Solitaire and Brahms

by Sarah Dreher

  At home, Fran had gathered up all the brides' magazines Libby had contributed to Shelby's apartment. She had them stacked by the outdoor fireplace, a fire laid, and a can of charcoal lighter near by. "I thought we might have a ritual burning," she said.

  "Love it. Any calls?"

  "Your phone rang once, but it stopped after the fourth ring. Probably a wrong number."

  “Be back in a sec."

  She went through her apartment to the mailboxes and grabbed her mail. A magazine. Flyers. Bills. The rest junk. She tossed it on the couch and went to change.

  By the time the pyre had consumed the last of the magazines, she was covered with soot and starving. Fran threw together one of her gourmet forgettable meals. Afterward, they sat around chatting about nothing in particular until Shelby heard the phone in her apartment ring.

  “Shit,” she said, turning to ice.

  "Want to ignore it?"

  She shook her head. "This has to happen sooner or later." She trudged down the hall.

  "Shel," Ray said, "I'm glad I caught you in."

  She almost didn't recognize him. His voice sounded older. She put her fear on 'hold.' "Hello, Ray," she said as noncommittally as possible.

  "Hon, I feel like a real ass for not getting back to you before now..."

  "I heard you got the ring."

  “Yes. And here's the point…"

  Oh, no, she thought. Not another argument, not another of those terrible conversations.

  "...I think you were absolutely right to do it."

  "What?"

  "You had it pegged all along," he said. "I know I treated you like shit, not understanding and all, but I think... well, I've thought about it a lot, and I think I didn't want to face the fact that it wasn't right for me, either."

  "You did? Didn't?"

  "I think so." He laughed. "Of course I reserve the right to change my mind a hundred times. But when I saw that ring—to be perfectly honest, my first reaction was relief. Couldn't get around that. The anger came later, but it didn't stay." He stopped and took a deep breath. "So here's what I think. I think we make pretty good friends, but we wouldn't make a good marriage."

  She finally started breathing again. "Ray, this isn't a joke, is it? Because if it is, not that I blame you, but it's really not a good time in my life for jokes."

  "It's not a joke. More like a scene from a really bad movie."

  Shelby had to laugh.

  "Look, I wanted to warn you, Libby's on the war path. She's making some pretty ugly statements. I don't know what she has planned. I'll try to hold her back on this end, but she's in her own orbit."

  "I'm sure she is. Ray, can we get together and talk about this? I mean, I have to tell you how really, really grateful I am..."

  "No need to talk about it, but let's get together soon. Are friends allowed to go dancing together? Or is that reserved for couples?"

  "We'll pretend." It didn't matter if she wasn't in love with this man. She liked him. Truly and genuinely liked him. "Thanks for this. I really mean it."

  "I'll give you a calI soon. Or you can call me, now that we're not romantically involved."

  "I'll do it," she said, "I promise."

  When she told her, Fran was as stunned as Shelby had been. "He's one in a million," she said. "Maybe you should rethink your decision."

  "Not on your life. This is fine the way it is." She stretched. "God, I just realized how exhausted I am. Think I'll take a hot bath and hit the sack."

  "Good idea. I have to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning."

  "See you after work." She started to reach out to embrace her, then realized there were streaks of oily soot all over her arms and hands. "I'm disgusting."

  "Not to me," Fran said.

  It was an old, claw-footed tub with porcelain handles and permanent rust stains. She filled it with steaming water and added double the recommended amount of bubble bath. She looked around for something to read, but everything she was reading was either too complicated, too heavy to hold in the tub, or America as a Civilization. She wanted something light and unenlightening. The mail would do, ads and all.

  By the time she was down to the last piece of junk, she was ready to fall asleep in the tub. She thought about tossing it aside, but decided to read it, anyway, just to have a sense of closure.

  She glanced at the envelope. The return address was barely legible, from some sort of copy store, it seemed. She couldn't make out the postmark. She tore it open.

