Solitaire and Brahms

by Sarah Dreher

  "Twenty-twenty hindsight," Fran said. "It isn't that easy."

  Shelby squeezed her hand. "I know. There's something I have to ask you," she went on. She wondered how to phrase it. "Is it really hard being around me… I mean... you know… feeling how you do and not wanting to?"

  "Do you mean is there a huge ache in my heart from unrequited love? There's an ache, but it's not a huge one."

  "It's not unrequited love," Shelby said. "Just dissimilar."

  Fran frowned at her. "Thank you, Professor."

  "Anyway, I hope you'll tell me if I do anything that bothers you. Like talk about Ray too much or something."

  "You hardly talk about Ray at all," Fran said. "A fact which I find interesting, by the way. Most of the girls I've known can't talk about anything but their boyfriends, even if they only met them last night."

  "I know what you mean."

  "Why don't you?"

  Shelby shrugged. "I always thought it was boring. I try very hard not to be boring."

  "I don't think there's much danger of that."

  She was beginning to feel even more exhausted. Her mind was still functional in a slow and plodding way, but her body was weak to the point of collapse, as if there were wet sandbags piled on top of her.

  Fran noticed it. "You should get back to bed," she said.

  "I can't believe how sleepy I am. Maybe that stuff's still in me."

  "Trust me, it isn't. I was there.

  "But it's so good to be talking."

  "There'll be plenty of time for talking." She hopped down from the back of the couch. "I'll whip you up something less horrible than peanut butter to eat. You..." She leaned over and ruffled Shelby's hair, "...scamper off and get flat."

  She pulled herself up from the couch. “You're a hard woman, Fran Jarvis," she grumbled.

  "Yeah, yeah." She put an arm around Shelby's shoulders and propelled her toward the bedroom. "Know what I think?"

  "Seldom." She let herself take in the feel of Fran's arm, the clean sun-and-air smell of her, the sound of her voice.

  "I think it's time to go camping," Fran said.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The day she went back to work was easier than she'd expected. She looked terrible, but not much worse than she usually did following a sleepless, headache-filled night. She wasn’t exactly productive at work, but was able to fake it enough so her officemate didn't grow suspicious. Not that Charlotte May was especially prone to suspicion. Charlotte did what she had to do, and assumed everyone else did, too. If she saw someone loafing, she ignored it, believing their sins would catch up with them sooner or later. Charlotte's motto was, "Leave 'em to the angels."

  Even Libby wasn't too difficult, once Shelby'd apologized profusely and explained that she had behaved strangely because of the bug she was coming down with. "It attacks the central nervous system," she said, "and makes you peculiar."

  Libby wasn't the least bit interested in bugs, peculiar or otherwise. She was interested in apologies, and she was interested in the wedding.

  Following Fran's suggestion, Shelby had told her she thought the pink fabric in aqua was a stroke of brilliance. "Since you don't really give a damn about the bridesmaids' dresses," Fran had said, "why not butter her up a little? You never know when brownie points might come in handy."

  It had worked. It left libby pleased with herself, which made her pleased with Shelby.

  The next challenge was the invitations. Shelby suggested they split the work. She'd look at paper, calligraphy, and type, while Libby drew up the guest list. On her own, Libby offered to spend one day of the weekend with Ray planning "groom goodies." Unfortunately, Ray had only one day off this weekend. It would mean he couldn't spend it with Shelby. Shelby sighed and said she'd try to survive, and as long as Libby was declaring this "ancillary personnel" weekend, why not let the mother of the bride spend Sunday with the bridesmaids herself, planning shoes and showers and whatever it was bridesmaids planned?

  She had enough to do, she said, to keep her miserably busy. Work had piled up while she was out nursing her whatever-it-was, and if she caught up now she'd have more time to think about the wedding in the days to come. She was going to hole up in her office or at home, take the phone off the hook, and force herself to get through it no matter how much fun she was missing.

  Fran said Shelby was turning into a skillful liar and manipulator, and could have had a great career as a con artist if she hadn't started so late in life.

