Switcheroo (27 page)

After luxuriating for a few more moments, she made the supreme effort and opened her eyes. Bob’s profile was beside her on the pillow, and though most of the candles had burned out there was still enough light to see him. He really was a beautiful man, she thought, even after all these years. His head, pushed back on the cushions slightly, was noble and—from this angle, with his neck stretched back—his jawline looked as firm as it had twenty years ago. His lashes, so very dark, threw a shadow onto his cheekbone and the slight flush and sheen of sweat on his face gave him, at least temporarily, the dewy skin of youth.

Sylvie wanted to kiss him—on his cheekbones, on his eyelids, and on his full, slightly open mouth—but she was afraid to move, afraid to wake him and break the spell. Because, right now, at this very moment, Sylvie was perfectly happy: no matter what, she loved this man beside her and now she knew that he loved her with a passion perhaps even deeper than her own. She’d finally succeeded. She was having an affair with her own husband, and it had all the edgy appeal of the forbidden. But—for her—there was also the depth that their combined history and her knowledge of him added.

As if he felt her gaze on him, Bob’s own lids fluttered. Catlike, he opened his eyes slowly, turned his head on the pillow, and looked at her. For a moment they said nothing, but the look said it all. Then he gathered her closer to his side. Sylvie felt safe, protected in the circle of his arm.

“I’m glad you called me. I’m very glad I came over,” Bob whispered. They stared again at one another. She could feel him searching for words. For a moment she was tempted to put her hand over his lips. Words could only spoil this perfection, but before she could gesture he had already continued. “That was…wow…” He blinked. Were there tears on his lower eyelids? Sylvie knew Bob’s pauses were as important as the words he spoke. “…powerful,” he finished.

She was flooded with pleasure. She had not been wrong. The magic was not in her imagination. “For me too,” Sylvie whispered back, but didn’t move. She wanted him to touch her again. She needed him to make the first move.

Bob, as if sensing this, reached over and stroked her hair. He did it gently, almost worshipfully. Then his face changed: he looked confused. “Something’s different. Really different,” he said. “You’ve changed.” For a moment Sylvie became frightened. Maybe now, at last, he’d realized the trick she’d pulled on him. Maybe she’d been caught. And maybe that was good, maybe that was what she wanted.

Bob looked at her,
really
looked at her. Sylvie didn’t shrink away. She could see the confusion in his eyes, but met it calmly. Bob tried to speak again. “Tonight our lovemaking was…it was deeper than ever before…” He stopped. Then, instead of using his lips to speak, he kissed her. It was a movie kiss, a Warren Beatty—Natalie Wood—
Splendor-in-the-Grass
kiss. “I think going home to visit your Grannie was good for you. It grounded you, or something. Meanwhile I can’t seem to let you go,” he said.

“So then I guess you’ll have to keep me,” Sylvie said. She shivered and Bob reached for the sheet to cover her. For a moment Sylvie—always the good homemaker—wished for the pure cotton damask from her own bed instead of this scratchy, wildly patterned permanent-press fabric. Her skin—well, all of her—felt so tender now. But bed covers,
things
, were no longer important. They could be lying on animal skins in a cave, or on hay in a barn loft. She felt Bob inhale and then release a giant sigh. She stiffened. She knew, as if by osmosis through his skin into hers, that he had just thought of going home.

Then, for the first time since they’d begun making love, she remembered that she wasn’t Sylvie. Bob hadn’t made love to her. She was Marla right now. Bob loved Marla while poor Sylvie was being betrayed. After what had just gone on between them, she knew now that she wanted Bob, and wanted him desperately. But who did Bob want? The woman he had just made love to, or his mistress at home in his wife’s bed?

As if in answer to her question Bob lifted himself on his uninjured elbow and looked at her. “Marla, I want to keep you. Forever. To tell you the truth, I was going to break up with you before you went away.”

“You were? Really?” Sylvie said, her voice cheerful. Then she realized both the past tense he’d used and that she—Marla—should be sad.

“Yes,” Bob said. “It’s not that things had changed with my wife, it just seemed—”

“What do you mean, ‘things had changed with your wife’?” Sylvie asked.

Bob rolled onto the other elbow, then winced in pain. “It’s not about my wife,” he said. “It’s that your…uniqueness grows on me,” he said.

“Really, really?” she asked, almost a parody of Marla. She couldn’t control herself. “Promise me I’m not like anyone else you’ve ever known.”

