Switcheroo

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Marla was truly surprised. He’d never seemed to miss his wife when he talked to Marla about her. “Why?” she asked.

  Bob tried to manipulate Marla into a spooning position, but she was resistant.

  “Why did I miss you?” he asked as if it was an unreasonable question. “Because you were gone. What do you mean? You’re my family.”

  “I am?” Marla felt tears well up in her eyes but didn’t know why.

  “Come on, Sylvie,” Bob said. “Let’s get into our positions.”

  Sex. Uh-oh. She’d promised Sylvie she…not only that but while she’d gone over sex with Sylvie, Sylvie hadn’t gone over sex with her! Marla cocked her head. “Tell me just once more what our positions are,” Marla murmured.

  “Sylvie, are you all right?” Bob asked, sitting up. “We’ve been falling asleep the same way for twenty-one years.”

  Oh, that was what he was talking about…sleeping. “Boy! You forget one little thing—” Marla began.

  “We spoon,” Bob continued.

  Marla got it. Bob spooned up against her. She cuddled her back into his belly. They lay beside each other in the darkness. Marla felt herself relax. This was what marriage was like. Night after night. She liked it. She knew she would. But it was so new that she wanted to talk, to connect more with her husband. “Bob, I’m sorry about your father,” Marla said.

  “What about my father?” Bob asked drowsily.

  “Being dead and all.”

  “Sylvie, are you all right?” Bob asked, rising on one elbow. “Did you hit your head when you moved all this stuff? Who’s the president of the United States?”

  “Like you don’t know.” Marla smiled and pulled the blankets up to go to sleep, a man beside her for the whole night.

  19

  There were definitely some advantages to sleeping alone, Sylvie thought as she stretched out diagonally across Marla’s bed. She didn’t have the whole bed to herself, however. Sylvie looked at the roses, now badly wilted, lying in bed next to her. It was silly, sentimental, but she had slept with them, a symbol of her victory to come. She was still wearing the ridiculous Marla nightwear—the girl didn’t seem to have a single pair of comfortable pajamas. Sylvie had felt foolish in the baby dolls and her after-face-lift chin strap, a charming combo. It was something she’d never let anyone, much less Bob, see her wearing in bed.

  But she’d woken up with a bad anger hangover. The problem was that she didn’t know if she was angry at Bob or herself. After all, she had orchestrated this switcheroo, and though it hadn’t worked exactly the way she’d planned, she had definitely pulled it off. Yet she didn’t like it.

  Firstly she couldn’t get over the fact that Bob had come to her—Marla—first. She’d lost her bet with Marla, but there was more than her precious ring at stake. There was an emotional backlash to be paid for, a very real cost.

  And if she’d gone this far, shouldn’t she have gone all the way—in both senses of the word? Shouldn’t she have snagged Bob? Shouldn’t she have grabbed the chance to be Bob’s lover and prove to him—and herself—that she could do it?

  Sylvie lay there, confused and miserable. She didn’t know what to do. What she needed was some time at her piano. If she could sit down and play some Bach or maybe Mozart’s Sonata No. 23 she’d be able to order her thoughts. Then it hit her: No piano. She hadn’t thought about how she’d live without a piano, even for a week. Right now it seemed impossible. What could she do? She couldn’t think of a single thing, so she called her mother. “I’m back,” she said.

  “And where are you?” Mildred asked. “At the bimbo’s?”

  “Watch what you call her, Mom. She may be a bimbo, but she’s my bimbo.”

  “Oh my god!” Mildred snapped. “It’s the Stockholm syndrome. Sylvie, you’re identifying with the enemy.”

  “No, Mom. I am the enemy. And Bob came over here to me last night.” Sylvie thought she was happy, but then, to her surprise, a sob escaped her.

  “That’s a pretty sad statement after more than twenty years of marriage.” There was a pause. “I’m sorry, Sylvie,” Mildred said. “People we love hurt us. It’s a terrible thing. Should I come over?”

  “Yes, please,” Sylvie said.

  Marla had awakened at dawn, thrilled to find Bob gently snoring beside her. It was so homey to wake up next to a man. Inspired, Marla had slipped into a fluffy robe, donned warm slippers, and crept down to the kitchen. Now, at 7 A.M. she was putting happy faces on freshly baked cookies. As she frosted them, each smile got bigger and bigger. The phone rang and she happily picked it up. “Schiffer residence…hi. How was last night?”

