Switcheroo

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Once she got into her BMW she’d put the heat up full blast. At the thought, she shivered again. She hesitated to double-back through the Beyermans’ yard—not because she was afraid of Ching, though her heel still smarted—but because she just couldn’t take her eyes off the lit dining room window of her house. There, inside, was the happy, quintessential family scene. Norman Rockwell, as American as pumpkin pie. Kenny, Reenie, her mother and father, her brother, her husband, and her friends. Even she was there. Right now she was spooning mashed potatoes onto John’s plate. It seemed that everyone was busy passing food, eating turkey legs, or laughing. It was a little bit like Huck Finn at his own funeral. No, it was as if she didn’t exist. Sylvie thought of the movie It’s a Wonderful Life. But in that film Jimmy Stewart realized he was irreplaceable. He saw the impact his life had on others.

  Standing there, in the deepening dark, it was as if Sylvie was completely replaceable. She didn’t need to exist.

  The table had been cleared with the help of the kids, who had then all left to go out somewhere. Somewhere fun, Marla thought. There had been no standing ovation. There had been no applause at all. The only thanks she had gotten were the polite ones from Benny’s friends, who had just murmured “Thanks, Mrs. Schiffer” as they bussed their plates to the sink. The kitchen was a mess. Marla surveyed all the wreckage. She thought that shopping and preparing had been the work. Somehow she hadn’t imagined this. She couldn’t believe the enormous task ahead of her. The thought of all the mixing of proteins and starches, and having fruit touch vegetables, was just too overwhelming for her. “The aura’s still not right in this kitchen, no matter how hard I try,” Marla said aloud to herself, feeling her eyes well up with tears. Was this what family life was supposed to be like? Or had it become this because of Bob’s affair with her? Marla wasn’t sure if she felt sorrier for herself or for Sylvie, but she decided on herself. Then the kitchen door swung open. For a moment she thought Bob might appear, ready to hug her and tell her how great dinner had been. But it wasn’t Bob. It was John, clearly woozy, and Mildred, giving him a hand to help him into the room. “Jesus, I drank too much.”

  “‘Jesus’ is right,” Mildred said, looking around at the incredible mess. “Martha Stewart definitely doesn’t live here.”

  John blearily surveyed the chaos. “Hey, can I help?”

  “I think what you need to do, Doctor, is he down. That’s an order from Dr. Mom,” Mildred told him. “I’ll stay and help Sylvie.”

  “No, you’ve done enough, Mom. My husband should help,” Marla said. At that moment Bob did come into the kitchen. Maybe it would end all right. Marla smiled. Now she would get some appreciation, and in front of John.

  But Bob said, “I’m going out for a little while; I left a few things on the lot.” He picked up his car keys and jingled them, then turned to get his coat. Marla narrowed her eyes. She knew he wasn’t going to any lot. She knew exactly where he was going. He had his nerve! Who did he think he was, and who did he think she was? Some galley slave? Some cleaning lady? Marla looked at the stacks of greasy plates, dirty bowls, blackened pans. There were the dishes waiting to be scraped into the disposal. This marriage ought to go into the disposal as well, she thought, and deliberately swiped her arm across the island, sending dishes crashing to the floor. Bob turned back around.

  “What broke?”

  “A marriage?” she asked. She picked up a tray, still holding some candied yams and the damned melted marshmallows. She flung it in his direction, missing him but almost hitting John.

  Mildred propelled John out of the room. “I don’t think we’re needed in here,” she said.

  Bob had ducked but now rose and looked at the tray smashed against the door, along with the sweet potatoes that had ricocheted onto his corduroy cuffs. “Sylvie! Stop it. Are you crazy?” Bob asked. “What’s this supposed to mean?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything because…it means everything’s off balance because the starch touched the protein…” Marla sputtered. She wanted to tell him who she really, really was, and what he was as well. But she had promised Sylvie. “This isn’t really a marriage. I mean, you’re married but…anyway, it’s not what a marriage is supposed to be,” she said. “You don’t want to make love to me. You don’t want to take care of me. I have a house. I have kids. Big deal. I have to do everything.”

