Switcheroo

by Olivia Goldsmith

  “Forget about that!” Marla snapped. “I want to get the thanks and appreciation after all this work. I just need a little assistance here.”

  Sylvie was tempted but said, “Marla, come on. We can’t both be in the same place at the same time. Everyone might ignore middle-aged women, but not when they clone right before their eyes. Why don’t you just call my mother?” Sylvie asked. “She’ll help.”

  “I already did,” Marla admitted. “She is helping, but I need you. I’ll never do it alone. They’ve already finished all the chips, the cream cheese—stuffed celery, and even most of the olives. Do you know how many olives that is? Can people overdose on olives?” Marla asked. She did sound desperate. “Plus, Phil just tried to eat the pumpkin centerpiece. You know, we have to have a little talk about Phil. I’m not so sure he’s husband material. And speaking of husbands, it isn’t helping that your husband is serving a lot of booze.”

  “He’s your husband today,” Sylvie said bitterly.

  “Yeah, and he’s not pitching in,” Marla admitted, sounding equally bitter. “I thought Thanksgiving was a family holiday.”

  “Wake up and smell the pumpkin pie. Wives do it solo. It’s just the way it is,” Sylvie said. She suddenly, clearly, remembered all the frenzied preparations she’d been through in the years before and smiled. Maybe this alone-on-the-sofa deal wasn’t as bad as she’d thought.

  “Well, Bob is busy doing one thing: he’s topping off drinks. He and Phil and John and Jim—I mean, Dad—are all here, and they’re drinking,” Marla said. She paused. “They’re probably seeing double already. If they haven’t figured us out so far, they really, really won’t now.”

  Sylvie was torn, and said, “I want to come.” She thought of the empty day stretching in front of her. “Frankly, Marla, right now I’m not happy with your life”

  “Like I like yours,” Marla said and snorted.

  Sylvie pulled up and parked around the corner from her cul-de-sac. She figured the best way to get into her own house was by going through the Beyermans’ yard. She certainly didn’t need two identical BMW convertibles parked along with the rest of the Bavarian convention in her driveway.

  It seemed as if the Beyermans were away for the holiday. At least that was what she thought until she got to the rhododendron wall that separated her yard from theirs. At that point Ching, their nasty black Pomeranian, darted out at her, barking furiously as he did virtually all day, every day. But now he sank his little pointed teeth into her ankle. Totally surprised, Sylvie shook him off, dove through the rhododendrons, and they yelped simultaneously as they hit the dirt, she in her territory and Ching in his. Crouching and limping, she managed to sneak around the garage, up the back steps, and then peeked, for the second time that day, through the kitchen window. Marla, still dressed pretty much as Sylvie herself was, in black leggings and a black sweater, was looking for her. She opened the door. From somewhere—Sylvie couldn’t even imagine where—Marla had gotten an apron. It wasn’t one of those practical Williams-Sonoma ones, it was a little number Betty Crocker might have worn in 1954. Sylvie limped into the kitchen. If she hadn’t already been breathless, the scene here would have taken her breath away. The place was more of a disaster than ever. Sylvie had never seen such disorder. “Hello, dear,” Mildred said. “Welcome to bedlam” Amid the bowls, pots, spatulas, and pans her mother had found just enough room to lean her elbow against the counter.

  “Quick! Get in here,” Marla whispered to Sylvie. “You have to help with this meal. And you have to get me a different husband. I don’t want Phil.”

  “Join the club,” Mildred said dryly. She sighed. “The middle-child syndrome,” she said, shaking her head.

  Sylvie glanced around. She couldn’t begin to take it all in. Not with it being almost three o’clock, no smell of food cooking, and the totality of the chaos surrounding her. She looked at her kitchen island, almost sunk by the flotsam and jetsam. “Four whisks? I didn’t even know I had four whisks.” She lifted one. Some unidentified liquid dripped from it. “And you’ve used them all,” she added faintly. “Didn’t your mother teach you to clean up as you went along?”

  “The only thing my mother taught me was French inhaling,” Marla snapped. “But it hasn’t been useful since I quit smoking.” She wiped her hand across her apron. “Does anyone have a Marlboro?” she asked.

  “I hope not,” Sylvie said. She looked over at her mother, who simply shrugged. “Truthfully, is anything ready? Where are we?”

