by Sarah Dreher
She stopped by Zgrodnik's Market to pick up something for dinner. "You oughta get a dog," Jeff said as he measured out the hamburger into a red and white checked cardboard boat.
Shelby leaned against the counter and studied the boxed cake mixes in the next aisle. "Why do you say that?"
"Well, for one thing, they're good company. For another…" He ripped a sheet of butcher's paper from the heavy roll and wrapped it around her meat. “…I need more outlets for these bones."
She glanced around as he indicated a corrugated cardboard box resting on the floor behind him. It was filled to overflowing with scraped bones, glistening with shreds of blood and fat.
"One day's collection," he said ruefully. He handed her the package of meat.
Shelby took it with a laugh, and started to turn away.
"Hey," he said, calling her back. "They rent that empty apartment in your house yet?"
"Not yet."
He shook his head in a worried way. "I don't like it."
"It's perfectly safe, Jeff."
"Ground floor, nobody but you."
His concern touched her. "There are three other apartments," she said, trying to reassure him.
"Not on the ground floor."
"And the ghosts. Don't forget the ghosts."
"Listen," he said, "we take our ghosts seriously up here. Now, I haven't heard anything too bad about that bunch over your way, but you never know when something might strike 'em wrong."
"I've never heard a peep or a moan out of them."
"And they're not going to protect you if someone breaks in. That's why you need a dog."
"I don't need a dog. Good grief."
Jeff shrugged. "Stubborn, just like your whole generation."
Maybe I should get a dog, she thought. She juggled her groceries and mail in one arm and struggled to unlock her apartment door.
The silence greeted her. Some days she welcomed the silence. Other times, like today, solitude brought loneliness in its wake. Today's loneliness had a gray feel to it. Like an oily mist. She'd have a useless evening tonight, restlessly watching television for a few minutes, then trying to read, going back to the television, wanting to call someone, not being able to think of anyone she really wanted to talk to ...frittering away the time until the eleven o'clock news came on and she could kiss another day goodbye.
A dog might be nice. A dog would meet her at the door with a happy tail and adoring "what did you bring me?" eyes. Maybe it would even chew on the furniture while she was away, or knock over a house plant or two, or ruffle up a rug. Anything, just so the apartment didn't look exactly the same when she came home as it had when she'd left. She could take the dog for walks. It would like walks. On days like today, when she didn't know what to do with herself, she could take it for several walks.
But it's not fair, Shelby thought, to let a dog love you when you're going to kill yourself.
Chapter Two
She tossed her keys on the telephone table, closed the door with one foot, and struggled to the kitchen with the groceries. Dropping the bag to the counter, she threw her coat on a chair and opened the refrigerator. The freezer compartment was growing a thick beard of frost; time to clean it again. She pulled out an ice tray and hipped the door shut. Yanking the handle on the metal tray divider, she splintered the cubes into dagger-like crystals that froze to her fingertips as she scooped them into a glass. She turned down the freezer control and put the tray back, divider and all. That would have given her mother fits. Libby didn't believe in returning half-empty trays to the freezer, and certainly not with the dividers in them. Libby didn't believe in sloppy housekeeping of any kind. Which was probably why Libby had a full-time maid.
Scotch over ice wasn't a ladies' drink, but there were no witnesses. Shelby carried her glass to the living room, flipped on the television, and threw herself onto the couch. Most evenings she would have changed into slacks and a casual shirt first, but tonight that felt like one activity too many. Tonight she'd put up with the discomfort of her tight skirt and garter belt for one half hour longer.
Chet Huntley and David Brinkley were on, looking solemn. Maybe Russia had invaded. Shelby took a sip of her drink. About-to-be-successful young career woman relaxes at home after a busy and fulfilling day at the office.
