by Sarah Dreher
Chapter Nine
Fran was sitting in one of the orange molded plastic chairs in the waiting room engrossed in "Children's Activities." Shelby went to her and held out a prescription slip. "Will this stuff kill me?" she asked.
Surprised, Fran gave a little jump. She took the slip and glanced at it. "Not unless you take a bunch of them at once. It's just sleeping pills."
"Well, " Shelby said, "in that case I guess you're going to have to put up with me for a while longer."
Fran stood. "You're OK?"
"Overworked, under-slept, and tense. As opposed to immature, insecure, and frustrated, which is what they called us in boarding school." Shelby couldn't help grinning. "Other than that, there's 'nothing organically wrong' with me. Wish my parents were as easy to please." She pulled her London Fog from the coat rack. There were implications to this 'nothing organically wrong' business, of course, but she'd deal with them later. For now, it was enough to experience the temporary high that came with a close call.
Turning back, she noticed Fran swiping at her eyes with her sleeve. "Hey, are you crying?"
"Outside," Fran said with a glance in the direction of the receptionist.
"Meet you there." She went to the desk to deal with insurance.
Fran stood in the parking lot, leaning against the car. The morning's drizzle had given way to gray skies and an unseasonable damp, biting wind that felt and smelled as if it had blown across a thousand miles of ice. It tossed the tips of Fran's hair. They sparkled like dew in a slanting beam of watery sun. Waxed paper wrappers skittered across the parking lot. Last winter's salt and grit, kicked up by swirling eddies of wind, whirled and fell and scoured at the parked cars.
"For Pete's sake," Shelby said, "it's a Montreal Express. Get inside before you freeze."
Fran slid into the passenger seat. Shelby started the motor and turned on the heater. "You realize," she said, "we're not going anywhere until you tell me why you were crying."
"I'm just relieved." She rammed her hands into her cardigan pockets. "I was afraid they'd find something really terrible wrong with you."
"I never knew you were worried."
"You were scared enough for us both."
Shelby shook her head. "Promise me you'll never do that again. If I think you might be hiding something from me—for whatever reason—I'll never be able to trust you. It's important for me to trust you."
“I'm sorry."
"I mean it, Fran. I need someone who'll always tell me the truth."
Fran looked at her. "You never told me that."
"I know." She raked her hand through her hair. She was feeling very earnest, though she wasn't sure why this had suddenly become so urgent. "I realize we haven't known each other all that long, but it feels long. I mean, it feels like I've known you forever." She laughed. "Here I am saying these things, and I don't even know if you like me."
"I like you," Fran said.
"It's easy to be honest with you. That matters a lot to me. But I have to know you feel the same way. Please. I need a friend like you."
Fran squeezed her hand. "I don't think you have to worry about that."
Shelby realized she was blushing. "I feel silly. People don't say things like this.”
"Well, that's too bad for people. Look, Shelby, I need an honest friend, too. But I've been places, and known people—it hasn't always been safe to be open, that's all. I'll do my best. But old habits die hard."
"Especially old stupid habits?"
"Especially that kind."
Shelby put the car in gear. She was confused. She hadn't intended to say all that. She hadn't even known she felt those things. Something was slipping out of control.
Glancing over at Fran, she grew calm. Fran was solid, comfortable. She'd been through things—probably things Shelby couldn't even imagine, everyone's life was so surprising and different—but she hadn't lost her openness. Fran might not always know who she was, Shelby thought, but she always was who she was.
"What places?" she asked.
"I grew up," Fran said. "I went to college. I had to drop out of college. I spent six years in the Army. Add that to just plain having lived, and I'm bound to have been a few places and had a few experiences. Haven't you?"
Shelby shrugged. "Not really. I mean, I did the college and graduate school thing, but my life hardly makes for an exciting story."
"Well," Fran said, "consider yourself lucky. Although, keeping in mind that you have brain-splitting headaches of no organic origin, don't sleep, and have nightmares when you do sleep—I think your life may be just a bit more interesting than you like to think."
She didn't know what to say to that.