  “It feels like Rwanda,” Mildred piped up.

  “Nowhere,” Marla said simultaneously. “The desserts are finished, but I burned the potatoes, and I haven’t made the salad. I can’t get the electric can opener to work, so I don’t have the cranberry sauce out. And what are you supposed to do with this winter squash, anyway? How do you expect me to work with all this protein and starch? You know how I feel about mixing these together. I just can’t…” Marla stepped back from the counter and pulled off a shoe, rubbing her foot. “I think I’m having a heart attack,” she said, staring at her heel as if it mattered. Mildred gave Sylvie a quizzical look. Marla then turned to the stove top where all the pots were starting to steam. She was glaring at them so hard, it was as if she were trying a Yuri Geller, attempting to move them with telepathic powers.

  “What are you doing?” Mildred asked.

  “A watched pot never spoils,” Marla said, still staring at the pans.

  Sylvie shook her head. “It’s not like you got here yesterday. What have you been busy with all this time?” she asked.

  “Setting the table,” Marla told her.

  “She sets a nice table,” Mildred confirmed. “The calligraphy place cards are a very personal touch. And I love those turkey napkins. Too bad there’s no turkey.”

  “So where is everybody?” Sylvie whispered.

  “Watching the game,” Marla said. “Everyone but the kids is drunk,” she added. “At least one thing here is like back home.” Then she turned to the window, pointed, and gasped. “Uh-oh! Benny and his friends are back from the park and looking this way.”

  “Kenny, not Benny!” Sylvie corrected as she squatted down out of the line of sight. She rubbed her own heel while she was down there. She wondered idly if she needed a dog-bite shot. Tetanus or rabies? Meanwhile, the boys were in a noisy group, coming up the driveway. If they came in the kitchen door she and Marla were dead. They were coming toward the back door. “Marla, get lost! Quick,” Sylvie gasped.

  “Where should I go?” Marla whispered, panicking. “I better get out of here. Too many cooks saves nine,” she intoned, looking around frantically for a place to hide.

  “Into the laundry room. Hurry!” Sylvie told her.

  “No,” Marla said. “I’m afraid of those machines. They hate me. You go.” Before Sylvie could strangle her, the boys drifted off behind the garage. Sylvie stood up. “I think they’re smoking joints back there,” Marla told her, looking out the window.

  “What?” Sylvie asked, shocked. “Did you see any of those kids—”

  “I didn’t see anything, but it’s what my brothers always used to do behind the garage,” Marla admitted. “Say, hey! I wouldn’t mind a hit myself.”

  “Don’t you even think about it,” Sylvie warned.

  Marla sighed. “Who has time? A woman’s work is never fun.”

  Before either Mildred or Sylvie could react to that, Phil’s and Rosalie’s voices were heard in the dining room. “Jesus, would you look at that table!” Phil was saying as he pushed open the kitchen door. “It looks like a scale model of Epcot Center. What’s all that about?” Sylvie ducked in time, hiding behind the island.

  “Your sister put in a lot of time planning for this dinner,” Rosalie snapped. “Not that you deserve it. She wanted to make it nice for the twins and all.”

  “Whatever. Where the hell are the pretzels?” Phil began opening cabinets, moving around the island. Sylvie, on her hands and knees, scurried in a circle like th
e dog that had bitten her, just managing to keep out of sight.

  “Why don’t you ever close a door? Check in the cabinet near your right foot,” Rosalie suggested to her ex.

  “Speaking of foot, what the hell is it with your boyfriend? That Mel guy. He says he’s missing some equipment.”

  “Hey, he can’t help it if he’s not all there,” Rosalie snapped. “Neither are you. And the equipment you were missing wasn’t just a toe.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’d lost my balls, but I got ’em back now.” Phil gestured to his crotch with one hand, pulling out the pretzels with the other.

  “Phil, please,” Mildred said. “This is a kitchen.” Neither her son nor her ex-daughter-in-law heard her.

  “Really? That’s not what your dad says. Anyway, it’s not Mel’s toes that I’m interested in.”

  “Spare me the details,” Phil begged, and they both walked out of the kitchen as they had come in, sniping away. Sylvie realized that the two of them were perfect together.

