Switcheroo (32 page)

Before either Mildred or Sylvie could react to that, Phil’s and Rosalie’s voices were heard in the dining room. “Jesus, would you look at that table!” Phil was saying as he pushed open the kitchen door. “It looks like a scale model of Epcot Center. What’s all that about?” Sylvie ducked in time, hiding behind the island.

“Your sister put in a lot of time planning for this dinner,” Rosalie snapped. “Not that you deserve it. She wanted to make it nice for the twins and all.”

“Whatever. Where the hell are the pretzels?” Phil began opening cabinets, moving around the island. Sylvie, on her hands and knees, scurried in a circle like the dog that had bitten her, just managing to keep out of sight.

“Why don’t you ever close a door? Check in the cabinet near your right foot,” Rosalie suggested to her ex.

“Speaking of foot, what the hell is it with your boyfriend? That Mel guy. He says he’s missing some equipment.”

“Hey, he can’t help it if he’s not all there,” Rosalie snapped. “Neither are you. And the equipment
you
were missing wasn’t just a toe.”

“Yeah, I know. I’d lost my balls, but I got ’em back now.” Phil gestured to his crotch with one hand, pulling out the pretzels with the other.

“Phil, please,” Mildred said. “This is a kitchen.” Neither her son nor her ex-daughter-in-law heard her.

“Really? That’s not what your dad says. Anyway, it’s not Mel’s
toes
that I’m interested in.”

“Spare me the details,” Phil begged, and they both walked out of the kitchen as they had come in, sniping away. Sylvie realized that the two of them were perfect together.

“It’s always amazed me that those two can be in a crowded room and never know it,” Mildred said as she helped Sylvie up off the floor.

“Turkey time!” Marla cried. She opened the oven to reveal rows of Cornish hens, or something, in the oven.

“That isn’t turkey!” Sylvie yelled.

“It’s
almost
turkey. I think of them as ‘turkey light,’” Marla said defensively. “The butcher swore they could be stuffed,” she added.

“With what? A tweezers?” Mildred asked.

“Marla, you can’t serve the kids these. They won’t eat squab. We’ve always had turkey. I mean, it’s Thanksgiving, isn’t it?”

“What do you want me to do?” Marla whined. “The really, really turkey didn’t fit in the oven. I tried, I really tried.” She began to sob, her shoulders shaking, her nose running almost immediately. “I’m just not cracked up to be a wife. See? I can’t do it. I can’t even take care of myself, let alone a soccer team. No wonder Bob doesn’t want me. Nobody does.”

Mildred stepped forward and put her arms around the girl.

“Look, you set a lovely table,” Sylvie said, trying to comfort Marla.

“Two days ago. But there keep being more people. I can’t keep up!” Marla burst into tears again. “We need two more places.”

“I’ll do that. You slice the carrots.” Sylvie looked over at Mildred. “Mom, you’re just going to have to go out and buy a cooked turkey.”

“I find that very embarrassing. Anyway, nothing is open.”

“Be embarrassed. It won’t kill you. And go to a restaurant if you have to. Order à la carte.”

Sylvie had to get all this under control. Poor Marla. Just as Sylvie had expected, she’d been undone by the holiday. But instead of feeling glad, Sylvie felt guilty and sorry for her rival. She’d at least give Marla the holiday meal she craved. Sylvie snuck in to the dining room with Mildred following, still protesting. When Sylvie saw the table, she gasped. It looked like someone’s model railroad—there were miniature Pilgrims, a couple of teepees, and—for some weird reason known only to Marla—a little covered bridge. They had started to move things around, eliminating some of the centerpiece, when Bob walked into the room. Mildred and Sylvie froze. Sylvie’s heart began to beat harder, but Bob went directly to the liquor cabinet.

“Do we have any more scotch?” Bob asked as he started rummaging through the cabinet. “It seems to be the drink of choice. Your father and John are actually giggling. Phil seems even angrier than usual.”

“Damnit!” Marla hollered from the kitchen.

“Rosalie is too,” Sylvie said, quickly covering and heading for the kitchen. “Sssh!” she scolded. “What happened?”

Marla held up her hand. She was bleeding. She’d obviously cut herself chopping the carrots.

“Run it under cold water,” Sylvie said as the door swung open.

Rosalie had come back into the kitchen, this time with her date. Sylvie couldn’t make it over to the laundry room door so she wedged herself beside the refrigerator. She was surprised to find that she fit. She really had lost weight!

