Switcheroo (11 page)

Sylvie stopped dead, absolutely stunned. If that were true, her mother was wrong. This wasn’t just some bimbo who could be bought off. It wasn’t just sex if Bob was willing to travel with her. “He wanted to take you to Mexico?” Sylvie asked, then turned away and walked to the window, her back to the girl to prevent her from seeing this agony. She stood silent, hurt at her core. If she moved, she felt she’d crack.

Sylvie felt a hand on her shoulder. “It was only because we went to this Flaming Fajitas restaurant,” the girl said, her voice soft. Her sympathy was worse to Sylvie than anything yet. “It was a spur-of-the-moment idea,” she continued. “I don’t think he was really serious about going. I mean, I’ve never seen tickets or reservations. And say, hey! Who wants to lay out in the sun and ruin their skin?”

Sylvie went to the mirror and tried to see herself more clearly but her reflection was obscured by the quince cream. It made her look misty, à la Katharine Hepburn shot through Vaseline in the 1960s. In the smear beside her the girl looked misty too, not that
she
needed a filter. “I hope I looked as good as you do when I was your age,” Sylvie said.

“I’m sure you did. I can’t believe how nice you are! Once before I was accidentally with someone’s husband and she came over and broke all my lamps.”

They turned away from the mirror and looked at one another.

The girl still stuck out her hand to shake. “By the way, I’m Marla.”

Sylvia recoiled. “
Marla?
As in…”

“Yeah. I used to love the name. But then she got dumped.” This Marla heaved a deep sigh.

“I’m Sylvie.” Sylvie extended her hand. Marla took it. There was a moment of real bonding between them—until Sylvie focused on another vase of roses.

“Are those also from…?”

“I’d rather not say,” Marla admitted.

All at once it was way too much. “
I
want to be the one who gets the roses!” Sylvie cried out. “And I want him to romance me. I want to be treated like a…” She paused. “Like you.”

“Well, I wanna be you!” Marla said. “You think it’s easy, holding in my belly pooch forever? Ever since I was born I’ve wanted to be a wife.”

“Oh, really? You’re looking
at
a wife. Does this look like a happy person to you?”

“No,” Marla admitted.

“When you’re married, you don’t even get kissed on the mouth!”

“When you’re single, you have to smell good twenty-four hours a day,” Marla retorted.

She was infuriating. Sylvie suddenly realized why she had come here in the first place. “I want you to stop seeing him,” she demanded.

“Try and make me,” Marla said, sounding half her age. Sylvie wondered for a moment what that would make her. Fourteen? Sixteen? “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“No, but I can tell Bob that this affair is over.” Sylvie saw the fear rise in the girl’s eyes. She pressed her advantage. “Do you think he’s going to give up his children? Do you think he’s going to give up the house? And his job?” Sylvie narrowed her eyes. “My father still owns the car lot. If he’s fired…well, men his age end up working part-time in the Wal-Mart automotive supply department.
Without
medical insurance. And, believe me, with his cholesterol, he’s going to need medical soon enough.”

“He’ll stay with me,” Marla said, though she not only looked frightened, she sounded it. “He loves me. He’d give up everything. You just don’t remember what that feels like.”

Tears sprang to Sylvie’s eyes. The blow was so dirty that she almost backed down, but then her anger welled up. She could fight dirty too. “You think so, huh? I’ll tell him you said that. I’ll tell him you called me. That you told me
I
had to give
him
up.” Sylvie put on an exaggerated sad face. “I’ll be distraught and fragile and so, so hurt. You’ll be the one who looks like the demanding witch.”

Marla’s eyes opened wide. “But
you
came to
me
!” she gasped.

“That’s what
you
say,” Sylvie sneered. “Who do you think he’s going to believe? His innocent wife of almost twenty-one years or a woman who has slept around?”

“I’m the rubber, you’re the glue. That goes double for me,” Marla said. Her arsenal was not full of big guns. Sylvie, all at once, actually felt sorry for the girl. This wasn’t what she’d meant to do.

They collapsed onto opposite sides of the bathtub ledge like depressed bookends. Sylvie, looking across at the mirror, wondered how either of them could win.

Sylvie had driven back from 1411 Green Bay Road and gone directly to the mall where her mother’s shop was located. Her hands had shaken so badly on the short ride that she’d had to pull over to the side of the road twice. Cars whizzed by her but she didn’t see them.

