Switcheroo (14 page)

“Oh, are they? Well, maybe. But they’re
very
sensitive to auras. Anyway, Lynette finds out that she
isn’t
a spring. Just because she’d dyed her hair and eyebrows, it didn’t make her a spring. She was a winter all the time, even with the highlighting. So, you see you have to be really, really careful.”

“Well, I agree with that,” Sylvie said, trying to have the gravity necessary to land the girl on this planet. “We’d have to be really, really careful to pull this off.” Was it a sale? Sylvie didn’t know if it was a yes, but it certainly wasn’t a no. And this girl was so…addled…that…

“Oooh. I almost forgot.” Marla Molensky shrugged, got up, and went into the tiny kitchen. Sylvie followed her and watched as she began opening bottles and laying out first pairs and then groups and then dozens of pills. When she started to swig them down Sylvie, amazed, couldn’t be silent.

“What are you doing?” she asked. Was the girl a drug addict? No wonder she was so addled.

“I’m taking my supplements. Don’t you? You know, that’s one of the things I feel I’ve done for Bob.” She took a few more pills and looked hard at Sylvie, obviously frightened again by what she saw in her own future. “It’s
very
important to supplement your diet. But you have to be careful to use only natural supplements. Some of the other stuff could be really bad for you. You know, you want only natural vitamin C.”

“Then why not eat an orange?” Sylvie asked, annoyed.

“Calories, silly. Plus, this is much more concentrated. As long as it’s not synthetic.”

“Marla, Linus Pauling took synthetic C.”

Marla put her hands on her hips. “You think I take my health advice from a
Peanuts
cartoon?” she asked.

Sylvie took a deep breath. “What I’m saying is that most people don’t need any supplements, and there’s no difference between them. John, my doctor, says all it does is get washed out by the kidneys. You’re making expensive urine.”

“You’re mistaken,” Marla said. “And doctors don’t know most things. Western medicine is very backward.” Despite Sylvie’s frown she continued. “No. It’s true. I know this girl whose friend—well, he was her lover at the time but now she’s back with her husband. Anyway, this guy works at this company. Like a pill company or something. And
she
says that
he
told her they just use all kinds of really bad things in synthetic vitamins.”

“Like what?” Sylvie asked.

“Spider eggs,” Marla said smugly.

“Spider eggs? What for?”

“They use crushed spider eggs to coat the pills and make them slippery, so you can swallow them easily.” Marla gulped down the last of her pills as a demonstration.

“But, Marla,” Sylvie said in her most reasonable tone, “where would you find enough spider eggs to coat thousands of vitamin pills? And, anyway, aren’t spider eggs natural?”

“Well, they’re natural, but they’re icky. Plus, they probably have, like, spider egg farms. Forcing them to lay. You know. Like they do with those poor battered chickens.”

“Battery, not battered,” Sylvie corrected, then decided it was best to move back to the real subject. “I really believe we could fool Bob, if I had the surgery and you…didn’t talk so much.” She crossed her fingers, keeping her hands in her pocket.

“What if we got caught?”

“So what? He’s the guilty one,” Sylvie said, though she neglected to mention Marla’s guilt. Well, she had her fingers crossed. “He lied to both of us. He told you you were one of a kind.”

“That’s true,” Marla agreed. “I mean, it’s true he said it, but it wasn’t true. We’re two of a kind.” She paused, apparently thinking, or whatever passed for it under that Goldie Hawn mane. Sylvie held her breath. Would it be this easy? “Say, hey! What’s in it for me? You love the man and you get to be hot and sweaty with him, while I get the chance to just
pretend
I’m his wife. Where’s the security in that? Seems to me I’m, like, just left with this condo.”

“He bought this for you?” Sylvie asked, shocked breathless. The car was one thing but…

“No. It’s just a sublet, like my whole life,” Marla admitted. She put away her vitamins, walked back to the living room, and collapsed onto her sofa. She pulled her knees up under her chin, and Sylvie couldn’t help but notice that her bikini underpants matched her baby dolls. “I’m twenty-nine years old. Since seventh grade, all I’ve ever wanted to do was get married. My friends are already having babies.” Marla had begun panting with anxiety. “Why are you doing this to me? Just when I finally found a really, really nice man. I want to marry him. I want a detached house and kids. I want people to love.” Marla began to sniffle. “The holidays are coming up. I’m not sure I can get through them all alone.”