  “Confusing as hell,” Sylvie’s voice told her.

  “Say, hey! Me too. And it’s good to have a reason for it.” She continued to decorate the cookies.

  “Was Bob happy to see me?” Sylvie asked.

  Marla felt a pang, and not sure if it was guilt or pity, decided to he. “Oh, yeah. A big fuss. Well, not too big. You know, he was really, really tired. So, was it good?”

  There was a momentary pause. Marla, holding the phone under her chin with a hunched shoulder, opened the oven and pulled out another batch of cookies. “Don’t you worry,” Sylvie’s voice said in her ear. “It was all good. Wonderful, terrific.”

  “How would you describe it?” Marla asked, truly interested. Again, there was a pause. Marla looked for the spatula. Flour, cookbooks, dirty bowls, the sugar bin, measuring cup, and butter dish were all hiding the spatula. Baking was very messy. “How would you describe the sex?” Marla asked.

  “Uh, I would describe it as ‘sexy,’” Sylvie said. It was kind of disappointing, but that was the least of Marla’s problems right now. She just had to find the spatula.

  “I bet he was real hot for you…I mean, me. It must be why he was so tired. He’s still sleeping.”

  “He’s sleeping?” Sylvie asked. Marla could tell she was shocked. “Bob’s always up at a quarter to seven. He’s always at work by eight exactly.”

  “I think I know where my husband is,” Marla said. “He was sleeping so deeply I turned off the alarm.”

  “Oh my god,” Sylvie said.

  “Don’t you think it’ll put him in a good mood? A little extra sleep always sets me up,” Marla said.

  “Hey, it’s your problem,” Sylvie responded. “By the way, I did remember to tell you how cranky Bob is in the mornings, didn’t I?”

  Marla acknowledged that; then they hung up. Marla decided to stop with the cookies. She doubted that Bob would mind the extra rest, especially if she made him a good breakfast. She took down the last clean bowl, threw four eggs into it, and began to beat them. Then she went to the freezer and took out the bacon. She put coffee on, using the fancy coffee-maker that only nice suburban women had. She set the table for two.

  It was 8:41 on the microwave clock when she heard Bob limping down the stairs. “My god, Sylvie,” he said. “What the hell happened to you? What happened to the alarm? I woke up, it was past eight o’clock, and you weren’t there.”

  “Did you miss me?” Marla cooed. “I was cooking you breakfast.” She poured two cups of coffee and waited by the window. She’d defrosted the frozen Stouffer’s croissants. She’d cooked bacon. And the eggs were still hot.

  Bob approached the table. “What’s this?” Bob asked.

  “What does it look like?” Marla responded.

  “Croissants? Butter? You made bacon and eggs?”

  Marla nodded, trying not to look too proud. She’d hoped she’d gotten all the shells out of the eggs. “Are you trying to kill me?” Bob asked. “You know how high John says my cholesterol level is.”

  Marla blinked. She tried to decide whether she should be upset because he was an ungrateful Neanderthal or whether she should try to cover up her errors. She decided on the latter. Her eyes were drawn to the lawn, its drifts of leaves and the big mud ruts that ran through part of the yard. “Have we got moles?” she asked. “Or is it voles?” Marla had once
seen a nature show that showed those little creatures with nasty pink tips digging tunnels.

  Bob was gulping his coffee, putting change in his pocket, and looking for his car keys. “Voles?” he asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “The ruts,” Marla told him. “What loused up the lawn like that?”

  “The crane did that, Sylvie.”

  “I didn’t know that birds could mess up a lawn. Was it a herd?”

  “A flock,” Bob said, putting down his coffee. “A group of birds is a flock, not a herd. Are you trying to be funny this morning? The crane that pulled your car out of the pool ruined the lawn.”

  “Carpool?” Marla asked.

  “Look,” Bob said, putting his coffee cup down on the one bit of available counter space. “I don’t have time for jokes. I’m really late for work and I have meetings tonight.” He turned and started walking for the door.

  “Haven’t you forgotten something?” Marla asked, trying to keep her voice sweet. The least he could do was kiss her before he left.

  “Oh, yeah,” Bob said. He grabbed the garage door opener from the ring at the side of the door. “I’m outta here,” he told her, and he was.

