Solitaire and Brahms

by Sarah Dreher

  "Jean, you know how I feel about this. I'm really, really sorry..."

  "I know you are." Jean forced a smile. "I don't know what's wrong with me today. It must be that time of month."

  "No. I think what I did really hurt you, damaged you, and damaged our friendship, and I hate that, and I wish I'd never done it, but I did and now I don't know how to fix it."

  Jean looked at the floor for a moment, then looked up. "I'm being stupid," she said apologetically. "I'm angry at Connie and taking it out on you."

  "You're welcome to take it out on me," Shelby said. "As long at you don't really believe it's me you're angry at."

  "Getting me that date. It was like bestowing some kind of medal on me for being normal." She raised her hands in a gesture of futility. "Don't get me wrong. Greg seems like a nice guy, it's not his fault. It has nothing to do with him. It just all feels... well, contaminated." She faced Shelby head-on. "And don't tell me it's silly, because that's how I feel."

  "Hey," Shelby said, and held up her empty hand self-protectively. "I'm not going to laugh. It's not funny, and I agree with you."

  "You do?"

  "Sure. I know she thinks she's being helpful. She probably figured, gee, Jean's trying so hard, we should do something nice for her, and thought she had. If you like Greg, go out with him on your own. You don't have to double with Connie and Charlie."

  "This Saturday we do. It's already arranged. I don't know what we're doing, but by God we're doing it together."

  She had an idea. "Listen, I've been meaning to ask you all over for the traditional first barbecue of the season. Or, if it's too cold, a picnic in the living room. I want you to meet Fran. And you haven't seen Ray in ages. He's asked about you. I won't invite Libby, so someone else will get a word in edgewise. We'll make it Saturday. That way it'll be a crowd, not like a double date."

  "You don't have to do this for me."

  Shelby dismissed her objections with a gesture. "I'd be doing it anyway, sooner or later. Saturday's as good a time as any. Come on, huh? Please, huh? Pretty please?"

  Jean laughed. "All right. I'm a sucker for your whining."

  "I'm very good at it."

  "I'm really sick of people trying to change me," Jean said with a sigh. "I might as well go back and live with my family."

  "You can't do that," Shelby said. "You'd betray our entire generation."

  Jean gave her a grim smile.

  "We're supposed to find ourselves, aren't we?"

  "I was never lost," Jean said.

  "Lucky you."

  Her friend looked at her. "You were lost?"

  Shelby shoved her hair back from her forehead. "Well, maybe not. But, to tell you the truth, this wedding thing has broadsided me."

  "Yeah?"

  "I want to do it," she said quickly. "Don't get me wrong. I mean, I love Ray and all, and there's no other man I want to spend my life with, but..."

  Jean cocked her head to one side. "But?"

  "There's a part of me—just a small part, really—that feels, well, trapped."

  "Wedding nerves," Jean said. "I'm an authority on wedding nerves. When my sister got married, we practically had to drug her to get her down the aisle."

  Shelby exhaled. Wedding nerves. That was reasonable, simple. Everyone got wedding nerves.

  “Trouble is,” Jean said, "she's been drugged ever since."

  "What!" Her voice cracked.

  Jean laughed. "Just kidding. She's as happy as a clam at high tide."

  Shelby crumpled her empty Styrofoam cup and threw it at her.

  "Why, thank you," Jean said as she caught it. "What a thoughtful gift. Want to have dinner tonight?"

  "I can't. I'm 'dining' with The Mother. At The Country Club. She mumbled something about picking the theme and color scheme."

  "Oh, that."

  "What do you mean, 'oh, that' ?"

  "The color scheme. You have to decide on the color of your dress so she can order flowers to match."

  "God!" Shelby groaned. "I'm going to feel like a jerk."

  "This is only the beginning." She smiled at Shelby. "If you want to get off, better do it before the rollercoaster picks up speed."

  Shelby slid down into her chair. "Maybe it's not too late to talk Ray into eloping."

  "I thought he liked this wedding business."

  "He does."

  "So it's you against the world."

  "Yeah."

  "Leave town," Jean said.