  It was a photocopy of a photocopy, about five pages long. Official-looking, if it hadn't been reproduced so hurriedly and carelessly. A cover sheet with a filled-out form, what looked like a report clipped to it. The kind of thing they sometimes got at the magazine, a home-based cottage industry trying to convince them they couldn't afford not to review this product, which would solve everyone's problems forever. She yawned. Too much for tonight. She was about to drop it to the floor when something caught her eye. A familiar name.

  Frances Ellen Jarvis.

  She read over the cover form, which told her nothing she didn't already know, except that Fran was born in a small town, and had achieved the rank of Corporal.

  The report itself was from the Department of Defense. But they obviously hadn't sent it. She tried again to make out the postmark. No luck.

  Maybe she shouldn't read it. It might be personal. But someone had gone out of their way to send it to her, and she wanted to know why. She could get Fran and they could read it together. But Fran had an early morning. She'd show it to her first thing tomorrow evening.

  She started to read.

  Ten minutes later she threw the report against the wall.

  God damn it!

  It was a summary of Fran's service record, including the fact that she had left the service "voluntarily" in exchange for an honorable discharge, and to avoid a Court Martial for "suspected sexual perversion."

  Who had sent this stuff, and why? To make trouble, of course. Someone who thought she didn't know. Well, that was wasted effort.

  Still, it was a very nasty thing to do. And a complicated one. They'd have to get hold of Fran's service record, which couldn't be an easy task. Not many people she knew had the malice or connections for that...

  Libby.

  Libby would think of a dirty trick like this. And her father would have connections through his law office. He probably had a dozen World War II buddies stashed away in the Pentagon.

  Obviously, it was a warning. A hint as to how far Libby could go.

  Enraged, she threw a towel around herself and went to the phone. Her mother answered.

  "I want this stupid game to stop. Right now."

  "Who is this?" her mother asked in a silken voice.

  "You know who it is. I got your lousy letter today..."

  "I'm sorry," Libby said sweetly. "You must have the wrong number." She hung up.

  No point in calling back. Her mother'd done that one before. It was followed by her taking the phone off the hook for as long as necessary.

  She wanted to find someone and yell, but this wasn't the kind of thing you could rant and rave over to anyone who didn't know. Which left Fran, repository of all her complaints. She deserved to sleep.

  Fran was sitting on the front steps when she got home from work. Shelby waved to her, then pulled around to the back of the house. All the way home, she'd worried about how to tell her about the letter. Actually, she'd worried about it all day. When Penny dropped by to invite her to after-work cocktails, she'd turned her down with an abrupt, "I have to get home." She regretted it afterward. Penny had looked hurt, and Shelby really wanted to go out of her way not to annoy or disturb anyone these days.

  She parked the car, grabbed her pocketbook, and started up the walk to the house. Fran met her half way.

  "We have to talk," Shelby said. "Something's happened."

  "I know." She pulled a wad of folded and crumpled papers from her pocket. "I got my own personal copy."

&n
bsp; "Fran, I'm so terribly sorry."

  "It's not your doing. Go put on something comfortable and take me to the seediest, most depressing bar in town. Somewhere we can get really down and suicidal."

  It wasn't easy to find a bar that fit. Most of the local spots were jammed with students, even on a Tuesday. They created a raucous, optimistic atmosphere that was incompatible with true despair.

  Finally she remembered Willy's across the street from the movie theater and hidden slightly behind the library. Willy's had been around since the Depression. There were two separate entrances—one in front and one in the shadows out by the garbage cans—and rooms upstairs that might or might not be hotel rooms. Inside, it was dark and fragrant with stale beer. Every booth and table was covered with cigarette burns and carved initials and mysterious dark stains. A jukebox, half its lights working, played only sad Country and Western music. Red curtains hung over the windows, making the place look from the outside like a brothel that had fallen on hard times. It was the kind of place none of the locals ever frequented and parents warned their children about.

