Switcheroo

by Olivia Goldsmith

  “But?”

  Her anger at him boiled up, curdling the way milk did when it boiled over. Clenching her teeth, she replied, “I just have to arrange these goddamn flowers.”

  17

  Marla was lying in Sylvie’s bed wearing a pair of her very unattractive flannel pajamas—red-and-black plaid, with pockets—and was on the phone. She had a bowl of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food resting on her tummy and was eating it slowly with a soup spoon. “Yes, Saturday night,” she mumbled through the ice cream. She swallowed. “A table for two. For Mr. and Mrs. Robert Schiffer,” she managed to say, clearly proud.

  Marla hung up. A jewelry show was on QVC and she turned her attention to it. But they had already sold out the zircon pendant and Marla didn’t want the earrings. Anyway, now that she owned the gorgeous Cartier ring in three colors of gold, she didn’t crave cubic zirconium—well, not as much. She clutched “her” Visa card in her left hand and continued eating with her right. Then she began working on a bag of Milano cookies along with the melting dish of ice cream. Sylvie had better find her a husband, fast, because soon she’d be too fat to get or keep a boyfriend. God, once she’d started eating she couldn’t stop.

  The phone rang and Marla hesitated. This was the aphid test. She got her notebook ready before she answered. “Hello? Could you hold for a second?” Marla started looking through the book, then realized she hadn’t asked who was calling. Well, she could fix that. “Hello. Mrs. Sylvie Schiffer here. Before you hold again, could you tell me who this is?”

  “It’s John. Welcome home.”

  Marla sighed with relief. “Oh, John…I’ll be right with you.”

  Marla quickly paged through the notebook to an entry that was headed “Friends and Family.” She found the thumbnail description of John. “Good friend, doctor. Has had a crush on me since high school.”

  “Hi. So, John, how do you like being a doctor?”

  “Uh…fine.”

  “Good. We had fun in high school, didn’t we?”

  “Yes. Sure. Hey, Sylvie, are you okay? Have you been drinking?”

  “No. Just eating,” Marla told him.

  “I heard you had…work done while you were away. Did you really think that was necessary? Even with elective surgery, there are risks.”

  “I might of had a little something done, but I’ll let you be the judge,” Marla giggled.

  “Well, it wasn’t necessary. You were perfect.”

  “Don’t be silly. Of course I wasn’t perfect. Nobody is…”

  “What does Bob think?”

  Too cheerfully she responded, “Bob? He’s not back yet.”

  “He hasn’t come home? Where is he?”

  “Maybe off with his girlfriend—” She realized suddenly that she shouldn’t talk and certainly not joke about that, so she added, “I’m trying to adjust. It’s hell.”

  “Sylvie, how about having lunch with me tomorrow at the club?”

  “Lunch? Yeah, that would be great.” Then Marla sat up in bed, startled, and pointed toward the television with her spoon hand. “Wait! There’s that Diamonique ‘Y’ necklace that I’ve been waiting for. It would look great with my ring! Cathy swears it’s going to sell out.” Sweetly she asked John, “Will you promise not to stop having a crush on me if I put you on hold for a minute?”

  Marla bought the necklace, charging it, and had it sent to Mrs. Robert Schiffer, even paying extra for overnight delivery. After all, she wasn’t sure how long this gig would last. Still, a week ago she was the kind of girl who didn’t have any gold. Now she had three colors! Plus more—cubic zirconiums! When she got back to John she was filled with the energy of a successful purchase. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow,” she told him. “You’ll know me because I’ll be wearing my new ‘Y’ necklace.”

  John laughed. “Bob told me you had something done. Is the change that dramatic? I’d still know you anywhere, Sylvie.”

  “Good, then you’ll know me tomorrow.” She hung up and then wondered how she’d recognize him. She pulled out the photo albums she considered her homework. Maybe John was in one of these pictures. A picture stopped her. She looked up a number in the spa notebook. She put on the speaker phone and punched a number in.

  “Hello.” Mildred’s voice, so deep and sure of itself, crackled over the speaker.