No invasion. In fact, there was very little of consequence going on anywhere, according to NBC. The Kennedy’s were entertaining—what else is new? Speculation on whether Jackie would repeat her Tour of the White House. More speculation on the meaning of Secretary of Defense McNamara's admission last week that, not only were U.S. pilots flying combat missions over Vietnam, but "a few" ground troops were “exchanging fire” with the Viet Cong. Repetitive grumbling from cigar smokers and sellers over Kennedy's embargo of all products, including tobacco, from Cuba. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., speaking in a small Alabama church, some unpleasantness afterward. No surprise, meriting only fifteen seconds of coverage.
Not much real news, a lot of "What if?" items. Judging by what the news media covered, the human race preferred to live on hope and dread, preferably dread, at least twenty-four hours in advance. If the reporters were limited to reporting only events that had actually taken place, there'd be no news at all.
As for twenty-four hours in advance, she supposed she should think about tomorrow and the new girl, if not the implications for her skyrocketing (ha, ha) career. She was only a little nervous. She had a pretty good idea what to do and say, she'd been through it herself and not too long ago. The kid would be either a joy or a horror. She wondered which she'd been for her senior reader. Probably neither, probably just your average, garden-variety eager-learner...
Now there was an endless cigarette ad on the screen. Some pseudo doctor in a white coat, extolling the virtues of taste. She thought about getting up and changing channels, but felt too lazy. She reached for her mail-magazines, catalogue, a note from her graduate school roommate, ads, requests for contributions. Typical Tuesday haul, full of the clutter that didn't move over the weekend and hadn't been sorted by Monday. She set Helen's letter aside for later. Helen had gone from graduation to marriage to motherhood, and the living room drapes. They didn't have much in common any more.
She missed the old days with Helen, when they'd been united in rebellion against the safe, secure—Helen added “smug"--lives they'd been brought up in. Rebellion consisted of dressing in black and creeping down to coffee houses in the Village to listen to the Beat poets read their largely-incomprehensible works to the accompaniment of bongo drums and the incense of marijuana. They played at being bored and "cool" in classes. Identity crises were all the rage, and they spent endless hours discussing "Who Am I?" At one point, inspired by J. D. Salinger, they'd even considered dropping out of graduate school to find themselves, but lost their nerve.
Odd, how two short years and different lives had separated them. But maybe, once Shelby was married and had a child of her own, they'd be close again. She could imagine how Helen, with her quick wit and dry humor, would describe the perils of motherhood. Her initial letters had been filled with outrageous observations and painfully funny anecdotes, but lately she'd seemed tired, flat, and all the things they'd poked fun at before had become deadly serious to her.
Did marriage do that to everyone?
Huntley and Brinkley were about finished. Reluctantly, she unfolded herself from the couch, drained the last bit of melted ice and weak scotch from her glass, and turned off the television.
She pictured Ray in his tiny, sterile Cambridge apartment with antediluvian tea and coffee stains in the chipped porcelain sink, the crack that ran diagonally across the living room wall, the smell of old dust and radiators. He'd be leaning forward now to turn off his TV. Standing. Running his hands through his curly red-blonde hair. Lifting his aluminum TV dinner tray from the bricks-and-boards coffee table. Walking to the kitchen, tossing the fork into the sink, the tray into the paper-bag-lined step-on can. Getting a drink of water in a jelly glass
—probably the one with the Tom and Jerry design—leaning against the sink for a moment in a satisfied way. Walking back to the living room, checking his watch. Picking up the phone. Dialing.
Shelby counted off eight seconds, seven for the phone number, one for toll-call access. Her hand hovered over the phone.
It rang.
"Hey, babe. How's tricks?"
Shelby gritted her teeth. Once, just once, couldn't he find a different way of greeting her? "I'm fine, how are you doing?"
A short, waiting pause. "Something wrong?" he asked at last.
"Not at all. Why?" She knew why. She hadn't said, "Fine by me, how's by you?" Their passwords.
She could see his hesitation and then shrug as he decided to let it go. "No reason. You sound tired."
“I guess I am, a little. It was a long day. How was yours?”
Rustling in the background. He'd be stretching out on his couch now, slipping off his loafers, settling in for a long talk. His head propped on one wooden arm of the cheap, second-hand furniture ("Motel Modem," he called it. Shelby had termed it "Midwestern Mother-in-law"), his large feet dangling over the other end.
