Switcheroo

by Olivia Goldsmith

  “And what if Bob falls in love with her?”

  “Love? Don’t be ridiculous. He’s going to think she’s his wife.”

  Mildred paused for a minute, blinked, shook her head and then laughed and hugged her daughter.

  Sylvie was sitting at the piano in the spa lounge playing “If They Could See Me Now.” It was one of Lou’s favorites, but he played it like a dirge. Marla was supposed to be trying to act the teacher’s part. She had her hand under her chin, and kept nodding. She was also keeping time—off the beat—with her foot. Even Lou, depressed and talentless as he was, would notice that. Sylvie shook her head. Whatever other talents Marla Molensky had, she was not musical. She knew nothing about classical music, couldn’t play any instrument and, apparently, couldn’t even sing. Sylvie purposely made a couple of horrendous flats, but Marla kept moving her head as if the music was played perfectly. Finally Sylvie stopped, but not before she banged her fist on the keyboard. “Marla! Listen! I told you! You’re supposed to interrupt a student when you hear mistakes.”

  “I will! As soon as I hear one,” Marla promised cheerfully. Then she dropped her voice. “I’m not really that good at confrontation, though.”

  Sylvie sighed. Well, few of her students seemed to listen to her comments anyway, so she guessed Marla could fake it for a week or two before the holiday.

  The two of them were having lunch, or something that passed for it. Sylvie was only being given a protein-rich diet drink while Marla would get a feast. Both had pads and pens next to their plates. They were at one end of a long communal table, simultaneously talking and writing, cross-instructing. Marla, not yet served, watched Sylvie sip her drink, trying to make it last. “Sylvie, stop! You don’t need all that,” Marla said.

  Sylvie looked down at the pathetic diet glass, only half empty. “Marla, I—” but before she could finish, something else had caught Marla’s attention.

  “Oh my god,” Marla said, pointing to the plate of the woman beside her. “What are you doing?”

  The woman looked down, a guilty expression already on her face, though all Sylvie could see on the dinner tray was the prescribed diet meal: a butterless baked potato, a single small skinless chicken breast, and some shredded cabbage salad that passed for coleslaw. “I wasn’t going to eat the whole potato,” the woman said defensively.

  “Oh, you can eat the potato,” Marla told her, “but you can’t eat it with that animal protein. Do you want to kill yourself? Starch and proteins just do not combine. Do you know how long they will lie in your stomach and rot?” The woman shook her head. “You know, in nature, animals eat only one kind of food at a time,” she continued, “You don’t see a cow eating grass and then fruit and then protein, do you?”

  By now, the whole table was looking at Marla. “Are you calling me a cow?” the woman asked, her face flushing with anger. She was a bit bovine, Sylvie noted. “Who died and made you dietician?” the cow demanded. “I don’t even know why you’re here.” Several of the other women at the table nodded. “You’re thin enough. In fact, you’re perfect. What’s your goal? To be anorexic?”

  Marla reached her hand down the table and gently took the heavy woman’s in hers. “I’m just trying to help,” she said. “There are simple rules about food combining that make all the difference. You can eat all you want—you just have to be careful not to combine it with the wrong things.”

  “And don’t you eat at all?” asked a chunky middle-aged brunette. She looked Marla over. “I’m Brenda Cushman from New York City, and I know about diets.”

  “Oh, I eat. I’m just waiting for my tray,” Marla told her.

  Sylvie figured she better jump in before there was a revolution. “Marla, everyone eats protein with a starch. Chicken with rice. Meat and potatoes. Tuna noodle casserole.”

  “Well, everyone is wrong. That’s why they all look so bad. If you eat protein, you can only combine it with green vegetables. Or you can have fruit with vegetables, but never fruit with protein.” She looked at the rest of the table. “And remember, ladies,” she reminded them all, “a tomato is a fruit, not a vegetable.”

  The Brenda woman glared at Marla. “I’m only here because my daughter Angela’s getting married and I’m not going to be a fat mother-of-the-bride in front of my ex-husband Morty.” Then she turned to the heavy woman beside her. “She’s a fruit,” muttered the Brenda Something as she motioned toward Marla with her head.