  Shelby laughed. "You're not crazy about this marriage stuff, are you?"

  "Nothing wrong with marriage. I'm just against weddings." She grinned over the top of her coffee cup. "Actually, I'm trying to get out of putting on a bridesmaid's dress. I'm going to look awful."

  “You won't look awful," Shelby said. "I promise I won't make you wear anything that makes you look or feel awful."

  Jean got up to refill her cup and get Shelby a new one. "Have you made a decision about maid of honor yet?"

  "No."

  "I figured Connie."

  Shelby shifted in her seat uncomfortably. "I guess she's the logical choice, but...

  "But?" Jean handed her the coffee.

  "But the person I feel closest to is you."

  "No way," Jean said in horror. "No way you're putting me in that role."

  “You don't want to do it?”

  "One, I don't want to do it. Nothing personal, I think you're great and if I ever wanted to be a maid of honor in this lifetime, it's yours I'd want to be." She shook her head. "Thanks, but I'll pass on that." She leaned against the table, facing Shelby. "And, two, if Connie thinks she ought to be maid of honor—and I'm pretty sure she does—I do not want to be the one to get in her way."

  "If she blames anyone," Shelby said, "it'll be me."

  "I might get caught in the cross fire."

  Shelby sipped her coffee. "Are you trying to make it easy for me?"

  "I'm trying to save both our skins. Anyway, you should have someone who's more into it. I'd support every rebellious impulse, and it would be a disaster. Connie'll keep you on the right path."

  "You'd be more fun."

  Jean looked surprised. "Fun? Me?"

  "Yes, you."

  Jean shook her head. "Well, that's a new one. Look, Shel, seriously… if you thought about this the way most people do, I'd fight tooth and nail to be maid of honor if that was what you wanted. But since we both think of weddings as unnecessary and expensive bits of theater, let's make it easy on ourselves."

  "You really are an amazing woman, Jean."

  "I'm going to be an amazing unemployed woman if I don't get in there. See you at lunch."

  * * *

  Shelby took off her pumps and slammed them into the back of the closet. Honest to God, she didn't know why they were going through this charade. Libby knew what she wanted this wedding to look like, from the engagement party to the last grain of rice, and she was determined to have her way. Discussing it was a joke. If Shelby had the good luck to think of something Libby had already decided on, it was deemed a brilliant idea. If Libby had rejected it in her own mind, Shelby had the taste of a mongrel dog. If it hadn't occurred to Libby at all, she just made a distasteful face and rolled her eyes in long-suffering impatience.

  Long-suffering impatience. Wasn't that an oxymoron? Like your idea, and your wedding? Like mother love?

  She slipped out of her dress and tossed it into the laundry hamper. "Making plans together." Libby had decided they should meet for dinner every Monday until all the plans were firmed up. Terrific.

  She wished she could go down to Fran's room and beat on the door to wake her up and sit and bitch her head off for an hour. But it was late. She didn't want to make a nuisance of herself. Besides, she was crummy company, and she had to get up early and she knew she wasn't going to sleep at all tonight. In fact, she ought to just shower, change her clothes, and find something constructive to do until dawn.

  But that wouldn't do. Not at all. One had to go
through the motions. Into the night clothes, hygiene ritual, turn out the light, close the eyes...

  As it turned out, she did sleep. At least enough to dream. In the dream her parents were arguing, the way they used to. She couldn't make out what they were saying, only the undertone of anger in their voices. After a while her mother's voice dropped out altogether, and she was left with the sound of her father’s--a rumbling, metallic, endless, relentless, nerve-grinding, empty-freight-train sound—instructing, instructing, instructing. Until his voice became a chant, an invocation.

  This is ridiculous, she thought as she looked at her tired, grainy-eyed face in the mirror the next morning. My life's made up of one-quarter guilt, one-quarter fear, one-quarter depression, and one-quarter mixed bag. At least marriage will get me out of that.

