by Sarah Dreher
Lisa gave an uncertain little laugh. "You know that's not true. You're trying to shock me."
"No, I'm serious. I... “ One glance at Lisa's face told her to back off. This was shocking stuff to Lisa. Hell, it'd be shocking to anyone. She was even a mite shocked, herself. She'd better get off this before Lisa died of embarrassment. Lisa had the look of someone caught eavesdropping. Lisa was worried, and wouldn't meet her eyes. "Of course I'm not serious," she said. "I'm annoyed with her tonight, that's all."
"That happens," Lisa said uncomfortably, and went back to slicing peppers.
You're not supposed to talk about things like that, Shelby reminded herself. Taboo topics. Fratricide, matricide, patricide, incest, and the possibility that your mother doesn't like you. Mothers love their children. They can't help it, it's something that happens to them when they're pregnant. Some hormonal thing. And children love their mothers. They can't help it, either. Probably the same hormonal thing. And in spite of all the tension and squabbling and things that seem to go wrong, when it comes right down to the bottom line, your mother's your mother and she'll do the motherly thing.
A nurse at camp had told her that, when she'd been moping with homesickness and hurt that her parents wouldn't call her and they'd sent her to the nurse because she wouldn't eat and was losing weight. "Next to the Lord Jesus Christ," the nurse had said in a there-there, off-handed kind of way, "your mother's your best friend."
That had impressed her, being at an age when she was apt to be impressed by anything Biblical. She'd thought about it and thought about it, trying to figure out what was being a "best friend" about refusing to talk to her on the phone. She finally gave up, and decided it was probably one of those things she'd understand once she was older. Once she was a mother, maybe, and wise. She'd asked her mother if it was true, though, just to be on the safe side. "Of course it is," Libby had said. She took a strand of Shelby's hair in her hand and stroked it between her fingers. "I wonder if you'd look better with a perm."
Mothers. Study up, kiddo, she reminded herself. You'll be one some day.
She wondered if she'd be a good mother, whatever that meant. She hoped so. When she thought of "good mother," she thought of someone you could run to when you were hurt, who'd pick you up and hold you no matter what the problem was and whether it was your own fault or not. Someone who'd stand by you even when you made a mistake. Someone...
"Parsley?" Lisa asked.
"Parsley?"
"Do you have any parsley."
"Oh, yeah, sure." She waved toward the back door. "In that little herb garden, right next to the garage wall. If the heat hasn't done it in."
Lisa slipped out the door.
Thank God, a minute to be alone, to think, to...
"Shelby, what in the world are you doing in there?" Libby was annoyed. You could tell by the way the ice chattered in her Tom Collins.
"Getting dinner on," Shelby said, trying not to sound defensive and nearly succeeding.
"Well, how complicated can that be, for heaven's sake?"
"I'm almost done. Make yourself a drink."
Libby bustled noisily between the refrigerator and the sink. Despite the clatter, her verbal silence made Shelby apprehensive. You never could tell what would come at the end of one of those silences. "I noticed you met Fran," she said, to make small talk.
"Yes, I did." Libby found the gin and poured herself a healthy shot. The silence came back.
"What did you think of her?"
Her mother opened a fresh bottle of mixer and slopped some into her drink. She put one finger over her lips thoughtfully. "An odd child."
"Child?" Shelby said. "She's older than me."
"Compared to me, who's soon to be older than Methuselah, she's a child. And so are you." She took Shelby's chin between her thumb and forefinger. "And you'll always be a child to your old Mom."
Shelby pulled away. "I'm cutting off your booze, Libby," she said lightly. "You're becoming maudlin."
"God forbid!" She leaned against the sink and sipped her drink. "Kind of a diamond-in-the-rough, maybe?"
"Who?"
"Nan... Jan..."
“Fran."
"She tells me she was in the Army."
"That's right."
"Well, that's what I mean by odd."
This time she couldn't keep the defensiveness from her voice. "Being in the Army isn't illegal, immoral, or fattening."