  “No, a nut,” added a woman Sylvie had noticed earlier. The poor thing was thin from the waist up but had a huge behind and deeply dimpled thighs.

  “Oh, nuts are something you have to be very careful with,” Marla said to Dimples.

  “Don’t I know it,” agreed Sylvie. She could see that revolution was about to erupt. Marla was too young, too slim, too pretty, and too annoying to be popular here. Then, for her to have the nerve to give advice—and such wacky advice at that—was…“Marla, I’m not sure if everyone is interested,” Sylvie warned.

  Marla shrugged. “Well,” she said cheerfully, “it’s their funeral.” She turned to the table at large. “You’re just digging your graves with your teeth.”

  The New York woman looked up from her cantaloupe and cottage cheese plate. “That’s an attractive image at lunch,” she snapped.

  Marla looked in her direction. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “You’re eating cheese with that cantaloupe? Don’t you know what we say? Melon: eat it alone or leave it alone.”

  “Leave me alone,” the woman from New York snapped and very deliberately took a big scoop of her cottage cheese, mixed it with a chunk of melon, and chewed it with her mouth open.

  At that moment one of the staff arrived, at last, with Marla’s own tray. There, steaming, in front of everyone, were three thick slices of meat loaf, a big portion of macaroni and cheese, and a salad swimming in oil. To top it off, there was also a slice of banana cream pie. Sylvie looked up longingly from her protein-and-wheat-grass-juice. All of the other women stared. Marla looked down at the plate. She shrugged apologetically. “Well,” she said, “I’m here to try and look like her,” and she gestured to Sylvie with her fork before she took her first bite. Then, her mouth full, her face became blissful. “I never knew you could eat like this,” Marla crooned. “Being a wife is a wonderful thing.”

  Sylvie was having long, fake talons applied to her fingers by someone called a “nail technician” while Marla, sitting beside her, was getting her own nails clipped, which proved to be a traumatic event for her.

  “My hands look awful now,” she moaned. “Even if I get an engagement ring, I couldn’t show it off with these little M&M’s at the ends of my fingers.” She stretched out her hands mournfully.

  But Sylvie felt as bad, or maybe worse. “No wonder you can’t play the piano,” she exclaimed. “How could you massage feet or do anything with nails like these?” she asked, extending her own hand and staring at her new Anne Rice vampire look.

  “It’s something you just know from birth,” Marla said smugly. “And when I hit those acupressure points, believe me, people stand up and take notice.”

  “How can they stand up if you’re massaging their feet?” Sylvie asked.

  “I was speaking metabolically,” Marla told her. Then she stood up herself, with as much dignity as a woman whose name ended with an “a” could muster. “And now,” she said, “I have to go and tinkle.”

  They were eating again, if you could call it that. Their meals with the other spa guests were, in Sylvia’s opinion, getting dangerous. All the other women, cranky from food deprivation, envied and despised Marla. Some snubbed her openly. And all of them wanted her food, which Marla ate with gusto and speed, though she complained that since she’d been declawed she was having trouble using her fork. Sylvie had finally been taken off the protein drinks and was now being served a tiny salad, a bit of fish, and three small cooked carrots. The group of women at the table invariably talked about food; what they’d like to be serving for Thanksgiving�
�or wanted to have on their plates right at that moment. Sylvie tried not to listen—their talk made her stomach rumble.

  “I’m going to lose four more pounds,” said the chunky woman from New York. “Then, when I get out of here, I’m going to eat an entire pumpkin pie from the bakery on the way home.”

  At the other end of the table a newcomer was giving advice. “If you put sugar in the stuffing, they’ll come back for more,” she counseled the woman next to her.

  “They’re not fooling me or anyone with that spaghetti squash. If that’s pasta, I’m Kate Moss,” the brassy blonde next to Marla was saying to anyone who was listening. Sylvie was amazed at how obsessed they all were with food. Was she? The woman next to Sylvie looked over at her, trying to involve her in the conversation. “You know what’s good for Thanksgiving? Candied yams, but topped off with a pound of whipped cream instead of marshmallows.”

  “Really?” Sylvie tried to act surprised. She’d eat a foam cushion if it was topped with whipped cream.

