Solitaire and Brahms

by Sarah Dreher

  Her mad money was safely tucked in its little hidden pocket. She'd never needed the two dollars and ten cents for a phone call and a taxi. But this could be the night. She felt shaky inside. Brittle.

  "OK," she said to Fran. "We're off like a herd of pregnant turtles." She wanted to stay home. More than she'd ever wanted anything.

  “I’ll leave a light on when I go," Fran said. "Thanks for letting me use the TV. Have a nice night, you two."

  As soon as they were in the hall, Ray pulled her to him. "Hello there, bride," he said, and kissed her.

  She felt herself stiffen.

  "What's up?" he asked.

  "Nothing." She led the way down the hall. "Could we go to the Steak House tonight? They have booths, and we need to talk."

  To be precise, she thought as he eased her into the car and closed the door, I need to talk. Ray has absolutely no need to talk about this particular topic. She smiled over at him as he started the car. A little tremble-lipped. She hoped he didn't notice.

  The Steak House smelled of cigarette smoke, beer, and cooking meat. Too cool to turn on the air conditioning, and too warm to light the massive gray fieldstone fireplace at the far end of the room. So the air just hovered, unvented. Oil lamps on each table, with red glass potbellies and red shades, cast a slightly satanic glow and added the heavy odor of burning kerosene to the atmosphere.

  They slid into the red plastic-cushioned booth and Ray dove for the menu. "This was a great idea, hon. I could eat a musk ox."

  The condemned man ate a hearty meal, she thought.

  She decided to wait until after they'd ordered. Then she decided to wait until they were served. Or maybe it would be better to wait until they'd eaten a little before she ruined the night.

  Finally, she ran out of excuses.

  "Ray," she said, putting her fork down, “there's something we need to discuss. Seriously.”

  He scooped a fork full of baked potato with sour cream into his mouth. “Mmmmm?"

  Shelby took a sip of her gin and tonic and a deep breath. "You know how I've talked about... well, being unsure about the wedding?"

  "Uh-huh." He abandoned the potato and tasted the salad, imploding bits of crisp lettuce between his teeth.

  "Well, I'm afraid I haven't gotten any surer."

  Chewing, he waved one hand in a gesture of dismissal. "S'OK. It'll pass."

  "No, Ray, that's what I keep trying to tell you. It isn't passing. It won't pass. I really think I don't want to..."

  He dropped his fork onto his plate and turned his attention to her with an impatient sigh. "Look, Shel, I understand how you feel. It's the wedding jits. But I've told you a dozen times it'll be all right. It's getting kind of stale. How about you let go of it?"

  "I've tried to." She felt a little irritated herself. He wasn't making this any easier. But, on the other hand, she didn't deserve to have it be easier. "I think," she said evenly, "I want to call off the wedding."

  For a second he went pale. "You what?"

  "I think I want to call off the wedding."

  He picked up the fork and knife and did injury to his slab of prime rib. Impaling, sawing, pushing, chewing, battering the meat, swallowing.

  Then he laughed. "I've seen a lot of nervous Nellies, but you beat them all. Maybe I should get you some Miltown."

  ”I don't need Miltown," Shelby said tightly.

  "It's the latest thing, y'know. More than half a doctor's practice these days is dealing with disgruntled housewives with low back pain. Miltown works."

  "I don't want to be a disgruntled housewife. I don't want to be a housewife at all. I'm too young, I'm too old, I don't know what it is. All I really know is this wedding is looking more and more like a disaster."

  "Well, hell," Ray said around the wad of beef in his mouth, "if you're worried about the new time frame, we'll just change it. How much extra time do you think you need?"

  A bubble of frustration popped in her brain. "Extra time isn't what it's about. I want out."

  He picked up a spoon and scraped around the inside of his potato. "Eat something," he suggested, glancing at her barely touched plate. "It'll make you feel better."

  "I don't want to feel better, I want you to listen to me."

  Ray put down his spoon deliberately and folded his hands over his meal. “OK, 'hon, I'm all ears."

  ”I don’t think I want to get married. Not now, not at Easter, not next summer. Never.”