"Long enough."
Abrupt. He was indulging himself with a minor pout. Shelby sighed a silent sigh. "Anything new in exotic illnesses?"
"Nope. Anything in the publishing world?"
"No. Well, yes. I have to break in a new girl tomorrow."
“Is that good news or bad news?”
"Good, I guess. I'm probably moving up in the world. Breaking in a new reader's usually the last step before assistant editor."
"Hey!" She could hear the creak of the sofa as he stretched. "Way to go, gal. When will you know for sure?"
"When and if Spurl makes the decision. Keep your fingers crossed."
"No luck involved," Ray said. "Anything they give you, you've earned."
"Thank you."
"It's the truth."
Shelby had to smile. Ray was like a personal cheer leader. "There's talk of a party this weekend. To celebrate. I'm going to try to get them to turn it into a welcome party for the new girl."
"Get who?"
"The lunch bunch. You know. Connie, Lisa, Jean."
"What day?"
"Saturday."
"Aw, damn it…" He was running his hand over his jaw. He had a five o'clock shadow. It made a little scratchy sound in the phone. "I just let Paul talk me into taking over his shift in the E.R I'll see if I can switch it back. He's pretty strung out, though. It's been Reefer Madness around here all week..."
"Don't bother. We'll make it a hen party."
"You're sure that's ok with you?"
"Positive." She was a little surprised at how sure she was. "It'd probably be easier on the new girl, anyway."
"Yeah," he grunted, a laugh in his voice. "Us guys are damn intimidating."
"That you are, Dr. Raymond Curtis Beeman."
There was a brief pause. "Hey, Shel?”
"I'm here."
"Do you ever have... well, doubts about me, us?"
Did he? Was he? She felt a prickle of anxiety. "I don't know what you mean," she said cautiously.
"I keep shit hours. We can't plan ahead because they might tell me to work... hell, it's not much fun."
"There'll be plenty of time for fun down the road. And for planning ahead. Unless there's something you're not telling me."
"Like what?"
"You're switching your specialty from endocrinology to obstetrics."
"Shucks," he kidded. "You guessed." She could hear more rustling. He was sitting up. That meant he'd let her go... she corrected herself... he'd hang up soon. "Don't panic, kid. I may be tired, but I'm not crazy."
"Well, you should know, Doc."
More rustling. Now he was standing. In a second his voice would take on that distant tone that said his mind was on his studies. “Know what, Shel?”
"No, what, Ray?"
"I think I'll marry you."
"Not until you ask me first."
“I'm asking.”
"Not over the phone, you're not."
He chuckled. "You're a hard woman, Shelby Camden."
"Oh, go study."
"Keep Friday night open, ok?"
"I thought you had to work."
"Only on Saturday. Call you tomorrow." It was a statement, not a question. For some reason, that irritated her.
“Shel?”
She snapped her attention back to the phone. "Yeah, OK, tomorrow."
"Love 'ya, babe."
"Love you, too." The line went dead as he hung up.
Shelby put the phone back on its cradle and poured herself another drink.
Tonight's loneliness was like the fog. Gray, damp, cold. It made a sound of empty tunnels. Shelby stood by the window, looking out toward Pleasant Street beyond the deep front yard. A street lamp glowed wetly, the light glistening on the thick trunk of the maple tree that stood by the brick walk. A car crawled past, its tires spewing water and winter grit.
She thought of the things she could do with her evening—the television shows she might watch, the books she should read. She could even work on one of the short stories she was writing and promising herself she'd finish some day. But she kept on standing there, looking out at the night.
It wasn't good to wrap herself in loneliness this way. She should do something to bring light and warmth into the apartment. A fire in the fireplace?
She glanced down at the wood box. It was nearly empty. No kindling, no pieces cut for burning, just the two un-split logs she was planning to use as primitive andirons. She'd have to go out to the shed. Slip into comfortable clothes and mud-proof shoes, grab a coat, and go.