  As all of the women were chatting, each of them continued to look at Marla’s plate. A few newcomers elbowed one another. Marla was the only one who had tempting food mounded high. And she was eating maniacally while everyone else pushed their carrots around on their plates. She might have food theories but she was eating like a trucker at the last good diner before the turnpike. Marla finally looked up from her feeding frenzy and motioned for the server to come over. “Can I have more butter?” Marla asked.

  “How does she do that and stay so thin?” Dimples, at the end of the table, dared to verbalize, as if she were the spokeswoman for the whole group.

  The brassy blonde leaned forward. She had introduced herself, but maybe because Sylvie was lightheaded from hunger or maybe because she wasn’t interested, she couldn’t remember the woman’s name. “What are you in for?” the woman asked Sylvie, as if this were a prison. That must mean my bruises have healed, Sylvie thought, so she gave a noncommittal answer. Then the woman turned to Marla. “You must be here just to keep your twin sister company,” she said. Enviously, she eyed Marla’s plate. “But if you keep eating for two, you’ll be back alone soon enough.”

  Sylvie took that in. She’d gone from being mistaken for Marla’s mother, to her older sister, to her twin. Marla and Sylvie exchanged a look. Perhaps it made the brassy blonde feel left out, because she raised her voice. “Hey, I’ve got a joke for ya,” she blurted, breaking the silence with volume. Sylvie and Marla both looked up at the woman. Heartened, she continued, “A big millionaire has three girlfriends, all about the same, and he has to decide which one to marry.” Now everyone was listening. She leaned into the table and lowered her voice. “So he gives each one a million dollars to spend any way she wants. The women don’t know it, but this is how he’s going to decide which one to marry.” Sylvie and Marla stared at the woman, who went on, “The first one, she goes out and blows the whole thing shopping. The second one takes it to the bank—she saves it. The third one, she invests it and doubles the million. So which one do you think he chooses?”

  Sylvie and Marla looked at each other. “The investor?” Sylvie guessed.

  “No, silly,” Marla said with superior wisdom. “The one with the biggest tits!”

  14

  Bob didn’t remember ever eating this badly—not in college, not at summer camp, not even in the frat house. When, during the last ten days, had he eaten anything green, except for that leftover tuna salad, and he hadn’t noticed the mold until he’d bitten into it late last night. Tonight he and John were on their way out to dinner. Bob was driving Beautiful Baby despite John’s discomfort in it. John was too tall and gangly for such a small car, but Bob couldn’t take any more change—with Sylvie away and Marla out of town he’d had his whole life disrupted.

  “So, you want Italian?” John asked.

  “Nah. I don’t. I had Italian for breakfast.”

  “Who has Italian for breakfast?”

  “Italians,” Bob told him, grim. “Look, I’m living on takeout. This morning I had two cold slices of pizza. I’m doing my own laundry. I can’t even get my socks to match.”

  “All of this because you cheat on your wife.”

  “No I don’t. Not now.”

  John brightened. “Oh. You broke it off with P and N—”

  “Almost.”

  “Almost? What does ‘almost’ mean? This is binary. You’re on or you’re off.”

  “Not necessarily,” Bob admitted. “She’s away. You want Chinese?” Bob asked as they drove past Beijing Palace. He paused. “Nah. Forget that. Since they went from Peking to the new spelling the food’s gone downhill.”

  John shook his head. “Fella, you should be more worried about your marriage and less about your diet.”

  “Of course I’m worried about my marriage.”

  “Which is a marriage you never should have had in the first place. If you had stayed away in our senior year, I’d be married to Sylvie now.”

  “That would be terrible,” Bob admitted. “She’s been gone for almost two weeks. The house is in an uproar. I miss her.”

  “Do you miss her when you’re visiting Pink and Naked?”

  “I don’t think about anything at her place. Thinking is not what she’s about.”

  “Well, I think it’s my turn to step up to the plate,” John said. “Maybe I can appreciate what you don’t. I picture Sylvie lonely at night. She could be spending that time with me.”

  Bob looked over at John, his knees pushed up high by the low seats. “In four words or less, would you tell me if you’re trying to steal my wife?” Bob asked him.

  “Goddamn right, buddy,” John snapped back. “And that’s only three words. Anyway, it’s not stealing. She was mine first.”