  He was thoughtful for a while. "Your friend's coming to visit, isn't it?"

  "What?"

  "Your monthly friend."

  Shelby began to fume. "I am not premenstrual. This has nothing to do with menstruation."

  Ray winced a little at the bluntness of her language. "Then explain to me what it is."

  "It's... it's..." She fumbled for clarity. "I don't know what it is. All I know is, this marriage is a bad idea."

  "Hey," Ray said, "you're really strung out, aren't you? Want to elope?"

  "Ray, I don't want to do it at all. Any of it."

  He only gazed at her, silent and worried.

  “This is really upsetting for me,” she went on. “I mean, I'm in so deep, and I don't know how to..." She caught herself as tears puddled into her eyes.

  Ray leaned across the table and took her hand. "I hate seeing you like this, Shel. It hurts me, down deep."

  Did he understand? A little? Was he willing to...

  "So why don't you stop dwelling on it? Put it out of your mind. Someday you'll look back on this and laugh."

  Some day, Shelby thought, I'll look back on this and scream.

  The tiny flicker of hope that had winked to light, died. She felt tired. Exhausted. Tired in every cell and muscle in her body. Even her bones felt tired. "Tell me," she said quietly, “why doesn't anyone ever take me seriously?”

  Ray seemed surprised. "Everyone takes you seriously. Where's all this coming from, baby?"

  She found enough energy to be angry. "It's coming from the fact that you refuse to listen to me. I have deep, troubling doubts about us, Ray. And you seem to think it's no worse than drinking too much coffee."

  His expression was puzzled. "I don't know what to do for you, doll. Want me to make an appointment with the doc who supervised my psychiatric quarter?"

  She'd never felt so sad or helpless. "Let's just go," she said.

  But he insisted on dessert. She didn't even try to keep up her end of the conversation. Ray rambled on about work. And about all the things they'd do after they were married and had all the time in the world.

  He leaned back in his chair, wiped his mouth, and tossed his napkin onto the table beside his plate. "I think I know what the problem is."

  Shelby looked at him.

  "It's those women's magazines you read. I've seen the articles. If you're not neurotic when you start, you are by the time you're half way through."

  "That's very interesting," Shelby said, cold inside.

  "So stay away from them until after the wedding."

  "I work for one." Her lips felt like untanned leather.

  "Yeah, that is a problem. Well, stick to your fiction department."

  "Fiction's risky, too, you know." She wondered if the sarcasm she felt had crept into her voice. "Some of those stories are pretty whiney."

  "Don't take them seriously. It's just imagination."

  Thank you, Ray. Whatever ambivalence I felt about our marriage is totally resolved.

  Without speaking, she got up and went to get her coat.

  He had paid the bill when she got back. She thought about adding her two dollars of mad money to the tip.

  But he'd probably think they were sharing a moment. Like the thousands of moments they'd share when they were married and had all the time in the world.

  She was out of the car before Ray could even work his way around to open her door. She managed to avoid giving him a kiss, and started up the path.

  "Shel," he called softly.

  She stopped, no
t turning to him.

  "I'll send you some Miltown," he said. "Try it. You don't have anything to lose."

  Fran had left a note. "Twilight Zone was great. Hope you're likewise."

  She thought about going to Fran's apartment to report on the evening. But she was too tired and too disappointed. She decided to sit with it for tonight.

  "How'd it go?" Fran asked over coffee.

  "Great," Shelby said wryly. "Fine."

  "He didn't get mad?"

  "He didn't get the point. He didn't get what I was saying."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He didn't believe me. He insists on thinking it's all nerves, or some little idea I picked up from a magazine. He's sending me Miltown."

  "Not enough to kill yourself with, I hope."

  "I'm not interested in that any more."

  "You're not?" Fran's eyes were hopeful.

  "No. There have to be better ways of handling this mess." She grinned. "Ways that don't leave you feeling so God-awful in the morning."

  "Good idea," Fran said. "Hey, do you want breakfast? Orange juice?" She got up and went to the refrigerator.

  "Sure."

