Solitaire and Brahms

by Sarah Dreher

  "I love meatloaf."

  "So you've said," Penny said with a satisfied grin.

  "Uh... you didn't get Libby's recipe for that, did you?"

  "No." Penny went back to the kitchen. "I've heard you on the subject of your mother's meatloaf."

  "My mother has a mutant cooking gene. It's a good thing she can afford help."

  She looked around Penny's loft apartment. It hadn't changed since the first time she was here. There were still no pictures. no knick knacks, no magazines or half-written letters, nothing personal. It reminded her of a freshly-cleaned motel room. "I see you still haven't finished unpacking," she said, and hoped it was tactful. "Would you like me to help?"

  Penny poked her head into the room. "I'm done, but thanks, anyway."

  OK. Maybe Penny preferred it this way. Maybe she felt more at home in places she could walk out of with a minimum of fuss if there was a Mau Mau uprising. There was no law that said you had to impose your identity on everything you touched.

  Still, it made her feel odd.

  "So," Penny called over the clatter of plates, "When do we get to meet this woman?"

  "Fran? Soon, I guess. We should all do something together some time."

  "Great. Although vague." She brought knives and forks and spread them out on the coffee table.

  Shelby felt a prickle in her stomach at the shadow of sarcasm in Penny's voice. "What?"

  Penny turned to her and smiled. "I can't wait to meet her, that's all. You seem to think a lot of her."

  "I hardly know her."

  "Well enough to go camping," Penny said, and smiled again.

  The smile didn't fool her this time. Penny was jealous. Shelby's heart went out to her. Jealousy was such a twisting, aching kind of emotion. "It's not a big thing," she said. "I've never gone camping before and I'm curious, that's all. I'll probably make a complete idiot of myself and spend the next year trying to avoid her out of shame and embarrassment."

  "Not you," Penny said. She put their plates down and went back to the kitchen for the serving dishes.

  In addition to the meat loaf there were scalloped potatoes, homemade, not the boxed kind, and a salad. "How did you manage all this," Shelby asked, "in that tiny kitchen?"

  "In stages. All I really had to do tonight was make the salad and defrost and heat up the other things. What would you like to drink?"

  "Water, please. So you're like a Boy Scout, always prepared. Frozen meals on tap in case a group of twelve drops in."

  "Hardly." Penny handed her a glass of ice water and opened a ginger ale for herself. "I've been working on it for weeks. Well, not weeks weeks. Maybe two weeks. I knew sooner or later I was going to ask you to dinner. I wanted to be ready in case it was a spur of the moment thing."

  "I'm flattered," Shelby said.

  "Good," Penny said. "I want to make you feel special."

  Shelby was stumped. "You do" seemed too personal, almost seductive. And "No need, I know I'm special" was not only untrue, but just plain—well, unacceptable. She settled for the ambiguous "Thank you."

  "Dig in," Penny said. "It's a long time until fall. An expression of my father's. I haven't the vaguest idea what it means. Something agrarian, probably. His grandfather was a farmer, and all the kids had to work the farm. They stayed home from school in the fall to do the harvesting, and in the spring to do the planting. It took him an extra year to finish elementary school because of it."

  And Penny was off and running. For two hours, she talked about her family, the places she'd lived, the things that had happened there. At eleven o'clock, the coffee shop downstairs closed. The crashing of garbage can lids reminded Shelby that she still had to drive home, call Ray—she should call her mother, but that was one thing too many tonight—and get enough sleep to be a functional human being in the morning. "

  They said good-night quickly. Penny refused help with the dishes. "I've enjoyed tonight," Shelby said. "We'll have to do it again."

  Penny beamed.

  Mist was hovering over the corn fields, softly lit by the three-quarter moon. The trees were starkly black against a faint gray sky. A few stars penetrated the humidity with fluttering light. Shreds of yellow mist wandered through the light from the street lamps.

  Shelby turned off the radio and listened to the wind blowing in the car window. She was exhausted, but it had been a good evening. She wasn't just being polite when she said she'd like to repeat it.

