Solitaire and Brahms

by Sarah Dreher

  "Is everything OK?"

  "With me it is. But Fran's picked up that wretched bug we all had last winter."

  "Oh, God, that was terrible. Is there anything I can do?"

  "I don't think so. But I need to stay near her. Tell the others, would you?"

  "Sure. If you need anything, call me. I can drop it off."

  "Thanks. Wait a minute, you haven't had this thing."

  “I've been exposed to it, remember? From all of you. All at once. I felt like an itinerant Jewish mother.”

  Shelby recalled all too well. Jean, as the only healthy one among them, had commuted from one apartment to another, spreading cheer, aspirin, and chicken soup. "I don't know why you didn't get it."

  "I eat right," Jean said.

  She laughed. "I'll let that pass. Anyway, it was a relief, knowing you were making the rounds. It meant a lot. Really."

  "Well, that's what friends are for."

  "That was more than friendship, it was salvation."

  "Come on, Shelby, you're embarrassing me."

  "I'm going to call in sick, say I have cramps or something. Would you back up that story?"

  "Listen," Jean said, "why not claim a migraine? Everyone knows about your headaches, they'd believe it in a minute. And you might need to stretch a second day out of it."

  "Good thinking."

  "OK, I'll pass the word. You feel like dog food."

  "Thanks, Jean. I really appreciate it."

  "Don't forget, call me if you need anything. I can run to the grocery or the drug store and drop stuff by your place."

  "I will." She heard coughing from Fran's room. "I better get back."

  There wasn't much she could do this time, except hold her up and give her ginger ale and try to make her comfortable. But it was clear the joint-crackers had taken up residence. Fran couldn't lie still, twisting and stretching and curling, and she was still cold. Shelby offered to help her into a hot bath, but she was too weak for that. She tried reading to her, but Fran didn't seem able to concentrate. Finally, convinced she was only making things worse by trying to help, she gave her another two aspirins and tucked her in. She took Fran's hand.

  She sat quietly for a moment. The silence in the room, on the street, was too brittle, anticipatory. It made her twitchy. She turned on the radio on Fran's bureau, found the local classical FM station, and lowered the volume. "That OK?" she asked.

  Fran nodded.

  "Try to sleep." She should probably make herself some dinner. It was past seven and she'd skipped lunch. But she wasn't hungry, and couldn't think of anything she needed. Or wanted.

  She heard her phone and checked her watch. Eight o'clock. That would be Ray. She put her book aside and slipped into her loafers and trotted down the hall.

  "Hey, babe."

  "Hey, yourself."

  "How's it going?"

  "Fine. How's life in the emergency room?"

  "I have it figured out," Ray said. "This residency isn't about learning anything, or being prepared to handle a crisis. It's a test of motivation. If you want it badly enough to go through a year of hell and humiliation, they let you join the club." He was calling from a pay phone in the hospital. She could hear the crackle of the intercom, the murmur of voices, clattering and squeaking and unidentifiable hospital noises. "So how are you spending your weekend, he said enviously."

  "Actually, it's a lot like yours. You remember Fran? The woman who lives down the hall? The one I went camping with?”

  "I know who you mean," he said.

  “She's come down with the flu..."

  "At this time of year?"

  "She works over at the Student Health Center and is exposed to everything that comes in the door. Anyway, she's pretty miserable. I'm doing what I can."

  He switched to his professional voice. “Symptoms?”

  "Fever 103. Dizziness, cold, exhaustion. Joint pain. Dry cough."

  "Is she sweating?"

  "Nope, she's dry as paper."

  "That's not good," Ray said. "Keep an eye on that fever. If it doesn't break, or it goes much higher, or if she doesn't start perspiring, she could be in trouble."

  "I know. I might have to take desperate measures."

  "You mean The Cure?"

  "It worked for me. I haven't had so much fun since then."

  Ray laughed. "You should see some of my reefer junkies. They really have fun. She's not taking any medication like sleeping pills or antihistamines, is she?”

  "Just aspirin. There's nothing in the medicine cabinet."

  "Ask first."