“Are you kidding? That’s an easy promise,” Bob said, laughing. Then his face grew serious, his voice husky. “You’re not like anyone else,” he whispered, his mouth against her ear. “And tonight your uniqueness took a giant leap forward.”

“One step for a man, a giant leap for womankind,” Sylvie said, sitting up abruptly. The man had no idea she was his own wife’s twin. God! He was so blind, so stupid…and so adorable. Remembering that she was Marla had made her decide that it was time to torture Bob.

“Wasn’t it new and special tonight?” Bob asked.

“Sex with you
always
feels good to me,” she purred. “You are a really, really good lover. One of my best.”

For a moment Bob’s face froze, his mouth trapped in an unattractive gape. He turned on his back, sank back down onto his pillow, stared at the ceiling, and didn’t say anything. Maybe she’d gone too far, Sylvie worried. She lay down again too, quiet for a moment, and, when he hadn’t spoken or moved for a little while, she rolled onto his chest and pinioned his wrists against the mattress. “What was different?” she asked. “There were less acrobatics than usual, right?”

“Huh?” Bob came back from wherever he had gone away to. “Less acrobatics?” he repeated.

Guiltily, Sylvie said, “I’m sorry. I was tired.”

Bob shook his head. “No apologies. It was perfect. You’re perfect.” He paused, and the spark had returned. “I loved it. I love
you
,” he told her and then kissed her.

“You
love
me?” Sylvie repeated.

She could hear Bob calibrate the importance of what he’d just said. She waited to see if he’d back off. “Sure,” he told her, but “sure” was surely too casual a word.

“What kind of love?” Sylvie asked. “The love a man has for a woman?”

“Yes. That one,” Bob said lightly. He looked at Sylvie and pulled her down to him. “You’re trembling.”

How could he betray me like this? Sylvie thought. How could he tell Marla he loved her? “I’m cold.”

Tenderly he tucked a blanket around her. They lay silently for a while, until it became clear to Bob—the lunkhead—that her coldness was not only physical. Then Bob’s wristwatch alarm went off, breaking the silence. “I’m afraid time’s up. I better get going,” Bob said.

He had set his alarm? Sylvie couldn’t believe it. He’d set a limit on their intimacy, their pleasure. Oh, it was he who was cold. When had he done it? “Oh, no…not yet,” Sylvie pleaded. “Please…”

Bob took her by the shoulders. “Stop,” he said. “You promised we weren’t going to fight anymore about me going home.” He kissed her on the cheek. “This isn’t easy for me.” His voice sounded husky, and so sincere. Was he lying to her? Should she tell him he didn’t have to go—not to please his wife, anyway.

“Please stay, Bobby,” she whispered. “Just a little longer.” She paused. “That wasn’t fighting. It was begging.”

“It’s hard enough for me, Marla…” He paused.

“But how can you just go? Especially after what we just had together? Besides, the candles haven’t completely burned out. And you
said
it was deeper.” She paused. “Deeper than with your wife?”

“No more questions,” Bob told her, putting his legs over the side of the bed. Sylvie could tell he was trying not to sound annoyed. “I don’t have answers for any of them.”

Bob struggled into his trousers and began tying his shoes. Sylvie, hurt and more confused than ever, turned her back on him and pulled the sheet up all the way over her head. It was a childish gesture, but she felt like a child.

“Who cares about her anyway?” Sylvie said childishly.

“I do.”

Sylvie rolled over, pulled down the sheet, and turned back to Bob, now hopeful. “You do?”

“She’s the mother of my children,” Bob said flatly.

“Is that it?” Sylvie spat out. She couldn’t believe he’d said that. What was she as a wife, some sort of brood mare? Wasn’t she a woman to him at all? “Maybe that’s not all she is. Maybe she’d be more if you did the things you used to do with her. Things like what we did tonight.” She realized, then, what she was doing and cut herself off.

“What did you say?” Bob looked at her, his face even more contorted with confusion than her own.

Sylvie pulled the covers up higher. “Nothing,” she said and forced out a Marla giggle. “Bobby, you know we never know what I’m talking about.” Sylvie got up on her knees and put her arms around Bob’s waist. “I know I’m under your skin. And once I had chiggers, so I know how that feels! You’ll
always
come running back to me.”

