by Sarah Dreher
Shelby didn't think anything. She could feel, though. She knew where her body touched the seat, the floor, the table. It was as if she were melting in those spots, coming apart into molecules, sinking into and between the other molecules of physical things. Electricity prowled her back and face and hands, just under the skin. The outside world, the conversation, took on an unreal quality. There but not there, like a half-attended-to television program.
She wanted again to go off by herself and relive parts of the movie over and over, until she had it—the something—figured out.
She was furious with Karen, but she wasn't sure why.
Jean, who had read the play, thought the movie ending was stronger than the play's. "In the play," she said, "Martha kills herself off-stage, with a gun. You don't get the same rising tension you do with the movie."
"I never knew you were such an aficionado," Lisa said.
Jean laughed. ''I'm just opinionated."
"Well," said Lisa, "I don't know a lot about movies but I think Martha was disgraceful."
Shelby looked at her. "You do?"
"She ruined Karen's life," Lisa said.
"She loved her."
"That was really great love," Connie put in sarcastically. "One of the all-time great loves."
"How can being loved ruin your life?"
"If she really loved her," Lisa insisted, "she'd have gone away before anything happened."
"She didn't know about herself," Shelby said. Her voice surprised her. It sounded a little like whining.
"But she suspected," Connie put in. "Remember what she said in that confession scene? 'I've always known something was wrong... ' She should have known enough to stay out of it."
"Then there wouldn't have been a movie," Jean pointed out reasonably.
"Is it really so awful," Shelby heard herself asking, "what or who she was? I mean, she seemed like a smart, caring person..."
"Rattlesnakes are attractive, too. In their own way." Connie said.
"It was only a movie," Jean pointed out.
"But based on a real story," Penny said. "It happened up in New Hampshire or somewhere."
"Well," Jean said, "anything can happen in New Hampshire. There are some pretty scary folks up there."
Penny just shrugged.
"Well, I think the whole thing was disgusting," Lisa said angrily. "It belongs in one of those porn houses where oily old men go alone in trench coats."
"Ooooo," Connie cooed, "sounds like something struck a nerve. Is there anything you'd like to tell us, Lisa?"
"Don't be ridiculous. You think I'm like that?" Lisa made a face.
"Are you?" Penny asked coyly.
"Oh, for God's sake."
"I don't think I'd recognize one of those people," Lisa huffed, "if I fell over it."
"Hey," Connie said to the group in general, "have any of you guys ever known someone like that?” She leaned toward Shelby. "Camden?"
"What?"
"Did you ever know anyone like that?"
"Like what?"
"Queer," Connie said, and they all waited.
"I think so," Shelby forced herself to say. "One woman. Back in college. But I didn't know it at the time."
"When'd you find out?" Penny asked.
"I didn't, really. It just seems that way now."
"What was she like?" Lisa asked eagerly.
"She was a very nice person. I liked her."
"Uh-oh," Lisa sang. "Birds of a feather, you know."
She wanted to get up and storm out. She knew it was the worst thing she could possibly do.
"I knew a queer woman once," Penny said. "In France, of course, where else?"
All attention was turned toward her.
"It was at some party at the embassy. She was at least ten years older than me, and dressed in men's clothes and smoked a cigar, and kept looking at me over the top of her martini."
Lisa shivered. "What happened?"
"When my folks saw what was going on, they took me home. I was livid. It was a nice party until that woman ruined it for everyone."
"My God," Lisa said, "that is just disgusting."
Suddenly everything seemed to be speeding up. Something was pressing her, burning. She didn't know what it was, but knew she had to leave, leave immediately.
The others were still talking. She couldn't even hear them. "Get out of here," said a voice in her head. "Get out now. RIGHT NOW!"
She jumped to her feet, nearly knocking over her water glass. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice carrying her along. "I have to go. It's been swell." She pulled two dollars from her wallet and tossed it on the table. The others looked at her with blank, dull expressions. "This should cover mine, and the tip. If not, tell me tomorrow and I'll pay you back."