  The thing that bothered her was, even though Penny had talked all evening about herself, Shelby didn't feel she knew her any better now than she had before.

  * * *

  She was waiting in the alley behind the house when Fran showed up driving a year-old powder blue Chevy Super Sport with the top down.

  "Hey," Shelby said, "when did you get this?"

  Fran shoved the gear into park and got out, leaving the motor running. "Wednesday. Like it?"

  "Who wouldn't?"

  "I saved up for this the whole time I was in the service." She picked up Shelby's knapsack and tossed it into the back with the rest of the camping equipment.

  Shelby opened the passenger door and slid in. "It makes you look like Nancy Drew.”

  "Good." Fran got behind the wheel and tossed her a road map. "Think you can navigate?"

  "I can if I know where we're going."

  “This red dot,” Fran said as she leaned over and pointed, "is Bass Falls. And this green one is the state forest. We have to get from A to B."

  "Can do," Shelby said.

  Fran put the car in gear. "My friend Anna and I used to argue about Nancy Drew and Judy Bolton all the time when we were kids. She claimed Judy Bolton was the better detective, because Nancy Drew always had all those chums helping her and a father who knew everything, but I think it was just because Judy Bolton's hair was the same color as Anna’s."

  "Personally," Shelby said, consulting her map, "I think Nancy Drew was better written. There are plot holes in Judy Bolton you could drive a truck through. Turn right onto Route 8."

  "Right? Are you sure?"

  "Positive. "

  Fran pulled over to the side of the road. "Let me see."

  Shelby tucked the map out of sight. "Are you going to trust me or not?"

  "Yeah, sure, OK," Fran said with a nervous laugh. "I'm sorry. I just don't want anything to go wrong.”

  "Nothing's going to go wrong." There was a baseball cap in the well between the seats. She crammed it on Fran's head. "At least not in the map department."

  Fran settled the cap onto her head and straightened the beak and pulled out into traffic. She signaled for a left turn.

  "Right," Shelby said. "Turn right."

  "Oops." Fran wrenched on the steering wheel and cut a sharp turn clockwise. Her back tire caught the curb for a second. She glanced over. "Seat belt."

  "What?"

  "Fasten your seat belt, please. If I hit a bump, I don't want you flying off into the treetops."

  She snapped the buckle and pulled it tight. "We're not going to survive this, are we?"

  "Probably not," Fran said. "Unless I get a grip on myself."

  "Pull over."

  Fran did. "Now what?"

  "What's the matter with you?"

  "I want everything to be perfect."

  Shelby shook her head. "Everything doesn't have to be perfect. But it will be extremely imperfect if you kill us before we get there. Automobile accidents are not my idea of fun."

  "Shucks," Fran said.

  "So will you just relax?"

  "Give me a minute.” She put her hands on the steering wheel and rested her head on them and took a few deep breaths. "OK. I can do this."

  Shelby laughed. "I hope so. Because if you're too nervous to put up a tent, we're going to be in serious trouble.

  "Tents," Fran sneered. "I eat tents for breakfast."

  "I think you eat tense for breakfast would be more accurate."

  Fran rolled her eyes. "Oh, boy."

  "Our entir
e civilization stands or falls on accuracy of expression."

  "Should I write that down?"

  "Only after the car has come to a complete stop."

  "Nancy Drew's better written, huh?" Fran said. "Is that your professional judgment?"

  Shelby nodded.

  "Wait'll I tell Anna."

  "It's a little late to settle the argument, isn't it?

  "It continues."

  The day was warm, the air soft. An unusual May day of light and dryness, more like June or August. They were in open country. Fran pressed down on the accelerator. Shelby watched her. One elbow resting the window ledge, Fran held the steering wheel firmly and lightly in both hands. She drove smoothly, with a sense of instinctive competence. It reminded Shelby of the day Fran had built the fire. Again she was fascinated by her hands. They'd never be rough, or weak, or clumsy. Whatever those hands did they would do perfectly, whatever they held would be safe.

  "I think you'll like this campground," Fran said. "Well, maybe you won't, but if you like camping, you should."

