Switcheroo (20 page)

Sylvie looked at the sexual menu spread before her. Her face flushed.

“I’m going to do
all
of this,” Sylvie said with new determination.

“Good girl,” Marla told her. “Oh, and don’t forget: he yells in bed when he climaxes. Don’t get scared.”

“I
know
he yells,” Sylvie said resentfully. She paused, her pride fighting her curiosity. “What does he yell?” she asked.

“I’m dying! I’m dying!” Marla howled in imitation.

Sylvie tried not to change her expression, and if she had she wouldn’t have known whether to laugh or cry. “Okay, I haven’t heard
that
,” she admitted. “If I had, I would probably have called 911.” Sylvie tried to take all of it in.

There was something here so serious, so intimate and so very real that Sylvie felt both physically sick and hurt. She was hurt all over again, as hurt as when she’d first realized Bob had cheated. But now, sitting there, she no longer had her anger to mask her pain. She actually lost her breath and felt a constriction in her chest.
Not as if my heart is breaking
, she thought.
But like it’s hardening and shrinking
. The pain was actually physical. She could feel it below her sternum and her right breast. She pressed her hand to her chest and had to look away from the pages in front of her.

What did Marla understand about this? She seemed to look upon sex as a healthful aerobic activity. Did Bob whisper how much he wanted her, as he used to to Sylvie? The yearning in his voice had always brought tears to her eyes when they made love. Now tears filled her eyes for a different reason.

There was a silence in the room. Bob had actually done these things—these intimate, complicated, sexual things with a stranger. All her strategizing had led her to this. Her manipulations had brought her this visceral pain. Suddenly the game, the fun of what they’d been up to drained away; all that was left was the ugliness of betrayal and adultery.

Marla, with a sympathetic look, reached across the space between them for Sylvie’s hand. Sylvie let her hold it. She lay in the silence, feeling the pain.

Sylvie finally spoke. “Can I ask you something…and will you tell me the truth?”

“As close as I can get,” Marla said.

“What is your story? You really are a nice person. You don’t really steal. Why did you try for other women’s husbands?”

Marla shrugged. “I want to get married. I’m like every other girl, but I got confused. Guys my age I date are phobic about commitment. I got tired of wasting my time. I just figured married men were the kind who get married.”

Sylvie lay silent.

Both Marla and Sylvie’s luggage was being loaded into two identical silver BMW Z2 convertibles. Every once in a while, the wrong piece was put into the wrong car, partly because the bellman wasn’t too bright and partly because Marla and Sylvie kept getting confused. They both kept watch, rescuing stray pieces to get them into the right identical car trunk. When the bags were finally loaded, the two women faced each other.

“Well, I guess this is it. The acid test,” Sylvie said. “Are we interchangeable parts or not? And can we get away with it?”

“You know what?” Marla said. “I’m going to really miss you. It’s, like, you’re part of my family or something. Well, not
my
actual family. I mean, forget about
them
. I mean, like…well, like a good sister who’s, you know, not always borrowing my personal hygiene products and getting hair on the deodorant ball. Which is a totally new feeling.”

“I’m going to miss you too,” Sylvie said, surprised that she meant it. “And don’t you worry, I’m there if you need to ask me anything. No question is too small.” She paused. “Just remember not to talk too much—he doesn’t listen anyway—and
don’t
write him notes. He knows my handwriting.”

The women hugged and, for a moment, it felt to Sylvie as if they couldn’t leave each other, either out of mutual affection or mutual fear. They took two steps away from each other and Sylvie remembered one last thing.

“The oven is slow,” Sylvie called out.

Marla, almost to her car, turned around. “It’s okay. So am I,” she said, and they both laughed. “Say, hey!” Marla walked toward Sylvie. “We forgot. Here are my keys. We have to switch. Can you drive a standard?”

“Not well,” Sylvie admitted, handing over her car and house keys. “Oh, wait,” she added. She took out her wallet. “I guess we should exchange these too.”

Marla opened up Sylvie’s wallet. “
Gold
Visa
and Gold
MasterCard?”

Marla dug into her purse and handed Sylvie something. It was Marla’s wallet. Sylvie looked through it. “I don’t see a license here.”

“Oh, that’s because I don’t have one,” Marla explained. “I didn’t want to get points or anything.”