Fran smiled. "You're the one who wanted me to tell you what I think."
"Yeah," Shelby said. "I've created a monster."
Instead of turning right out of the parking lot, the way they'd come in, she took a left.
"Where are we going?"
"Playing hooky. There's a Dairy Queen in East Sayer. That's about all there is, a Dairy Queen. I'm treating you to the biggest Brazier Burger and fries we can get."
Fran sighed. "I owe you. Forever,"
“I owe you, too," Shelby said seriously.
* * *
"Another opening, another show..." The song ran through her head as she waited for Ray to come around to her side of the car and open the door.
Well, it was like a piece of theater. With the Country Club as the stage, and evening clothes as costumes—her off-the-shoulder cocktail dress was a rich lilac verging on purple, to match the irises Libby had ordered by the hundreds and placed on every flat surface in the room. The Country Club was going to look like a funeral parlor.
"Huh?" Ray said as he reached the open car window.
She'd said it out loud. "I was just talking to myself." She smiled up at him. "It comes from living alone."
He opened the door and helped her out, gathering her crinolines over his arm so they wouldn't be crushed. "In a year, you'll have me to talk to," he said. "Forever and forever." He helped her from the car, then put his hand around her elbow and led her toward the club.
Shelby hesitated.
This was it, the big moment. Time to stand up in front of witnesses and say, "This is what I intend to do." Going public. Not quite taking out an ad in the newspaper, but Libby had seen to an engagement announcement in the Globe and the Times. No turning back.
She was supposed to be thrilled. She was supposed to look glamorous. She didn’t. Her clothes felt as if they belonged to someone else, some girl in a movie, someone cute and perky who could act like a lady if she had to. She thought of Doris Day, June Allyson, Debbie Reynolds...
Shelby herself felt simultaneously dumpy and scrawny. Nothing fit right. Shoes too small, bra too tight, waist too loose. Her corsage threatened to jump ship.
She felt about fifteen, much too young for this.
"What's wrong?" Ray asked.
"I need a minute." She took a deep breath to steady herself and fussed with her corsage pin.
Ray grinned. "Cold feet?"
She nodded. "A little. All this hoopla. It's not as if we won the Nobel Prize or anything. Doesn't it strike you as ridiculous?"
"Sure, it does. It's supposed to be ridiculous. It's wedding stuff."
"I think you enjoy it." She straightened his bow tie.
He took her shoulders in his hands. "I don't enjoy it, Shel. I hate it as much as you do."
"Impossible. No man could hate this as much as a woman."
"What makes you say that?"
"You don't have to wear girdles and long-line underwire bras."
Ray blushed slightly. "Well, I guess not. But neckties aren't exactly a day at the beach."
"What about stiff net stoles?" She rubbed hers against his face. "And high heels?"
He shuddered. "How about wool suits?"
"Hats and gloves."
“Men wear hats.”
"Not like ours. Pins and veils, and yo
u're always worrying about it coming off. Men dress for comfort. Women dress for... I'm not sure what we dress for, but it sure isn't comfort."
"I thought you dressed for men," Ray said.
"And how fair is that? Do men dress for women? No, they dress to impress other men. I'll make a deal with you. You wear my clothes for a day, and I'll wear yours, and we'll see who's suffering more by nightfall."
He looked up at the club house, then down at her, and grinned. "Let's do it. Tonight."
"What?"
"We'll slip into the locker rooms, and I'll put your clothes on and you put mine on. That should get things off to an interesting start."
She tried to picture him in her evening dress. Knobby knees poking out from beneath the skirt. Big, pale feet squashed into high heels. His broad, muscled chest stuffed in a Merry Widow. He'd look like a sausage. She couldn't help laughing.
"What's so funny?"
"I just got a picture of you in my head. Now I know why men don't wear dresses."
"Some do." He took her arm again and started on toward the club house. "I did, once, in college. Wore a dress, that is. We were doing one of those satirical revues."
"Did you enjoy it?"
"It was terrible. I was terrible."
"Do you have pictures?"