Turning before they could answer, she ran.
The phone was ringing when she walked through her apartment door. One of her friends, no doubt. Or Ray. Or her mother. She couldn't deal with that tonight. Couldn't deal with anything tonight. Tonight she just wanted to get out of these damned starchy, scratchy clothes. Her feet were damp and clammy inside her leather pumps. She kicked off her shoes and stripped away the nylon stockings. Fresh air poured over her feet and legs like balm. She peeled off her dress and half-slip and bra and garter belt. God, so many clothes. Every piece uncomfortable, stiff or tight and leaving a mark where it had dug into her. She stood in the middle of the room in only her underpants, raised her fist, and shouted in fine Scarlett O'Hara fashion, "With God as my witness, I'll never be uncomfortable again."
No full set of clean pajamas. One bottom, no top. Plenty of nightgowns, though. Filmy, lacy Libby-approved nightgowns. She was damned if she'd wear one of them. She grabbed the bottoms and an old sprung tee-shirt, and got herself ready for bed.
The phone was ringing again. She waited until it stopped, then took the receiver off the hook. No talking to anyone tonight, not even Fran. Just get into bed, turn out the lights, and wait for whatever's churning inside to surface.
She reran the movie in her head, in the darkness and safety of her bed. When she got to the break-down scene, she started to cry.
It was early, an hour before the alarm was set to go off. Still black beyond the windows. Dusk came earlier and earlier now, dawn later and later. Days dwindling down to a precious few, she thought. Dwindle, dwindle, dwindle.
It was dear she wasn't going back to sleep, so she might as well make herself useful.
She made a cup of coffee and settled, still in her pajama bottoms and tee-shirt, at the kitchen table to draw up a list. "Unpleasant Things I Have To Do."
Ray.
Family reunion.
Libby.
Cancel wedding.
Tell friends.
She frowned at the list. It was a garden of earthly horrors. She was glad she'd awakened early. Hate to miss one golden moment of a day like this, no indeed. All right, prioritize. Ray first, that went without saying. Good manners demanded it. Family picnic. She could opt out of that, no excuses given; it would all be clear later.
Libby. Oh, God, Libby. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph and all the Saints in Heaven, as her Junior year roommate used to say. Libby, Libby, Libby. Hey, Libby, you old can of peas, guess what? I'm going to bring your world smashing down around you.
Libby wouldn't kill her. That'd be too easy. Libby'd launch a campaign to fix her, to harass her until she felt like a cigarette ash on the carpet. It gave her a sick, lost feeling. She wanted to tear up her list and make everything go back to normal.
And get married and ruin her life, and Ray's life, because she was afraid of her mother?
You are twenty-five years old, she told herself firmly. You have a job, a career, even. You've been on your own for years. Surely you have the right to the life you want.
"I also have the right to be afraid of my mother," she muttered out loud. "I've earned it."
Let's get the worst of it over with before I'm fully awake and lose my momentum and false courage.
> She found a padded envelope and a matchbox and some cotton, and couldn't remember where she'd left her engagement ring. Usually, she wore it to bed. That was what you were supposed to do, wasn't it? When you were madly in love?
She came across it on the edge of the bathroom sink, scene of previous acts of desperation. She'd replaced the mirror right away, before anyone could see it and ask questions. But there were still deep gouges in the linoleum where the glass had flown and she'd crushed it into the floor. A chip of porcelain was missing from the sink.
That was months ago, she reminded herself. You have other issues now. She picked up the ring and went back to the kitchen.
It seemed like a tacky way to do it. But she didn't have time to try to get him to take her seriously. She couldn't do any more pleading to be understood. If he wanted to talk after this, she'd talk. Right now all that mattered was putting an end to it.