  Shelby turned sideways in her seat so she could see her. "How come you know so much about this state when you just moved here?"

  "I've been driving around sight-seeing since I got the car." She hesitated. "That's not entirely the truth. I checked it out. I wanted to be sure it was an OK place and not the back side of the town dump." She glanced over at Shelby. "You know, the perfect thing. God, I'm such a jerk."

  "Want to hear, jerk? I was afraid you'd laugh at my knapsack."

  "Why would I do that?"

  "Because it's new."

  "So?"

  “So I wanted you to think I was cool and experienced."

  "You already told me you'd never been camping before."

  ”Well, maybe I wanted you to think I was experienced at doing things I've never done before."

  Fran grinned. "I think it's time to take another look at the map."

  "Right on 23," she said, glancing down. "How long will it take us to get there?"

  "About an hour, unless you want to stop for ice cream."

  "Do you?" Shelby asked.

  "Doesn't matter. How about you?"

  Shelby thought it over. "No. This is a camping trip. Ice cream isn't appropriate, "

  Fran grinned. "That was the right answer."

  "Is this a test?"

  "Tests happen," Fran said. She reached over and patted Shelby's knee. "Don't worry. Another one might not happen for five years."

  Five years. In five years she'd be an experienced married matron, probably with children. She probably wouldn't be working. She'd be taking care of kids and waiting for Ray to come home from the office. Serving on the hospital auxiliary, organizing volunteers and candy-stripers. What the hell was she going to do with herself the rest of the time? Redecorate the living room? She didn't care what living rooms looked like, as long as you could be comfortable in them. Leaf through magazines? Hang out by the country club pool and drink?

  "What's wrong?" Fran asked.

  "I was just thinking."

  "Doesn't look as if you were enjoying it."

  "I was thinking about the future. I can't imagine it."

  "Those who can't imagine the future," Fran said, "are doomed to repeat it.”

  "Do you plan to get married soon, or do you want to have a career first?"

  "I'm still waiting for the impulse to strike."

  "I guess that was a really stupid thing for me to say," Shelby said. "How can you know that in a vacuum? Are you seeing anyone?"

  "Not at the moment."

  "Do you mind?"

  "Not in the least."

  There was a tightness around Fran's mouth. I put my foot in it, Shelby thought. She probably went into the Army to escape a miserable break-up of a heart-wrenching love affair. Nice going, Camden. "Fran?"

  She glanced over. "Yeah?"

  "I'm sorry."

  "What for?"

  "I think what I was talking about... I think it upset you."

  Fran laughed. "Upset? You've got to be kidding."

  "I..."

  “If I were truly upset, I'd be desperately twisting that radio knob looking for Brahms."

  "Brahms?"

  "That's what I do when I'm upset or depressed. I play solitaire and listen to Brahms."

  "Why Brahms?"

  "He doesn't try to force you to feel what he wants. Not like Tchaikovsky. God help you if you don't go along with his angst. Mozart's too cute. Debussy's incomprehensible." She shrugged. "I guess I just like Brahms. What do you do when you're depressed?"

  "I think maybe I drink," Shelby said.

  "Better watch it. That stuff can turn on you." She glanced over and smiled. "As a matter of fact, so can Brahms."

  "You've been that depressed?"

  "I've been on this earth for twenty-five years," Fran said. "Of course I've been that depressed."

  "What's the most depressed you've ever been?"

  "Two symphonies, five concertos, variations on Haydn, and double-deck Idiot's Delight. How about you?"

  "A pint of cheap Vodka, straight from the bottle."

  Fran shuddered. "That's serious depression. What caused it?"

  "Love. How about you?"

  "Love."

  They laughed together.

  "What I could never figure out," Fran said, "is how you tell the difference between love and anxiety. They feel about the same."

  They were in open country now, with fields on each side covered with the pale green fuzz of early hay seedlings. Trees were in leaf, but their color hadn't yet deepened. The air was pungent with the smell of earth. There were no more turns for several miles. Shelby leaned back in her seat and let her mind wander.