  After Sylvie got dressed, she went into the kitchen to get something for breakfast. She opened the refrigerator, but all she found there was expired yogurt and bottles of vitamins. She started opening cupboards, one after another. They were loaded with bottles of food additives, food replacements, and food supplements, but no food. Sylvie had to have some food and coffee. She’d have to go to the supermarket.

  Sylvie was lying across the bed again when her mother rang the doorbell, though she now had Bob’s roses on top of her in a funeral position. She laid the flowers aside and ran to the door. Mildred was standing in front of her with two Styrofoam cups filled with coffee. “Bless you. You always know what I need,” Sylvie said as she reached out for a cup. Then she brought Mildred quickly into the bedroom. Mildred looked around with distaste at the dusty fake ficus tree. She picked up a pillow shaped like red lips. “So this is how a mistress lives now? Your father’s chippie did better.”

  “Nothing is easy for women anymore,” Sylvie said.

  Mildred opened a jewelry box on the bureau and distastefully lifted out a cheap pearl choker from the tangle of costume junk. “This is not the jewelry of a successful mistress,” Mildred said, sniffing.

  “She’s hidden the cubic zirconium in the freezer,” Sylvie said in a depressed tone.

  “Well, I suppose we should be grateful,” Mildred said. “Bob’s obviously not embezzling.” She turned to look at her daughter. “Come on, Sylvie. You dreamed up this crack-brain scheme. At least enjoy it.”

  “Oh god, Mom! I can’t. I’m so…torn. Marla—I mean, me, as Marla—couldn’t let Bob touch me last night.”

  “Good girl! I knew I raised you right,” Mildred said brightly. “So now go back home, throw her out of the house, and that’s that.” Since there was no chair in the bedroom, she sat at the edge of the bed.

  “I can’t do that. I would never get what I wanted.” Sylvie sat up and took her mother’s hand. “Mom, last night I got a glimpse of the old Bob. I remembered what it felt like…to be desired.” Sylvie paused, remembering. “It was so good. And I realized how long it’s been since I had those feelings.” She let go of Mildred’s hand and stood up. “Oh, Mom! I wanted to hit him for depriving me of what I married him for.” Sylvie stifled a sob as Mildred patted her shoulder. Sylvie picked her head up and looked at Mildred. “Do you think he’ll call again or come over?”

  “Wait a minute.” Mildred snapped. “Now you’re hoping that your husband will come back to his mistress?” Sylvie nodded. “Women! We deserve what we get,” Mildred said.

  Just then the doorbell chimed. Sylvie sat up straight, a gleam of hope in her eye. “Maybe that’s Bob!” Sylvie looked around. “God! You’ve got to hide. He can’t see you here.”

  “Well, then he’s blind,” Mildred said.

  “No, Mom, you’ve got to hide.”

  “Sylvie, I have gone as far with this as I am going to go. I am not hiding from my son-in-law.” The doorbell rang again. Mildred smiled. “Just don’t open up. Or tell him I’m Miss Bimbo’s mother.” She paused. “Say my name is Deirdre. I always thought I looked like a Deirdre.”

  “Mom, stop it. Stay in here.” Sylvie closed the bedroom door and ran across the tiny living room. “Who is it?” she called out.

  “Pete.”

  “Pete?” Sylvie asked. She’d studied Marla’s notes. There was no mention of a Pete.

  “Probably another boyfriend. Maybe you’ll like him,” Mildred said from the bedroom doorway, her arms crossed over her chest.

  Sylvie gave her mother a dirty look, made sure the safety chain was on the door, then opened it cautiously. There in front of her was an enormous flower arrangement with legs. “Ooooh!” Sylvie cooed. She unlocked the chain and opened the door wide. The flowers filled the doorway and, she supposed, it was Pete’s legs that brought them in. Sylvie turned to Mildred, her face radiant. She reached for the card.

  Pete staggered into the living room with the flowers. “I think the best place for these beauties is on the box next to the couch. It’ll balance out the room,” he offered from behind a spray of gladiolus.

  “Deliveries and decorating advice,” Mildred commented. “Not that anything could balance this decor, except a psychiatrist.”

