Solitaire and Brahms

by Sarah Dreher

  Tempting, but not well thought out.

  She put the screen in front of the fireplace and changed into pajamas and got a paper bag to empty the ash trays. She washed the worst of the dinner dishes. That made it one-fifteen. The television showed nothing but test patterns.

  One-twenty. She thought about putting a record on the player, browsed through a few albums. But he might hear it in the background and think she was having a good time without him and his feelings would be hurt. She didn't want to hurt him. Ray was a good man, one of the best she'd met. It wasn't his fault she was irritable and strange.

  The phone rang at one-twenty-two. She grabbed it on the first ring. "Honey, I'm sorry," she said.

  "So am I. It was lousy timing."

  "It's not your fault."

  "Yeah, it is. This was your night. I shouldn't have pushed on the marriage thing."

  She perched on the back of the couch. "That wasn't it. I just wasn't feeling well.”

  "Shel, you should have said earlier."

  "It was dumb. Just another one of those headaches."

  A brief pause. "What headaches?"

  Damn. She hadn't wanted to tell him. "I get headaches now and then. It's nothing. Probably the weather."

  "God, babe, how's a person to know what you need if you never let on?"

  Lovely. That's twice in one day I've been accused of being overly self-reliant. "It's not a big deal," she said. "If I don't pay any attention to it, it goes away."

  "Kind of like yours truly," Ray said wryly.

  "Huh?"

  "It was a joke, OK?"

  "OK."

  "So how about you set the date for me to propose?"

  Shelby let her eyes drift shut wearily. "I don't think I can make that kind of decision right now, Ray. I have a lot on my mind. This new job's going to take a lot of getting used to."

  “Shel..."

  "I mean it. I want to do it well.”

  "It isn't going to matter in the long run. As soon as we're married..."

  No. She wasn't going to have that discussion tonight. Not tonight, not tomorrow night, not for a long time.

  "Honey, it's late and I can't think straight. Can't we talk about this some other time? Please?"

  She heard him light a cigarette. "You're right. How about you come in here Tuesday? We'll go some place special for dinner. Maybe come back here after."

  She didn't want to, didn't want to, didn't... "Fine. Tuesday."

  "Meet you at the bus?"

  "Fine."

  "Sweet dreams, babe."

  Her dream wasn't sweet. Something was outside the window. She could see the shadow of it, a large and shaggy, cloud-like mound, cast by moonlight on the opposite wall. A bush, maybe. But it was too solid for a bush, especially now, when there were no leaves. She thought about getting up to take a closer look, but some intuition, some warning in her mind told her to stay still and small. She watched.

  The object, if it was an object, swelled. An appendage of darkness sucked itself out of the body and stretched toward the window. There was a scratching at the screen.

  Frozen, Shelby stared at the shadow. The dark mound began to change, to form itself into something human but not quite human. It made a snuffling sound, as if sniffing for a way in. She looked toward the window. The screen bulged. Moonlight brightened through a narrow slit that grew longer, and longer...

  Shelby opened her eyes, heart drumming like sleet on a tin roof. A dream. It had been only a dream. But the fear still drifted around her. She fumbled for the bed lamp, pressed the switch...

  And found herself back in darkness, with the moonlight shadow of the creature even larger and closer.

  This is a dream, she shouted to herself, and forced herself awake. The shadow was gone. Exhausted from the effort, sweating from fear and exertion, she lay quietly listening to the silence. She took a deep breath and let herself relax.

  The shadow was back. And now the window was opening, slowly, carefully, as if the creature hoped to surprise her asleep.

  A dream, a dream, it's only a dream. She reached for the lamp. Light flooded the room. The banging of her heart was palpable. She wouldn't let herself fall back to sleep. She'd get up and go to the bathroom, splash water on her face, maybe turn on the radio, walk around. Anything to stay awake.