"No," said Libby smoothly. "Just odd."
This was becoming distressingly familiar. Next Libby would say she thought Fran didn't like her. Then it would be Libby didn't like Fran, which was the real truth of it all along. It had happened with college friends. It had happened with graduate school friends. It hadn't happened yet with Jean, though it was bound to. Jean had probably escaped so far by always being in Libby's presence with Connie and Lisa and Penny, who were much more acceptable, being much more noisy. But it was coming. She could tell by the way Libby looked at Jean, her face as expressionless as a mannequin's.
To hell with it, Shelby thought. There was nothing she could do about it except try not to give a damn. Which would be a lot easier if Libby were less persistently vocal about her likes and dislikes.
Lisa was back with the parsley. It was a little pathetic but not too bad. Shelby wouldn't have cared if it looked like straw or dried moss. It was the excuse she needed to gear up into a flurry of activity that left no room for conversation.
Fran left early, pleading a morning shift at the Health Service. Shelby wondered if it really was that. Fran had seemed to grow more and more uncomfortable as the evening wore on. She probably sensed Libby's antipathy, which increased every time Shelby sent a word or look in Fran's direction.
It made Shelby angry. This was Fran's home... well, almost, the house, anyway, more than it was Libby's... Shelby's home, at any rate. And if she wanted her here, it was Libby's business to adjust, not glower over the place like a Rottweiler with a fresh bone.
She wished they'd leave, so she could catch Fran before she went to bed, so they could talk. Not anything big or heavy. She just needed to be reassured Libby hadn't run her off.
There was no way that was going to happen, though. They'd barely started on cake and coffee and presents. That would take at least another hour. Then the obligatory drive with Ray to the all-night diner. Shelby sighed. Her whole life was cemented in routine. She wished she had the nerve to break the rules. If there were a Shelby Black, Shelby Black would break the rules. Shelby Black would stand up, clap her hands, and announce, "Party's over, folks. It was swell. Thanks for coming. Ray, take someone else to the diner. You smell of beer and I have better things to do." But Shelby Black didn't exist. Just good old agreeable, cowardly Shelby Camden.
Sometimes she thought everyone in the world was going insane, and she was leading the way.
She asked Connie to be her maid of honor. Connie just looked at her as if she'd lost her mind to ask. As if Everyone, Connie's favorite group of people, had known for months that Connie would be the maid of honor. As if, the minute she'd agreed to marry Ray, a billboard had gone up somewhere reading, “Connie Thurmond, maid of honor."
The lunch bunch had taken to sudden, embarrassed silences whenever Shelby entered the room. Even Jean. Shelby had tried to sound her out about it, but Jean assured her they were just discussing wedding gifts. She would have believed her if Jean hadn't looked so guilty.
At least Penny was still behaving as usual, blowing hot and cold for no apparent reason.
Libby had worked herself into a frenzy of activity around the wedding. Every weekend, and sometimes on weeknights, she summoned Shelby to Boston to make yet another decision, choose another china or silver or linen pattern, register at yet another department store. The material out of which the bridesmaids' shoes would be made assumed an importance equal to the decision to drop the atomic bomb. If Ray hadn't lived in Cambridge and been able to meet her for dinner, she would have forgotten what he looked like.
She supposed this was normal mother-of-the-bride behavior. Most of the married women around the office declared it was hell on wheels. Some even claimed they'd never recovered, and at least one woman swore it had permanently damaged her relationship with her mother.
Then why are we doing this? she kept wanting to ask. If you hated it, and your mother probably hated it just as much when her mother arranged her wedding, and her mother before her...
Weddings, she decided, are a primitive ritual more deeply embedded in the human psyche than deathbed promises and last rites.
"Sorry about running out on you at Jean's party," Fran said when they had finally bumped into each other by the mailboxes. “Your mother made me nervous.”
“I thought so.”
"She's so watchful. Reminds me of why I left home."
"You left because your mother was watchful?"
”The reasons were many and multifarious," Fran said. "But that was one of them."
