Switcheroo (22 page)

Sylvie put her arms around him. He rolled onto her and moved her legs open with his knee. It gave her the shivers.

“Oh, Bob…Bobby.”

“Oh, Marla.”

Sylvie stiffened. Without thinking, she pushed him away.

“What?!” Bob said. He sat up, clearly irritated and confused.

Sylvie rolled to the other side of the bed, her back to Bob. She pulled her legs into a fetal position, with a pillow cradled at her stomach.
What was she doing
? Encouraging her husband in infidelity? Playing out some kind of charade? How was this going to help her, either with revenge or happiness? She began to weep.

“Marla, is something wrong?”

“Stop saying that!” Sylvie cried.

“What? I just asked if something was wrong,” Bob said.

Sylvie was out of control, sobbing by now. She couldn’t keep this up. It had all been a terrible mistake, a stupid, foolish idea. “I’m not Marla.”

“Oh, Cookie Face. Do you want to be someone else tonight? I love when you do that. Are you the French maid? Who are you?”

Sylvie cried as if her heart would break.

Marla surveyed the bedroom—her bedroom with Bob. A bedroom they would sleep in every night, together, once he got home. She looked at the four-poster, the window across from it draped in a cheerful chintz, the dressing table against the bathroom wall, the crammed bookshelf, and shook her head. People were so ignorant! No wonder poor Sylvie had trouble keeping Bob! The feng shui of this room was
all
off. It was clear to anyone with the slightest common sense that energy traveled right through the window and out the door, missing the bed completely. No wonder Sylvie’s sex life had suffered.

Marla had read two books on feng shui, not just one, so she knew that a lot of changes had to be made and how to make them. Plus, this was
her
room in
her
house now and she could do what she wanted. She went to the radio, turned it on to a rock-light station, and surveyed the room again with narrowed eyes. She wished she had some of her New Age music, but she’d have to make do with the Eagles. She sat down on the floor, in the very center of the room, and pulled her legs up into a half lotus. She tried to meditate on where the furniture should be located, but she kept being distracted by the vision of another dish of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food. That stuff was addictive. In addition to the marsh-mallow, she loved the little tiny chocolate fish that crunched when you bit into them. Anyway, she didn’t need to meditate. She stood up. She crossed to the chaise, then decided instead on the ottoman and piled the latter on the former. She pushed them over to the other side of the room, near the bedroom door. She separated them, moved to the bed, and surveyed what she had wrought. It was a start. She noticed the floor lamp, which had been beside the chair in the corner. She got up and moved that next to the bookshelf. The bookshelf could stay where it was, but the bed absolutely would have to be moved.

It was heavy, and she could only push it by lying on her back and putting her feet against first the side, and then the headboard, and pushing. Inch by inch, she managed to move it into the proper energy flow. She was hot by then, and exhausted, but at that moment “Our House” by Crosby, Stills, and Nash began to play on the radio.

Marla knew it wasn’t just a coincidence. It was what that Jung guy called “synchronicity.” It was a sign. She smiled radiantly, got up on the bed—now situated in the middle of the room—and got into a full lotus this time. She tried to feel the energy as it coursed through the room and knew immediately that this was a big improvement. But then she noticed the bureau, blocking the energy release. Marla shook her head. A woman’s work was never dumb! She would have to move the bureau.

She got up, crossed to the other side of the room, and began to push the enormous dresser, her skin radiating a New Age Martha Stewart flush. All she had to do, she thought, was get this dresser moved and then light some incense. She was exhausted, but it would all be worth it. Wait until Bob came home! What a transformation!

Bob left Marla’s frustrated and exhausted, on top of feeling guilty about having gone there instead of home in the first place. He was trying to ease his frustration by listening to WMJI-FM. It wasn’t the usual nighttime deejay, and it wasn’t time for John Lannigan and Jimmy Malone’s morning show, but Bob was grateful for the company even if it was just a voice. He had just gotten off the North Woodland Bridge and paid the toll. But then, like an itch that couldn’t be scratched, he’d realized he had to clear his mind, see Marla again, and find out what was wrong. He swung Beautiful Baby into a U-turn and had to pay the toll again. The female toll taker recognized him. This was not the first U-turn he had made that night. “Nice car,” she said. Bob merely nodded an acknowledgment and accelerated, then punched a number into his car phone.