Bob was just getting home from Marla’s apartment. He looked at his watch by the light of the oven door. It was almost one o’clock. He shouldn’t have stayed so long again. He started climbing up the stairs. Sylvie must be asleep by now. But before he’d gotten past the third (always creaky) step, Sylvie’s voice stopped him. “Hey, mister. Where are you going? I made dinner for you.”

Bob turned around, walked down the steps, through the hall, and looked in the dining room. There, in the light of two guttering candles, sat his wife. “Honey, you didn’t have to wait up. And I’m not hungry.”

Marla narrowed her eyes. “It took me all afternoon to make this. And I’ve been waiting all night to eat it. You have two choices: eat it or wear it.”

“Oh. Okay, I’ll have it now.” Bob slipped into his seat. The table was set and a sad, wilted salad sat in front of him. He looked at Sylvie. Maybe it wasn’t hormones. Maybe she was mentally…upset. He picked up his fork. “The salad looks good,” he said.

“I’ll get the entrée,” Marla said, but she pronounced it “entry,” like the doorway. She stomped out of the dining room. Bob wondered for a frightened moment whether she was on to him and his…situation. He didn’t think so, but it was best to be conciliatory.

Marla stomped back in, two plates in her hands. She slammed Bob’s down on the table in front of him, then threw herself into her chair, picked up her fork, and stabbed at her food.

Bob picked up his own fork, lifted up what looked like some sort of rice, and took a bite. “Umm, good,” he said, though it tasted fishy. He chewed and swallowed it anyway and took another mouthful. Sylvie glared at him. “You’re angry, aren’t you?” he asked. Sylvie didn’t answer but just put another forkful of food into her mouth. “I’m sorry, Cookie Face,” Bob said nervously.

Marla narrowed her eyes. “Cookie Face? Who’s Cookie Face?” she asked.

Bob was completely flustered. “Nobody,” he said. “I mean, you are.” He felt his throat close and picked up his water glass. He gulped a mouthful, but it was white wine. He managed to choke it down. He broke out in a sweat. “Nobody,” he managed to repeat.

“It better be
exactly
nobody. Because if I’m spending my life taking care of you and…you know…those twins, and you’re running around on me…”

Bob felt so dizzy he could hardly hear her. Something was very, very wrong. Bob clutched the arms of the chair. Even his hands were sweating. “I can’t breathe,” he whispered, because all the air was gone.

“See what happens when you do something wrong? God punishes you,” his wife said and marched out of the room.

Bob looked down at his plate, dizzy and breathless, shock running through him. He couldn’t believe this was happening. His chest was so tight. He reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. He had all he could do to focus on the numbers. He needed help—medical help. He punched in John’s home number and prayed he wouldn’t get the service. After what seemed like a lifetime, the phone was answered and he heard John’s voice. “It’s Bob,” he gasped. “Shrimp,” he said, and then he blacked out.

“You’ll live. Only the good die young,” John said as he threw away the disposable syringe and pulled up Bob’s shorts.

Bob couldn’t exactly remember John’s arrival or the first adrenaline shot. He remembered a weeping Sylvie and John putting him facedown on the sofa. Now Sylvie was sedated, sleeping upstairs. Bob turned over and tried to sit up. “She’s trying to kill me,” he croaked to John.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” John said.

“It isn’t ridiculous. Either she’s trying to kill me or she’s got Alzheimer’s. She forgot she put the car in the pool. She didn’t remember the crane. She made me bacon and eggs.”

John nodded soberly. “Bacon and eggs will kill ya,” he agreed.

“I’m serious,” Bob said.

“No, you’re a narcissist,” John responded. “Sylvie was hysterical over her mistake. But mistakes happen. I work at a hospital. Trust me. I made her take an Ambien so she would sleep. She feels terrible.”

“
She
does?
I
almost died.”

“People forget things, Bob. They’re distracted or unhappy—and maybe they have every reason to be—so they get forgetful. Or they’re full of rage and simply not aware of it.” John closed his bag and rolled down his sleeves.

“Wait. Before you go, can you take a look at this rash? It’s driving me crazy.”

“Do I have to?” Bob pulled up his shirt. John leaned over him. “That’s just your nervous rash. You had it the day the kids left for school. Use the smelly cream.”

John picked up his winter jacket and started to leave. “Wait,” Bob said. “That’s not all. When I shampooed this morning, there was hair in the drain. More than usual.”

John stopped in the doorway. “Hair loss, huh? I don’t see it.” He shrugged. “In my medical opinion, it’s caused by the mess you’re making of your life.”