  With a ripping sound, the shadow creature split the screen and slid into the room. It moved in a flowing, viscous stream down the wall, across the floor. She tried to get out of bed and run, but she couldn't move. At the foot of her bed it stopped, pulled itself once again into solid form, this time with features—a flattened nose, heavy eyebrows, gaping bottomless mouth, red glistening eyes...

  Shelby screamed.

  It came out more like a grunt than a scream, but it awakened her into darkness. She grabbed the lamp, pressed the button. This time she really was awake. The room was the same as it had always been, window off the foot of her bed to the left. The screen was intact, the window closed. No shadows on the opposite wall, only her bureau and mirror. Bedside table with the file folder of stories and her blue pencil. Max Lerner's America as a Civilization, her guaranteed put-to-sleep book since graduate school, lay open on the floor.

  Carefully, certain she'd be thrown back into the dream any minute, she slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. She turned on the light. No goblins in the shower or the tub. Nothing strange in the medicine cabinet. Shelby glanced at herself in the mirror. "You look like the wrath of God," she said aloud, and ran cold water and buried her face in her cool, wet washcloth.

  “Well,” she said, “that's the last time I cook something out of Betty Crocker." Which suddenly reminded her of Ebenezer Scrooge trying to pass off Marley's ghost as undigested beef.

  Shelby peeked at the clock on top of the stove. Three a.m. Perfect, just time enough to finally get back to sleep before she'd have to get up.

  Then she remembered that tomorrow was Sunday, and she had no plans.

  She searched through the medicine cabinet for something to help her drop off, to take the edge off her nerves. Aspirin was iffy. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. But there was a pack of dramamine. If it made her sleepy enough to nearly miss planes, it ought to put her to sleep now. She swallowed one, and carried a second with a glass of water to her bed, just in case.

  Chapter Four

  When did it turn so complicated?

  Shelby let the Entertainment section of the Boston Sunday Globe slip to the floor and sipped her coffee. The apartment was still a mess, furniture all out of order, overlooked plates lurking in surprising places, stale glasses making rings on the coffee table, on the top of the TV set, on the phone stand. She didn't care.

  When they had first started going out, while Ray was still in medical school, it'd been fun. They'd both been dating other people, and their times together had been easy. Gradually, the other people had dropped out, until it was just the two of them. Somewhere along the line, their friends had started to see them as a couple. She wasn't even sure when it had happened. Now it was assumed, if they were invited anywhere, it was Shelby and Ray.

  Maybe that was the trouble. Maybe they had become too twisted up in each other's lives without thinking about it, because lately it seemed they were always pulling in opposite directions.

  They'd been thrown together without either of them making a decision, like tree branches entangled in a flood.

  Ray was asking for a decision now.

  Except he wasn't asking for an “if” decision, he was asking for a “when” decision. But surely he'd thought about it. Surely he'd sat down and asked himself if Shelby Camden was the woman he wanted to marry.

  She wondered if it had been that clear-cut. Straightforward, yes or no, up or down. Or had it come with conditions—if she lets her hair grow or promises never to let her hair grow, if she agrees to have two children in the next five years, if she quits her job?

  And what about yourself? she wondered. Do you want to be Mrs. Dr. Raymond C
urtis Beeman?

  "Sure, why not?" she heard herself say out loud.

  Why not? Because "why not" is a hell of a reason to get married, that's why not. Of course you want to get married, she told herself firmly. And you want to get married to Ray. Ray is, in Connie's terms, "the greatest."

  Do you love him?

  She went to the kitchen and poured another cup of last night's coffee.

  I must love him, she thought as she sipped the bitter liquid. He's a good person. I feel safe with him. I like the way we look together. We're easy with each other. I can see us growing old together.

  We already have grown old together. We're comfortable. Like a pair of well-loved, well-worn slippers.

  God, I'm twenty-five years old and thinking as if I'm eighty.

  But where's the excitement in it? The anticipation? The passion?

  In the movies there was always excitement. Romantic stuff. Ray seemed to feel romantic.

  Shelby didn't know what that was, to feel romantic.