"Damn."
"Damn what?"
"I was hoping it would be reason enough."
Fran smiled. "Feel like flying the coop?"
Shelby kneaded her face. "How fast can you teach me wilderness survival skills?"
"Depends on how you feel about cannibalism."
"Some of my best friends are cannibals," Shelby said. "But I wouldn't want my sister to marry one."
Fran leaned against the wall, junk mail clutched beneath one arm, and looked at her. "I'm worried about you," she said.
Shelby was startled. "About me?"
"You're still getting headaches. I can tell by looking at you. And I don't think you're sleeping well, either."
"In other words," Shelby said lightly, "I look like something the cat dragged in and wouldn't eat."
"Are you taking the sleeping pills?"
Shelby shrugged, feeling caught and cared for. She liked it. “Occasionally.”
"What else are you doing for yourself?"
Trying to get you to tell me what's wrong with you, she thought. "I'm OK. It's all a little hectic, that's all. How about yourself?"
It was Fran's turn to glance at the floor. “What about myself?”
"What's going on with you, Fran?" she heard herself ask.
Fran blushed. "Nothing. I'm fine."
"Back at Jean's party, I thought we were going to talk about things."
Fran's laugh was insincere. "You have a memory like a steel trap. Once in, you have to gnaw off a leg to get out."
“Stop that.”
"I'm fine," Fran said roughly. "Everything's fine."
"Everything is not fine," Shelby said. "It hasn't been fine since you were sick. Will you please tell me what the hell's happening with us?"
"Nothing's happening with us. There's nothing to happen with us."
"Fran..."
"Look, just... just let it go, will you?" She started to turn away. Magazines and junk mail cascaded from under her arm. She swore and knelt to pick them up.
Shelby knew she should help, but she was too angry. Not speaking, she went into her apartment and slammed the door.
She couldn't have slept that night if her life depended on it. Even a sleeping pill didn't help. Neither did the second. She didn't dare risk a third; it would leave her stupid and near-comatose the next day. Instead, she climbed onto an emotional carousel and gave the horses their heads.
It wasn't fair, what Fran was doing. She wouldn't let Shelby get away with it. If it was obvious something was bothering Shelby, she'd insist she talk. She wouldn't let Shelby leave her in the dark, tied up in knots, lonely.
The loneliness was terrible. She'd thought she was lonely in the past, but that was before Fran had made her feel less alone. Never knowing understanding was one thing. Knowing it and having it taken away was something else. To feel so close to another person, to feel so open and safe... And Fran had closed the door in her face. Fran had cheated on their friendship.
Wait a minute, she scolded herself. She let you see something she didn't want you to see, because she was sick and couldn't help it. Now she can't take it back, and she's trying to restore her privacy.
But it isn't as if I laughed at her, or turned away from her. I saw how much she hurt, and I handled it with gentleness and love. And she pays me back with silence. And withdrawal. She might as well call me names, or spit in my face.
Damn it, it wasn't easy to sit through that, but I'm glad I did. It was an honor.
Maybe she can't help herself. Maybe she hates it, too. Maybe I should approach it differently. Don't demand answers, but don't ignore it. Be persistent but not pushy. Firm but not rigid.
Or maybe she should learn to be more patient. If she trusted the feeling that had passed between them, Fran would come to her when she was ready. She was in pain, confused, and working it out on her own.
Assuming she was really working it out. What if what she really wanted was to end the friendship, and was trying to figure out how to do it gently? That would be like Fran, to want to be gentle.
Shelby sat up and turned on the light. How did she know that was like Fran? She hardly knew the woman. Had only met her in March. April, May, June, July—four and a half months ago. She couldn't know all the different sides of her. There could be a hundred Frans, flying in all directions like tiddlywinks.
But I trust her, damn it. Something in my heart trusts her.
You have to stop this, she told herself. This road leads straight to the funny farm.