  “Sylvie, I—”

  But Marla wasn’t going to listen to his lies. She was exhausted, and her disappointment was so deep she felt as if something inside her chest was cracking. “Shut up! You think it’s easy being your wife? I’m not just the cook, the cleaner, and the woman who watches you leave, ya know.” She began to cry, but she didn’t want to. She was too angry, and too proud. Bob made her feel like some kind of neutered dog or something, some animal that didn’t even have a sex. “Do you know how hard I worked on this meal?” she asked. “How hard it was to not mix the wrong fruits and vegetables together? Do you know how long it took me to organize it? And now you think you’re going to go over to some other…” She stopped herself. She thought again of Sylvie. If this was the life that Sylvie had been living, Marla understood why Sylvie had pulled the switcheroo. Sylvie ought to have the right to tell Bob about the switch, right before she castrated him.

  Marla watched as Bob bent down and tried to brush the marshmallow and yams off his corduroy cuffs. Then he turned to her, as if she were the most important thing in the world to him—right after his car and his cuffs. “I appreciate you,” Bob said, coming toward her.

  Marla couldn’t take it. She picked up a bowl of stuffing and flung it at him, but she again missed by a fraction of an inch. The stuffing exploded on the wall above the broom closet. “I don’t want to be appreciated. I want to be loved, and undressed, and not necessarily by you. Why don’t you just get out! Get out and go to your girlfriend!”

  “What?”

  “You heard me!” Marla threw another dish, and another. Bob, a look of real fear on his face, ducked, turned, and began to back out of the room. Marla emptied the island with both arms, throwing everything onto the floor. Then, after she’d realized what she’d done to all of the beautiful dishes, Marla screamed and ran out the back door into the dark.

  30

  Sylvie, alone and exhausted after her bizarre Thanksgiving Day, had put on yet another uncomfortable sexy nightie and had just decided to go to bed even though it was only a little after eight. She was glumly brushing her teeth when she heard the doorbell. Mouth foamy, toothbrush in hand, she made her way to the door and cautiously looked through the peephole. Seeing Bob, she quickly pulled herself together, spit the toothpaste into the pot of the silk ficus tree, and opened the door.

  “Bobby? I don’t remember you ever visiting me before on a holiday,” she said. Then she wondered if perhaps he had come to Marla after every family event. She stood there, loving him and hating him. She wanted him to come in, to hold and comfort and love her, but fair was fair. What about Marla? She needed her “husband” with her now. “You should be home,” she forced herself to say.

  “Home?” Bob echoed. To his credit, he looked like a shock victim. His eyes seemed glazed, or else he was on the verge of tears. “I don’t know what’s happening,” he said. “I’m starting to think of you…this…as home.” Bob hugged her and she hugged him back, feeling the cold that still clung to his jacket. He buried his face in her hair. “You smell like turkey,” he murmured. She stiffened for a moment, but she couldn’t help holding him—he felt too good to her. His arms, always muscular and long, felt like her husband’s arms, and her lover’s.

  The thing was that Sylvie knew he loved her. He just didn’t know that she was Sylvie. “Every time you leave, I think I’m never going to see you again,” she admitted, and felt truly sorry for Marla.

  Bob stroked her hair. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised.

  Bob was sleeping, and Sylvie propped herself on one elbow to watch him. Making love had been even better than before—th
ey’d fallen on each other hungrily, and they’d made love until they were both exhausted. Now Sylvie pulled the sheet up over Bob’s bare shoulder. She loved the way his skin, darker than hers, looked against the pillow.

  As if he could feel her eyes on him, Bob’s own lids fluttered and he woke up. “You watching me sleep?” he asked, stretching his arms out to the headboard.

  “I have for years,” she admitted.

  “I’ve only known you since July.”

  Sylvie remembered her role. “Oops! Well, it feels like years.” Sylvie tried a Marlaesque giggle. “You know how bad I am with months and numbers.”

  Bob smiled. “It does feel like we’re old friends. Well, not so old in your case.” He reached for her hand. He looked deep into her eyes from his place on his pillow to hers on her own. “I love you. I really do, Marla.” He looked almost as surprised as she felt, hearing this.

