Solitaire and Brahms

by Sarah Dreher

Fran's face closed over. "I can't do this," she said, and turned to the door.

  "Please, tell me what's wrong." It was almost too late. "You can't just walk out this way."

  "I have to."

  One last try. One final plea. "There's some huge awful secret in you. Every time we start getting close, or even just talking about ourselves, I run into it."

  Fran reached for the door knob.

  "When you were sick, you cried yourself inside out, and then tried to tell me it was nothing. And ever since then you've treated me as if I had some contagious disease. You're so damn polite, and distant. I miss you, and I feel cut off from you, and I don't know what to do." She grasped Fran's arm and spun her around. "At least look at me, damn it."

  Fran pulled away.

  "I trusted you. I've let you know parts of me no one's ever known. I thought you trusted me. I guess I was wrong."

  "Please," Fran said, "don't think like that." Her voice had turned soft, but still she wouldn't look at her.

  "I cherish your friendship. I've missed you so much it's like a hole in my heart. Just tell me what happened. We can't leave it like this."

  "Stop it!" Fran whirled and punched her fist against the door. "For God's sake, leave me alone." She turned back to face Shelby. Her expression was angry. "I don't want your friendship."

  "I need you."

  "You don't need me."

  “You can’t..."

  "And you don't own me. We're not married, Shelby."

  That did it. Now she was insulted, and coldly angry. She turned away so she wouldn't have to look at her. So she wouldn't feel the hurt. "You should be branded, you know that? 'Dangerous. Heart smasher.'"

  "I didn't mean to."

  Suddenly, coldly, she wanted Fran out of her life. Forever. She wanted her never to have existed. She wanted... "I don't know you," she heard herself say evenly. "You don't know me. Everything I ever told you about myself was a lie. There's nothing between us now, and there never was."

  "There was, Shelby."

  "I made it up. None of it was real. It was all a game."

  "I don't believe that," Fran said.

  "Don't believe it, then. Have a nice life. Don't slam the door on your way out."

  Fran left, slamming the door.

  She made a drink and sat at the kitchen table and waited for the numbness to wear off. It'd hurt then, like a serious burn that you can't feel at first because your nerves are shocked. But as the shock wears off, the pain sets in, and builds, and won't stop, won't ever stop.

  Maybe, if she sat here very quietly, hardly breathing, never moving, maybe she wouldn't have to feel again. If she didn't move, maybe time would stand still, encasing her in a past-less, futureless. insensate present.

  I'm not going to survive this, she thought calmly. It was all right, though. This particular moment was all right. If she could stretch it out into the next, and the next...

  She decided to think about something neutral. Something that wouldn't make her feel, or remind her of...

  The phone rang. She glanced at her watch, and time began again.

  It was Libby, of course. Only Libby would call at this hour unless it was an emergency. For Libby, everything was an emergency. Running out of ice was an emergency. Being five minutes late for an open house was an emergency. One of these days, Libby was going to wake up and realize she was over fifty, and that would be a real emergency.

  "Shelby," Libby barked before she'd even had a chance to finish hello, "What did you do with the swatches for the bridesmaids' dresses?"

  "I have them." Fran was leaving. Oh, God, Fran was leaving.

  "Well, what did you think? The peach is nice, but it might make Connie look too washed out. She'd be stunning in light green, but that wouldn't go well with Jean's mousy hair. I thought the pale blue, but I don't feel comfortable with what that particular shade does to the texture. It seems rather... well, casual."

  "I haven't really looked at them yet."

  A brief shocked silence. Then, disbelieving, "You haven't looked."

  "There hasn't been time."

  "Time," Libby said with a dismissive snort. "Well, I suggest you find the time. We have to move the wedding up to Easter."

  "Huh?" Shelby said.

  "We have to move the wedding up to Easter," her mother said slowly and distinctly.

  Shelby was confused. "Libby..."

  "Your Aunt Harriet's going to Europe in June."

