Solitaire and Brahms

by Sarah Dreher

  "Charlie Brown picked him out." She hung on his arm. "He has good taste."

  Shelby glanced up at Charlie, who seemed uncomfortable with the whole conversation. She smiled at him. "I've always said, Charles, you have excellent taste in men." She took a step back and looked at him. His polo shirt was neatly pressed. His plaid Bermuda shorts were a little baggy. He was wearing loafers and white socks. He looked like what he was, an electrical engineer.

  "Men and women, but not clothes," Connie complained. "I can dress him up fit to kill, and he still looks like a nerd." She gave him a little kiss. "Don't you, sweetie?"

  "Shore dew, ma'am," Charlie said. But Shelby saw something cross his face, and it wasn't boyish good humor. He was hurt, and one of these days he was going to be hurt once too often and then he was going to get angry. She hoped Connie wouldn't be alone with him when that happened, but she really didn't want to be the one to be there. He turned to her. "Want me to start the charcoal? I think I can manage to do that."

  "That would be nice," Shelby said.

  He left her with Connie.

  "He's such a doll." Connie said. "An unmitigated doll."

  "He's a nice guy," Shelby agreed. "Look, Con, it's none of my business, but I think it kind of bothers him when you call him Charlie Brown. It makes him sound like a loser."

  "Oh, it does not. He knows I'm only teasing."

  She decided to let it go. Quickly she inventoried her guests. Everyone had arrived. The Misses Young were playing with the upstairs baby and chatting with the baby's parents. Penny and Lisa and Wayne and Penny's so-far-unnamed-mystery date were clustered around the beer tub, Penny and Lisa having what they had come to refer to as a half-Italian argument, which involved a lot of waving of arms and raising of voices over an issue no one really cared about. They usually ended up convulsed in laughter.

  Fran and Ray were exchanging medical horror stories, while Jean and Greg listened in.

  Everything under control for now. No one was looking for a drink. The plates and silverware were stacked on the table. Salt and pepper and ketchup and relish and sliced onions and cold cups for the iced tea, lemon slices, sugar, salad dressing, ice bucket full—check. Hamburger buns. Butter. Baked potatoes were still in the oven, inside. Too early for the salad, might wilt. She got herself a beer and went over to the grill.

  "Hey, big brother," she said to Charlie as she perched on the rock wall that closed off one end of the patio. The name didn't mean anything. They'd started using it one night because of something they'd done that neither of them could remember, and it stuck.

  "Hey, little sister." He peered at the smoking charcoal and added a squirt of starter fluid. "How's it going?"

  "It's going. How about you?"

  "I'm doing OK, for a jerk."

  "She doesn't mean anything by it, Charlie."

  He wiped his hands on a white, pressed handkerchief. "Yeah, she never means anything by anything."

  Shelby couldn't think of what to say.

  "So," Charlie said, "Ray's finally decided to make an honest woman of you."

  "More like I finally decided to make an honest man out of him." She swung the beer bottle between her knees.

  "Well, it’s good news. You two are a great couple."

  She looked over to where Fran and Ray were laughing together. "Yeah."

  His eyes followed hers. "I like your friend, too."

  “Thank you.”

  Charlie squeezed her shoulder. "Something bothering you, Shel?”

  "Not a thing." Which wasn't exactly true. Inside her forehead, just above the bridge of her nose, she could feel that fuzzy pressured feeling that meant a headache was on its way.

  Chapter Eight

  By the time they'd finished eating, she was afraid she couldn't hide it any more. It felt as if someone were driving an axe into her head repeatedly. Her vision was foggy. and her stomach was beginning to churn. She obscured her hands beneath the table and shredded a paper napkin and tried desperately to concentrate on any of the conversations going on around her.

  She didn't want her headache to be the center of attention. She didn't want to be the center of attention at all. Gritting her teeth, she fought against the prickly pain tears that were creeping into her eyes.

  Someone touched the back of her head. She turned to look up. The picnic table and bench and yard and even the sky turned upside down. She grabbed the edge of the bench to steady herself.