  "I will. I'd better get back there."

  "OK," Ray said. "If things take a turn for the worse, or if you just get nervous, have me paged. Any time of night. I'll be at my apartment in the morning."

  "Thanks, Ray." She felt relieved. "Talk to you later."

  "Don't wait too long. That sucker's locked inside her. Love 'ya, babe," he said.

  “Love you, too.”

  At midnight she decided it had gone on long enough. Things weren't improving on their own. In fact, they were getting worse. Rather than dropping, Fran's fever had crept over 103. "We have to do something," she said as she shook the mercury back down in the thermometer. "This isn't going to go away by itself."

  "I want to sleep."

  "I know. And you can, as soon as we get squared away here."

  "Don't expect me to help."

  Fran lay on her back with her eyes shut, her body limp with fatigue. She looked as if she'd been ironed into the sheets.

  "I'm getting you something to drink," Shelby said. "It'll make you feel better."

  "That's what they always say before they do something awful to you."

  Shelby touched Fran's face with the backs of her fingers. "After you're dead, after they lower you into the ground, I'll bet you rise up long enough to make one last wisecrack."

  "Yeah, and you'll try to top it."

  Shelby went to the kitchen and put the water on to boil. She opened a can of nearly-defrosted lemonade and scooped two spoonfuls into a mug. When the tea kettle shrieked, she added water and topped it off with a shot of bourbon. She put the mug on the bedside table and slipped an arm under Fran's shoulders, supporting her against her own shoulder. "Are you taking anything that doesn't get along with alcohol?"

  Fran shook her head and glowered into the steaming mug. "What is that vileness?"

  "Hot lemonade and bourbon. It's an old folk remedy. Cures stuck fever, menstrual cramps, insomnia, colds, and writer's block. I learned it from a friend in college. She was from Tennessee. I told you about her, the one that went strange."

  "Do I really have to do this?"

  "Yes, you do."

  "Why?"

  "Because if your fever doesn't break, it'll go up to 105 and you'll have a convulsion and suffer permanent brain damage."

  "You are such a comfort," Fran said. She sipped at the liquid, then drank and shuddered.

  "Come on, if s not that bad."

  "It is."

  "God, you're even more stubborn than I am." Shelby held the drink to Fran's lips. "The quicker you do this, the quicker I'll leave you alone."

  "What'll it do to me?"

  "With any kind of luck, make you sweat. And that'll make your joints stop hurting. If it doesn't work, you can have another one, and then you won't care if your joints hurt or not." She offered her the mug again. Fran made a face. "I'm going to win this battle, Fran," she said gently. "Come hell or high water."

  Fran reached for the drink and finished it off. "Sleep now?"

  Shelby set the mug aside and lowered her onto the pillows. "Of course."

  "Nothing more you want me to eat?"

  "Nope."

  "Drink?"

  "Nope."

  "You're sure about that?"

  "I'm sure."

  "Any measurements you need to take?"

  "You're all set." She pulled the covers up around her. "I'll see you on the other side of night."

 
She spread her sleeping bag on the spare bed, flicked off the bedroom lamp, went to the kitchen, rinsed the dishes, and turned out the light. She groped her way into her pajamas.

  "Shelby?" Fran whispered into the darkness.

  "That's what they call me."

  "I don't mean to be difficult. I really appreciate..."

  "I know."

  "You're doing so much for me."

  "I'm having a good time," Shelby said, surprising herself as she realized she meant it.

  A series of muffled ear-cracking coughs woke her. There was a line of light under the bathroom door. "You OK?" she asked.

  "No," Fran said as she came back into the room. "I'm dying."

  Shelby got up and went to her. Fran's pajamas were soaked. Perspiration glistened on her face. Her hair was wet and matted. "Hey," Shelby said. "It worked."

  "I don't know what you're so damned cheerful about," Fran stumbled to the bed.

  "Don't get in. Where are your spare pajamas?"

  Fran gestured in the direction of the bureau. "Bottom drawer. May I lie down now?"

  "No." She found fresh clothes. "Sit."