Sylvie took a deep breath, thinking fast. She patted Marla’s hand. “You switch places with me and you get to have a family for Thanksgiving. Make the dinner. Have guests. Be the hostess of a big house. Practice. You won’t be alone this holiday.”

Marla sat up. “Wow! I could do the whole thing? Set the table? Have place mats? Wear a Pilgrim hat?”

“Oh, yeah.
And
cook the meal. Soup to nuts, and we’ll have plenty at
that
table.”

Marla paused, considering it. Sylvie’s crossed fingers ached. Then, “You’re headed in the right direction, but no,” the girl said.

“Please,” Sylvie begged, then got a grip. “Let me ask you a question. Do you want to get married to a man like Bob?”

“That’s
all
I want.”

“But you don’t know what it’s
like
to be married to a man like Bob, do you?” She paused and let that sink in. “I am going to give you the opportunity to see what it’s like to be married to Bobby. And, if you like it, and can do it…who knows?”

“What? I can have him? That’s a little
too
nice, isn’t it?” Marla asked suspiciously.

“No. Because I want something from you.” Sylvie paused to muster the strength and courage to continue. “In exchange for my kindness, I ask that you let me experience what it’s like being Bob’s little piece of fluff on the side. You can live in my house. You can sit at my table, and you can sleep in my bed, but you can’t make love to Bob. That’s the deal. Then we renegotiate.”

Marla looked Sylvie up and down again. “Do you really think you have it in you to make him happy in bed?”

“Who the hell do you think taught him foreplay?” Sylvie asked, her voice getting edgy.

“Sorry. And thank you. He’s very thoughtful.”

Sylvie took a deep breath to calm herself. “Look. I’m suggesting we each, for lack of a better term, test-drive Bob by switching places for a couple of weeks.” Marla didn’t say a word, only shifted her position on the sofa. God, her body was perfect. Sylvie tried to remember if she’d looked that good. She thought she had, but she hadn’t appreciated it then. “Listen carefully,” Sylvie told her. “I tell Bob I’m visiting my sister and having a little plastic surgery. You make up some other excuse. Then we both go away for a few weeks. Together. My treat.”

Marla squinted. “You’re not a lesbian, are you?”

Sylvie rolled her eyes at Marla. The girl shoved herself back in the corner of the couch, as if to protect herself from Sylvie. “Okay! Just asking.” She stared at the ceiling. “Well, maybe. But…but I wouldn’t know how to run a big house. Is there zoned heat? I’ve never had zoned heat. And I can’t iron. I don’t know what he likes to eat. Or how to make it. Or, or, anything.”

“Exactly my point. As part of this exchange program I give you a crash course in ‘Bob: The Husband.’ And
you
’re going to teach me to be seductive and dependent.”

“That’s easy!” Marla cried.

“Great! So, we go someplace where I have everything lifted that needs to be lifted, lose some weight, and blonde up,” Sylvie said. She uncrossed her cramping fingers. Victory! “Meanwhile, you…make yourself look like me. So it’s a deal? Move into my detached house for a little while? Really see what married life to Bob is like? And, maybe, win the jackpot. Or the bobby prize.”

Marla seemed to back off. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it’s better if I just steal him slowly.” Marla held up her thumb and forefinger, only an inch apart. “Mrs. Schiffer, I’m this close to getting your husband all on my own. Why would I take a risk? And what if you mess up here, in
my
life? I have a reputation, you know.”

“I’m sure you do,” Sylvie said, but the sarcasm was lost on Marla. “Look, I won’t mess up. I’ll learn reflexology. I’ll do everything you do. I’ll even take supplements. My heart is really in this.” Sylvie crossed her fingers again. “Come on. Just for a couple of weeks. It’ll be fun. Remember, there’s Thanksgiving.”

“You have bone china? Place settings that match?”

“Miss Molensky, my home has twelve legitimate dining chairs.”

It was the final inducement for a woman who had no chairs that didn’t fold, not to mention no dining room. “Wow! All right,” Marla said, “I’ll do it.” The two women shook hands, closing the deal.

Sylvie was upstairs packing again but this time all alone, organized and with a mission. When Bob walked in with the mail she looked up calmly and managed to smile. She was afraid that what felt like a grimace on her face might frighten him, but it was the best she could do. Typical. He didn’t seem to notice. She comforted herself with the knowledge that his lack of observation would help her plan. She had their next dialogue all scripted. Sylvie tried her best to keep her voice normal. “Hello,” she said, but to her own ears even the single word sounded like a rebuke. Not to Bob’s though.