  "It'll do," Fran said.

  "Looks pretty bad to me," Shelby said.

  "You've never seen the bars in a town with an Army post nearby."

  They slid into a particularly dark booth with stuffing coming out of the vinyl seats. Shelby wondered if the stuffing was being harvested by mice. "What'll it be?" Fran asked.

  "Just beer, thanks. In a bottle."

  "Right. At least we'll know what we're drinking." She went to the bar to get it.

  Shelby wondered what Libby would think if she saw her now, sitting in a dark and seedy bar with a lesbian she was probably in love with.

  In love with.

  She looked toward the bar and watched Fran chat up the bartender. Fran was always chatting up bartenders and waitresses and clerk in stores. She said it made her feel like a human being, not just some anonymous being draining their energy.

  Fran was wearing the soft beige corduroys and a well-worn white shirt and her loafers.

  In love with.

  Shelby was surprised at herself. It had come to her, and she hadn't become hysterical or depressed or disgusted. None of those things she was supposed to feel.

  It felt right.

  In the midst of all the chaos and turmoil and strange things happening or about to happen—this was all right.

  Fran came back and put down the beer bottles. "You first," she said. "What do you think's going on?"

  "Well, it's obviously a Libby thing. She could do this, and would. The reasons are obvious, too. What isn't clear is what we should do with it, what the message is, and what happens next."

  “I know what the message is for me," Fran said, “I know what you are, and I can use it to wreck your life, so stay away from my daughter. Or words to that effect.”

  "What could she do to you?"

  "Get me kicked out of my job, for one thing. Maybe out of school. And probably things I haven't even dreamed of yet. What's she likely to do?"

  Shelby sat for a moment, thinking it over. "I'm not sure. I've never been through this with her. She probably wouldn't do much publicly. But there must be a lot of options between here and there."

  Fran was peeling the label off her beer. "I really think we should avoid each other," she said without looking up. "There's an awful lot at risk here."

  "No."

  "Shelby..."

  "I told you before. That's not an option. Unless it's for your safety."

  "I don't know what to do." Fran leaned her back against the window and rested one foot on the bench. "Jesus, I hate this."

  "I'm not real crazy about it, myself."

  “No matter what I try to do, sooner or later my feelings get, me in trouble. Every time I promise myself I won't get involved, I'll just go along breezing through my life, with no baggage… It happens all over again. I wish I could kill my feelings."

  "Fran..."

  "I really didn't mean to hurt you with this."

  "You haven't hurt me. Fran, I'm the one who broke the engagement. I'm the one who chickened out of the reunion. I'm the one who wanted to be around you every minute I could."

  "They picked up something." Fran must have been crying. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "Something coming from me."

  "And me. Will you please try to hear this? It was coming from me, too."

  "Yeah, but you're innocent."

  "No more innocent than you, and no more guilty." She leaned across the table. "Fran, this isn't something to feel guilty about. It's who you are."

  Fran dug in her pocketbook for a tissue and blew her nose. Shelby couldn't tell if she was listening or not.

  "I know people don't like it," she went on. "I saw the movie, I heard the remarks. But, for God's sake, there's got to be a way to live within this."

  "You haven't been there." Fran took a drink. She still wouldn't look at her.

  "No, I haven't." She covered Fran's wrist with her hand. "So maybe I'm not as beaten down as you. Maybe I can see things a little more optimistically, if not clearly."

  Fran gestured toward the window with her beer bottle. "Yeah, and just look at the crowds of people out there, lining up to help."

  "I'm lining up." She squeezed her wrist. "Christ," she said loudly, "will you get out of yourself for one minute and listen to me?"

  Startled, Fran looked at her.

  "I love you. The way you love me. I want to be with you forever. Whatever happens, I want to be there with you, going through it with you. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  Fran's face went white, then red. She nodded.

  "And don't tell me I don't know what I'm getting into. I do know. I don't care what they do. I..." She felt herself choke up. "...I want to love you. I want you to love me."