  Inwardly, Shelby groaned. Harriet Camden was Shelby's great-aunt, her father's aunt, the only one she knew from that generation, which she never regretted. Harriet was the self-proclaimed Dowager Queen of the family. She kept newspaper clippings of the actions—legal and otherwise—of the family members. She knew the dates of birth, marriage, and death of every Camden in their branch of the family. She had extensive photo albums of important Camden occasions, though she never took a picture herself but expected to be presented with copies of whatever had been made. These she collected and pasted and labeled in her shaky, spidery old lady handwriting. At family functions, Harriet Camden placed herself in a wing-backed chair and observed. The rest of the family fed her beverages, snacks, and compliments. It made Shelby want to throw up, though she smiled and kissed the powdery cheek and kow-towed like the rest of them. The thought of the wedding sans Aunt Harriet Camden was too delicious for words. The thought of it happening two months sooner than they'd planned made her head pound with anxiety. "We can just have it without her," she said hopefully.

  "Don't be ridiculous," her mother said.

  "There's no law..."

  "There's good manners, and common sense, and respect for family," Libby said sharply. "You know that."

  This is definitely not a good night to do this, she thought and wanted to say. See, I've just gotten some really, really bad news. The wedding is the last thing I care about. "But we have everything underway," she managed to argue.

  "Nonsense. I rescheduled the Country Club. We were lucky. The invitations haven't even been printed yet. We'll just have to work a little harder, that's all."

  Panic was clearly setting in. "I'm giving it all the time I have as it is, Libby."

  "And just what do you do with all that precious time? Every time I call you, you're off somewhere with that girl down the hall."

  "That's not true."

  "At least twice, in the last two weeks."

  Shelby felt her face begin to redden. She'd used that excuse. When she'd known Libby was going to call, and she'd felt too exhausted or nervous or depressed or… Instead of answering the phone, she'd let it ring, and later said she'd been at Fran's. "Twice," she said.

  "And what about Ray?"

  "What about him?"

  "On at least four occasions..."

  "For God's sake, I was only out for a minute. Do the two of you get together and compare notes?"

  "It just strikes us as rather strange."

  A wave of fury swept through her. "It strikes me as a little strange that my mother and my fiancé see fit to discuss me behind my back."

  "When do we get a chance to talk to you to your face?"

  "I have a job, Libby. And I have a fiancé who likes a certain amount of my personal and unchaperoned attention. Lots of it, as a matter of fact, no matter what he says about feeling neglected. I have friends in addition to Fran." She stopped herself before she could add, "and I have you calling at all hours of the day and night to talk at me about this... wedding thing."

  "I'm delighted you're so popular. Next time I need to talk to you, I'll go directly through Miss Jarvis. Now, can you see your way clear to meeting with me tomorrow for dinner? So we can plan your wedding?"

  She wanted to scream. More than that, she wanted to end this particular discussion. "Fine. Tomorrow night."

  "I'll call and let you know the time. Please make some sort of decision about the bridesmaids' dresses before then, and we can discuss it, if it's not too much of an inconvenience."

  Shelby realized she w
as gripping the phone tightly in her hand. A drop of perspiration rolled out of her palm and down her wrist.

  "I'll do it tonight." She was shaking. Badly. She leaned against the wall and wrapped the telephone cord around her free hand.

  "That would be nice," Libby said with acid in her voice. "And try to come up with some ideas about fabric, if you can spare the time from your housemate."

  Shelby clenched her teeth. "You don't have to worry about that. She's moving."

  “It can't be any too soon. Honestly, you'd think she means more to you than your own wedding."

  Something in her boiled over. "It's a wedding, for Christ's sake, not a coronation."

  "Excuse me, Miss…"

  "I'd like to have a life, too, if it's all right with you."

  "It's fine with me, just fine," Libby said coldly. "In fact, I'll wash my hands of the whole affair. You make all the plans, and you can have any kind of wedding you damn well want. Elope to Gretna Green, for all I care."

  This was getting out of hand. "I'm sorry," Shelby said. "I didn't mean all that."