“Hi, kiddo.” He threw himself onto the chaise by the window and thumbed through the new
Sports Illustrated
. “I missed you this morning.”

“I decided to go back to those early morning yoga classes.”

“Hey, that reminds me. Do we have any more of that frozen yogurt? The low-fat kind?”

Why did men think their wives had a total mental inventory at all times of all foodstuffs available? “Did you look in the freezer?” Sylvie asked, overly patient. Where else would frozen yogurt be?

“No,” Bob admitted cheerfully. “I thought you’d be in the kitchen when I came home.”

“Really? Why?” Sylvie continued with her packing, stowing her shampoo and conditioner in a sealed plastic bag. Bob hadn’t even noticed what she was doing. He was engrossed in the magazine. Sylvie wondered if she left right now how long it would take him to realize she was gone? Five minutes? An hour? Two weeks? Probably not until he ran out of clean underwear, she thought bitterly.

He was engrossed in the magazine. “It’s just that you’re always in the kitchen when I come home,” Bob finally responded.

“So this is one of life’s little surprises,” Sylvie told him, finishing her packing and snapping her bag closed. “Any surprises in the mail? Have we won a romantic trip for two to Mexico?” Sylvie almost bit her tongue. Watch yourself, she mentally advised.

Bob didn’t rise to the bait. “Nothing from the kids. They call?” Clearly, he was on automatic.

“Kenny did. He said if I paid for half of his new bass, he’d pay for the other half. I sent him a check.”

Bob finally did look up. “I got the same call! So I sent him one too. The kid’s got himself a free guitar!” Bob shook his head, then laughed. “He’d make a hell of a car salesman.” He turned back to
Sports Illustrated
.

“We can only pray,” Sylvie said. “Anyway, you’ll have to straighten him out on this double-dipping while I’m away.”

Bob glanced up again from the magazine. He saw the packed valise for the first time. “You going somewhere?”

“Perhaps you hadn’t noticed. In four words, I’m packing a suitcase.”

“I thought you were just re-rolling socks or something.” He stopped, an expression of slight dismay on his face, and looked down at his feet, comfortably propped up on the end of the chaise. “You know, I didn’t notice this morning until I got to work, but I wore mismatched socks all day long. One black, one blue. It seemed to make me limp.”

“Really?” Sylvie deadpanned. He was taking her departure hard.

“Yes. My black foot was heavier than my blue one,” Bob said. He peeled off both socks and dropped them on the floor. Sylvie caught a glimpse of his renovated toenails and turned away before she was arrested for violence with a valise.

“As much as I love a good sock re-roll,” she said, “my sister is getting a chemical peel and she needs me.”

“Your sister? Ellen? What’s a peel?”

“Something I, apparently, haven’t had enough of,” Sylvie muttered and slammed the suitcase shut. If only his toes were caught there. Watch it, she told herself. Don’t ruin this before it gets started. “Huh?” Bob said, or something like that. She looked at her husband with a falsely bright smile.

“Nothing. Anyway, a peel is sort of like refinishing an antique car—first you coat it with some chemical that pops off its top layer of paint, then you sand it down gently and hope it looks better.” She paused. “The point is, Ellen needs me to be there for her. Just until the scabs fall off.” Sylvie looked in the mirror. “Maybe I’ll have something done,” she said casually. “Since I’m there anyway.”

Bob got up from the chaise and patted her back. It took all of Sylvie’s willpower not to dislocate her shoulder pulling it out from under his hand. “You don’t need anything done,” he said. “You look great.” Then he started off to the bathroom, his face back in
Sports Illustrated
.

“Oh, really?” Sylvie asked, her voice intense. “I guess you haven’t noticed that gravity has visited this house.”

She indicated the mirror over his bureau. Bob looked into it. Sylvie joined him. She stared at their reflections and thought of how she and Marla had stood, side by side, staring into the glass in just that way. Bob looked now too, but only at himself. “Jowls,” Sylvie said with satisfaction.

“Look at that.” His voice had wonder in it.

“Yes. Look at that. Both of us hang a little lower. Young people must look at us and turn away in disgust.” She smirked.

Bob touched his chin, his eyes scanning his own reflection. It was clear to her that he was more concerned about his own looks than about hers. Good. It would give him something to think about while she was gone.