She gave up on sleep and wandered out into the living room. Nothing but test patterns on television. Too late even for Jack Paar, the insomniac's friend. She could learn a lot from Jack Paar. He could conduct an entire conversation without letting it slip into anything meaningful. Fran would probably like that.
She was tempted to peek out into the hall and see if Fran's light was on. Forget it. She was tired of running after her like an abandoned puppy. She had enough on her mind, she didn't need this. Just get over it.
Get over what? What exactly was she trying to get over? This friendship that was maybe a friendship and maybe not? Big deal, big stinking deal. It was ridiculous to thrash around this way over someone you've known for four and a half months.
She decided to try the warm milk trick. As she stood watching the pan heat, she thought of the times she'd sat in this kitchen with Fran, talking, laughing, simply being comfortable in each other's presence.
Ten and a half months left of their year.
She turned off the stove and began to cry.
The first person on the staff to notice there was something wrong and to speak about it was Harry Rosen, one of her associate editors. Harry was a quiet, gentle, middle-aged man, whose instinct for good fiction was legendary. He could probably have made editor if he'd wanted, but he was happy in his current position and had no aspirations to power. It took courage and skill for him to stay where he was. A woman would have been fired, on the grounds that she lacked ambition and the competitive spirit. Another man might have given in to pressure and the promise of a higher salary. But Harry said he wanted to keep on doing what he did best, and moving up in the world could only distance him from his first love, reading and editing fiction.
He tended to avoid talking on a personal level with his subordinates. Not out of lack of interest or caring, but because he was a deeply shy man. So it surprised her when he asked her into his office and closed the door. "Miss Camden," he said in the abrupt way people said things they were afraid to say, “You look terrible.”
Shelby didn't know how to respond. She knew she looked like death warmed over. Her skin was papery and dry. Her eyes were puffy and smudged from lack of sleep. Her friends had noticed, of course, but she had laughed it off as headaches and wedding anxiety. Connie and Lisa clucked. Penny hovered. Jean looked at her skeptically. They'd let it drop.
"Miss Camden?"
"I'm sorry. I have a thousand things running through my head."
"I understand you're to be married in the spring."
<
br /> "June, actually."
Harry raked his thinning hair. "Excuse my bluntness, but you look as if you're going through a divorce, not a marriage."
“I do?”
"And your work lately..." He picked up a folder of stories she had passed on to him. "Frankly, you seem to have lost your edge."
"I'm sorry."
He took a story from the folder and studied it. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
Shelby bit her lip. Lately, when anyone showed her even the most casual concern, she felt as if she might crack wide open. Maybe she'd know something if she did. Maybe something would come flying out, some nugget of truth in a cyclone of words and tears. "There are just so many things... decisions to make, plans, you know."
"My daughter was married last year," he said with a sympathetic nod. "I thought she and her mother would kill each other before it was over."
"I guess that's part of the ritual."
He glanced at her. "At no time did she look as strained as you do.”
Shelby couldn't think of anything to say, so she said, "I'm sorry," again.
"How much vacation time do you have?"
"A week."
"Maybe you should take it. Go somewhere quiet and relax."
"My mother and her Bride magazines would find me."
He smiled. "It really will pass, you know." He sat forward and cleared his throat. "Meanwhile, I think you should take time off, while it's still summer. Go to the beach. Go to the mountains. Go anywhere there are no telephones, no mothers, and no bridal magazines." He closed her folder in a 'well, that's done' way and folded his hands.
Shelby stood. "Thanks for your concern. I'll try to keep my focus better." She didn't like the way that sounded, cold and formal. "I really appreciate your understanding. You may be right about getting away."
He nodded abruptly and immersed himself in a report.
By the time she got back to her office, she realized she was uneasy about the conversation, knowing that her tension was visible. She didn't want people thinking her wedding was making a wreck of her. Shelby Camden handled things better than that.
Besides, it wasn't the truth, not the entire truth. It was Fran as much as the wedding. Or the wedding wouldn't be so hard if it weren't for Fran, or the trouble with Fran wouldn't be so hard if it weren't for the wedding...