She couldn't bring herself to do it.
At least she'd managed to read and critique one story before it was time to sleep. Shelby placed the manuscript and notes on the bedside table, flicked out the light, and burrowed down beneath the heavy comforter. Cold dampness and oily yellow-silver light oozed through the partially open window. The high ceiling reflected and deepened the silence in the room, turning it in on itself. She pushed back the blankets to free her head from the sound of her own breathing, and the slow throb of blood pulsing through her veins. Outside, leaves had collected in the gutter, clogging the downspout. Mist percolated through soggy, rotting organic matter. Drops fell as steadily as a ticking clock.
She found herself missing the college boys who'd rented the apartment down and across the hall. They'd been pretty decent neighbors, polite and helpful. Students at the local science and engineering branch of the University, they had considered her an "older woman," placing her safely beyond the category of sexual prey. Except for an occasional weekend blast, they had spent most of their time studying. Then, just after Christmas vacation, something changed. The stereo blared day and night. There were beer cans in the garbage nearly every day, not just on weekends. Finally she had run into Dan by the trash bins, struggling with a torn paper bag that leaked bottles and empty Cheetos sacks. As she helped him clean up the mess, he told her they hadn't made the grade point average to stay in second semester, so they were living out the thirty days notice they'd had to give the landlord. They'd probably go into the army. On March 1 they were gone, quietly and without fanfare, vanished into the late winter snow fog.
The water dripped. The silence echoed. Her breathing was like waves breaking slowly, rhythmically. She shifted her position, and heard the rustle of sheets. It grated on her nerves.
It was going to be a long night.
* * *
They called her at eleven. The buzzing intercom shattered a thought she'd almost captured. She hadn't had many this morning, and now, just when she was about to have one…
Nerves. In spite of herself.
One of these days she'd have to get around to growing up.
Shelby gave her hair a tidying push, and tried to walk steadily and casually to the door. Lisa winked at her as she passed her desk. Connie flashed her the OK sign, thumb
and forefinger pressed together to form a circle. Rolling her eyes, Jean shot her a sympathetic smile.
The stairwell was gray and smelled of dampness. Climbing, Shelby heard the measured ring of her footsteps on concrete. A steady, relentless clang, clang, clang. Like a march step played out on water pipes. Or the slamming of jail cell doors.
I ought to be excited, she thought. Why can't I get excited?
The fire door groaned shut behind her. The hallway ahead was long and empty. Brown linoleum, here and there a bit of green grit, the sand-like substance the janitor put down to gather up dust. Shoulder-high white walls topped with glass, and from behind the glass the sound of phones and typewriters. Names neatly lettered on the doors: Art Editor; Fiction Editor; Advertising Editor; Food and Home Editors.
The door at the end read "Editor-in-Chief." Behind its frosted, dimpled glass David Spurl, Miss Myers and the new girl awaited. She touched the knob, aware of the tarnished brass rubbed shiny where hands had gripped it. Turned it, and winced at the metal-on-wood clunk. Took a deep breath and went in.
* * *
"Ah," said Spurl as she came into the office. "Shelby Camden, Penny Altieri. Penny, this is Miss Camden."
Shelby reached out to shake the girl's hand, and stopped half way, surprised. She'd expected someone younger than herself, by two years anyway, but Penny Altieri was almost a child.
Or maybe it was just the way she wore her blue-black hair, long and gathered into a loose ponytail. Or her face, small and soft around the edges like a baby's. Most likely it was her eyes. Penny Altieri had the largest, roundest, deepest brown eyes Shelby had ever seen on a human being. It made her look frightened and trusting, all at the same time.
"Miss Camden will show you around," David Spurl said in his dismissive voice, as if he had something vitally important to do. Shelby knew, it being Wednesday, that what he actually had to do was meet his pals from the local newspaper for lunch and drinks at the Downtown Grill. He held out a manila folder filled with manuscripts. "Walk her through a couple of these. Have Miss Myers put you both down for an hour with me tomorrow morning."