  “Hi. This is your daughter, Sylvie Schiffer.” Marla lowered her voice. “Not really. It’s sort of Marla.” Then she raised her voice again. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mom, but who is the geezer with the bald head in all our family pictures?”

  “Bob’s father. My family has hair,” Mildred told her.

  Marla tried to figure it out. “So, he would be my…”

  “Father-in-law, if he were alive.”

  Marla’s voice went low, respectful. She always tried to be respectful about those who had moved on to another plane of existence. “Oh. When did he pass on? Were we close?”

  “I don’t think you should worry about it tonight, Mrs. Schiffer.” Mildred’s voice sounded a little—well, a little short. “It’s already past eleven. Isn’t Bob home yet?”

  “Nope,” Marla said. She looked down at the ring that was now hers to keep forever and licked the very last bit of melted ice cream off the spoon. “But that’s okay. He’s been getting me a Cartier ring right this minute.” She grinned and held out her finger, admiring it.

  “My god. Shouldn’t he be with his wife tonight?” Mildred paused. “Well, I guess he is. But he doesn’t know he is. I’m so confused”

  “Now you know how I always feel.”

  “Well, keep yourself busy and out of trouble.”

  The phone beeped. “Oops. I have another call. Can you hold for a minute?” Marla asked, and before Mildred could answer she hit the flash button.

  “Yo, Sis! You’re home? How was the boob job?”

  Marla paused. Who could this possibly be? He’d called her Sis. That wasn’t her name or even Sylvie’s name. Was “Sis” short for Sylvie? But maybe it meant he might be her real brother. Not her brother, Sylvie’s brother. “I’m talking to my mother,” Marla said. “She’s on hold.”

  “Well, she’s my mother too. How does Ellen look? Did she get rid of those acne scars?”

  “I have to say good-bye to Mom, Phil,” Marla said proudly because she’d solved the puzzle. I could have been a spy, she thought, if reflexology wasn’t so important.

  “Phil is on the other line, Mom.” Marla reported. “I have to go. But maybe I’ll see you tomorrow at the club. I’m having lunch there with John. That should keep me busy.”

  “You are?” Mildred didn’t sound pleased.

  “Yep. Do you think I can wear a jumpsuit?” Marla asked.

  Mildred sighed. “No, but what do I know? I just sell pots.”

  “One of my stepbrothers got busted for doing that,” Marla warned. “You better be careful.” She punched off the flash button and was back to Phil. “So, Phil, isn’t it great that we have all these memories?”

  “Which memories, Syl?”

  “Oh, you know,” Marla said vaguely. “The childhood ones. When we were kids together.”

  “I remember when I accidentally broke Ellen’s nose, that time we were playing Red Rover.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. By the way, did she get that fixed too?”

  Marla gulped. She and Sylvie hadn’t covered this. “I’m not telling. You call her.”

  “Very funny. You know Ellen and I haven’t spoken for the last six years.”

  “Oh, yeah. I just forgot that for a minute.” Marla paused, curious. “And I forgot why too.”

  “Because of that food fight Rosalie and I had at Thanksgiving at her house. That’s why she won’t spend the holidays with us anymore. You remember.” He stopped talking. “Hey, Sylvie, was it really cosmetic surgery they did on you or was it shock treatments?”

  Bob and Sylvie had gotten as far as actually lying on the bed; she’d arranged the flowers and then made up with
“Bobby.” Now he was kissing her. Really kissing her. “God, it’s been so long…” he breathed.

  “You have no idea,” Sylvie told him.

  Bob had been a good kisser, Sylvie remembered, he hadn’t practiced on her in a long time. In fact even when they’d had sex he hadn’t kissed her much in the last few years. Now he kissed Sylvie tenderly, his hand cupping her face. His lips were firm, his hand gentle, yet it pulled her to him. Sylvie felt herself responding, but then she couldn’t help but pull away and ask, “Do you think I’m special?”

  “Very special,” he whispered and started kissing her again.

  “Who else is special?” she asked. God! She could bite her tongue, if Bob didn’t.

  “Nobody…” He kissed her more deeply. Sylvie felt herself letting go, enjoying this. It was what she wanted. It was what she needed, and she felt a tug at her groin as she let herself move into that place where you floated into foreplay. “Nobody…” Bob repeated.