“Sylvie, this is Mel,” Rosalie said to Marla. “I’ve told her nothing but good things about you,” Rosalie murmured.

But Marla was paying no attention to anything but her little cut. “Ouch! Son of Sam, I could have cut off a finger. I’d be marred for life,” Marla cried.

Rosalie shot Marla a poisonous look. Hugging her date, she said, “I think the number of fingers or toes a person has means nothing! Nothing!”

She stomped out of the kitchen, followed by the now morose Mel. Sylvie was just squeezing out from the space beside the refrigerator when John entered. He nearly saw her, so she jumped out the back door and stood in the cold, peeping in the steamed-up window. John was listening to Marla, and seemed very solicitous, if a tiny bit high. Sylvie was wondering if she could somehow ask him to look at her Ching bite when she saw him take Marla’s hand out from under the running water. Leaning over Marla, he kissed her finger to make it better. Sylvie couldn’t believe her eyes. John had better be dead drunk! She watched as he lovingly applied a Band-Aid and put his arm around Marla. Sylvie’s breath clouded up the window. Then the two of them left the room together. Sylvie cautiously went inside. As she entered the kitchen, John came back in. Surprised, but obviously high, he blinked, confused, and came toward her. “Why are you wearing that hat?” he asked, his voice slurred. “Are you better?” He picked up her cold hand. He was obviously surprised by the temperature. He looked down at it and was more surprised to see that the bandage and the cut were gone. “My god. What happened?” he asked.

“You kissed it and made it better,” Sylvie said sweetly. She’d like to really confuse him and pull off her cap and let her blonde hair fall down. Let him think his kiss did that!

John was confused. Thank god for alcohol, Sylvie thought.

Jim and Mildred were sitting at a table in the Hungry Heifer. Patiently, Mildred was repeating their order. “That’s right. Turkey for twenty and two glasses of water,” Mildred told the waiter, who left, confused but willing.

“Mildred, this is painful,” Jim said. “How did Sylvie manage—”

“Oh, it’s a long story,” Mildred said, leaning into her husband. She had unfastened the top two buttons of her blouse and she hoped he noticed. Her chest was spotted now, and the flesh at her cleavage had the pleated look of wrinkled silk, but still, cleavage was cleavage. “You know, Jim…your eyes look very blue tonight.”

“Mildred?” Jim said in a tone of voice that asked a lot of questions.

“They do,” Mildred averred, staring into his eyes. They had seen her, years ago, as a young, desirable girl. They were the only eyes left on the planet that had. “Jim, I don’t want to go to my grave never having made love again,” Mildred said.

Jim’s blue eyes blinked. And it seemed to Mildred that he might be interested.

All the men except Brian were watching football. They were huddled tensely, watching an important play. Sixth down, ten to go, or something like that. Marla never understood the rules of football, or what the excitement was about. The guys with the big shoulders looked good and all, their butts tiny in comparison, but she knew it was all padding. She stepped over to Phil.

“Can I refresh your drink?” she asked in her best hostess voice. She felt a little better. Sylvie had taken over in the kitchen, dinner was almost ready, and Marla had hidden in the upstairs bathroom, cleaning herself up and calming down. Maybe she could become a part of this family, she thought. They looked cozy, all of them huddled over the TV like cavemen crouched around the fire. Maybe she could like Phil. Maybe he could be her very own caveman.

At that moment a touchdown was scored, or something. Everyone, except Phil, yelled. Marla jumped. Phil screamed. He’d missed it.

“Sylvie, can you get your ass away from the television so a man can see? I got a spread I got to cover,” her caveman barked. Marla stepped back, offended. “Women!” Phil said, looking up. “Any word on dinner?”

“Just one: choke.” Marla left, stricken. She walked into the kitchen.

Sylvie was almost finished with the potatoes. Mildred had come back with the turkey. “It’s a go,” Mildred said, looking at Marla. “Boy, you’ve pulled yourself together.”

Marla ignored the compliment. She stared at both women. “I thought you were nice,” she said. “Not the type who would let me marry a woman-hating moron.”