Ray glanced down at her. "There are pictures, but you'll never see them."
"Come on."
"Never. I'll destroy them."
"I'll bet there are copies. I'll bet they're on file somewhere at Harvard. Harvard never throws anything away."
"Neither does Mt. Holyoke. I'll bet your nude posture pictures are available."
"You wouldn't!"
"I would."
They laughed and walked into the club house, arms around each other. The happy couple, making it official.
They were all there, more than a hundred of them. Her father, without the latest girlfriend, for which she was grateful. Her mother, reigning over it all like a Queen. Her father's friends and business buddies, her mother's friends, and, huddling together in a ghetto of the young, Ray's friends and hers. Except for Fran, and Ray's parents, who had decided to wait until the wedding to fly in from Seattle. Fran had begged off, saying she had to work the night shift. Shelby suspected Fran, knowing no one very well, really didn't feel comfortable in a setting like this—and who did, pray tell?—and had told a polite lie about it. To tell the truth, she was secretly glad Fran hadn't come. For reasons she didn't entirely understand, she sensed she'd be ill-at-ease doing this in front of Fran. Probably because she had to engage in some serious acting tonight, and she had the feeling Fran could see through it. All she had to do was look over and see those cornflower eyes and that knowing half smile, and she might as well toss in the towel. Theatrical careers had been destroyed by less.
They paused at the top of the stairs to the dining/ballroom. Lisa spotted them and let out a whoop, "It's them!” and everyone crowded around. Shelby took a deep breath, steeled herself. Be friendly, smile, shake hands, thank them for coming, and don't let on you haven't the vaguest idea who you're talking to. The hands and faces went by like an assembly line.
"Great party," Connie said. "Really, the greatest." And dragged Charlie onto the dance floor.
Jean embraced her. "Get me out of this," Shelby whispered to her.
"Want me to set off the fire alarm?"
"No, you'd be arrested and sent to jail."
"It would get me out of lunchtime bridge," Jean said.
Penny came up "oohing" and "aahing" and generally gushing with enthusiasm. Shelby was relieved. There'd been tension between them ever since the incident of the rejected story, but now it seemed Penny had finally decided to let bygones be bygones. "I'm so happy for you," Penny said.
"Thanks." She glanced into Penny's eyes and saw a flicker of coldness. So she hadn't put it behind her entirely. But this was a start. She decided to try to move it forward a step. "I was afraid you were still annoyed with me. You know, about..."
Penny tossed her head. "Don't be silly. If our friendship can't survive a little disagreement…”
"You're right." She leaned forward. "Who's the new guy?"
"Jeff. No, Mike. God, I have to get a grip on myself. One of these days I'm going to slip up at a really bad time." She looked around the room. "Where's your housemate?”
"Working."
Other people were pressing around, ready to meet and greet. "I'd better go," Penny said. "Don't want what's-his-name to feel neglected."
She melted away into the crowd.
Between the soup and the entree Ray leaned over close to her ear. "How did Libby manage to get the Country Club on such short notice?"
Shelby shrugged. She was beginning to be too aware of her clothes. Her stole was scratchy. The underwire bra dug into her rib cage. It hurt and made her irritable. "Who knows? She probably steamrolled it the way she steamrolls everything."
He slipped an arm across the back of her chair. "Well, her days of steamrolling you are just about over."
It should have given her a feeling of safety. Her own Sir Galahad keeping the dragon from her door. Some women married for that alone. Some didn't even get that. But it annoyed her. She didn't feel protected, she felt crippled. Shelby picked at her peas and sautéed mushrooms and veal something-or-other smothered in a peculiar-looking sauce which had an over-taste of one or more ingredients gone bad. She took a forkful and washed it down with wine.
"Are you OK, Shel?” Ray asked.
"Sure."
"You look kind of down."
"It's the food," she said quickly. "Does it taste all right to you?"
Ray laughed. "Babe, all I have to compare it to is the hospital cafeteria. Anything tastes all right."
A year from now, she thought, all your dinners will be lovingly prepared by Little Wifey. .