  She unbuttoned Fran's pajama top and peeled away the damp clothing and dried her with a towel. "You'll catch cold in these wet things."

  "Is that supposed to be a joke?"

  "Nope." She helped Fran out of her soggy pajama pants and into fresh ones. "You don't have a cold, you have the flu. There's always room for more.”

  Fran groaned and started to slip beneath the covers.

  "Go in the other bed." She stripped away her sleeping bag and pulled back the spread and pushed Fran toward it. "This one's sodden."

  It was clear Fran wanted to argue, but didn't have the strength. She toppled onto the spare bed. Shelby pulled the covers up around her, then went to the kitchen and found an old, clean, soft dish towel in a drawer. She brought it back and gently wiped the perspiration from her face.

  Fran took a deep breath. Her lungs sounded like boiling water. Shelby found the Vicks and gently massaged it into her chest.

  “Shelby,” Fran said.

  "Yes?"

  "I'm sorry I'm such a mess."

  "It'll be all right, Fran," she said softly. "It's awful now, but everything's under control. There's nothing to be afraid of."

  "How can I feel this bad and live?"

  Shelby smiled and stroked her. "You will." She turned off the light and sat beside her for a while. Glancing at the clock on the bureau, she saw that it was a little after two. That meant Fran had slept for nearly an hour before the coughing fit. Not enough, but it was a start.

  When Fran's breathing had smoothed to a soft rhythm, Shelby got up and pulled the damp sheets from the bed and tossed them into a corner. She'd put on fresh ones in the morning. She tossed her sleeping bag onto the bed and lay down. As she was drifting off to sleep, she wondered why she was so happy.

  Sunday morning Fran was clearly better, though her face still had blotches of fever red and she inhaled in slow, shallow gulps. Sore throat, Shelby thought. The kind that hurts when you breathe. The kind that's too high in the back of your mouth for anything to help. The truly nasty kind. But at least Fran was still sleeping. She was going to sleep a lot in the next few days, Shelby remembered that vividly. She'd be going along, maybe reading a book or having a perfectly pleasant, light hearted telephone conversation with someone, and suddenly sleep would reach out of the ground and grab her around the ankle and pull her down onto the nearest flat surface. Even after she went back to work, she'd have those sleeping fits. Connie teased her about narcolepsy, and Lisa worried. Jean swore it'd pass.

  She took the damp sheets and pajamas to the basement laundry room and started up the washer. She considered getting Fran's dirty clothes from the bathroom hamper, but was afraid Fran would think that too personal and an intrusion on her privacy. People were like that, she thought as she watched the washer tub fill. You never knew when you were going to bump your nose on their invisible jet-age plastic shields.

  She dumped in the soap. She was probably going to form opinions about brands of soap, once she was ensconced in marriage. Ensconced. As in candles in sconces. Silver sconces, requiring polishing. Then brands of silver cream become important. And dish soap, window spray, scouring powder, toilet bowl cleaner, fabric softener, bluing, bleach—so much to learn, so many earth-shaking decisions to make.

  We'll send the laundry out, she told herself. I refuse to learn about laundry soap. Absolute bottom line on the marriage contract. I get to send the laundry out. Even if I have to get a job to pay for it...

  Get a job. She wouldn't have her job. Sooner or later Ray would have to go where his work was. Probably to a city. Certainly not to Bass Falls or West Sayer. Seattle, maybe. His father'd like that. Would she? She didn't know anything about Seattle, except that on the few days of the year that the sun shone, they gave the newspaper away free.

  She didn't want to give up her life, to have it nested inside someone else's life. Libby was right, she shouldn't have waited so long to get married, she was too set in her ways now, like the Misses Young, her old maid ways. It'd be good for her to be married. It'd keep her flexible. It'd...

  Think about it tomorrow, Scarlett. For today just think about today things, like life and death upstairs.

  Fran was just waking when she got back. She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stared at the floor.

  "Dizzy?"

  Fran nodded.

  "I know you have a sore throat, so just point me toward your clean sheets."

  She pointed to the bathroom closet. "How'd you know?"