  They drove in silence for a few moments. “Hey! How about steak?” Bob asked, swerving in both the conversation and the highway lane. He pulled into the Hungry Heifer restaurant parking lot.

  “Marbled fat flesh? You better come in for a cholesterol count this week,” John said as he unfolded himself from the car, a kind of human origami in reverse. John patted Bob’s shoulder as they walked toward the restaurant. “You’re really living dangerously,” he told his pal.

  Bob fell into bed, his stomach distended. He couldn’t have eaten the whole porterhouse. Lying down, he struggled out of his pants, but left his shorts on. He was even too tired to take off his polo shirt. Well, he could sleep in it—if he could sleep. He hadn’t been sleeping well lately—and couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept alone for this long. Not since college, he guessed. And he didn’t like it. The whole bedroom—usually a haven—had become uncomfortable. He hadn’t made the bed in a week, and the sheets were wrinkled, the blankets pulled into ropes. Piles of his clothes lay, like drifts of dirty snow, around the room. Newspapers and junk mail were taking up both nightstands and there was a lot of other stuff on the floor that he couldn’t identify without a closer look. Sylvie would faint if she saw all this. Tomorrow he’d have to get organized, he thought. If he could get through the night. He groaned and turned on his side. He wouldn’t be sleeping on his stomach, if he slept at all.

  Just as Bob reached to shut the light the phone rang. He put his hand out, but the phone wasn’t in its usual place. It took him a minute to find the phone—he had to follow the wire to locate it—almost under the foot of the bed. He got to it by the third ring. Who would be calling him at this hour? It had to be Sylvie. He lifted up the receiver and fell back into bed, relieving the pressure on his stomach by lowering the band of his shorts. “Hi, honey, I’m home,” he said. And from the other end of the line he was rewarded for his trouble by Sylvie’s giggle.

  “You are now. I tried to call earlier but you weren’t in. Out with a girlfriend?” Sylvie asked.

  “Out with your boyfriend,” Bob grumbled. “John made me take him to the Hungry Heifer and spent the night telling me how perfect you are.”

  “Gee, I think I detect two lies in that sente
nce,” Sylvie teased. “John made you eat a porterhouse? With your cholesterol levels? I doubt it. And I’ll bet he didn’t spend more than twenty or thirty minutes talking about me.”

  “Right on both counts,” Bob laughed, rubbing his belly with the hand that wasn’t holding the receiver. It felt better already. It was good to be understood. “You got me,” Bob admitted.

  “Do I?” Sylvie asked.

  Bob stopped for a moment and didn’t respond, at least not quickly enough. Sometimes, lately, it seemed as if Sylvie was…He’d just let it drop. “So how’s Ellen?”

  “Ellen? Oh. Ellen is fine. She’s doing great and so am I.”

  “I thought you said there was a problem with her scabs,” Bob complained. “If she’s fine, come home.”

  “Well, not quite yet,” Sylvie said. “See, it’s not just Ellen. I had a little tiny nip and another tiny tuck.”

  “You’re kidding!” Bob said, almost sitting up until his belly rebelled. “You didn’t need anything. You look great.”

  “Well, now we both look great,” Sylvie said. “But I don’t think Ellen’s going to make it to our house for Thanksgiving. Hey, did you hear from the kids?”

  Before Bob could answer, he heard the call-waiting tone. “Hold on a second,” he said. “I have another call.”

  “At this hour?” Sylvie asked.

  “It’s probably one of the kids,” Bob murmured, though he doubted it.

  “This late?” Sylvie said, concerned. “They never call at night unless it’s an emergency.”

  “Hold on,” Bob told her. He clicked the phone.

  “Hi, Cookie Face,” Marla’s voice cooed in his ear. “I snuck out of Grammie’s and walked all the way down to the 7-Eleven to call you.”

  “Marla.” Bob paused. “I’ve missed you. I can’t believe your grandmother doesn’t have a phone.” Bob felt his upper lip break out in beads of sweat. Sweat, or maybe pure grease from the porterhouse. “Hold on a minute, babe,” he said. “I have another call.” He clicked back to Sylvie. “Sylvie?” he asked. Then, for a horrible moment, it occurred to him that it might still be Marla, but, thank God, Sylvie’s voice responded.