By the time dessert was served she'd managed to drink enough wine to relax. Ray had gone beyond relaxed. He was cranked up. Shelby was glad. When Ray was in this kind of mood all she had to do was sit back and enjoy the show.
Toasts were happening. Best wishes to the bride and groom to be. Reminiscences and embarrassing stories about Shelby as a child. Champagne flowed. Ray's friends told obscure and slightly raunchy tales about Ray and his activities in the pathology lab. Ray offered a toast to the "girl of his dreams." Shelby offered one to "the East's most sought-after and soon-not-to-be-available bachelor." They pretended to fight about how and where they'd met.
Doing it right, Shelby thought, aware that she was a little high.
She stood and offered a toast to her mother, "without whom, etc." Nobody knew how true that was. Not just the party, but the whole engagement-wedding-marriage...
She lost her train of thought.
"Don't let me drink any more," she whispered in Ray's ear.
He patted her knee under the table.
Libby declared dinner over. The band came back into the room. Tables were pushed to the side.
Shelby saw Penny heading toward the stairs. Her face was tight. Something was wrong. "Dance with Libby," she said to Ray, and started after her.
"Hey." He caught her arm. "Where are you going, bride-to-be?”
"Ladies' room."
He let her go and stepped back. She saw her mother striding toward her with a look on her face that said Shelby had committed a transgression. Whether large or small, she wasn't sure. And it didn't matter. Libby would go to great lengths to point out and explain exactly what Shelby had done wrong. You might as well commit mayhem as use the wrong fork. Once Libby caught up to her...
"Dance with her, please" she mouthed silently to Ray. He went to flag down his future mother-in-law.
At first she thought Penny wasn't in the ladies' room. It felt hollow and smelled of damp concrete and old sneakers. A dripping faucet was creating a rusty ring around the sink drain. She heard a sniffling noise from one of the stalls. "Penny?"
"Go away,” Penny said.
"It's Shelby. Is anyth
ing wrong?"
"I'm fine. I'm always fine. Leave me alone."
Shelby sat down on one of the vanity chairs. "You're not fine." She wished her head would stop spinning. "Talk to me."
"No."
"OK, but I'm not leaving until you do. It's going to be a long night, and my chair's more comfortable than yours."
"Fine."
There was a long silence. Shelby shivered a little in the dampness and wondered if she'd made a mistake, daring Penny like that. If she didn't get back to the ballroom in fifteen minutes, Libby was going to come looking for her.
"I can't do this, Penny," she said. "I have to get back upstairs."
"So go."
Shelby stood up and brushed the wrinkles from the back of her skirt. "I know you're upset, and I think it's me you're upset with, and I don't know why. But I care about you a lot, and I value your friendship. So I hope you'll be able to bring yourself to tell me what it is, because I'd like to do what I can to fix it."
The lock on the stall door clanked open. Penny came out, looking ashamed. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"It's not your fault."
"Maybe it is." She touched Penny's shoulder. "I wish you'd tell me."
Penny reached up and embraced her. "I hate feeling distant from you." She started to cry.
Shelby stroked her hair. "It's a nasty feeling. I hate it, too."
"You do?" She clung to her.
"Of course," Shelby said. It was definitely a mistake to do this on champagne. She'd lost track of the conversation.
Another long silence, then Penny let her go. "I'm so glad you said that," she said. "I was so afraid…"
"It's fine, Penny. Everything's fine.”
Penny turned and examined her face in the dressing table mirror. "God, I look awful. What's-his-name will never ask me out again." She glanced at Shelby in the glass. "You better go make hostess noises." She poked at a trickle of runny mascara. "I'll be up as soon as I repair the ravages."
"You're sure you're OK?"
"I'm OK," Penny said as she took her lipstick case from her evening bag. "More than OK. Really. See you upstairs."
Shelby closed the door quietly behind her and started up the steps. So everything was back to normal. She was glad of that. The trouble was, she didn't know what had just happened, or how it had been fixed so easily, or really what she'd done to upset Penny in the first place.