  Sylvie put her arms around him. He rolled onto her and moved her legs open with his knee. It gave her the shivers.

  “Oh, Bob…Bobby.”

  “Oh, Marla.”

  Sylvie stiffened. Without thinking, she pushed him away.

  “What?!” Bob said. He sat up, clearly irritated and confused.

  Sylvie rolled to the other side of the bed, her back to Bob. She pulled her legs into a fetal position, with a pillow cradled at her stomach. What was she doing? Encouraging her husband in infidelity? Playing out some kind of charade? How was this going to help her, either with revenge or happiness? She began to weep.

  “Marla, is something wrong?”

  “Stop saying that!” Sylvie cried.

  “What? I just asked if something was wrong,” Bob said.

  Sylvie was out of control, sobbing by now. She couldn’t keep this up. It had all been a terrible mistake, a stupid, foolish idea. “I’m not Marla.”

  “Oh, Cookie Face. Do you want to be someone else tonight? I love when you do that. Are you the French maid? Who are you?”

  Sylvie cried as if her heart would break.

  Marla surveyed the bedroom—her bedroom with Bob. A bedroom they would sleep in every night, together, once he got home. She looked at the four-poster, the window across from it draped in a cheerful chintz, the dressing table against the bathroom wall, the crammed bookshelf, and shook her head. People were so ignorant! No wonder poor Sylvie had trouble keeping Bob! The feng shui of this room was all off. It was clear to anyone with the slightest common sense that energy traveled right through the window and out the door, missing the bed completely. No wonder Sylvie’s sex life had suffered.

  Marla had read two books on feng shui, not just one, so she knew that a lot of changes had to be made and how to make them. Plus, this was her room in her house now and she could do what she wanted. She went to the radio, turned it on to a rock-light station, and surveyed the room again with narrowed eyes. She wished she had some of her New Age music, but she’d have to make do with the Eagles. She sat down on the floor, in the very center of the room, and pulled her legs up into a half lotus. She tried to meditate on where the furniture should be located, but she kept being distracted by the vision of another dish of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food. That stuff was addictive. In addition to the marsh-mallow, she loved the little tiny chocolate fish that crunched when you bit into them. Anyway, she didn’t need to meditate. She stood up. She crossed to the chaise, then decided instead on the ottoman and piled the latter on the former. She pushed them over to the other side of the room, near the bedroom door. She separated them, moved to the bed, and surveyed what she had wrought. It was a start. She noticed the floor lamp, which had been beside the chair in the corner. She got up and moved that next to the bookshelf. The bookshelf could stay where it was, but the bed absolutely would have to be moved.

  It was heavy, and she could only push it by lying on her back and putting her feet against first the side, and then the headboard, and pushing. Inch by inch, she managed to move it into the proper energy flow. She was hot by then, and exhausted, but at that moment “Our House” by Crosby, Stills, and Nash began to play on the radio.

  Marla knew it wasn’t just a coincidence. It was what that Jung guy called “synchronicity.” It was a sign. She smiled radiantly, got up on the bed—now situated in the middle of the room—and got into a full lotus this time. She tried to feel the energy as it coursed through the room and knew immediately that this was a big improvement. But then she noticed the bureau, blocking the energy release. Marla shook her head. A woman’s work was never dumb! She would have to move the bureau.

  She got up, crossed to the other side of the room, and began to push the enormous dresser, her skin radiating a New Age Martha Stewart flush. All she had to do, she thought, was get this dresser moved and then light some incense. She was exhausted, but it would all be worth it. Wait until Bob came home! What a transformation!

  18

  Bob left Marla’s frustrated and exhausted, on top of feeling guilty about having gone there instead of home in the first place. He was trying to ease his frustration by listening to WMJI-FM. It wasn’t the usual nighttime deejay, and it wasn’t time for John Lannigan and Jimmy Malone’s morning show, but Bob was grateful for the company even if it was just a voice. He had just gotten off the North Woodland Bridge and paid the toll. But then, like an itch that couldn’t be scratched, he’d realized he had to clear his mind, see Marla again, and find out what was wrong. He swung Beautiful Baby into a U-turn and had to pay the toll again. The female toll taker recognized him. This was not the first U-turn he had made that night. “Nice car,” she said. Bob merely nodded an acknowledgment and accelerated, then punched a number into his car phone.

