask her how many kids she has, she says ‘one’. According to my brother, anyway, and he has no reason to lie."

  "I never heard of anything like that," Shelby said. "It must be awful."

  "Not so awful, considering the alternatives." She shot Shelby a quick glance. "Libby, for instance."

  "What about your father?"

  "He does what Mom says." Fran shrugged. "It's no big deal. I mean, it's no big deal now. It was at the time but it's in the past."

  "But what happened?" Shelby was having a hard time wrapping her mind around this. "To make her like that, I mean. Toward you."

  "We didn't get along."

  "That's a pretty big 'not getting along.'"

  "We really didn't get along."

  "Is that wha ... the other night... I'm sorry, you asked me not to bring it up."

  Fran smiled and squeezed her hand. "It's all right. And, no, it has very little to do with the other night. OK?"

  "OK."

  "Are you going to turn on the TV, or do I have to drag my fevered, beaten body inch by agonizing inch across the room?"

  If she thought going back to the office was strange, seeing Ray again was even stranger. He came to her apartment, banged on the door, and when she opened it swooped her up in an embrace and a mighty kiss. "Babe," he murmured into her ear. "I missed you."

  "Me, too," she said, glad he couldn't see her face.

  "Bad news, though. I have to go on duty at six a.m. tomorrow. OK with you if we just have dinner in West Sayer and come back here and fool around?"

  "OK with me." The dinner part was OK. She wasn't so certain about the fooling around. Which struck her as odd. After not seeing her fiancé for two weeks, even though they'd talked on the phone every night, she should be up for some major fooling around. But his gestures felt rough, his size and strength frightened her...

  "Come on, then. Put on your old gray bonnet and let's hit the trail."

  It grew even worse over dinner. She picked at her lobster and tried to listen to him, but all she could hear were the voices in her head, shouting at him, “Go away, go away, go away."

  At one point she even thought she'd said it out loud, but Ray didn't break stride in his talking. There were more and more cases of drug overdose every week, he said, especially among the college students. It disturbed him. He thought he should do something. He didn't know what to do. He'd talked with administration officials from both Harvard and M.I.T., but they either refused to recognize the problem, or refused to admit it was a problem, and muttered platitudes about "learning experiences" and "academic freedom.”

  Shelby nodded sympathetically, and reminded herself that Ray was a caring, compassionate man, a person of honor, all too rare in today's world. On the brink of extinction, really. She was grateful he cared so deeply about his work, especially since it kept him from noticing that she felt as odd as a three-dollar bill.

  The restaurant wasn't crowded, but the edges of things were blurred as if the room were filled with smoke or fog. People, Ray, the waiters, the kitchen with the gray metal swinging doors, seemed very far away. She might be watching it in a movie. An old movie. Colors seemed washed out, barely there. She didn't like this feeling. Connect, she told herself sharply.

  They drove back to the apartment. Ray wanted to come in. Shelby pleaded exhaustion. It wasn't a lie. She hadn't slept since Thursday, when Fran had declared herself out of danger and into convalescence, and no longer in need of round-the-clock supervision. She was genuinely glad Fran felt better, but sleeping in her own apartment, no longer listening for Fran's cough or wheeze, or just restless tossing, was a lonely and useless feeling. She'd begun to feel the lack of sleep, too. There was a gray headache overhead. Still distant and faint as faraway thunder but she knew it was only a matter of time until it rolled over the horizon. Maybe, if she took a sleeping pill and got caught up, it would go away.

  "You do look bushed," Ray said. "Get in bed. Right now. Doctor's orders."

  She told Ray she'd call him first thing in the morning, and that he was the most understanding man in the world, and she was the luckiest woman alive and terribly in love. He kissed her outside her door, and let himself out. Shelby stood for a moment, listening. There was music in the hall, coming from behind Fran's door. Classical music. Brahms.

  She thought about going to Fran's apartment, asking her if there was anything wrong, if there was anything she could do. But she didn't want to be pushy. If there was something wrong, she had to trust Fran to tell her sooner or later. That was the mature, responsible, respectful way to handle it. She hated it.

  Because something was wrong. The past few days Fran had been withdrawn, pulled into herself. Ever since that night. It made Shelby feel crazy, wanting to know. It wasn't like her, to feel so... so stuck with something. If one of her friends was troubled, she made a point of noticing. If they wanted to talk, she was there to listen. She never took their reticence personally. If they wanted to be left alone, she left them alone. But this was different. She couldn't solve it, and she couldn't let it go. And worst of all, she was convinced it had something to do with her.

  She hung her dress in the closet and slipped into pajamas. Take a sleeping pill. Go to bed. Things will look different in the morning. Maybe worse, maybe better, but different.

  The last thing she did before she got into bed was slip out into the hall and listen for Fran's music.

  It was still playing.