  A stifling, end-of-August day. She wanted to play hooky from work and spirit Fran away to the beach.

  "So what did happen?" Fran put the juice in front of her and turned to light the stove.

  "Just what I said. Nothing. He really didn't take it seriously."

  Fran glanced over at her hand. "You didn't give back the ring?"

  Shelby shook her head.

  "It's usually done, when a woman breaks up with a man. It helps them get the point."

  She took off her engagement ring and looked at it. It hadn't even occurred to her last night. In fact, she hardly ever thought about the ring at all. She'd blocked out any awareness of it, like a wound that only hurts when you pay attention. "Maybe I'm still a little ambivalent."

  "Of course you're ambivalent," Fran said as she put a plate of buttered toast in front of her. "The only real question is: what are the dimensions of your ambivalence?"

  Shelby bit into a comer of toast. "Pretty big, but with a definite slant toward breaking it. I just don't know if I can handle the fall-out."

  Fran placed some strips of bacon in a broiler pan and shoved them under the fire. She held up a carton of eggs. "Scrambled OK?"

  "Fine. Anything."

  "In the Army," Fran said as she broke several into a bowl and tossed in a splash of milk, "the only scrambled eggs we got were the powdered kind. I think I'll always consider real scrambled eggs a gift from God."

  "How about omelets?"

  "Heaven."

  "Next time we have breakfast together," Shelby said as she got up to refill her coffee cup, "we'll do it at my place, and I'll make you an omelet beyond your wildest dreams."

  "Really?"

  "Really." She gave Fran's shoulder a squeeze as she went back to her chair. "Just because I don't want to marry Ray, that doesn't mean I'm going to give up all housewifely arts."

  Fran was awfully quiet. The kind of quiet that felt as if she wasn't just thinking, but had left the room.

  "Is something wrong?" Shelby asked.

  Fran shook her head and took a deep breath. "No. Everything's fine."

  "Come on, Fran. Let's not do this again, OK?"

  "Yeah, you're right." She rested against the edge of the sink, staring at the floor. "Just give me a minute to put it into words."

  Shelby waited. The bacon began to pop and spatter. She got up and pulled it out from under the broiler and turned the meat and pushed it back in. Leaning with Fran against the sink, she let their fingers touch. "Speak," she said.

  "I want you to have what you want,” Fran said slowly, "but sometimes… the thought of you getting married… well, it's hard." She looked up at Shelby. "And you will get married, someday. The problem is, when I told you... about me… I was afraid it would turn you away. And when it didn’t— I really never expected us to be friends, but we are. And the real miracle is, you're the best friend I ever had." She laughed a little, humorlessly. "It scares me, Shelby. When I think of not seeing you again—I know this sounds silly, but—it feels like something in me's dying."

  Shelby wrapped her fingers around Fran's hand. "I feel the same way. As you might recall if you look back on our fairly recent history."

  She smelled bacon burning and grabbed a pot holder and pulled it out of the oven just in time. "Fran," she said, standing in front of the stove holding the smoldering pan of bacon, "it isn't happening. And it won't happen in the immediate future. So, please, let's not worry and just go with this."

  Fran nodded, a little uncertainly.

  "Are we going to have eggs?" Shelby asked. She tore a paper towel from the roller to drain the bacon. "Or should I make us disgusting, exotic bacon sandwiches?"

  Fran went back to her cooking. "Hey, are you free to do something tonight?"

  "Darn, I' m not. I promised to go to a movie with the work gang." She sipped her coffee and sat down. "I'd cancel, but they all have their noses out of joint."

  Fran glanced at her. "Yeah?"

  "I guess I can't really blame them. They're jealous of the amount of time I'm spending with you."

  Spatula half way to the frying pan, Fran froze.

  "What's wrong?" Shelby asked.

  "You have to go with them tonight." Fran spoke urgently. "You have to see more of them. This can't happen."

  "What can't happen?"

  "Don't let them get jealous of the time we spend together."

  "It's my time. I can spend it any way I like."