She scribbled a note. "Dear Ray, I'm sorry to have to do this, especially this way. But our marriage definitely wouldn't work for me, and ultimately it wouldn't work for you, either. I hate to hurt you. And I hate doing it this way, but there's a real urgency about this. I don't want to drag it out, and only get in deeper into the wedding. You're a wonderful man, the best I've ever met. If you need to talk, just let me know. I'd be more than happy."
She wondered if she should sign it, "I love you." Or, "All my love." Or something like that. She decided just to sign her name.
The envelope was sealed, addressed, and ready to go.
Next, Libby.
Her mother wouldn't be up by this time, but she could leave a message with the maid. The Rubicon had to be crossed, and it had to be crossed right now.
As she'd expected, Edith answered the phone on the fourth ring.
"Hi, Edith," Shelby said. "It's Shelby. Is my mother up yet?"
"No, she's not," the maid said, keeping her voice low even though there were probably five rooms and a flight of stairs between her and the sleeping Libby. "Would you like me to wake her?"
God, no. We're taking the coward's way out here. "It's not necessary. Just tell her something's happened and I won't be able to make the Labor Day picnic. No big deal."
No big deal. That almost made her laugh out loud. It was going to be a huge deal. Not just because it Wasn't Done, but because Shelby legitimized Libby's non-Camden presence at the Camden reunion.
Knowing Libby, she'd probably go anyway, at least this time. As for the future...
It was finally time to get ready for work. No appointments today. She threw on a skirt and blouse, no stockings, and loafers. It'd have to do.
She dashed off a note to leave in Fran's mailbox. "Can we get together tonight? The compost has hit the air conditioning. S."
If she got out of here fast, and the traffic wasn't bad, she could get to the post office before she went to work.
I might be able to handle this, she thought.
Chapter Eighteen
She'd have bet money Libby wouldn't wait until after work to call her, and she was right. The ring was in the mail, properly insured and certified, and she had managed to get to her office without anyone noticing the untanned mark on her finger. Charlotte was there, but engrossed in proofing copy for her article on the amazing comeback of the pillbox hat since Jackie Kennedy had taken to wearing one.
Shelby nodded a "good morning," and hung her coat on the rack. Charlotte glanced up. "You look in fine fettle today, Miss Camden."
"I guess I am," Shelby said. "I don't know why, though."
Her desk phone rang. She agonized through three rings, then picked up the receiver. "Shelby Camden," she said.
"This is your mother."
She glanced at her watch. Only nine o'clock. Libby must be calling between her first and second cups of coffee.
"I've just heard some very upsetting news from Edith," Libby said. "I hope you can tell me it's a mistake."
"I won't know until you tell me what it is." Her stomach turned over.
"You're not coming to the family reunion."
"That's right."
"Just like that. No discussion, no 'by your leave,' nothing."
"That's right."
"And may I ask you what on God's green earth you think you're doing?"
She wrapped the phone cord around her hand. "Not coming to the reunion."
“Have you gone stark, raving mad?"
She noticed Charlotte watching her with an inquisitive look. Placing her hand over the mouthpiece, she mouthed "mother."
Charlotte rolled her eyes and nodded and gestured toward the door in an offer to leave the room.
Shelby shook her head.
"I'm perfectly sane. I'm just not coming to the reunion. Is it against the law?”
"Don't get sarcastic with me. I assume you have an excuse?"
If she'd ever wanted to lie, now was the time. But she wouldn't. Starting today, she was through being Libby's doormat, and Libby could like it or lump it. "No excuse. Personal reasons."
There was a brief, shocked silence on the other end. "Something very strange and disturbing is happening to you," her mother said. "And I don't like it."
Shelby couldn't think of anything to say.
"Are you listening?"
"I'm here."
"I want an explanation for your behavior, and I want it right now."
She settled on the edge of her desk. "I don't have an explanation. I'm passing up one Labor Day picnic in twenty-five years. Say 'hi' to everyone for me."
Libby-hung up.