  Shelby doubted it. She was a nervous wreck every step of the way.

  She didn't care, though. She was getting away with it. It made her feel mildly euphoric. As a matter of fact, she'd been mildly euphoric ever since that night. Looking death in the face, no doubt. Gives you a real rush. But it wasn't really that. It was because she'd finally done something. It wasn't a particularly brilliant something, and she hadn't done it very well, but at least it was action.

  And Fran was back.

  "Damn." Fran pulled her flaming marshmallow from the fire and blew it out.

  "I like them burnt," Shelby said. "They taste interesting."

  "Take it, then." Fran handed her the stick and took Shelby's and threaded another marshmallow.

  Shelby pulled the charred, gooey shell away from the sticky insides and chewed on it. She stuck the rest back into the fire.

  "What's it like?"

  “What's what like?”

  "Having sex with a woman."

  Fran's face was already golden pink from the firelight. It deepened three shades and she dropped her marshmallow. "For God's sake, Shelby."

  Shelby tried not to smile. She didn't want Fran to think she was laughing at her. The thing was, recently just the sight of Fran's face made her want to smile. "We agreed to talk about things if we had questions about them, didn't we?”

  "But this is personal."

  "OK." She shrugged indifference.

  "All right," Fran said after a moment. "But first you tell me, what's it like having sex with a man?"

  "It's like having sex," Shelby said. "What's it like with a woman?"

  "Like making love."

  Shelby smiled. "Are you being devious and provocative?"

  "I hope not."

  "Then tell me."

  Fran gave a resigned sigh. "OK." Her face glowed cardinal red with self-consciousness. "When you make love with a woman you... feel stuff, and then you feel more stuff, and then you feel a whole lot of stuff all at once, and then you feel warm and close. Is that what it's like with a man?"

  "I guess."

  "You don't know? You mean you've never done it?"

  "I've done it," Shelby said. "A couple of times. I just don't remember very well what it was like. I'd had a few drinks."

  "It's supposed to be the peak experience of a lifetime. The '1812 Overture' with cannons, bells and fireworks."

  She knew that. She'd talked about it enough with her friends, comparing experiences. Trouble was, what she felt was a long way from the cannons and bells they described. But she'd pretended to agree. She wondered if the rest of them were pretending, too. "I think," she said, "it's a little overrated."

  "The more I know you," Fran said, "the more you scare me."

  "What about with women? Are there fireworks?"

  "Only if you get caught."

  "Is this still hard for you to talk about?"

  "Of course it is."

  Shelby watched the fire consume Fran's marshmallow. "How come?"

  "How come?" Fran said wildly. "Why do you think how come?"

  "Hey, I'm sorry."

  Fran shook her head. "No, I am. I really want to be honest with you. But we just don’t... talk about it."

  "Even with your lovers?"

  "I haven't had that many lovers, and, no, we didn't talk about it." She was silent for a moment. "When I told you, that was the first time I've ever said the word out loud to someone who mattered."

  Shelby was stunned. "You're kidding."

  "No, I'm
not."

  "You think being a lesbian is that awful?"

  "Me and everyone else."

  "I don't."

  "Yeah. But you're probably not in your right mind."

  Shelby felt tremendously sad. She took a marshmallow and held it over the fire, away from the flames, so it would toast without burning. "Do you wish you were different?"

  Fran tapped her stick rhythmically against one of the rocks with which she'd ringed the fire. "I guess most of us feel that way, sometimes. Much of the time. Most of the time. It's hard, living in a world that thinks you're garbage. Sometimes you start believing it yourself." She glanced over, then away. "But, to be perfectly honest with you, most of the time I enjoy loving women. Not the sex, that's OK but it's not the most important thing. It's loving them in my heart. Women are just... well, just neat." She laughed. "You probably don't have the vaguest idea what I'm talking about."