  Thirty-six hours, and nothing to do in them but what was needed and what she wanted. She couldn't do anything about weddings or engagement parties or guest lists or people's feelings. No telephone, no electricity. Her mother thought she was with Ray. Ray thought she was working late to catch up with things at the office. She hoped they didn’t get together and compare notes.

  Now that she thought of it, that possibility burrowed into her mind with a drill of apprehension. "Oh, God," she said out loud.

  "What?"

  “I lied about this trip. My friends know where I am, but my mother and Ray…"

  "Is either of them likely to run into your friends?"

  "No."

  "Then there's no problem."

  "They might contact one another," Shelby said. "I told them different stories,"

  Fran smiled and shook her head. "What's the matter with your mother knowing? Would she try to come along?"

  That almost made her laugh. "Not in a thousand years. She just wouldn't think it was the kind of thing a person ought to do. Unless they were desperate."

  "Tell her you were desperate. You seem desperate to me."

  "It's not funny. This could be a real mess," Shelby said, her anxiety taking a serious leap.

  "Just tell everyone you told them the truth as you knew it at that time and let them sort it out."

  “Maybe…"

  "As long as you don't make a lot of it, they won’t. You don't have to check in with your mother every time you change your plans, do you?"

  "But Jean and Lisa and Connie and Penny, they know I've been excited about this all week."

  Fran glanced over at her. "Have you? Really?"

  "Of course. I've wanted to do this my whole life."

  "Look," Fran said, "let me make a suggestion. Put the panic on the back burner, and while we're driving home we'll discuss every possible thing that might go wrong, and what to do about it."

  "I could call and tell them the truth. I could swear my friends to secrecy."

  Fran laughed. "Shelby. It's your life. You're going camping for one night. That's not a mortal sin.”

  Shelby pulled on her ear nervously. "I'm being silly, aren't I?"

  "You are, a little. But you probably have a perfectly good reason."

&
nbsp; "I doubt it."

  "I see. You work yourself into a state of anxiety because you just plain enjoy it."

  "Of course I do," Shelby said. "It feels like love."

  The campground was tucked back in the woods deep in the state forest. Hemlocks and birch and pine and wild laurel formed wind breaks around patches of cleared ground. A stone fireplace stood near each site, and metal garbage cans with lids fastened with a chain and S-hooks. Across the dirt road, sunlight glinted on a lake. There was a slight breeze carrying the scents of earth and pine and dust. A chipmunk squeaked a warning or a welcome, and dove into the remains of an old stone wall.

  Fran stopped the car. The dust caught up with them and settled around them. "Like it?" she asked.

  “It's magnificent.”

  "There are a couple of drawbacks. We have to go down to the beach for water and facilities."

  "That's not a drawback," Shelby said. "It beats hunting for a spring and digging a hole."

  "Second drawback, because the park isn't officially open, there's no cut wood yet. We have to gather our own."

  "I'm great with wood."

  "I know, but there's not much glamour in picking up twigs."

  Shelby laughed. “If I wanted glamour, I'd have spent the weekend with my mother. Stop worrying."

  "OK," Fran said as she got out of the car. "You asked for it." She pointed to a large canvas tarpaulin. "Start unloading."

  The tent was airy and warm and smelled like the Army Surplus store. Shelby slipped off her shoes so she wouldn't puncture the canvas, and felt the little bumps and stones of the ground beneath the floor. "We're really doing this, aren't we?" she said.

  "We're really doing it." Fran went back to the car and returned with two sleeping bags and two rolls of foam rubber. "Your bed," she said, tossing one set on the ground to her left. "My bed." She dropped the other set on her right.

  Shelby unrolled the foam rubber pads and spread them out side-by-side.

  "If it gets cold," Fran said as she arranged the sleeping bags, "these can zip together. That way we combine our body heat. But we're talking about it going below freezing, and I don't see that happening. Did you bring a pillow?"

  "I forgot."

  "You can use your clothes." She ran to the car and retrieved their knapsacks. Fran's was faded and shapeless and had "Jarvis" stenciled on it.