Switcheroo (26 page)

With a sigh Sylvie cleared the top of the washer so that she could at least begin the first load. As she pulled open the top the mildew smell that came from the darkness of the washer’s hold nearly knocked her over. She looked inside, her heart sinking, knowing what she’d see. A wash—god knew when it was from—was still in there, along with plenty of old water. Sylvie looked up at the control dial to discover that it was on the presoak cycle. God! How was she going to get the heavy, wet clothes out without touching the slimy soap-scummed water? Sylvie looked around the kitchen and managed to find her long-handled wooden spoon. She was curious as to why it would be in the pot cupboard when it belonged in the utensil drawer, but she couldn’t help but be grateful that whatever Marla’s housekeeping habits, she’d managed to find the thing.

Sylvie pulled out nasty sopping rags for ten minutes and piled them next to the sink. Then she put the machine on the spin cycle to drain it while pulling out all the whites she could find. She began throwing sheets, towels, and the like into the now drained machine. She grabbed a pair of Bob’s briefs and then, beside them, a pair of her panties. They were panties that Marla must have worn. Sylvie stopped dead. Holding both pairs of underwear in her hands, Sylvie knew in a more visceral sense that Marla was not just in her shoes or in her house, but in her bed, on her sheets, and in her panties. It seemed, all at once, way too much for Sylvie.

What had she done?

Her hands began to shake. She threw the underclothes into the washer as if they were contaminated. The tears that trembled on her lower lids were hot. She bent down to gather more clothes, coming across her blue silk nightgown. What was
this
doing here? It needed to be dry-cleaned, not washed. Sylvie never wore that unless…

No way, Sylvie told herself. Bob was too occupied with her—the faux Marla—to even
think
about having sex with his wife—the real Marla. Right? Right! Sylvie tried to shake the thought out of her head but the fact that she—as Marla—hadn’t made love with Bob yet didn’t make it any easier for her. Would her hesitation and teasing him cause him to have sex with his wife—faux Sylvie? Perhaps not; Sylvie couldn’t remember Bob coming home to her in the past few months after “a meeting” and being interested in sex. Now that Sylvie thought about it, he always just opted for a shower.

With tears now running down her cheeks, Sylvie finished loading the machine, added the detergent, and closed the lid. She felt more pathetic than Cinderella, but she continued to sort the remaining dirty clothes into their respective piles, automatically emptying the pockets of Bob’s chinos, wiping away her tears as she went. I wonder, she thought, how many women are weeping in laundry rooms all over this country right now.

She put her hand in all the pockets. She found the usual: change, crumpled dollar bills, business cards, and gum wrappers. Then, in the last pair of pants, she felt a larger object, almost billfold size. Bob normally carried his wallet in his jacket pocket; she put her hand into the slacks and found a tightly folded color pamphlet. Probably specs on a new car at the lot, Sylvie thought.

But as she unfolded the Hawaiian brochure she couldn’t help but notice the colors. “Oh my god!” Sylvie said out loud. The crumpled bit of paper, which had been delivered only weeks ago, reminded her of how simple things had seemed and what a simpleton she’d been. Sylvie had thought Bob loved her and that the two of them would find their place in the sun. Now she found a place on the floor amid the drift of dirty laundry and, clutching the crumpled brochure in her hand, she wept aloud to the hum of the washer.

Marla was prepared to get prepared for Thanksgiving. She had a list. She’d used Sylvie’s cash card and had loved it—it was like going to Las Vegas and winning a jackpot every time. Now, with several hundred dollars in her purse, plus the tip from Mr. Brightman, she entered Food Universe. It was one of those stores with giant everything; there were mayonnaise jars the size of coffee tables. Marla wasn’t even used to regular supermarkets—she bought all her stuff at either the Vitamin Cave or the 7-Eleven.

Marla was already pushing two huge carts and was only halfway down her list. She had institutional-size cans of cranberry sauce, a huge box of stuffing, and sweet potatoes. She stared at a gigantic bag of marsh-mallows that could supply a university. What was that about? Luckily, an employee passed her and she stopped him. “Excuse me. I would like to see something smaller in a marshmallow.”

“Sorry, that’s the only size we have.”