Over and over, the thought that had kept running through her head was that Bob, or anyone, might never make love to her again. The romance, the loving, maybe her entire sex life had ended for her some time ago and she hadn’t even known it. What an idiot I was. What an idiot I am, she thought and remembered the Hawaiian brochure. What had Bob thought when she’d virtually begged him to go? She actually blushed with embarrassment, though she was alone in the car. She’d been pathetic. What exactly had Bob been thinking while she was busy pitching a romantic adventure? Going with Marla Molensky instead?

Breathing became impossible. She was too shocked. She’d been replaced and the worst part was she hadn’t even known it. Twenty-one years of dedicated service, now over. At least in the corporate world they had the courtesy of giving you a pink slip and a watch. She felt as if she’d been kicked all over. Imagining Bob touching her younger twin, the more perfect Sylvie, hurt so much it was intolerable. And what had the neighbors, her students, her friends known? She remembered Honey’s comments, her sightings all over town. Sylvie couldn’t bear to think about it. She wouldn’t or she’d go crazy.

More than anything else, though, she was upset and hurt by Bob’s charade. He was the person she trusted more than anyone else in the world—except for her mother—and he had tricked her, deceived her, and made her look like a fool. However scatterbrained that girl was, Sylvie had to admit that she herself was far more stupid.

When she got to the mall, she parked like a madwoman, unfairly swooping into a spot ahead of a blue Toyota and selfishly straddling the line so that no one would be able to park beside her, at least not without taking off her goddamned car’s door handles. Well, let them. Let them take the tires and the hubcaps and the rest of the goddamn car, too. The woman in the Toyota gave her a dirty look, but Sylvie, usually so sensitive, didn’t even blink. She wasn’t having a shoe emergency here at the mall. She needed her mother. She strode across the parking lot and through the door of her mother’s store—Potz Bayou. The pottery shop—living up to its punny name—was decorated with New Orleans—style wrought iron. Fake Spanish moss hung from the ceiling. All the shelves were lined with every imaginable unpainted ceramic article, from the tiniest demitasse cup to huge punch bowls.

Suburban matrons were clustered together at long tables busily painting glazes onto mugs and bowls. Two shop girls, Cindy and another one, a new one, were bent over, assisting a customer. “Hi, Sylvie,” Sandie Thomas called out.

For a panicky moment Sylvie thought she’d have to stop and gossip, something unthinkable. What would she do if she couldn’t find Mildred? She’d burst into public tears in front of all these women. Oh, screw them, she thought. This isn’t about them. Then, thank the lord, her mother came out of the kiln room, wiping her hands on her apron. Sylvie stalked across the shop. “Did you have another daughter that you put up for adoption?” she demanded.

Several of the women turned and stared, their conversations momentarily halted by what looked like a better drama. Mildred opened her eyes wide and gestured with her chin toward the back. As if Sylvie cared if people overheard her. As if Sylvie cared about
anything
right now. The hell with it all. If the kiln was on and her mother was firing, Sylvie would be more than willing to stick her head into it.

But Mildred took her wild-eyed daughter by the elbow and led her to the tiny office in the back of the shop. “What
do
you mean?” she asked, sounding exasperated.

“I saw her. Mom, she looks just like me, only she’s much younger.”

Mildred shrugged. “You didn’t expect she’d be like you, but older, did you?” Then she put her arm around Sylvie. “I’m so sorry, baby.” She opened the back door, which led to the service area. She turned and called out to the shop floor, “Cindy, could I please have that big planter on the third shelf for my daughter?”

Sylvie stepped away from her mother as if she’d lost her mind. “Mom, I know glazing is your life, but this is no time for ceramics. I can’t paint now.”

Cindy appeared, holding a large pot, and handed it to Mildred. Cindy looked over at Sylvie, obviously curious. “Thank you, dear. I think Mrs. Burns needs you now,” Mildred said, dismissing her and looking back at her daughter. “A nice girl, but nosy.” She handed the pot to Sylvie.

“Mom, I’m not going to do ceramics.”

“Not
do
them,
throw
them.” Mildred gestured out the door into the parking area and the brick wall. Sylvie looked from the planter to her mother’s face. “It will make you feel better. Not much, but some. You can’t keep all the anger inside. It’ll make you sick.”