  That was only what the movies showed you. Nobody knows what you really feel. Maybe Ray's just expressing what he thinks he's supposed to feel, the way they show it in the movies.

  It must be nice, to feel the way they did in the movies. If they did. If anyone did.

  But somebody must. Somebody makes up the things you see in the movies. They must get it somewhere.

  It didn't make any sense, thinking like this. It was morbid, and probably just the remnants of a hangover.

  She was always thinking too much about things. Everyone said so. Sometimes they didn't even say it, just stared at her with that "I can't believe the way your mind works" look.

  Get up. Move around. Do something.

  She wished she had someone to talk to. Someone who'd understand this, and help her understand it.

  Not a shrink. She pictured a short, balding middle-aged man with glasses who'd take notes and say "uh-huh" now and then. He wouldn't know what she was talking about.

  Or he'd have her committed to a hospital for the hopelessly deficient.

  And then they might as well commit Libby, too. Libby would go totally off her rocker.

  Libby wouldn't have to know.

  Libby knows everything, sooner or later.

  She needed someone who'd been there, a sister, someone who'd know what was happening to her. Someone who could explain, or help, or at least be kind. The tears were starting up again, pressing against the backs of her eyes.

  And there was a feeling, distant, circling toward her like a hungry shark.

  Fear.

  No, she thought. I will not sit around and be maudlin.

  She put her coffee cup in the sink and went in search of leftover party debris.

  The living room still smelled of stale cigarettes. She'd opened the windows, but the outside air was so heavy it simply lay there. A draft would help. A fire would set up a draft.

  This is a good thing to know, Mrs. Dr. Raymond Curtis Beeman. A good little housewife should always know how to do important things like remove the cigarette odor from a room.

  The wood box was empty, of course. And yesterday she'd noticed there were no more split logs in the shed. Chances were, no one had split any. Since the students had left, the apartment house was very short on log splitters.

  Not to worry. Mrs. Dr. Raymond Curtis Beeman was the best log splitter in Suburbia.

  The shed was fragrant with the clean smell of cut wood. Her old jeans, which she kept tucked away almost guiltily in the back of her closet, were soft against her legs. Metal struck logs with a satisfying "thunk." The wood fibers cracked with a twisting sound as the logs split, and odors of pine and dried cherry drifted through the sawdust.

  It felt good to do this, to feel the axe weight in her hands, to feel the power in her arms as she swung it overhead and down. No thinking while you split wood, either. Focus and concentrate. Set the log. Swing. Strike. Separate the two halves clinging together by their fibrous threads. Stack the split halves.

  Get a rhythm going. Set... swing... strike... separate... stack.

  Set… swing… strike… separate… stack.

  Set… swing… strike… separate… stack.

  Mrs… Doctor... Raymond... Curtis... Beeman.

  She missed, hitting the log on its outer rim. It tumbled over. “Shit,” she muttered, and bent to right it.

  "Need a hand?"

  Shelby started and looked up. Someone was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. A woman, a silhouette against the misty gray glare.

  Leaning, Shelby thought. People lean in that casual, comfortable way when they've been standing there for a while, watching.

  She felt her face go hot. She had a pretty good idea what she looked like, hair in her eyes and chips of wood clinging to her sweater like weed seeds. The sneakers—oh, God, the beat-up sneakers-and the torn jeans... She started to cram her hands into her pockets self-consciously, forgetting she was holding the axe. The tool clunked to the floor.

  "I'm sorry," the woman said. "I didn't mean to scare you." She laughed a little. She had a nice laugh. "Actually, I was watching, which is rude, of course. But I couldn't help myself." She indicated the wood pile with a flick of her wrist. "You do that very well.”

  "Thanks." Shelby ran a hand through her hair casually, hoping she could rearrange herself without appearing to. Some of the wood chips transferred themselves to her hair.

  The woman pushed away from the door and stepped inside. She picked up the axe. "Want me to cut a little?"

  "It's OK, I'm finished, but thanks." She wished the woman would face the light so she could see her. She couldn't even tell how old she was.