“Phil?” Mildred asked and sighed. “I was really hoping you could straighten him out. I know he has love in him…somewhere. And, truthfully, you’re a nice girl.” She paused. Marla felt her heart soften. She would like to be part of all this. “You know,” Mildred was saying, “all men take a little shaping up.” Mildred was still in her coat, her cheeks pink, her eyes sparkling. She looked good for an old lady, Marla thought. She looked as if she had a secret. Marla tried to focus on what her mom was saying. “One of the great ironies of life is that when men and women marry, the man is hoping his wife will never change and the woman can’t wait to start changing him. Of course, they both wind up disappointed. The woman always does change. The guy never does. Look at Phil as a fixer-upper.” Mildred smiled. “Jim is still my work in progress, but I’m beginning to see some improvement.” She took off her coat. “Let’s serve dinner together. I’d like you in the family,” Mildred said sincerely to Marla.

“Really, really?” Marla fell into Mildred’s arms. Sylvie took the opportunity to leave.

Sylvie, all alone, stood across the street from her own house. It was twilight. All the other houses on the cul-de-sac were dark: her mother and father and Rosalie were out, across the street, inside her home, and the Brennans always went to his parents in Arizona for the holiday. She was alone. A wind had come up and, although it wasn’t really cold yet, the dampness and the wind made Sylvie shiver. She was still in her black leggings and sweater, but she’d only taken a denim jacket with her and it wasn’t really enough to keep her warm.

Once she got into her BMW she’d put the heat up full blast. At the thought, she shivered again. She hesitated to double-back through the Beyermans’ yard—not because she was afraid of Ching, though her heel still smarted—but because she just couldn’t take her eyes off the lit dining room window of her house. There, inside, was the happy, quintessential family scene. Norman Rockwell, as American as pumpkin pie. Kenny, Reenie, her mother and father, her brother, her husband, and her friends. Even she was there. Right now she was spooning mashed potatoes onto John’s plate. It seemed that everyone was busy passing food, eating turkey legs, or laughing. It was a little bit like Huck Finn at his own funeral. No, it was as if she didn’t exist. Sylvie thought of the movie
It’s a Wonderful Life
. But in that film Jimmy Stewart realized he was irreplaceable. He saw the impact his life had on others.

Standing there, in the deepening dark, it was as if Sylvie was completely replaceable. She didn’t need to exist.

The table had been cleared with the help of the kids, who had then all left to go out somewhere. Somewhere fun, Marla thought. There had been no standing ovation. There had been no applause at all. The only thanks she had gotten were the polite ones from Benny’s friends, who had just murmured “Thanks, Mrs. Schiffer” as they bussed their plates to the sink. The kitchen was a mess. Marla surveyed all the wreckage. She thought that shopping and preparing had been the work. Somehow she hadn’t imagined this. She couldn’t
believe
the enormous task ahead of her. The thought of all the mixing of proteins and starches, and having fruit touch vegetables, was just too overwhelming for her. “The aura’s still not right in this kitchen, no matter how hard I try,” Marla said aloud to herself, feeling her eyes well up with tears. Was this what family life was supposed to be like? Or had it become this because of Bob’s affair with her? Marla wasn’t sure if she felt sorrier for herself or for Sylvie, but she decided on herself. Then the kitchen door swung open. For a moment she thought Bob might appear, ready to hug her and tell her how great dinner had been. But it wasn’t Bob. It was John, clearly woozy, and Mildred, giving him a hand to help him into the room. “Jesus, I drank too much.”

“‘Jesus’ is right,” Mildred said, looking around at the incredible mess. “Martha Stewart definitely doesn’t live here.”

John blearily surveyed the chaos. “Hey, can I help?”

“I think what you need to do, Doctor, is he down. That’s an order from Dr. Mom,” Mildred told him. “I’ll stay and help Sylvie.”

“No, you’ve done enough, Mom. My husband should help,” Marla said. At that moment Bob did come into the kitchen. Maybe it would end all right. Marla smiled. Now she would get some appreciation, and in front of John.

But Bob said, “I’m going out for a little while; I left a few things on the lot.” He picked up his car keys and jingled them, then turned to get his coat. Marla narrowed her eyes. She knew he wasn’t going to any lot. She knew exactly where he was going. He had his nerve! Who did he think he was, and who did he think she was? Some galley slave? Some cleaning lady? Marla looked at the stacks of greasy plates, dirty bowls, blackened pans. There were the dishes waiting to be scraped into the disposal. This marriage ought to go into the disposal as well, she thought, and deliberately swiped her arm across the island, sending dishes crashing to the floor. Bob turned back around.

“What broke?”

“A marriage?” she asked. She picked up a tray, still holding some candied yams and the damned melted marshmallows. She flung it in his direction, missing him but almost hitting John.