Sylvie blinked and then, with a fury she didn’t know she had, she hurled the pot against the wall. It exploded into thousands of shards that fell onto the blacktop and bounced. For a moment—just a moment—she felt totally at peace. “I
do
feel a little better,” she admitted. But then the turmoil returned. “Cindy, three more planters, please,” Sylvie yelled.

“And bring a broom,” Mildred added, then lowered her voice. “Do you think you’re the first one to have this type of therapy? When I found out about that thing with your father and the bookkeeper…well, that’s when I got into ceramics in a big way. It was incredibly soothing to break all that crockery and have your dad pay the bill. He always asked what I was doing with the stuff, since I never brought it home.” Mildred laughed. “I told him I was sending it to your aunt Irene. And look—now I’m in the business.” She patted affectionately the sign over the back entrance. “I love what I do. I have a staff, and I make a nice profit.” She raised her brows. “Plus I bank every penny. I could buy out a hundred bookkeepers now.”

Mildred looked at her daughter. “I know this is a shock to you—and to me—but you have to hold yourself together. You’re not alone.” Mildred gestured to the bustling shop. “See Sandie over there? Just last year she smashed eight complete place settings of dinnerware before she started painting.” Mildred handed another bowl to Sylvie and then patted her on the back. “Don’t throw your shoulder out,” she said. “Put your whole body into it with the next one.” She paused. “So, how much did you offer her?”

Sylvie shook her head. “Mom, she can’t be bought off. This is not about money.”

Cindy arrived, carefully juggling the three huge pots. “I’m afraid there’s a chip on one, Mrs. Crandall,” she said.

Mildred smiled at her. “That’s all right, dear. We’ll work around that.” She waited for Cindy to, rather reluctantly, remove herself to the front of the store. She shook her head. “That girl always senses domestic tragedy. What she manages to overhear in this shop isn’t just the
Days of Our Lives
, it’s the nights too,” Mildred said loudly. Then she lowered her voice. “You didn’t offer her enough.”

“Mom, you don’t understand. She’s not a bookkeeper. She’s some New Age space cadet. But she’s my twin. She looks exactly like me. Except she’s got less mileage. She’s a replacement part. Well, more like an entire new model.” Thinking of the girl’s face, Sylvie took the top pot and threw it with all her might against the wall. It smashed into slivers with a satisfying pop, but it wasn’t enough. She picked up the next one and hurled that too. The destruction was satisfying, but still not enough for Sylvie to get sufficient air into her lungs. “I can’t breathe,” she told her mother.

“Yes, you can,” Mildred assured her. “You can and you will. Think of it as Lamaze. You’ll breathe all the way through this.”

Sylvie shook her head, looked away from the shards and back to Mildred. “I’m not going
through
this, I’m getting
out
of it. But first I want to make Bob feel as shattered as that.” She pointed to the pile of debris. “As shattered as I feel.”

“So you’re going to break up your marriage, not just these pots? Over Bob’s dumb mistake?”

“It’s not a mistake. And
she’s
not dumb. She’s addled. She’s weird and maybe amoral, but she’s not mercenary. She’s looking for a husband. And she wants mine. She knows
exactly
what she’s doing.”

“Well, you have to admire her for that. Knowing what you want is the first step in getting it,” Mildred said. “I’m not sure you know what you want yet.”

Sylvie almost began to cry again. “Oh, yes I do. I want Bob to ache for me. I want
him
to feel rejected, and used up. I want
him
to be deceived and feel like a fool. And I want to be able to breathe again.”

Mildred handed her daughter another pot. “Will this make you feel better? It’s the last one I have.”

Sylvie shook her head and put the pot down on the counter. “No,” she said, “it’s chipped. What’s the point? Once things get old or damaged or imperfect, who wants anything to do with them?”

“Now I feel a victim of your sarcasm,” Mildred sniffed. “Sylvie, you’re only forty. You don’t even subscribe to
New Choices
, let alone
Modern Maturity
. You’re lovely, not an old soup bowl. I’d like you to try now to calm down.”

“You know what
I’d
like? I’d like to be able to breathe again, and think,” Sylvie said. “I do have to calm down to do that. I have to really take this all in.” She paused. “I don’t think I actually want to kill Bob, but I don’t want to see him with this replacement. You know, if I could have one wish it would be to make my husband fall passionately in love with me. But I don’t want Bob the way he is today. I mean, I don’t care about his paunch or his hairline. I want the old Bob. The Bob who was passionate. Who adored me. I remember how good that felt. I want him back, and I want him to love me more than he ever did.”