  "I do," Shelby said. "Really." She rotated the marshmallow to tan the other side. "I enjoy women more than men, actually. A few of my friends, from college and graduate school. And Jean, and Lisa and even Connie. And Penny, I guess. And you. It's easier to be around them, especially if I'm feeling a little low. Women understand things. And they're softer than men."

  Fran tossed her stick into the fire and watched it burn.

  The marshmallow looked about right. She passed it to Fran. "Have room for one more?"

  "Me?" She took the stick. "Thank you."

  "My mother doesn't like women," Shelby said.

  "Then she ought to be crazy about me."

  Shelby looked at her.

  "I'm not a real woman," Fran explained. "Not by most people's standards."

  "That's nuts, Fran. If a woman who loves women isn't a woman, who is? A woman who doesn't love women? Is that the definition of a woman?"

  Fran shrugged and bit into the marshmallow. She chewed silently for a moment.

  In the fire light, Shelby could see Fran was crying. Not hard crying, just a few small trickling tears. She moved over and sat next to her.

  "I'm sorry," Fran said after a while. "This is no way to spend a camping trip."

  "It's a perfectly fine way." She reached into the pocket of her shorts and pulled out a clean, rumpled Kleenex.

  "Jesus," Fran said as she wiped her eyes. "I haven't cried this often in six years."

  "I know," Shelby said, gently teasing. "You're so extraordinarily tough."

  "I didn't mean to go on about this stuff. I really don't think about it all the time. It's your fault, for taking the lids off things I thought were sealed."

  "How rude of me." She slipped an arm around Fran's shoulders.

  Fran made a move as if to lean her head against Shelby's arm. She stopped herself. "A week ago I thought I had it figured out. What I should do about you, how I should live. Now it's all upside down."

  "Sorry," Shelby said.

  "Until you made me say it, I never realized how much I wanted to tell someone. I was so afraid you'd pull away."

  "So was I. I must say I'm deeply impressed by my behavior."

  Fran swatted her on the knee..

  They sat quietly, watching the fire.

  "Shelby," Fran said at last, "what happened to you the other night?"

  She felt herself pull inward. "Kind of lost my grip, I guess."

  "But why? I mean, what triggered it? When I left, you were angry and cold as ice. But not suicidal. Or maybe you were, I don't know. And I know you were drinking..." She glanced over. "Do you mind me talking about this?"

  Shelby shook her head, even though her stomach was hard as a rock. She wanted to talk about it, she really did. But she didn't know what to say, or how to start, or where it would end up. It was like driving a car blindfolded. But worse than that, because it was about knowing things, and she wasn't sure knowing things was something she wanted to do.

  "After you left," she said, "I sat around kind of numb for a while. Then Libby called to tell me we had to have the wedding at Easter instead of in June, and I felt... well, empty and trapped. Trapped in emptiness."

  Fran took a breath, about to say something, then changed her mind.

  "It's OK," Shelby said. "I know what you're thinking, it's a strange way to think about marriage and makes you want to scream." She pondered for a moment. "But it's not about being married. It's Libby. The wedding means Libby, and Libby means misery. I can't sort it out."

  "If you could get married without the wedding, would you?"

  "Are you kidding? No bridesmaids' dresses, no mother, no relatives, no theatrics, no maid of honor I'm not even sure I like a whole lot at the moment but I can't find a good reason not to have her and everyone expects me... "

  "Everyone expects you," Fran said flatly.

  "Everyone but you. Do you?"

  "Hardly." She didn't say anything for a minute. "And that's it?"

  "It?"

  "The only problem with the wedding?"

  "That and nerves."

  It was getting dark, but she could tell Fran was looking at her. Waiting for something more.

  "Sounds like a flimsy reason to kill myself, doesn't it?"

  "I've heard better."

  "I've thought about it, over and over. It's all I can come up with." She hugged herself. "Honestly."

  "That scares me."

  Shelby fell silent. It scared her, too. Because, if it was true, what kept her hanging onto life was a very fragile thread. When she forced herself to look at that night... which she couldn't do unless she forced herself... she knew there was something terribly wrong. But whatever had pushed her over that final edge was still inside her, still unknown, and still very, very dangerous.