  Sylvie felt so happy and so sad all at the same time. Somehow she knew that if there was a time to end this road show, to prove her point and push her advantage, it was now. Go for it, she told herself. “Then you should marry me,” she said. She kept looking into his eyes. She felt she could lose herself in them. How could someone look at you so deeply and then go and he to his wife? She wouldn’t let him off the hook. She’d make sure he’d learned his lesson. She’d made him love her—Sylvie—and now, after he lost Marla, she’d decide if she’d have him back or not.

  Bob sat up. He’d lost his flush. In fact, he looked pale now. “You knew from the beginning that that wasn’t in the cards, Marla. I told you I was married. That I couldn’t bear the thought of breaking up my home—”

  “You just said this was home,” Sylvie reminded him.

  Bob got up and looked out the window into the dark street. He sighed, very disturbed. For a moment Sylvie felt sorry for him, but not enough to save him from wriggling on the hook a little longer. “Look. The truth is, Sylvie seems to have gone crazy,” Bob admitted. “And it’s my fault. I’ve made her angry and miserable. We’re two people standing in the cold. We don’t seem to make each other happy anymore but neither of us is capable of taking the first step forward.” Bob turned and looked at Sylvie, then bit his lip as if he might actually cry.

  “Maybe she didn’t invite special things in,” Sylvie suggested, testing him.

  “No. Sylvie was—is—a pure romantic. I’ve neglected that. She has music in her soul. I’ve lost mine.” He sat down heavily on the side of the bed. “The holiday’s been a fiasco. She’s been cold to the kids, angry at me, and obsessed with the table decorations. The other night she served me shrimp, even though I’m allergic to shellfish big time. Did you know that? Then tonight we had a scene and she walked out on me. If she knew about us, she’d never forgive me…and she shouldn’t.”

  “I’m sorry, Bobby,” Sylvie said, hardening her heart. “I understand how loyal you are and how difficult it must be for you, but I’ve made a decision. I love you, but I can’t spend another holiday alone. If you don’t want me full-time, I don’t want to see you anymore.”

  Bob sat very still on the side of the bed. Sylvie held her breath. He turned to her, finally deciding. “Marry me,” he said.

  Sylvie burst into tears. This was it. She’d won! She’d gotten what she wanted, if she still wanted it. Yet she couldn’t have been more confused. “You’d leave your wife?” Sylvie asked, shocked to the core. “Really?” Then, “Really, really?” she added.

  “Yes. This last week…I guess I’ve just realized how happy I am with you. And…I don’t know. Maybe Sylvie needs a chance at love.” He embraced her gently. “I love you,” he said. Sylvie couldn’t stop crying. She held Bob, hugging him so tightly he could hardly breathe.

  31

  The door opened slowly. Marla, sad and disheveled, entered the bedroom. She couldn’t believe the mess she’d made of everything—not just the kitchen but her whole life. No wonder she didn’t have a real family. She couldn’t handle one. Now Bobby was off with Sylvie, the kids were out, and she—like always—had ended up alone. Too tired to even don a nightie, she stripped off her filthy food-stained clothes and got into bed. Once under the blankets, she wished she could go to sleep and never wake up. She stretched out, in the center of the huge king-sized bed, and it was then her foot felt something warm beside it. Her foot told her someone else was there.

  Marla, grateful, whispered softly, “Bob?”

  But it was John who put his head up, groggy. “Sylvie?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”

  “Sometimes I wonder myself.”

  John, slightly more conscious, looked around. “Jesus, I’m at your house.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “This is why I’m not a heavy drinker. I’m so sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize,” Marla said. “I screwed everything up.” She covered her face with her hands. “I always do. No wonder I don’t have anyone or anything.” She began to sob.

  John put his arm around her. “You do. Of course you do.”

  “I don’t!” Marla insisted and bent her head. “You don’t understand. Oh, John, I made a huge scene. I probably broke every dish in the house. Sylvie will be furious.” She realized, too late, what she’d just said but John seemed to think it was okay.

  “I think Sylvie is furious right now,” he said, taking her hand. “Don’t disassociate. You can acknowledge your anger. Especially with me, Sylvie. Maybe Bob can’t hear it but I can,” he told her, then sat up. “Where is Bob?” he asked. “Where is everybody?”