  Fran spun around to face her. Her knuckles stood out white. "No. Not in this case. Look," she said seriously, "you're a trusting person, and I love that in you. But you have to understand, when we're dealing with this particular issue, there's no such thing as being too paranoid."

  It was an old building, an opera house from the 1890s. Jenny Lind had sung there, or so the framed, browning newspaper articles in the lobby proclaimed. The carpet was a dark crimson, like blood, or rubies in dim light. Dark hardwood molding framed deep green flocked velvet-paneled walls. A white wicker pedestal stood by the center aisle door to the auditorium, topped with the early '60s version of the rubber tree plant, a plastic fern. New movies opened in the shiny chrome theater down the street. This one didn't sell popcorn, and specialized in films worthy of a second look.

  She'd never seen The Children's Hour, or even read the play. She knew it was by Lillian Hellman, had caused quite a stir when it was released two years ago, and dealt with two school teachers whose lives were ruined when they were accused of sexual deviancy by a nasty school child. The play had been considered shocking in the '30s, and had been made into a movie called "We Three," which had very little to do with the original. This version starred Audrey Hepburn and the new actress Shirley MacLaine. A potentially interesting combination. At least, she thought as Penny came scampering toward them with their tickets, it wouldn't be boring.

  For the first fifteen minutes she enjoyed it. She and Connie—her fellow boarding-school parolee—nudged each other in recognition of familiar sights. Uniforms, fiddle-backed chairs, drinking glasses as thick and swollen as beer barrels. Lawn parties and agonizing student piano recitals. Kids sneaking dirty books.

  Then, without being aware of it, she forgot where she was, caught up in the movie. Intrigued, and a little frightened. Something was going on, below the action on screen. A tension that reached out to her and pulled her in. She felt part of it, yet not part of it. She was absorbed and uncomfortable, and felt an odd knowing, like the first tentative roots of a new plant coming to life.

  It kept getting worse, on the screen and inside her. Karen told Martha she was getting married, and Martha blew up. Shelby understood that. She could feel herself sinking deeper and deeper into quicksand. The looks that passed between them—such tenderness and fear on Martha's face, such blithe ignorance on Karen's. The climactic scene—when Martha admitted h
er love for Karen and was overwhelmed with shame and guilt, was one of the most painful moments she had ever sat through. When Martha went to her room Shelby knew what was going to happen, knew why, felt the dead-end, no-other-choiceness of it. She clenched her teeth to keep from shouting out loud, "Don't do it. Please, don't do it." By the end, she was stunned. In shock. She didn't even know what had happened in the final minutes, after the suicide.

  The lights came up. Shelby sat, mindless and frozen until Connie grabbed her by the elbow and said with a laugh, "Come on, Camden. They won't let you sleep here."

  Afterward, they went across the street for sandwiches and ice cream. Shelby didn't want to, hated the idea of the lights and other people in the soda shop. She wanted to get away, go home, be alone, be in darkness.

  But the postmortem was part of their routine. They settled down in a dark wood booth, leaned on the sticky table. The air was heavy with the odor of cream and coffee. The jukebox was too loud.

  The rest ordered supper. Shelby wanted to throw up, because of the smell and the noise and the way the air seemed to pound in her ears, because of whatever was crawling around inside her. She settled on a dish of sherbet. She doubted she could eat even that.

  Inevitably, they discussed it. Connie opened by declaring she thought Audrey Hepburn was gorgeous as Karen. Lisa was totally smitten with James Garner. Jean thought Shirley MacLaine had a lot of courage to play Martha. Penny remarked on the "interesting chemistry" between the two women. Shelby muttered something about "good casting."

  ”Terrific casting," Jean said, "until they went and ruined it with that child."

  "Mary?" Connie asked.

  Jean nodded. "She was terrible. She overacted, she mugged ... I think she must have been the director's niece."

  They all had a laugh about that.

  When the food arrived, they got down to content.

  It was Jean's opinion that Martha had always been "that way" but didn't really want to know it.

  Lisa thought she really wasn't, but had gotten the idea somewhere and believed it.

  Penny found the whole thing depressing.

  Connie seemed to be watching Shelby to see what she thought.