“You don’t have a driver’s license? Marla, that’s a crime.”

“No it’s not. It’s a crime if you get a ticket. I just haven’t complied with the law.”

“What if I get stopped by a cop?” Sylvie asked.

“Do what I do. Try to date him. They’re all babe hounds. If that doesn’t work, call Bobby.” Marla laughed. Sylvie shook her head, laughed, and then the two women hugged each other again. They walked off in opposite directions. This time they got only four steps apart.

“One more thing…” Sylvie said. Marla spun around. The moment to Sylvie felt important, ceremonial. They stood facing each other, reflections that had stepped out of each other’s mirror. “You should have this,” Sylvie said. Slowly she pulled her wedding band off her finger. She hadn’t removed it since Bob had put it on her on their wedding day. She extended her hand, giving the band of gold to Marla, who just stared at it.

“I can’t. It would be like stealing from the poor,” Marla said. Sylvie wasn’t sure how to take that remark but she let it pass.

“Bob’s wife has to have a band,” Sylvie said. “Fair is fair.”

Marla was overwhelmed. She didn’t move. Sylvie waited, then took the ring and put it on Marla’s finger. Marla took a deep, almost shivering breath. “And soon I’ll win the Cartier!” she added.

“No you won’t,” Sylvie assured her, but good-naturedly.

“If this doesn’t work we have only one person to blame, and that’s each other,” she said. Sylvie laughed and they hugged for the last time.

“In the meantime,” Sylvie said, “you wear the Cartier ring. Focus on the white gold: that’s for friendship.”

Marla didn’t need to be asked twice. She slipped the graceful gleaming gold around her finger. “Yes!” she breathed. She held her hand out full length away from her body and admired it. Then she looked back at Sylvie, her eyes wet. “You know, this isn’t girlfriend jewelry. It’s serious. I feel married.” She looked at her hand again. “Real Cartier,” she said.

Marla pulled up to the house, her head practically hanging out of the window of the convertible. For some reason the car smelled like mildew, and she was very allergic to mildew. She’d sneezed most of the way home. But now, at last, she was here—at Mr. and Mrs. Bob Schiffer’s residence. She pulled into the driveway, hurried out of the car, and ran up the steps. She fumbled with the key to the door. Then she had trouble with the security system. Sylvie had told her exactly what to do, but somehow, she’d punched the code in too soon or too late, started it beeping, and had to beg it to be quiet. At last she got the all clear and entered.

“A foy-aie!” she breathed.

Spread before Marla was her new domestic wonderland: a large entrance hall, a high-ceilinged dining room to the left and the arch to the living room on the right. Marla took a map out of her purse and was careful to check where she was on it. She walked to the center of the hall, checked again, and slowly spun around, her arms out.

She followed the map into the living room, turning on all the lights as she went—overhead chandelier, table lamps, floor lamps. She’d never had so many lighting fixtures in her life!

She was drawn to the fireplace. Over it hung a big portrait of Sylvie (clearly at a younger age) with the twins as young children. Marla pressed another switch and the portrait was illuminated.

“A picture light!”

She took out her compact, checked her image, and then checked it against the painting. She was amazed all over again at the likeness—the portrait was
her
, if she’d organized her life a little better. She looked at the kids—
her
kids. She felt tears rise in her eyes over “her and the children.” But she got distracted by the shelves on either side of the fireplace. She moved to one of the bookshelves, and ran her hand over the books. So many of them! Had Sylvie or Bob read them all? Marla had only three books at home—
The Celestine Prophecy
, her Herbalife manual, and a book she’d never been able to get into, one about bridges of some town or something.

She felt intimidated by all the books, so she let herself wander away, over to the silver-framed photos on a side table, she picked one up and pointed to the individuals. “Reenie, Kenny, Phil, Ellen, Bobby—er, Bob—and…me. Easy!” she said aloud, really proud of herself and, still testing, she moved to another shelf and another photo. “Jim, Bob, Phil, me…” she paused, sentimentally putting her hand on her heart, “and Mom.” She thought of Mildred. She seemed like the kind of mother who had had lots of fresh aprons instead of fresh boyfriends. She sighed and turned again to look at “her” family. There was another, larger photo of just two people. “Bob…” she paused, unable to identify the older man, “…and some geezer,” she finished lamely. Enough of pictures.