  “It’s always amazed me that those two can be in a crowded room and never know it,” Mildred said as she helped Sylvie up off the floor.

  “Turkey time!” Marla cried. She opened the oven to reveal rows of Cornish hens, or something, in the oven.

  “That isn’t turkey!” Sylvie yelled.

  “It’s almost turkey. I think of them as ‘turkey light,’” Marla said defensively. “The butcher swore they could be stuffed,” she added.

  “With what? A tweezers?” Mildred asked.

  “Marla, you can’t serve the kids these. They won’t eat squab. We’ve always had turkey. I mean, it’s Thanksgiving, isn’t it?”

  “What do you want me to do?” Marla whined. “The really, really turkey didn’t fit in the oven. I tried, I really tried.” She began to sob, her shoulders shaking, her nose running almost immediately. “I’m just not cracked up to be a wife. See? I can’t do it. I can’t even take care of myself, let alone a soccer team. No wonder Bob doesn’t want me. Nobody does.”

  Mildred stepped forward and put her arms around the girl.

  “Look, you set a lovely table,” Sylvie said, trying to comfort Marla.

  “Two days ago. But there keep being more people. I can’t keep up!” Marla burst into tears again. “We need two more places.”

  “I’ll do that. You slice the carrots.” Sylvie looked over at Mildred. “Mom, you’re just going to have to go out and buy a cooked turkey.”

  “I find that very embarrassing. Anyway, nothing is open.”

  “Be embarrassed. It won’t kill you. And go to a restaurant if you have to. Order à la carte.”

  Sylvie had to get all this under control. Poor Marla. Just as Sylvie had expected, she’d been undone by the holiday. But instead of feeling glad, Sylvie felt guilty and sorry for her rival. She’d at least give Marla the holiday meal she craved. Sylvie snuck in to the dining room with Mildred following, still protesting. When Sylvie saw the table, she gasped. It looked like someone’s model railroad—there were miniature Pilgrims, a couple of teepees, and—for some weird reason known only to Marla—a little covered bridge. They had started to move things around, eliminating some of the centerpiece, when Bob walked into the room. Mildred and Sylvie froze. Sylvie’s heart began to beat harder, but Bob went directly to the liquor cabinet.

  “Do we have any more scotch?” Bob asked as he started rummaging through the cabinet. “It seems to be the drink of choice. Your father and John are actually giggling. Phil seems even angrier than usual.”

  “Damnit!” Marla hollered from the kitchen.

  “Rosalie is too,” Sylvie said, quickly covering and heading for the kitchen. “Sssh!” she scolded. “What happened?”

  Marla held up her hand. She was bleeding. She’d obviously cut herself chopping the carrots.

  “Run it under cold water,” Sylvie said as the door swung open.

  Rosalie had come back into the kitchen, this time with her date. Sylvie couldn’t make it over to the laundry room door so she wedged herself beside the refrigerator. She was surprised to find that she fit. She really had lost weight!

  “Sylvie, this is Mel,” Rosalie said to Marla. “I’ve told her nothing but good things about you,” Rosalie murmured.

  But Marla was paying no attention to anything but her little cut. “Ouch! Son of Sam, I could have cut off a finger. I’d be marred for life,” Marla cried.

  Rosalie shot Marla a poisonous look. Hugging her date, she said, “I think the number of fingers or toes a person has means nothing! Nothing!”

  She stomped out of the kitchen, followed by the now morose Mel. Sylvie was just squeezing out from the space beside the refrigerator when John entered. He nearly saw her, so she jumped out the back door and stood in the cold, peeping in the steamed-up window. John was listening to Marla, and seemed very solicitous, if a tiny bit high. Sylvie was wondering if she could somehow ask him to look at her Ching bite when she saw him take Marla’s hand out from under the running water. Leaning over Marla, he kissed her finger to make it better. Sylvie couldn’t believe her eyes. John had better be dead drunk! She watched as he lovingly applied a Band-Aid and put his arm around Marla. Sylvie’s breath clouded up the window. Then the two of them left the room together. Sylvie cautiously went inside. As she entered the kitchen, John came back in. Surprised, but obviously high, he blinked, confused, and came toward her. “Why are you wearing that hat?” he asked, his voice slurred. “Are you better?” He picked up her cold hand. He was obviously surprised by the temperature. He looked down at it and was more surprised to see that the bandage and the cut were gone. “My god. What happened?” he asked.