  Sylvie read the card, then looked up joyfully at her mother. “He can’t give me up. He wants to see me again tonight.” She looked at Pete. “Thank you,” she said. “You’ve made me very happy.”

  “Hey. Is this your mom?” Pete asked. He turned to Mildred. “Your daughter is a really friendly person.”

  “My daughter’s a romantic fool,” Mildred told Pete, handing him a tip.

  Marla was in the music room giving a lesson. Jennifer was at the piano. She was playing the Minute Waltz, but doing it in thirty seconds.

  Marla felt very professional, very teacherly. She was a true authority figure to this little girl. “That’s really good, sweetie. Even I can’t do it that fast,” Marla said, smiling and patting the girl on her shoulder. “Try it once more, even quicker. I bet you can do it.”

  A look of confusion flooded Jennifer’s face. She started over and played even faster. Marla nodded, an encouraging smile on her own face.

  Pete had gone and Mildred was preparing to leave too when the phone rang. Without thinking, Sylvie lifted the receiver. “Hello,” she breathed in the sexiest voice she could. Mildred rolled her eyes.

  “Hi, it’s Eena. I’m really in a crisis here. You were gone for months.”

  Who was Eena? What was her crisis about? Sylvie hadn’t a clue, didn’t remember anything from the notebook, so she ad-libbed in the way she thought Marla might. “Wow!” she said.

  “Anyway, I’m in the new place in Highland Hills, right off Chagrin Boulevard. Could you come over this morning? My feet are really in terrible shape.”

  “Um, okay,” Sylvie said. “Should we say in about two hours?”

  “Fine, let me give you the address.” Sylvie jotted it down and Eena, whoever she was, hung up.

  Mildred raised her brows. “So you have a date with Bob while Marla has a date with John?”

  “That wasn’t Bob, it was a female client. And what date with John?”

  “I spoke to Marla last night. You didn’t call, I noticed. Anyway, she said she was having lunch with John.”

  “That’s impossible. She never even met him. She just got home last night.”

  “She’s a fast little worker, that girl,” Mildred said. “Can you imagine her at the club?”

  “At the club? They’re having lunch at the country club? What possessed her?”

  “What possessed you? Sylvie, you have opened Pandora’s box here, or haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve said? I know I’m just your mother.”

  Sylvie turned to Mildred. “Okay,” she said. “I
admit this is a glitch. You have to help me. I’ll call Marla and tell her the lunch is out of the question but you go to the club, just in case. If I can’t get to her you’ll have to keep an eye on her.”

  “Why bother? Every woman in Shaker Heights who’s there will be keeping both eyes on her—I mean, you. I don’t think they’re going to believe you—I mean, her—when she says all she’s done to herself is had ‘a nice little rest.’” Mildred paused. “You’ll be the Cher of Shaker Heights by tomorrow. And do you think she knows a salad fork when she sees one?”

  Sylvie looked at her mother beseechingly. “Please, Mom.”

  Mildred picked up her purse, shrugged, and then nodded. “What the hell,” she said. “It’ll be the best floor show at the club since Dick Edenboro joined AA.” Mildred kissed her daughter, shook her head, and departed, taking her Styrofoam cup with her. Sylvie turned back to the bare apartment and dialed her home phone number. The line was busy. But as soon as she hung up, the phone rang again. Before she lifted the receiver Sylvie took out her reference notebook. Then, poised to research, she answered the phone.

  “Hullo. Oh, Mr. Brightman.” Checking her notes, her face registered who Mr. Brightman was and what he expected. She couldn’t read some of it. Sucking? Was this guy the…? “Today at two-thirty?” Oh no. He could forget about that. Sylvie paused, but conscientiously said, “Yes, Mr. Brightman.”

  Then she hung up and panicked. Okay, she’d rub an instep, massage an ankle, but she drew the line at sucking a toe. This was a job for a professional. She immediately tried Marla. No answer at first, then her own voice greeted her on the answering machine. Sylvie wondered what she should do. Well, she’d dress and go to Eena’s first. Meanwhile, she’d keep trying Marla. She got off the bed and began to go through Marla’s closet. All of the clothes were cheap and flimsy. What do you wear for your first toe job? she wondered.

  On her way to Eena’s Sylvie picked up her car phone—Marla’s actually—and dialed her own car number. Maybe she’d catch Marla in transit since she wasn’t answering at the house.