  "I know everything. Move." Fran shuffled toward the bathroom door. Shelby stripped the damp sheets from the bed.

  "What's after sore throat?"

  "Your sinuses turn to cement, I think. It's quite unpleasant." She pulled another set of pajamas from the bureau and tossed them in Fran's direction. "Change into these." She looked at her with her full attention for the first time. Fran definitely seemed better, no longer pale and blue-lipped. There was more energy in her. But she was wet, droopy, and bedraggled. Shelby smiled. "You look like a half-drowned kitten."

  "It's your fault," Fran croaked.

  "Are you still cold?"

  "Are you kidding? Look at me." Her hair was clumped to her head. Beads of perspiration trickled down her face. "I hate myself. Going to try and take a shower."

  "Leave the door open a little." She got more clean sheets and started to make the other bed. "So I can hear you hit the ground if you faint."

  "You don't like me very much, do you?"

  Shelby glanced at her. "I like you very, very much. Don't get in the shower until you do your temp."

  It was down. Not much, just under 103, but heading in the right direction. She rolled up her sleeping bag and went to check the kitchen. Macaroni and cheese would do for lunch. Fran could probably handle that. She still wasn't hungry, herself, but knew she had to eat. She made a list of supplies they needed from the store. Better call Jean. It didn't feel safe to leave yet, and the only place that would be open on Sunday was the A&P.

  "How are things?" Jean asked.

  Shelby listened for sounds of trouble from the bathroom. The water was running, making a splashing sound as if there were a live body moving around beneath it.

  "She had a bad night, but it's a little better today."

  "Only one bad night? That woman has a guardian angel."

  "At least so far. It was very bad. Can you pick up some stuff at the store for us?"

  "No problem. Give me the list."

  She did.

  "Just out of curiosity, is Fran any better at being sick than you were?"

  "I was OK at it," Shelby said.

  "You were not, Miss Independent, Miss I Can Take Care of Myself. You were impossible. It's why you relapsed."

  "Why are you yelling at me now?"

  "Because you were too sick to yell at then."

  Shelby laughed. "I s
till am. No, she's no better than I was."

  "You deserve it," Jean said. "I'll see you later this afternoon."

  "I think you're in the wrong career," Jean said. “You should go into nursing.”

  "What makes you say that?" Shelby asked as she took the bag of groceries from her.

  "It suits you. You're glowing."

  "It's probably just a sympathetic fever." She carried the groceries to Fran's kitchen, glancing over at her as she passed. Fran was still asleep, had been asleep for about two hours now.

  "Come down to my place," she said quietly to Jean. "She's sleeping."

  She gave Jean the food money. "I really, really appreciate this."

  "Don't be silly," Jean said. "How is she doing?"

  "Lunch went OK. She kept it down. She's at the sore throat stage."

  Jean grimaced. "I hate that part."

  It felt odd, suddenly, having someone there. Odd, and a little disconcerting, like coming out of a movie into bright afternoon sun.

  "What?" Jean asked.

  "I'm sorry. I was just thinking. It's kind of unsettling, talking to a real, live, healthy person. We've been communicating mostly in grunts and nods."

  "I know what you mean." She touched Shelby's face. "You don't look great yourself."

  "I thought you said I was glowing."

  "Glowing, but exhausted. How much sleep have you had?"

  “Enough.”

  "Take a nap." Jean picked up her shoulder bag. "Want me to tell the office about the migraine?"

  “I can do it.”

  "Yeah, but you'll underplay it. You always do. By the time I finish, there won't be a dry eye in the place."

  "Do it." She felt a sudden rush of warmth. "You're really a good friend, Jean."

  "Don't embarrass me."

  "Maybe I should have talked you into being maid of honor."

  Jean made a strangling noise. "You hate me, I can tell.”

  Before she even realized she was doing it, Shelby grabbed her and hugged her hard.

  "Wow," Jean said, "what was that for?"

  Shelby was a little surprised by her own behavior. "I was just overwhelmed by how lucky I am to know you."

  Jean smiled and shook her head. "There you go again. I don't know what to do with that." She trotted for the door.