  “You kissed it and made it better,” Sylvie said sweetly. She’d like to really confuse him and pull off her cap and let her blonde hair fall down. Let him think his kiss did that!

  John was confused. Thank god for alcohol, Sylvie thought.

  Jim and Mildred were sitting at a table in the Hungry Heifer. Patiently, Mildred was repeating their order. “That’s right. Turkey for twenty and two glasses of water,” Mildred told the waiter, who left, confused but willing.

  “Mildred, this is painful,” Jim said. “How did Sylvie manage—”

  “Oh, it’s a long story,” Mildred said, leaning into her husband. She had unfastened the top two buttons of her blouse and she hoped he noticed. Her chest was spotted now, and the flesh at her cleavage had the pleated look of wrinkled silk, but still, cleavage was cleavage. “You know, Jim…your eyes look very blue tonight.”

  “Mildred?” Jim said in a tone of voice that asked a lot of questions.

  “They do,” Mildred averred, staring into his eyes. They had seen her, years ago, as a young, desirable girl. They were the only eyes left on the planet that had. “Jim, I don’t want to go to my grave never having made love again,” Mildred said.

  Jim’s blue eyes blinked. And it seemed to Mildred that he might be interested.

  All the men except Brian were watching football. They were huddled tensely, watching an important play. Sixth down, ten to go, or something like that. Marla never understood the rules of football, or what the excitement was about. The guys with the big shoulders looked good and all, their butts tiny in comparison, but she knew it was all padding. She stepped over to Phil.

  “Can I refresh your drink?” she asked in her best hostess voice. She felt a little better. Sylvie had taken over in the kitchen, dinner was almost ready, and Marla had hidden in the upstairs bathroom, cleaning herself up and calming down. Maybe she could become a part of this family, she thought. They looked cozy, all of them huddled over the TV like cavemen crouched around the fire. Maybe she could like Phil. Maybe he could be her very own caveman.

  At that moment a touchdown was scored, or something. Everyone, except Phil, yelled. Marla jumped. Phil screamed. He’d missed it.

  “Sylvie, can you get your ass away from the television so a man can see? I got a spread I got to cover,” her caveman barked. Marla stepped back, offended. “Wom
en!” Phil said, looking up. “Any word on dinner?”

  “Just one: choke.” Marla left, stricken. She walked into the kitchen.

  Sylvie was almost finished with the potatoes. Mildred had come back with the turkey. “It’s a go,” Mildred said, looking at Marla. “Boy, you’ve pulled yourself together.”

  Marla ignored the compliment. She stared at both women. “I thought you were nice,” she said. “Not the type who would let me marry a woman-hating moron.”

  “Phil?” Mildred asked and sighed. “I was really hoping you could straighten him out. I know he has love in him…somewhere. And, truthfully, you’re a nice girl.” She paused. Marla felt her heart soften. She would like to be part of all this. “You know,” Mildred was saying, “all men take a little shaping up.” Mildred was still in her coat, her cheeks pink, her eyes sparkling. She looked good for an old lady, Marla thought. She looked as if she had a secret. Marla tried to focus on what her mom was saying. “One of the great ironies of life is that when men and women marry, the man is hoping his wife will never change and the woman can’t wait to start changing him. Of course, they both wind up disappointed. The woman always does change. The guy never does. Look at Phil as a fixer-upper.” Mildred smiled. “Jim is still my work in progress, but I’m beginning to see some improvement.” She took off her coat. “Let’s serve dinner together. I’d like you in the family,” Mildred said sincerely to Marla.

  “Really, really?” Marla fell into Mildred’s arms. Sylvie took the opportunity to leave.

  29

  Sylvie, all alone, stood across the street from her own house. It was twilight. All the other houses on the cul-de-sac were dark: her mother and father and Rosalie were out, across the street, inside her home, and the Brennans always went to his parents in Arizona for the holiday. She was alone. A wind had come up and, although it wasn’t really cold yet, the dampness and the wind made Sylvie shiver. She was still in her black leggings and sweater, but she’d only taken a denim jacket with her and it wasn’t really enough to keep her warm.