  She hated feeling this way. It was like living between two layers of herself. Nothing could come in from the outside, and nothing could reach out from the center. Except for Fran. Fran got in sometimes, unexpectedly, unpredictably. There'd be a sudden flash of empathy between them, as if they vibrated to the same single plucked string on a guitar. Sometimes she'd glance up, and see Fran looking at her, and know Fran was really, really seeing her. Seeing her all the way to the center. She'd see Fran at the same time, all the way to her center. And for just the smallest instant she'd know what it was like not to be lonely.

  Then the moment would pass, like the shutter of a camera closing, and she'd be left with a longing so deep it was nearly unbearable, and a memory that faded like morning fog under a hot sun.

  She couldn't force those moments to happen. She suspected Fran couldn't, either. They were accidents. Gifts. Blessings.

  "I don't want to want to die," she said.

  "I'm glad to hear that."

  "But sometimes living seems… I don't know... complicated. Too hard."

  "It's a challenge," Fran agreed. "Life doesn't come with an owner's manual."

  "If it did, it'd be written in Japanese or Swahili or Sanskrit."

  "Unless your only language was Japanese or Swahili or Sanskrit, in which case it'd be written in English."

  "I've always been glad I was born in an English-speaking culture," Shelby said. "I don't think I could ever learn it."

  "You think you're proficient in English? Come with me to Texas. They won't understand a word you say, and vice versa."

  But that wouldn't happen, ever, because she'd never go to Texas with Fran. Because she was getting married, and married women didn't take trips to Texas with lesbians.

  "What language do they speak in California?" she asked.

  "All of them. Simultaneously."

  "You know, I don't think I've ever heard a California accent. Is there one?"

  "As you so graciously put it the day we met, no one's from California. Sometimes they come back from California, but they never start out there. Except for movie stars' children and me. But that's all we have in common."

  "I really doubt that."

  "Well, we did have a swimming pool..."

  "That's not what I meant."

  Fran laughed. "If that's
true, that movie stars' children are... different… it's one of the best-kept secrets in the universe." She glanced over at Shelby in the near-darkness. "You don't want to talk about you any more, do you?"

  Shelby brushed her hair back with both hands. "I really can't think of anything to say." She sighed. "Maybe I need professional help."

  "Maybe you do."

  "I can just imagine what Libby would say to that. Camden's don't air their dirty linen in front of strangers."

  "Don't tell her."

  "She'd find out. She has spies. Some of them are my friends."

  "So what if she finds out? It's your life."

  "Is it?"

  Fran was silent for a minute. "Well," she said, "that was a pregnant statement."

  "I guess it was." She forced a laugh. "I will be, too, one day. Pregnant."

  "Are you looking forward to having kids?" Fran asked.

  "I haven't thought about it much."

  "Do you like them?"

  "I don't know. I haven't known many, except myself, and I didn't like that one much. Do you?"

  "Yeah, I do."

  "I'll bet you'd make a good mother."

  Fran picked up a stone and rubbed it between her thumb and index finger. "Not much chance of that."

  "I'm no expert on being a lesbian," Shelby said, and noticed that Fran winced slightly at the word, "but I never heard it made you infertile."

  "Not infertile, but unfeasible." Fran transferred the stone to her other hand. “If I had a kid, my family would sweep down on it like locusts on a wheat field. They'd go to court, if they had to, to get it away from me. And they'd win, and I'd just be eccentric Aunt Francis who sends cards and gifts but never visits. The irony is, I'd probably be a good mother."

  "I know you would," Shelby said.

  "Better than mine, anyway." Fran snorted. "Hell, Medea was better than mine."

  "I don't know how they could shut you out like this."

  Fran tossed the stone away, into the shadows. She looked over at Shelby. "What do you think Libby would do in the same situation?"

  "She wouldn't shut me out." She thought about it. "She'd lock me up. And probably make them give me electroshock treatments."