Shelby shook her head and muttered, "I'm in for it."
"Mothers," Charlotte grunted in agreement.
Shelby had forgotten the older woman was there. "She talks funny, kind of stiff and antiquated," she said irrelevantly. "Like the way people write, but not the way they talk."
Charlotte plopped her eye glasses on top of her head and scrutinized her. "There's definitely something different about you today."
She was tempted to brush it off, but the thought of talking to someone, anyone, was too appealing. Charlotte wouldn't tell, not in the next twenty-four hours, and that was all she needed. "I just broke my engagement," she said, and waited for Charlotte's gasp of dismay.
"Seems to have done wonders for you," Charlotte said.
"I guess it has. To be perfectly honest, though, I feel a little reckless."
"Good for you."
"I just did it. On my way to work. I don't want a whole bunch of people finding out before Ray does. Could you keep it a secret for the next day or so?"
"Have you ever known me to gossip?"
Shelby shook her head.
"So." Charlotte crossed her arms over her chest. "Your young man doesn't know?"
"I tried to tell him, but he just can't hear it. So this morning I sent the ring back."
“Did you insure it?”
"I insured it."
"Well," said Charlotte, "I'm glad you finally saw the light. You've been moping around here ever since you announced your engagement."
"I have?"
"Your business is your business. But I just kept thinking, 'That girl doesn't want to get married."
Shelby sat in her desk chair. "You did?"
"It wasn't that obvious to everyone," Charlotte poked her pencil into her bun. "But I'm an expert on not wanting to get married, did so three times before I wised up enough to listen to that little voice inside."
"I know that voice."
"Never doubt your doubts,” Charlotte said. "They're the only truth you can count on."
What a strange conversation. She wasn't sure where it had come from or what to do with it. In their months of sharing an office, they'd seldom spoken personally.
"Get to your business there." Charlotte's voice was surprisingly gentle, given the work years of cigarettes and whiskey had done on her vocal cords. She cleared her throat. "And by the way, when things get rough—and, believe me, they will—remember I'm behind you all the way." She turned to her proofreadin
g with a finality that made it clear they were through talking for the morning.
That scared her a little. Because Charlotte had been there, and obviously knew things Shelby didn't. But she couldn't see what the problem would be, beyond her immediate family. She wasn't the first woman in history to break an engagement.
She got home late, reluctantly, exhausted from playing the "old Shelby" in public. One more day. Hang in for one more day.
There was a note from Fran under her door. "What do you mean, the manure's hitting the air conditioning? Come to my place immediately!"
She did.
"Congratulate me," she said when Fran opened the door. "I'm a free woman."
Fran went pale. "You broke the engagement?"
"I did." She held out her left hand. "See? No more ring in this bull's nose."
"I don't believe it."
"I mailed it to him. Insured and certified."
"Something's wrong with you," Fran said, standing aside and pulling her into the apartment. "What's happened?"
Shelby threw herself on the couch and stretched. "I decided to get it over with. I feel great." She laughed. "I'm going to feel lousy tomorrow, but tonight I feel great."
"What happened?" Fran repeated.
"We went to a movie, the gang and I. The way I told you we were. We went out for something to eat. I came home and went to bed, and this morning I woke up knowing what I had to do so I did it."
"What was the movie?"
"The Children's Hour."
Fran dropped into the chair across from her, beneath the pole lamp. "Oh, shit," she said.
"Have you seen it? It came out last year."
"Of course I've seen it. About seventy-five times. Why did you see it?"
Shelby shrugged. "I don't know. They'd all decided by the time I got there."
"I knew this was going to happen." Fran covered her face with her hands. "This is trouble, Shelby. Really, really trouble. And then you went and broke your engagement."
"You knew I wanted out of the marriage. It was even your idea to return the ring."
"Your timing leaves something to be desired."
She was confused and a little hurt. "I thought you'd be glad for me."
Fran looked directly at her. "They were giving you a warning."