  "Let me give you some help with carrying." The woman bent to pick up an arm load of split wood. "I assume you're going to take it inside and burn it, or are you just working off steam?"

  "It isn't necessary, really." Shelby grabbed at a log, and felt a splinter slip into the squishy part of her palm.

  "Least I can do," the stranger said as she piled the wood high in the crook of an elbow. “After scaring you.”

  Shelby picked the splinter out of her hand. "You didn't scare me," she said firmly.

  The woman glanced at her. Shelby faced down her backlit shadow with her best noncommittal look. The woman shook her head and went back to lifting wood. "Off on the wrong foot," she muttered. "Definitely the wrong foot."

  "Who are you?" Shelby heard herself ask bluntly.

  "I'm sorry. Fran Jarvis. And you are?"

  "Shelby Camden."

  "I thought so." Fran made a gesture to reach out to shake hands, realized she was holding the wood, and settled for a shrug. "I just moved in across the hall from you."

  "Oh!" Shelby said with a little too much enthusiasm. "That apartment's been empty for weeks."

  "Is there something I should know? Like rats in the walls? Or a grisly murder happened there and the body was never found but there's a strange odor emanating from behind the bathroom wall?"

  Shelby grinned. "I don't think so. The whole house is sort of haunted, but it's not personal."

  "Well," said Fran, "thank God for small favors—which, of course, is the only kind God does." She tilted her head to one side. "You ready to go in, or do you have another project out here?"

  "Ready." She gathered up the remaining wood, made one final swipe at the chips in her hair, and set the axe in the chopping block.

  The outside light was blinding after the dimness of the shed. They were halfway across the yard before she could see clearly. Fran strode on a little ahead of her. She was about Shelby's height, with light brown hair cut short and slightly wavy. She was wearing brown wool slacks and a caramel blazer and penny loafers. Standard late winter New England dress. Not much of a clue to personality.

  Shelby still hadn't seen her face.

  The mud squished around her sneakers. It smelled like decaying earthworms. The grass was brittle, and looked as if it would never green again. Bare roots, twisted by frost h
eaves, pushed out of the ground under the maples.

  "It was spring when I left Washington," Fran said over her shoulder, as she slogged across the soggy yard. "It disappeared somewhere in northern New Jersey. On the Garden State Parkway, I think."

  "Is that where you're from? Washington? D.C.?" She wanted to walk faster, to catch up with her. But the ground was treacherous. She knew she'd throw herself off balance and land face down in worm-scented mud.

  "Visiting," Fran said. "I've been making my way up from Texas. How about you?"

  “I've lived in Bass Falls about three years. since graduate school. But I'm a native New Englander. Andover. Outside of Boston."

  "Dyed-in-the-wool Yankee?"

  "I guess so."

  They had reached the house. Fran pulled the wooden storm door open with two fingers, then stood back to use her body to hold it.

  "Thanks," Shelby said as she stomped up the steps. She looked up into Fran's face.

  She was about Shelby's age, maybe a year younger or older, it was hard to tell. Soft features, high cheekbones, and the most amazing eyes Shelby had ever seen. Blue, but not the light blue of most blue eyes. Fran's eyes were deep, darkening to indigo near the irises, eyes within eyes.

  Cornflowers, Shelby thought.

  And nearly tripped over the sill.

  "Careful," Fran said.

  She pulled herself together and backed through the inside door, holding it for Fran. “That's my place,” she said, and nodded toward her open door.

  "I figured," Fran said.

  “You did?”

  "There are only two apartments on this floor. The other one's mine."

  Now Shelby felt like a total fool. "You may not believe this," she said, "but I'm rumored to have an I.Q. in triple digits."

  "I believe it."

  "I'm even allowed to live here without supervision."

  "Well, I shouldn't be," Fran said as she looked down at her mud-caked shoes and the tracks she'd left on the hall carpet. She stepped out of her loafers and kicked them to the side.