  * * *

  Saturday was perfect for the barbecue. Warm but not hot. Clear. According to the weather man, it would stay warm until after sundown. By then they'd have finished dinner and could move inside or go on to other pursuits. She invited the young couple with the new baby who lived upstairs, and the Misses Young, elderly spinsters who had a ground-floor apartment in what used to be the carriage house. That way, Fran wouldn't feel like such an outsider, and would have people to talk to if the lunch bunch got too in-groupy. Lisa was bringing Wayne, and Penny her latest, whoever it might be. "So many men, so little time," had become Penny's motto, though at the rate she was going through men—like an adolescent on an eating binge—sometimes made Shelby wonder if there might be more to it than met the eye. Fran said she was coming solo. She didn't say why. Shelby assumed Fran hadn't met anyone interesting yet. She'd offered to have Ray bring a date for her, but Fran refused. Things like that, she insisted, had the potential for damaging friendships, and she valued Shelby's friendship far too much to risk it on a blind date. Shelby thought it was an interesting concept, and was surprised to find herself grinning in agreement.

  Maybe, with a few strangers around, Connie and Charlie would curtail their billing and cooing a little. She wondered why it was her and not Connie who was making the first trip down the aisle. Connie and Charlie seemed to be in love—at least they were clearly in heat. Maybe they wanted to sustain those first, fine, careless raptures as long as possible.

  "I don't know what the big deal is about marriage, anyway," Fran said as she helped her lug the grill up from the basement. "People should just live together, then it wouldn't get so heavy. Damn." She stumbled into the wall, scraping the knuckles of her hand. "I mean, they get that piece of paper saying the state approves of them, and all of a sudden they forget their manners and their personalities change." She put the grill down on the lawn and sucked at her scraped knuckles. "Usually for the worse. Especially the men. My own brother turned into a tyrannical maniac the day after he tied the knot."

  Shelby wiped her hands on her jeans. "Probably because you weren't around any more to beat him up. Let me see that." She reached for Fran's hand.

  "It's fine," Fran said, showing her. "Not even bleeding. Where did you put the charcoal?"

  She pointed to the back porch.

  Would that happen to Ray and her? Would he turn into a tyrant? Would she go on the Miltown circuit with all the other suburban wives? It was hard to imagine Ray changing, he was always so solidly Ray. As for herself...

  "I guess that does it," Fran said, "unless you can think of something else for me to do."

  Shelby reviewed what they'd accomplished. "I guess not." She glanced at her watch. "Nobody'll be here for at least an hour and a half."

  "Good. I'm going to sack out."

  She thought Fran looked tightly strung. "Are you nervous about this?"

  "Of course I'm nervous. I'm meeting your friends, your fiancé, for God's sake. Civilians. Normal people. The situation's fraught with danger."

  Shelby laughed. "Don't worry about it. You're more interesting than all of them combined."

  Head cocked to one side, hands on her hips, Fran looked at her. "You know, Shelby, you're a little strange."

  "I am?” She wondered how to feel about that.

  Fran nodded. "Definitely, strange. See you later."

  She'd have been willing to bet a month's salary that Fran and Jean would hit it off like long-lost friends, and she was right. From the moment they met they'd been talking together, bringing trays of hamburgers covered with waxed paper from the house together, tearing up lettuce for the salad together. She almost felt sorry for Greg, who stood to one side holding a beer bottle by the neck and twirling it in one hand, and watching.

  Connie was watching, too. When she wasn't draped around Charlie's neck, whispering and giggling and nipping at his ear lobe. Now and then she'd glance toward Jean and Fran and get a puzzled, thoughtful look on her face, as if she saw something no one else saw, and wasn't sure she liked it. The Misses Young, on the other hand, weren't sure they liked what Connie and Charlie were doing. Shelby caught Miss Carrie's eye and smiled and edged over to her. "My friends are a little demonstrative," she said.

  Miss Carrie sighed. "At our age, one can't afford to be judgmental. But sometimes I can't help it."

  "Ignore her," Miss Margaret said to Shelby. "She's really a voyeur. I'm surprised she hasn't been arrested." She gestured with her head toward Fran. "That new one's a nice girl. Fixed our sink the other day, wouldn't take a cent for it. Handy as a man."