She turned and began to leave the room, but as she exited she noticed the television remote, picked it up, and punched it on. TV had always kept her company. She surfed. Boy, these guys must have a satellite—there were dozens and dozens of stations. She kept going until she hit a shopping channel. “…QVC!” she cried, greeting it like an old friend.

Then she noticed an empty silver candy dish. She picked it up. Engraved across the bottom was: “Grow old with me. The best is yet to be.” Marla stared at the words, her face mirrored back by the silver. Tears were reflected in her eyes. Who would she grow old with? She held the dish to her chest and hugged it. Maybe Bob. Maybe. Finally she put it down and, following the map, she walked toward the kitchen.

But she’d never been good at geography. She had some trouble. First she walked into a closet, then out the back door, thinking it was the kitchen. But, finally, she got there.

And it was worth it! It was her dream kitchen. She couldn’t cook, but she’d always believed if she had a bigger, nicer place to cook in she’d know how. This was the place. She walked to the counter at the center and put her cheek lovingly on top of the granite. “An island!” she breathed.

It was paradise. Like a child in a playground, one thing after another caught her eye. She opened the freezer and checked out all the food. “Stouffer’s!” she cried. (Only the
most
expensive frozen brand.) She went through the dozens of boxes and bags of vegetables, pizzas, potpies, and poultry. Only when she herself started to feel frozen did she close the freezer and open the refrigerator, also filled with food. She checked the cottage cheese date. “Unexpired!” she cried. It all seemed too good to be true.

There was a gleaming white microwave with a complex array of buttons. She pushed the controls, but it made a few noises that sounded threatening. She pushed a few more, but it didn’t shut off. Marla wanted it to be quiet. “Please! Please stop!” she asked it.

She backed away and bumped into a small TV. Well, she knew how to work that! It would cover up the clicking and beeping of the microwave. She turned it on to QVC. All was well. She was thrilled with her new life.

There were at least two dozen lit candles around the room. Sylvie, in
her
new life, was wearing white stockings, a white lacy garter belt, and was struggling into a bustier that just barely closed. She pulled in her stomach, took a deep breath, and checked herself out in the full-length mirror. It was obvious that the transformation had been wildly successful. She looked ten years younger and fourteen pounds thinner. But would she pass as Marla? Sylvie wasn’t so sure. You’re insane, she told herself, and this is both crazy and demeaning. When did you, where would you, ever dress up like a tart and deceive someone? Who was she?

Sylvie got very scared, ran for a terry cloth robe to put over it all, but then was drawn back to the mirror. She realized immediately that the terry cloth look was not working. The robe came off slowly. Seeing herself, one feature at a time, was easier.

Then the phone rang. Sylvie jumped and ran for the phone, but as she was about to answer she became too scared to pick it up. She reached for it, but the bustier moved, exposing part of her breast. She panicked again and, as if she could be seen, blew out several candles before she picked up the receiver.

Sylvie tried imitating Marla: “Hello,” she purred. She heard heavy breathing, and didn’t know what to do. “Bob?…Bobby?” she asked.

“No,” someone whispered.

“Is this a pervert call?” she asked. “Because I have a whistle here—”

“No. Don’t whistle. It’s me. Mrs. Bob Schiffer,” Marla said, her voice still breathy. “What’s up? Did I win my—I mean your—ring yet?”

“Well, I’m having an anxiety attack, and Bob hasn’t even arrived. He called and he’s coming to me first, not you. Can you believe it?”

“Sure. I won the bet.”

“You sound out of breath too.” Sylvie was hurt by that, but so excited and nervous she didn’t have time to register it. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“I opened all the bedroom closets and drawers,” Marla said. “I can’t believe it. Your house is beautiful. It’s like TV people live here. But not the
Married…with Children
kind of TV. Like
The Cosby Show
kind. I mean, all your underwear is so…cotton.”

“Say, hey! I found a pair of
your
underpants and they have no crotch.”

“I’m a busy person,” Marla said defensively. “Some things you got to let go of.”

The doorbell rang. Sylvie immediately panicked. “Oh my god, it’s Bob!…This is scary.”