Marla threw the huge plastic bag into her cart and continued down the aisle of the supermarket. She was searching out turkeys. She felt like a hunter. She was going to get the best, biggest bird for her family. She rounded the corner and was forced to steer her cart to the left to avoid running into the back of a lady waiting in line. It seemed they’d been there a long time. They were all talking to help pass the time. “Last year they ran out, just fifty people ahead of me,” the woman in front of Marla said.

“Me too. And all the supermarkets were out too. I had to go to the children’s petting zoo and kidnap one,” a red-headed lady admitted.

“You kidnapped a turkey?” another asked. “Then what?”

“I was ready to wring
somebody’s
neck,” the redhead said with a laugh. “So it was the turkey’s.”

Marla started to sweat at the thought of not getting a turkey for her family. She tried to sneak up the line, and got four or five places up, but an angry woman saw what she was doing. “Line cutter!” the woman yelled. All the other women caught on to what she was doing and pushed her all the way back to the end of the line.

“You don’t understand!” Marla cried. “It’s my first Thanksgiving. I’ll do anything to get a turkey. It’s worth cutting in or strangling your own bird. Because when the table is set and beautiful, and the whole family sits down, they’re going to be really, really grateful for all the work I did.”

Every woman who heard her started to laugh. They looked at Marla as if she were insane.

Marla managed to finish all the shopping leave the store, exhausted but with no major injuries. She hadn’t had any idea that shopping could be such an aggressive sport. There were so many bags that she filled up the huge cart and the shelf under it. The parking lot was a nightmare of angry women and beeping horns. Then, when she got to the car, she realized how small it was. She managed to pack the trunk and stuff the rest of the groceries in the tiny backseat. She stepped back and felt proud of herself for her accomplishment. As she turned back to the cart to put it in the storage area, she remembered the huge turkey on the bottom. She’d almost forgotten the main course! And after what she’d gone through to get it!

She had trouble lifting it, and once she’d hefted it up she realized she had no place to put it, at least not in the trunk or the tiny backseat area. So, with difficulty, Marla pushed the turkey into the front passenger seat. It barely fit because she had already moved the seat up to make room for the bags in the back. She strategically angled the frozen, slipping turkey, then put her foot on the corner of the passenger seat, pushing down the upholstery. There was just enough space for the turkey to pop into place but she was afraid it might pop out if she stopped the car short. God! Her turkey through the windshield! So lovingly, she fastened the seat belt around it. “Good boy,” she cooed, and patted the frozen carcass.

Marla had been very, very lucky. When she’d gotten back to the house and begun unloading, a woman who called herself Rose offered to help. After her shopping experience, she didn’t think she had the strength to pretend to be Sylvie in front of anyone, but this woman seemed nice, so it couldn’t be a relative or the nutty witch Sylvie had described as her sister-in-law. Rose seemed like a nice woman and had offered to help her carry the endless groceries into the house. Now everything was in the kitchen—except for the huge unmovable frozen turkey, still strapped in the passenger seat of the car. There were huge bottles, bags, and cans everywhere. Marla and Rose had to roll in the huge jar of olives. The stuff overwhelmed even the enormous kitchen, not to mention Marla herself. “Really, really, thank you for helping. I couldn’t have gotten all this in here without you.”

“Neighbors have to help each other.” Rose paused for a moment and peered more closely at Marla in the kitchen light. “You look great. That spa visit really paid off. Where was that place?”

Marla knew the spa wasn’t going to help Rose, so she pretended not to hear and lifted the gigantic bag of marshmallows, putting one part on her shoulder. But the other half of the bag swung up, hit her in the face, and lodged on her other shoulder. Rose helped pull the bag down. “Thanks on both accounts,” Marla said. “Boy, they should have warning labels on this. It could suffocate you. It would have been really, really embarrassing to die in a topping for sweet potatoes.” Marla reached for the bottle of olives. Where would she put
them
? “This is even harder than I thought it would be.” Marla remembered then that she was supposed to be experienced in all this. “I mean, I’ve done it a million times, but each year it gets harder,” she said to Rose.

Rose pulled over a stool and sat down, clearly tired. “Each year you get older. Not that you look it. And no one ever appreciates it.”

“No. But the whole family is grateful for the wonderful job you’ve done…right?”

“Oh yeah. The applause is deafening,” Rose said sarcastically.

“Then it’s all worth it,” Marla said cheerfully, not getting the sarcasm.