  "I need you to help me with something," Fran said, and grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her up before Shelby could respond. "Sorry to interrupt," she said to Ray. "I don't know where anything is, and Shelby's organization defies logic."

  "That's not news to me," Ray said. "Bring my cigarettes when you come back, will you, hon? I left them on the kitchen sink.”

  Fran led the way back inside the house and into Shelby's kitchen.

  "What's the problem?" Shelby asked.

  "That's what I want to know." Fran settled her into a chair. "You have a headache, don't you?"

  She nodded. "Earth-shaking."

  "I know a trick. It might help." Fran washed her hands at the sink and dried them on a dish towel. She put her left hand firmly against Shelby's forehead, and her right at the point where her head and neck were joined. "Close your eyes. Take a few deep breaths and relax."

  She did. The darkness was soothing. She drifted into the moment. Minutes passed. The pain began to ebb.

  "Any luck?" Fran asked at last.

  "It's down to a low rumble."

  "That's probably the best we can do for now." She lowered her hands to Shelby's shoulders and began to massage them.

  Shelby took another deep breath and let herself sink into darkness again. She thought nothing had ever felt so good. She let her head rest against Fran's body. "Fran?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "I'm worried. About the headaches."

  "So am I," Fran said.

  She held her breath for a moment. "I think I'm ready for you to make the appointment."

  She could tell from the slight hesitation that Fran was surprised. "I'm glad."

  "Any day but a Wednesday. We have editorial board meetings on Wednesdays."

  "OK."

  She wanted to let it drop right there. Play it cool and casual. No big deal. But she remembered her promise to herself. "I'm scared," she said.

  Fran leaned over her, slipping her arms across Shelby's chest, resting her head on Shelby's. "I know. Want me with you?"

  She gripped Fran's arm in her hands. "Yes, please."

  "Good."

  "Don't tell anyone, OK?"

  "If you say so. Not even Ray?"

  "Not even Ray."

  Fran made a strangling sound. "You drive me crazy."

  Shelby tried to turn and look at her. Fran tightened her grip and wouldn't let her move. “What do you mean?"

  "This 'don't tell Ray' stuff."

  "We're going to be married in a year. I want to hang onto my privacy as long as I can."

  "Shelby," Fran said with a sigh, "I like you a lot, but you're always saying things that make me want to scream."

  "Like what?"

  "Do you want to marry this guy?"

  "Of course I do."

  "Well, maybe I've been in the service too long, but it seems to me if a woman wants to marry a man, she should be counting the days. But not the days of freedom she has left."

  "Why not? Men do it all the time."

  "Women aren't men," Fran said, and went back to rubbing her shoulders. How would you feel if you thought Ray was hoarding his days of freedom."

  "He probably is."

  "Wouldn't it make you kind of... question things a little?"

  "It's just wedding jitters," Shelby said defensively. "Everyone goes through it.”

  "You're not everyone, Shelby." Fran's voice was low, soft and a little sad.

  "Hey, Shel." It was Lisa from beyond the screen door. "We're out of ice. Got—" She came to a stop at the entrance to the kit
chen.

  Fran let go of her with a brutal jerk and jumped back.

  "Sure," Shelby said. "In the freezer."

  She glanced over at Fran. Her face was white.

  "What's going on?" Lisa asked as she dumped a tray of ice into the Scotch Cooler.

  "I was on the verge of one of my killer headaches," Shelby said. "Fran fixed it."

  Lisa turned to look at them. "Really? How?"

  "Can you show her?" Shelby asked Fran.

  Fran deliberately stepped away from Shelby. "Sure." She gestured toward an empty chair. "Have a seat."

  Shelby passed them on the way to the refrigerator. "Relax," she said to Fran in a low voice. "This isn't the Army."

  "The Army," Fran muttered, "can happen anywhere, any time."

  "Wow," Lisa gushed when Fran had finished with her, "that's the greatest. Where'd you learn it?"

  "In the Medical Corps," Fran said. Her voice creaked a little, as if she hadn't used it in a long time. "In the Army. It's a kind of... thing."

  "Well, it's neat. Thanks. I didn't even have a headache and you made me feel better." She picked up the cooler.