  “The kids went to the movies,” Marla said. “They just don’t want to be with me. Not to mention Bob. He was gone when I got back. We know who he’s with.”

  “The bastard.”

  Marla began to weep again. “I never knew a wife could feel like this. I’m so sorry. And ashamed.”

  “You have nothing to be ashamed of,” John said. “It’s Bob who should be ashamed.”

  Marla looked up at him. She began to cry more loudly. “You don’t understand,” she said, “it’s my fault.”

  John put his arm around her, kissing the top of her head. Then the blanket fell from her shoulders. He stopped. “Sylvie! My god! You’re…all pink and naked.”

  Marla nodded, shrugged, and lifted her face to his kiss, but just on the cheek. He smelled good—a healthy smell of sleep mixed with scotch seemed to envelop her. Without thinking, her kisses moved to his eyes and—finally—to his mouth. John groaned. For a moment he resisted. She could feel his lips held tight. Then his mouth relaxed and opened. She knew he’d waited a long time for this kiss and she made it a good one. When he could, John stopped, but only when both of them were breathless. Gently he pushed her away. “This isn’t right,” he said.

  “But it’s not as wrong as you think,” Marla assured him. She held her face up to his. He could not resist. They kissed again. Gently, the way you would move in the presence of a woodland deer, she put her arms around John’s neck. With her right hand she tugged very, very gently at his hair. He groaned again.

  “Sylvie. Oh, Sylvie,” he whispered, “please stop. Bob, your marriage…oh, Sylvie.” Marla could feel him give up. He wrapped his arms around her, low on her naked back, and she felt him trembling. Then the two of them disappeared under the blankets.

  When Bob went into the bedroom, he felt heavy, full of his bad news. The room, like the rest of the house, was a disaster, the bed lumpy and unmade, Sylvie nowhere around. All the way over, on the now too familiar drive across the bridge from Cleveland, he had been thinking and rethinking his decision. He was a man who tried to please others, and a man who liked and needed order in his life. Right now he was pleasing no one and his life—as they said in twelve-step programs—had become unmanageable. His home life was over, and a new chapter could open, but why did he feel like such a slimeball? Perhaps it was because Sylvie had always been so good, so perfect. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, slowly stripped off his clothes, and too exhausted to bother with pajamas, pulled up the d
uvet. Only then did he notice the big lump in the middle of the bed. Poor Sylvie. After her outburst she must have crawled into the fetal position there. As gently as possible, Bob leaned over and patted the lump. “Sylvie, we have to talk. Now. About our marriage.”

  Marla felt someone patting her awake and sat up, clutching the blanket to her chest. “Excuse me?” she said. Bob was there beside her, and for a moment Marla became deeply confused. Hadn’t it been John who’d just…of course it had. She put her hand under the blanket and felt John’s silky hair beside her hip. Now she remembered everything. It wasn’t a dream. She loved John and he loved her. Unless, of course, he loved only the real Sylvie, but she didn’t think so. Not after what they’d just shared in bed. Now, however, she had Bob to deal with. “Excuse me?” she said again.

  “Look, Sylvie, I’m sorry. I’m very, very sorry. But we have to talk. We’ve shared a lot but—” At that moment John sat up too.

  “No more sharing?” he asked.

  Marla watched Bob’s face as he realized that his “wife” was in bed with someone else. Well, now she’d get to see how he felt about sharing. She’d had to share him for the last four months. But, to be honest, Bob didn’t look as if he was in a sharing kind of mood. He pulled away from her, grabbing at the blanket. John, on the other side, pulled back. All three of them were covered by nothing but the duvet. Marla could honestly say that John had more to hide.

  Bob’s mouth had dropped open. His eyes went from one to the other, the way people on TV watching tennis ricocheted during a volley. Bob took in the scene, but slowly, as if he couldn’t believe it. “John?” he asked. “Sylvie?” Marla figured he was batting five hundred but she didn’t have to tell him that. “How could you?” he asked. The full horror of it hit him, and even in the semidarkness Marla could see him pale. “My god, how could you betray me like this?” Bob demanded.