Rose meanwhile stared at Marla. “Boy, you really are different. Was it the spa, or did you hit your head when you went into the pool?”

“I never swam at the spa,” Marla said, folding the paper grocery bags.

“Well,
something’s
different,” Rose said.

“I guess I have the holiday spirit.” Marla smiled as she headed back out the screen door. She’d always figured she must be nicer than Bobby’s wife. “Can you give me a hand with the bird?”

“Sure,” Rose answered as she followed her out.

When Marla opened the car door, Rose gasped. “Is that a turkey or an ostrich?” she asked, then cackled. “Ah, gee, is it enough? How many platoons are coming to your dinner, anyway? While I eat alone.”

“So far just the usual family.” God. Marla felt sorry for a woman alone out here in the boonies. What had happened to this poor thing’s family? Maybe some younger woman had stolen her husband. Guilt swept over her. She had been the cause of at least one…marital problem. “Say, hey, you want to come too?” she asked.

“Are you kidding?” Rose asked. “No, you’re not, are you? Will everyone be there? I’ll be there with bells on. But, in the meantime, how are we going to get this ostrich in the house? You’ll need another crane.”

“It’s not a crane or an ostrich,” Marla said, annoyed. “It’s a turkey. The best, biggest one the store had, and I got it.” She looked around and noticed a red Radio Flyer wagon in the garage. She brought it to the car, and Rose helped her align it against the open door.

“Remember when Billy pushed Kenny down the hill in this?” Rose asked.

“Not really,” Marla answered, distracted and trying to slide the turkey carefully into the wagon.

“At the time, you acted like the world was ending. You would think that the scar above his eye would be a constant reminder.”

“Out of sight, out of mind,” Marla chimed back.

“Does it bother you, not having the kids home?” Rose asked in a sad tone of voice. By now they had the turkey in the Flyer and Marla was trying to pull the wagon up the walk.

“Sure it does. And with Bob gone so much I’m starting to feel like I’m single.”

“At least you don’t feel divorced.
That’s
hell,” Rose said.

The old man—Lou was his name—sat hunched over the piano. He was playing some corny old song, and Marla could tell he was not playing it well. She wondered why he was stooped over that way—he wasn’t that old—but his posture and his attitude aged him. She came up behind him and put both hands on his shoulders, gently pulling him back and leaning into him so that his spine was straight. Lou’s hands slowed, then trembled, and at last he stopped playing.

“To play well, you have to sit well,” said Marla, mustering up her professional voice. “Do you think Beethoven slumped?”

“I think he did,” Lou answered. “At least in all those pictures he looks humped over.”

“My god, Lou. These muscles are so tense!” Gently Marla pushed her thumb into the space between the tendons on Lou’s shoulder.

“Tense? Yeah. I’m worried I might live another day.”

“Lou! What a terrible thing to say,” Marla said, sincere and shocked. She dug her fingers deeper into Lou’s shoulder. How could she help him, she wondered. “Lou,” she said with new determination, “take off your shoes.”

“What?” he asked. “Is my pedal foot too heavy?”

“No. No,” she reassured him, “I think this attitude of yours needs an adjustment, a confrontation. And it begins with your feet.”

“Believe me, Mrs. Schiffer, no one wants to confront my feet. Trust me on this.”

“Don’t be silly,” Marla said as she knelt and began to untie his lace-up shoe. Suddenly a smile, as wide and bright as a rainbow, spread across Lou’s face. “What is it?” Marla asked.

Lou looked away, as if he was embarrassed. A hole in his sock? No. Marla looked back down and pulled the sock off his foot. She looked up again at Lou’s gleeful but abashed face. Then her eyes moved back down, but this time stopped at his lap. There, under his old man’s trousers, was a very visible boner. Marla smiled up sweetly at Lou. “You see?” she asked. “Reflexology cures everything.”

Sylvie lay with her eyes closed, not quite asleep, not quite awake, but in that gray zone of nodding contentment. Along her right side she could feel Bob’s warm body pressed against hers. His arm under her neck and around her shoulder gave her a feeling of such peace and contentment that she was tempted to slip back into the twilight of satiation she’d been in, while at the same time she wanted to wake so that she could consciously savor this moment. The draw of the coma of pleasurable afterglow was difficult to ignore. Sylvie sighed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this good.