  "Let me carry that," Fran said, and reached for it. She almost ran from the apartment.

  Shelby waved until Ray's car turned the comer onto Pleasant and the tail lights disappeared into the darkness. Fumbling with her lock, she glanced toward Fran's door and noticed light glowing under it. She went down the hall and knocked softly. "It's me."

  Fran opened the door. She was in her pale blue and white plaid short-legged pajamas. "I didn't think you'd be in until dawn." She touched Shelby's chin. "Beard burn. I know what you've been doing."

  "Listen, I wanted to apologize."

  "For what?"

  "Getting stubborn about the wedding. Being a brat."

  Fran smiled. "You are that at times. Want to come in?"

  "For a minute." As she stepped inside she noticed the solitaire game in progress. "Solitaire?"

  "But no Brahms." Fran gathered up the cards. "I was just trying put myself in a mindless coma so I can get to sleep."

  "You did a real snow job on Ray."

  "Well, we have work in common. Makes conversation easy." She cleared a space beside hers for Shelby on the wicker couch. "Want anything to eat or drink?"

  Shelby laughed. "Are you kidding? You've seen my kitchen."

  "True."

  "Let's get together tomorrow and split it up."

  "Great."

  "If you don't hear from me by noon, come check for signs of life."

  Fran stretched, sliding her arm along the back of the couch. "I like your friends, by the way." She grinned self-consciously. "That was a stupid thing to say. I don't even know your friends. I met them, period."

  "First impressions are important." She wondered if she could rest her head back against Fran's hand. "What did you think?"

  "Well..." Fran bit her lower lip. "Well, Jean's my favorite, of course. By the way, she's still terrified you're going to ask her to be your maid of honor since you haven't gotten around to asking Connie yet."

  Shelby looked at her. "You talked about me?"

  "Yes, we talked about you." She ruffled Shelby's hair. "It was one topic we had in common. Don't worry, we both said nice things about you."

  Shelby felt herself blushing, and grunted noncommittally.

  "Lisa... well, Lisa's lively. Good heart, no kinesthetic sense."

  "That's Lisa, all right."

  "Connie could be difficult, but she's not subtle. If you cross her, she'll try to get back at you, but you'll always see it coming. And, just when you're ready to kill her, she'll say or do something kind and thoughtful."

  "Amazing," Shelby said. "What about Penny?"

  Fran's forehead wrinkled in a frown. "She's kind of like smoke. I couldn't get a handle on her."

  Shelby told her about Penny's apartment, with its empty, impersonal air.

  "Yep," Fran said. "I can see that. She's the one with the crush on you, right?"

  “Supposedly.”

  "She watches you like a puppy in the pound. If you look her way, she tries to think of something to do to please you so you'll take her home."

  Shelby was beginning to feel uncomfortable. "She's a kid."

  "Yeah," Fran said, and lapsed into thoughtful silence.

  "What is it?"

  "I don't know. Something's a little off, but I can't put my finger on it. I keep wanting to tell you to be careful."

  "Something about Penny?"

  "Not exactly. Something about the two of you, maybe." Fran laughed and rubbed her eyes with her hand. "I don't even know what I'm talking about."

  "Are you tired?"

  "Getting there. It was a stimulating evening."

  "What did you think of the men?"

  "The men? The men are tall."

  "That's your only impression?"

  "When you have to bend backward to see a person's face, it makes an impression. In the Army, he'd always be in the back row."

  She waited for Fran to go on. She didn't. "That's it?' she asked. "He's tall?"

  Fran shot out of her seat. "What difference does it make what I think of him? I'm not marrying him, you are. What do you want me to do, drool? What do you think of him?"

  "Hey," Shelby said, startled by the outburst. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I said to offend you, but... you don't have to get mad."

  "Don't I?" Fran whirled on her. "Maybe I do have to get mad, did you ever think of that?"

  "I only asked because he really liked you."

  "Well, I'm very glad to hear that," Fran grumbled.

  Shelby got up and went to her. "Fran, what's wrong?"

  "Nothing." Fran ran her hands over her face. "I'm tired, that's all. I should go to bed."