  “John, It’s me again. Will you bear with me?” Bob asked. “I’ve already given these toll people seventeen bucks! I don’t know if I’m coming or going. I wanna be with the naked one, I wanna be with my wife.”

  “I may be your closest friend but I can’t tell you what you should do for the rest of your life,” John said.

  “You don’t get it, do you?” Bob whined. “I know what I should do. But I’m a worm without a conscience.”

  “Grandiose again,” John commented. “You’re just an average adulterer. Are you going to give P and N up?”

  “Yes,” Bob said firmly and pulled another U-turn. Then, somehow, his assurance faltered. “I don’t know. It’s not me going to that woman’s house.” He raised his voice at his friend. “Explain who’s doing this—in four words or less.”

  “It’s your evil twin?” John suggested.

  By now Bob was back at the toll booth, confusing the toll taker yet again. He spoke to the toll taker and John simultaneously. “You know, I never believed in the devil before, but in me he’s found a home for the nineties.”

  Marla was back in bed, her flannel pajamas a crumpled mess, the sheets pulled up to her neck. She looked over her work and found it good. The bedroom made no sense, but she was deeply satisfied. She was also worn out and looked at the clock, now perched all the way across the room on the bureau. It was past midnight. What was he doing out this late? He never stayed with her till twelve.

  She must have dozed for a while, because the next thing she heard was the sound of Bob’s car pulling into the driveway. Marla went to the window. He had not only gone to her house first but he had stayed longer than usual. That should make her feel good, and had won her the gorgeous three-gold ring, but instead she felt bad. From upstairs she saw Bob enter the house. Marla made a few last adjustments to the room, rearranged the pillows, and quickly slid into bed, pretending to be asleep.

  Bob opened the bedroom door. He tiptoed in, trying to see by the light from the window, but tripped over the ottoman, upsetting the floor lamp, which crashed into the bureau. Marla sat up, concerned. “Are you all right, Bob?”

  “I think so.” He had one hand on his elbow, rubbing it, the other on his foot. “Why was an end table in front of the door? I just hur
t my ankle. Yeow!”

  “And your arm?”

  “No. I hurt that…at the lot.” Bob got up and stumbled to the bed, limping only a little. But the bed was only halfway across the room, so he smacked into it, hard, with his shin. “Oooh!” He literally fell into the bed. “What happened in here? And what is that smell?”

  Marla realized, too late, that Sylvie wouldn’t have used any incense. “It’s my new perfume,” she ad-libbed. “Elaine gave it to me.”

  “Elaine? Who’s Elaine?”

  “My sister.”

  “Ellen? I thought you said Elaine.”

  “No. I know my own sister’s name,” Marla said, defensive. Distraction was the best move. She gestured to the room. “My face isn’t the only thing I redecorated, Bob.” Marla turned on the lamp, angling the shade so that the room was softly illuminated. “So, what do you think, Bob?”

  He stopped rubbing his ankle long enough to look up. “You moved the furniture,” said as if it were the dullest fact in the world.

  Marla, more than a little disappointed, turned the light off.

  “Sylvie, I’ll look at it closely tomorrow. We’ll talk about it…” he said with a hint of guilt. He started undressing, reached across the bed, and kissed her on the cheek. “Look. Let’s start this over. Welcome home. I’m glad you’re back.”

  “You are?”

  “Of course I am. How is your sister? In four words or less.”

  In four words or less? That was impossible. Or maybe he was testing her, Marla thought. Unsure of how to respond, she talked as if she were answering a drop quiz. “Six years older, but her face looks good. We don’t get along. Never wants to live anywhere near the family.” She’d counted off the first four responses on her finger, then paused, trying to remember the last one. “Her therapist supports her decision!” she added proudly as it came to mind, and triumphantly pushed down her thumb.

  “I’m glad she’s…the same,” Bob said. He got into bed. “I really missed you,” he told her, and put his arm around her shoulders.