  It was still Brahms.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jean's birthday was the middle of July. It required a party, another back yard barbecue. Summer had settled in to stay, and they were in the throes of their annual week-long breath-choking heat wave. The air was spongy with humidity. Pictures curled inside their frames. Charcoal was reluctant to catch fire, and so much starter fluid was used the town looked like an oil refinery every evening from five to seven. The touch of air against skin was unpleasant, clammy and warm. Maple leaves drooped darkly. There was a powder of mildew on the lilac bushes. The grass stopped growing. Every time Shelby saw a road crew, she wanted to take them gallons of lemonade. Dogs lay panting on their sides, their tongues lolling in the dust. There were no visible cats. The only creatures moving were the sparrows, taking dust baths in wilting gardens.

  The whole lunch bunch was there, of course, with their assorted escorts. And Libby, who had breezed in at the last minute to drop off magazines with possible bridesmaids' dresses. She'd invited herself to stay. At Jean's request, she'd invited Fran. "Too much boy-girl, boy-girl," Jean had said. Her "relationship" with Greg had never gotten off the ground. "I'll feel like a leper. Besides, I haven't seen her in a while."

  Fran accepted. "I like Jean," she said. "I'd like to know her better." Still with that touch of formality, and not looking Shelby in the eye.

  "Great," Shelby said, covering her own uneasiness with enthusiasm. "And we'd better sit down and plan our camping trip, before the summer gets away from us."

  "As soon as I get off the weekend shift." She smiled and shrugged helplessly. "You know how it is."


  No, she wanted to say, I don't know how it is. I don't know how anything is, or what it is, or where we stand. "Sure," she said. It wasn't that she was just frustrated, she was hurt. Fran had brought something into her life, and now she was taking it away.

  I didn't do anything wrong, Shelby thought, and felt as if she were going to cry.

  If she hadn't had the sleeping pills to fall back on for the past couple of weeks, she probably would never have slept.

  Shelby wondered if they should move the party inside, where it was cooler. It might even be worthwhile dragging her bedroom air conditioner out of the storage space in the basement. Every year she tried to get through the summer without it. The humming bothered her; it made her feel cut off from the world. The cold air made her sleepy so she went around in a comfortable but unproductive daze. And when it cycled on and off during the night it did so with a "clunk" loud enough to wake the neighbors three houses over. But, try as hard as she could, she couldn't make it through the July heat wave. The inversion layer, they called it on the radio. Dampness from the river combining with industrial smog and pollen and trapped by a high-pressure system, or a low-pressure system, or some kind of system that didn't move much. It might be time to give in to it.

  She went over to where Fran was drinking a beer and chatting with Jean. "Do you think we should bring the air conditioner up?"

  “You couldn't tell by me,” Fran said. "I've been living in Tex-ass. In weather like this, we go south to get warm."

  Jean laughed. "You wouldn't want to spoil the boys' fun, would you?"

  For reasons no one really understood, human beings of the male persuasion seemed to have a compulsion, during killer heat, to go outside and hurl objects through the air and catch them. They were at it now. Charlie and Ray and Lisa's Wayne and yet another man they'd never met who'd come with Penny, tossing a tiny rubber football that the baby upstairs had thrown out of his playpen on the patio.

  "Male energy," Jean said, "is incomprehensible."

  "I'll drink to that." Fran drained her bottle. "Whatever happened with Greg?"

  “Greg?”

  "That boy you were dating when I met you."

  "That's ancient history," Jean said. "Doesn't Shelby keep you up on the news?"

  Fran glanced up at Shelby. "Usually. I haven't been well."

  “How are you now?"

  "Fine. Except for the occasional sleeping fits."

  "Oh, God," Jean groaned. "The narcolepsy."

  "I'm afraid every time she drives," Shelby said lightly, and rested a deliberate hand casually on Fran's shoulder. It was a childish and silly thing to do, but she hadn't touched her in so long...

  Fran laughed. "She thinks I'm going to fall asleep at the wheel," she said. She slipped out from under Shelby's hand. "I need another beer. How about you two?"

  "Thanks," Jean said.

  Shelby shook her head. She could feel the redness in her face, the embarrassment. Then she got mad. Damn it, what was the big stinking deal about putting her hand on Fran's shoulder? It was a perfectly normal, friendly gesture. Fran didn't have to act as though she... She didn't know what. As though she... something. Something rude. Something nasty.

  "I really like her," Jean was saying. "I'll bet you two have a lot of fun."

  Oh, yes, tons of fun. Every day another thrill, every minute another laugh. "Sometimes," she said. "I don't see her a lot. She works funny hours."

  "That's what she said. She doesn't see as much of you as she'd like because of her work schedule."

  Did she mention the evenings she's spent shut up in her room listening to Brahms? Did she mention we were going to go camping again and didn't? And did she happen to mention what the hell is really going on? Because I certainly would be interested in knowing.

  Fran came toward them, carrying three beers. "I got you one," she said, handing it to Shelby. She didn't make eye contact. "You looked hot."

  "Thank you." Shelby turned to Jean and lifted her beer. "Here's to you. Many happy returns."

  "Jean!" Libby called from across the patio. "Come here and let me give you a big birthday kiss."

  Jean waved to her. Under her breath, she said, "Do I have to?"

  "Of course you don't," Shelby said.