  "You've been behaving very strangely. Ever since that girl moved into your apartment house. I don't know what it's all about, and I don't want to know. But you'd better take yourself in hand, my friend, if you know what's good for you."

  Shelby slammed down the receiver and made herself another drink. The phone rang. Libby hadn't exhausted the things she wanted to say.

  To hell with it.

  She let it ring.

  You've really done it this time, she thought as she downed her refill and poured another. Maligning The Wedding, Arguing with The Mother, Slamming down The Phone, not Answering.

  Forgetting to choose a Color for The Bridesmaids' Dresses paled by comparison.

  She wished there was someone she could talk to. But it was late. And she didn't know how to explain what was happening. Maybe, by the time she saw her friends in the morning, she'd have it sorted out enough to talk. At least to Jean.

  Jean. Wait, she could call Jean tonight. Jean stayed up and read late. And Jean could understand things without a lot of explanation. She reached for the phone.

  And stopped. If she talked to Jean, it would make everything real. If she talked to Jean, the emotions she was barely keeping in check would come unglued at the first sympathetic sound. She couldn't do that.

  Wash the dishes. Such as they were. A plate, a pot, a glass… It took almost five minutes. She dried them and put them away.

  Maybe a snack would help. She opened the cupboard door.

  Wheat thins. Too crunchy.

  Triscuits. They must be stale. They'd gone through July opened.

  Lemon Jello.

  An icy fist twisted her stomach.

  No, she told herself.

  She sipped her drink while she changed into pajamas.

  Beddy-bye.

  Heading for the bathroom, she collided with the corner of the bureau. It sent a sharp pain through her hip and threw her off balance.

  Shit!

  That'll be a lovely shade of teal blue in the am.

  Maybe that would be the right color for the bridesmaids' dresses.

  She reached for her drink and took a swallow and then another and thought about another but it was obvious she was already a little stewed. She set the rest on the edge of the bathroom sink. "Sorry, pal," she said to her reflection in the mirror, "scotch and toothpaste don't mix."

  Basically still on top of things, though. In control.

  Except for the hard, expanding feeling in her chest

  She looked at herself again and didn't like what she saw. Her hair was limp, her eyes dull. Her skin had the papery texture of a hornets' nest. She looked old and sick.

  Good night's sleep will take care of that, she told herself briskly.

  Pop right into that old bed and close your eyes and it's "All aboard the Slumberland Express."

  Who was she kidding? It was going to take her hours to get to sleep. If she ever did. If she ever got to sleep again.

  "When I'm worried and I can't sleep, I count my blessings instead of sheep..." The old Rosemary Clooney song drifted through her mind.

  Good advice.

  She took her toothbrush from its holder and uncapped the toothpaste.

  OK, first blessing is the job. Great job. Perfect job. Excellent working environment. Better than I ever dreamed of. Of course, I won't be able to keep it more than a year. Excuse me, move that termination date up a couple of months.

  She squeezed a little too much toothpaste onto the bristles. Top heavy, it slipped off and landed in the basin. She scooped it up with the brush.

  Second blessing, great husband-to-be. No doubt about that.

  Third, a wise and devoted mother.

  She grimaced at herself in the mirror. And don't forget your finely-honed sense of irony.

  And friendly friends.

  Whatever was growing in her chest was swelling.

  Friendly friends.

  And some ex-friends.

  She scrubbed furiously at her teeth.

  Look on the bright side. You got your very own sleeping bag out of it.

  Shelby gripped the sides of the sink.

  She was shaking so hard the aspirin bottle jumped.

  I'm not going to make it, she thought wildly. She was going to split apart, and what came out would be hot, and dark, and burn like acid. The future stopped there, black and solid. Beyond it there was nothing.

  Have to sleep. Get through this night. If you can get through this one, maybe you can get through the next. She found her sleeping pills and took one, washing it down with scotch and melted ice water from her glass.

  One wasn't going to do it. One never did it.

  She took another.

  OK. She put the cap back on the bottle. Two's enough, what with the couple of drinks I had. I should sleep like a baby.