  "Do you want to talk about it?"

  "It's nothing," Fran said, walking to the fireplace, her back to Shelby. "I'm sorry I snapped at you. I must be premenstrual."

  "You were premenstrual last week,"

  "I get premenstrual a lot."

  She looked lonely, standing there by the fireplace. Lonely and lost and too small for the room. Shelby went over to her and slipped her arms around her. "Hey," she said.

  Fran stiffened. Shelby thought she was going to push her away, but then she went soft and leaned her forehead against the mantel.

  Shelby pressed her face into Fran's back. "Come on, tell me what's eating you."

  "Gatherings make me nervous," Fran said.

  "You seemed to be doing fine."

  "But I'm wound as tight as a rusty clock. The only way I get through things like that is to put it in overdrive and run on anxiety."

  "I wish I'd known that. You didn't have to come."

  "I wanted to meet your friends."

  "You could have met them one at a time."

  Fran extricated herself slowly from Shelby's arms. "I'm being ridiculous," she said. "I'll be all right in the morning."

  "Can I make you a drink or something?"

  "No. Drinking at a time like this is a good way to become an alcoholic."

  "Do you have a lot of times like this?"

  Fran glanced at her. "A fair number."

  "I take it," Shelby said with a smile, "we were working up to Brahms."

  "Maybe." Fran shook her head. "I really am absurd."

  "I hate to do this to you, but I'm inviting you to the engagement party. You don't have to come.”

  "Oh, hell," Fran said, "who knows how I'll feel by then?"

  She looked so tired, dark under the eyes. "Go to bed," Shelby said, and started turning off the living room lamps. "Want me to tuck you in?"

  Fran glared at her. "No, I do not want you to tuck me in."

  Shelby shrugged and grinned. "Suit yourself. But you don't get an offer like this every day."

  "I certainly don't."

  "I'll see you tomorrow," Shelby said as she went to the door, "when we pick through the garbage." She hesitated, reaching for the wall switch to turn off the
last of the lights. "Sure you're OK?"

  "I'm OK." Fran started for her bedroom. "Good night, Shelby."

  She was late getting to the lunchroom. It had been a morning of chaos and frustration. Two manuscripts arrived without the authors' return addresses. A page was missing from a third. Penny had sent up, with a glowing recommendation, one of the worst pieces of writing she'd ever read. Charlotte had a nonstop series of appointments and planning sessions that made their office feel like an open house.

  To be perfectly honest, she was worried. Though they hadn't mentioned it yesterday, she was sure Fran would be tracking down a neurologist for her, probably already had. She was obviously one of those highly-compulsive, efficient, no-nonsense, militaristic types with no consideration for anyone's feelings as long as the job gets done.

  She picked up a tray and today's special, mystery meatloaf. She should have brought a bag full of picnic leftovers. Stale buns, charred hard nurdles of dried-out hamburgers, limp salad—actually, she thought as she slid a small dish of lettuce and grated carrot onto her tray—the salad that had been left in the sun for two hours looked better than the one they were serving here.

  Glancing toward their usual table, she noticed that Lisa was missing. Great. That left only herself as a fourth for bridge, and she was late and in a hurry. She steeled herself for the inevitable postmortem on the barbecue. Connie started the ball rolling by awarding the Connie Thurmond Seal of Approval to the festivities. "The greatest," she said, Jean agreeing, and Penny adding a nod. "Let's play bridge."

  "I can't," Shelby said. "I'm behind on everything."

  "I don't believe this," Connie said. "We waited for you."

  "I'm sorry," she said.

  Penny tossed her paper napkin onto her tray. "Well, that figures, damn it." Before anyone could respond, she picked up her dirty dishes and strode away.

  Jean stared after her. "What's her major maladjustment?"

  "Beats me," Connie shrugged. "She's been in a mood all morning."

  She was tempted to tell them about the story Penny had recommended, to see if anyone could shed any light on it. She decided not to.

  “Aren't you hungry?" Jean asked.

  Shelby picked at her lunch. "For this?"

  "You should eat," Connie said. "You have to keep up your strength."