  Panic swept over her. She could feel her hands go clammy and begin to tremble. Fran started to say something. She stopped her.

  "I'm scared," she said. "I'm scared of what people are going to do. But I'm more scared of what you're going to say." She laughed humorlessly. "I've never proposed to a woman before."

  Fran smiled. It was the first time in weeks Shelby'd seen her smile like that. It came from somewhere deep inside and levitated the room.

  "I love you," Fran said.

  They looked at each other for a long minute. Finally Shelby cleared her throat. "What are we supposed to do now?"

  "Beats me." Even in the dark shadows of the room, her eyes seemed to spark. "what do you want to do?"

  "Get out of here, go home, and just be with you."

  Back in college, their constant free time activity had been "Identity crisis." What am I doing here? What's it all about? Her whole generation had struggled with it. If I strip away the things I've learned from my parents and teachers, if I subtract my background, who am I? There were magazines, printed articles and cartoons about it. Sociologists studied it.

  They knew they were more than the people they saw on TV. They weren't the nuclear family from the suburbs, with trimmed lawns and backyard barbecues and fake Hawaiian luaus. The culture of the '50s surrounded them, but it didn't define them. They began to look for answers, not from their parents, but from poets and writers and artists. The Beat Generation began to take shape.

  Their parents didn't "get it," of course. They'd achieved the American Dream, why not just sit back and enjoy it? Now it seemed the "kids" were rejecting everything their fathers had risked their lives for.

  But it wasn't enough for them. They felt an emptiness, a hollowness they couldn't really understand. A hope that there was more to life than going through the motions. A desire to find out who they were at the core.

  Many of her friends and acquaintances had moved on from there, settling into the very world they'd once declared "inadequate" or "phony." Everyday reality reared its head, and they bowed to its demands.

  Shelby'd never understood that, and she didn't understand it now. She didn't know why it had happened to them, but at lea
st now she knew why it hadn't happened to her. That world wasn’t her world. It pulled her, but there was no way of settling into a life that had so little to do with her.

  She looked down at Fran, asleep beside her. She knew she ought to be afraid, and she was. It was a hard world. Terrible things were probably going to happen, things she hadn't even imagined. But whatever was coming her way was nothing compared to the sadness and loneliness that were gone.

  Fran stirred a little. In the vague pewter light that carne before dawn, Shelby saw her eyelids flutter and smiled.

  "Are you awake?" Fran asked.

  "Yes."

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing. I was just thinking." She pushed herself up on one elbow and moved a bit of Fran's hair from her forehead with her fingertip.

  "About what?"

  "Life. Stuff like that."

  "Trivia."

  Shelby smiled down at her. "That's right."

  "Lie down." Fran placed one hand at the back of Shelby's neck and pulled her down. "Let me hold you."

  She let her head rest on Fran's chest, and felt her arms around her. Her own pajama top annoyed her. It kept Fran's hands from her skin. She wanted to feel her, all the different parts of her body touching all the different parts of Fran's body...

  "Fran," she whispered.

  "Uh-huh?"

  "Do you think we could... well, make love or something?"

  There was a long silence, then Fran laughed affectionately, "I think that could be arranged."

  Suddenly she felt terribly inadequate. "I don't know what to do."

  Fran eased her onto her back, one arm beneath Shelby's neck. "Here's what we're going to do." She stroked Shelby's hair. "I'm going to make love to you, but you're not going to make love to me."

  Shelby felt herself tighten with apprehension and anticipation.

  "I don't want you to worry about pleasing me," Fran went on, running her fingers across Shelby's face, touching her lips. "It's scary enough, your first time. Are you afraid?"

  "A little."

  "It'll be all right," Fran said softly. She undid the buttons of Shelby's pajamas and moved her hand across her chest. "Anything you don't like, you say. Any time you want me to stop or slow down, tell me. I won't take it personally."