  And wake up to what?

  Everything exactly, identically, the same.

  Christ!

  Her stomach was so twisted she could hardly move. Anxiety bored into her. The tightness in her chest kept growing. All around her was a gray vacuum, sucking her down into nothing.

  I can't do this.

  She felt trapped, in a place too small to move. She wanted to strike out. There was nothing to strike out at.

  When I wake up in the morning, there'll be that moment of disorientation, just lying there in bed, not knowing what's out there, running through the schedule for the day. And then, suddenly, it'll all come rushing in on me... the wedding, the job, my mother, Fran...

  I can't live it.

  She snatched up the rest of the pills and emptied them into the palm of her hand and put them in her mouth and washed them down.

  She closed her eyes, held her breath and waited, waited for her heart to stop pounding, her skin to stop crawling. Waited for the terror to subside.

  After a few minutes she opened her eyes. Same old canary yellow towels hanging neatly on the rod behind her. Same old silhouette cut-out framed and hanging on the wall, a house warming gift from Libby. Same old laundry hamper, and bath mat, and soap dish and shampoo bottle and...

  Same old Shelby.

  God DAMN it! She hurled the heavy drinking glass at the mirror. It shattered into a million stars.

  All right, she thought with some satisfaction. All right.

  She slid down the wall to the floor, circled by broken glass, broken inside. Everything broken, she thought. Finally and forever broken.

  I'm going to die. All I have to do is wait.

  A feeling of deep calm swept over her. The tile was cool against her back. It felt good to let go.

  Someone knocked at the apartment door.

  Sorry, she thought languidly, no Girl Scout cookies this year.

  Or bridesmaids' dresses.

  Now the visitor was pounding and shouting her name.

  How rude, middle of the night. Some people have no consideration. She really should get up and answer it befor
e they woke everyone in the house. She should reach out and grasp the lip of the sink and pull herself up and go deal with that.

  Later.

  The door slammed open.

  Shelby winced.

  Probably dented the plaster. Landlord wasn't going to like that.

  Footsteps crossing the living room. Then Fran was standing over her, looking at all the mess. "Jesus, Shelby," she said.

  "Not me. Must be some other guy."

  Fran found the empty pill bottle and shoved it at her roughly. "Is this what you took?"

  Shelby shrugged.

  "How many?"

  She shrugged again.

  Fran grabbed her arm and twisted it. "HOW MANY?"

  "How should I know?" she mumbled. "I didn't count them, I just took them. Leave me alone."

  "Damn," Fran said. She ran from the bathroom, made rummaging through cupboards noises in kitchen, then water running and spoon-against-glass stirring sounds in the sink.

  Everything was getting very soft and warm. She tried to remember what she'd been upset about, but the thoughts floated away like truant balloons.

  "Drink this," Fran said, and held out a glass.

  Shelby gazed at the yellowish, musty-looking liquid. It spun in a whirlpool in the glass. Mustard. She looked at Fran's bare feet. "You should have shoes on," she said. "You'll get cut."

  "Drink it."

  "It looks nasty. Not at all like lemon Jello."

  "Drink it."

  Shelby shook her head. She knew what would happen if she drank it. She'd throw up. And if she did that everything would cycle back to the beginning.

  "Look, either you drink this right now, or I'm calling an ambulance."

  "I want to die," Shelby said.

  "Not tonight, you won't. What's it going to be?"

  "It took me a long time to get those pills. Expensive, too." She grinned idiotically.

  Fran swept aside some mirror shards and knelt beside her. She took Shelby's wrist firmly in her free hand. Her grip was like a vise. "If you don't drink this right now, I'm going to break your arm."

  Shelby looked away.

  Fran twisted her hand behind her back and yanked. It felt as if someone had stabbed a knife into her shoulder blade. "I mean it, Shelby. I'll cripple you before I let you die."

  Her shoulder burning, she reached for the glass and drank. The mustard was bitter and sharp in her mouth. It burned her tongue. Her stomach churned.