  Libby was calling and making "come here" gestures.

  "Yes, I do." Jean smiled grimly. "Might as well get in over with."

  Shelby leaned against the stone wall and watched Connie join them. General expressions of jollity all around. She really ought to go and rescue her.

  "Shelby," Fran said.

  "Yeah?"

  "I'm sorry."

  Shelby looked at her. "What for?"

  "What I did just now."

  Shelby felt tight-lipped and unforgiving. "I don't have a contagious disease, you know."

  "I know. It was... complicated. I don't expect you to understand."

  "Clearly."

  Fran was silent for a moment. "We're losing each other, aren't we?"

  She could feel herself begin to melt. "Are we?"

  "I think so. And it's my fault. I'm in kind of a stuck place right now. I thought I could handle it, but I guess I can't."

  "I don't know what's going on, Fran."

  "I know you don't." She sighed. "I think we have to talk."

  "That sounds like a good idea. Whenever you have the time."

  "I'll make the time." Fran looked down at the ground. "I really miss you, Shelby."

  She rested her hand against the side of Fran's face. "I miss you, too."

  Fran cleared her throat. "Look, this has nothing to do with you, but I don't feel real comfortable with..."

  Shelby smiled, because Fran looked so lovely. She took her hand away. "I know. You don't like public displays of affection."

  "That's sort of it."

  "Are you afraid people will think we're having an affair?" She laughed and felt a little giddy. "I wish they would. It would make for some very interesting lunch table conversation."

  Fran glanced over to where Libby and Connie and Jean were standing, looking their way. "Be careful what you wish for. You might get it."

  Time to serve dinner. Ray tried to make himself scarce, so he wouldn't have to help. Shelby told him he could be as lazy as a slug after they were married, but as far as she was concerned the courtship was still in session and she expected to be treated like a queen. He grinned and came to help, but after ten minutes of his bungling she declared him untrainable and told him to get out and send her someone more competent. Someone like Lisa.

  After he left, pretending to feel rejected, she realized in the pit of her stomach what had happened. They'd fallen into the classic Dagwood-and-Blondie scenario—dominant, harried Wife; incompetent husband. They'd never played that game before. It had happened so easily.

  She made herself a gin and tonic.

  "If you're a closet lush," Lisa said as she bounced through the door, "I'd suggest something with a less distinctive odor. Something that goes better with beer."

  Shelby put her glass in the sink. "You're right."

  "I'm not saying I blame you." Lisa opened the refrigerator and began tossing lettuce and tomatoes and onions and carrots and peppers randomly onto the drain board.

  "What do you mean?"

  "The tension's so thick you can cut it with a knife." She bent down and rummaged through the crisper.

  "It is?"

  "I'm not certain," she found a bunch of radishes and added them to the pile, "but I suspect your mother isn't exactly fond of your housemate."

  "Oh, for God's sake." Shelby found a large bowl and started ripping up the lettuce.

  "She keeps giving her surreptitious, nasty glances. They were talking a little while ago. I wonder what set her off."

  "It doesn't take anything to set Libby off," Shelby said roughly. "She's in a constant state of ‘off.’”

  "Maybe she needs a boyfriend."

  "When have you ever known Libby to be without a boyfriend?"

  L
isa discovered a jar of olives. "Well, maybe she needs to get married.”

  "She'll never get married. She'd lose her alimony."

  "Hey, go easy on the lettuce. You're beating it into submission."

  "Yeah, I am." She stopped.

  "It's a tossed salad, not a mauled salad."

  "I got carried away." She found a paring knife and started cutting up vegetables.

  ”I can do that," Lisa said. "I'm supposed to be helping you."

  Shelby smiled at her. "Lisa, I love you dearly, but your bloody fingertips in the salad we do not need."

  "Croutons!" Lisa said, and started looking through the cupboards. She found a box of lemon Jello. "You made Fran drink this stuff, didn't you?"

  "Yep. Did she tell you that?"

  Lisa nodded. "She said you probably saved her life, but it wasn't much of a blast."

  "Things that are good for you seldom are much of a blast." She got a larger knife and sliced the onions translucent-thin.

  "You sound like my mother," Lisa said with a giggle.

  “As long as I don't sound like mine." She stacked the onion slices and attacked them vertically.

  Lisa finished tearing up the lettuce and took the smaller knife and started in on a pepper. "Something bothering you, Shel?”

  Surprised, she looked up. "No. Why?"

  "You seem kind of P.O.’d.”

  "I'm fine. I guess I shouldn't talk about my mother while I'm slicing onions. Remind me of that next time."

  Lisa ran the pepper under water. "Libby's OK."

  "She's OK around you. She likes you."

  "She likes you, too."

  "Not very much,"

  As soon as she said it she realized it was true. Her mother-didn't like her very much.

  "Don't be silly," Lisa said. "Of course she does."

  "No, really, she doesn't." This was big. This was a major realization. Maybe even a Major Realization. It frightened her. And excited her. "She really doesn't. Hardly at all."

  She didn't know what to think about this. Didn't even know how to think about it.