  "Handier," said Miss Carrie. “And she didn't leave a mess. I swear, young people nowadays, think they're helping you and leave a bigger mess than they started with."

  "They always did," Miss Margaret said. "You just don't remember."

  And they were off on one of their usual spats. They were always having small, meaningless arguments. Like a situation comedy. She wondered if all people in their eighties behaved like that, or if the Misses Young were using an 'elderly ladies' stereotype to hide the fact that they'd learned some truly horrifying things in all those years and didn't want to frighten the young with them.

  Shelby let her attention drift and looked around the yard.

  Lisa and Wayne had noticed Greg looking like a fifth wheel, and wandered over to include him in their conversation. It gave Shelby a warm feeling. Her friends, however much they might annoy her at times, were caring, considerate people.

  The screen door banged and Ray came clumping down the back porch steps, looking boyish and athletic in his madras shirt and denim shorts and Sperry Top-Siders, He saw her and trotted over and lifted her off the ground in a massive embrace.

  "Ray," she said, half-joking, "people are watching."

  "Frankly, my dear," he rumbled, "I don't give a damn," and kissed her hard and long.

  "Ray, please," she whispered, and struggled a little.

  "Ask me nicely."

  Everyone was watching. She felt like a fool.

  He began to dance around the patio with Shelby in his arms, spinning in fast circles and humming, "You make me feel so young..."

  “I mean it, Ray."

  He only danced faster. She felt helpless, as if she were caught in one of those nightmares where everything she did was slow and weak, as if she were under water.

  "I'm going to throw up on you."

  That slowed him down a little. “I love you," he said, pecking little kisses all over her face. "Love you, love you, love you."

  That was all well and good, but she'd appreciate it more if he put her down. This manly exuberance might be a display of affection for him, but to Shelby it was a reminder that he had the simple physical superiority to do anything with her he damn well pleased.

  "Hey, cave man," she heard someone say, "come here often?"

  He stopped and looked down.

  "So this is Ray," Fran said with a warm and friendly smile. She stuck out her hand.

  He lowered her to the ground to shake Fran's hand. "I don't recognize you," he said heartily, "so you must be Fran Jarvis."

  "I see my reputation precedes me. I'm the one I must be when I'm the only one you don't recogn
ize."

  Ray held up his hands in a gesture of good-natured surrender. "Whatever you say, soldier. I never argue with our boys—or girls—in uniform."

  "Big, isn't he?" Fran said to Shelby. She gave Ray a teasing wink.

  They both laughed.

  Shelby forced herself to smile. She sensed an undercurrent that made her uneasy.

  "Seriously," Fran said, dropping her bantering attitude. "I'm really happy to meet you."

  “Same here," Ray said. "I hear we're in the same line of work."

  "Slightly different positions in the pecking order."

  "Want a beer?"

  Fran nodded. "Thanks."

  He reached into the galvanized tub that held the beer and ice. "Do you plan on going on in medicine?"

  "I don't know." She took the opened beer bottle and nodded a thank-you. "Right now the idea makes me want to lie down, but I could just need a vacation. You must feel that way. It's been a long haul for you."

  Shelby drifted away from them. She had the feeling Fran had sensed she hated being tossed around like something from the mail room, and had interrupted it deliberately. She was grateful for that. Unfortunately, Fran didn't know what she was letting herself in for, opening the door for Ray to talk shop.

  "Ray's full of himself today, isn't he?" Connie said.

  "He certainly is." She pretended to be delighted with his behavior. "He's been like this since we got engaged to be engaged. By the time the wedding rolls around, he'll be completely out of control. I'll have to keep him on a short leash so he doesn't run out into the traffic." She couldn't believe what she was hearing, the things she was saying. She was already acting like every suburban housewife in America.

  "Your housemate seems like an interesting sort," Connie said.

  Shelby felt a wall of caution go up inside her. "I guess so."

  "She and Jean hit it off." She laughed. "Funny how those quiet types always find so much to say to one another."

  Good observation, Shelby thought. Now let's ask ourselves why that might be.

  Connie was staring over toward Jean and Greg. "What do you think? Good match?"

  "As far as I can tell.”