“John, It’s me again. Will you bear with me?” Bob asked. “I’ve already given these toll people seventeen bucks! I don’t know if I’m coming or going. I wanna be with the naked one, I wanna be with my wife.”

“I may be your closest friend but I can’t tell you what you should do for the rest of your life,” John said.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Bob whined. “I know what I
should
do. But I’m a worm without a conscience.”

“Grandiose again,” John commented. “You’re just an average adulterer. Are you going to give P and N up?”

“Yes,” Bob said firmly and pulled another U-turn. Then, somehow, his assurance faltered. “I don’t know. It’s not me going to that woman’s house.” He raised his voice at his friend. “Explain who’s doing this—in four words or less.”

“It’s your evil twin?” John suggested.

By now Bob was back at the toll booth, confusing the toll taker yet again. He spoke to the toll taker and John simultaneously. “You know, I never believed in the devil before, but in me he’s found a home for the nineties.”

Marla was back in bed, her flannel pajamas a crumpled mess, the sheets pulled up to her neck. She looked over her work and found it good. The bedroom made no sense, but she was deeply satisfied. She was also worn out and looked at the clock, now perched all the way across the room on the bureau. It was past midnight. What was he doing out this late? He never stayed with
her
till twelve.

She must have dozed for a while, because the next thing she heard was the sound of Bob’s car pulling into the driveway. Marla went to the window. He had not only gone to her house first but he had stayed longer than usual. That should make her feel good, and had won her the gorgeous three-gold ring, but instead she felt bad. From upstairs she saw Bob enter the house. Marla made a few last adjustments to the room, rearranged the pillows, and quickly slid into bed, pretending to be asleep.

Bob opened the bedroom door. He tiptoed in, trying to see by the light from the window, but tripped over the ottoman, upsetting the floor lamp, which crashed into the bureau. Marla sat up, concerned. “Are you all right, Bob?”

“I think so.” He had one hand on his elbow, rubbing it, the other on his foot. “Why was an end table in front of the door? I just hurt my ankle. Yeow!”

“And your arm?”

“No. I hurt that…at the lot.” Bob got up and stumbled to the bed, limping only a little. But the bed was only halfway across the room, so he smacked into it, hard, with his shin. “Oooh!” He literally fell into the bed. “What happened in here? And what is that smell?”

Marla realized, too late, that Sylvie wouldn’t have used any incense. “It’s my new perfume,” she ad-libbed. “Elaine gave it to me.”

“Elaine? Who’s Elaine?”

“My sister.”

“Ellen? I thought you said Elaine.”

“No. I know my own sister’s name,” Marla said, defensive. Distraction was the best move. She gestured to the room. “My face isn’t the only thing I redecorated, Bob.” Marla turned on the lamp, angling the shade so that the room was softly illuminated. “So, what do you think,
Bob
?”

He stopped rubbing his ankle long enough to look up. “You moved the furniture,” said as if it were the dullest fact in the world.

Marla, more than a little disappointed, turned the light off.

“Sylvie, I’ll look at it closely tomorrow. We’ll talk about it…” he said with a hint of guilt. He started undressing, reached across the bed, and kissed her on the cheek. “Look. Let’s start this over. Welcome home. I’m glad you’re back.”

“You are?”

“Of course I am. How is your sister? In four words or less.”

In four words or less? That was impossible. Or maybe he was testing her, Marla thought. Unsure of how to respond, she talked as if she were answering a drop quiz. “Six years older, but her face looks good. We don’t get along. Never wants to live anywhere near the family.” She’d counted off the first four responses on her finger, then paused, trying to remember the last one. “Her therapist supports her decision!” she added proudly as it came to mind, and triumphantly pushed down her thumb.

“I’m glad she’s…the same,” Bob said. He got into bed. “I really missed you,” he told her, and put his arm around her shoulders.

Marla was truly surprised. He’d never seemed to miss his wife when he talked to Marla about her. “Why?” she asked.

Bob tried to manipulate Marla into a spooning position, but she was resistant.

“Why did I miss you?” he asked as if it was an unreasonable question. “Because you were gone. What do you mean? You’re my family.”

“I am?” Marla felt tears well up in her eyes but didn’t know why.

“Come on, Sylvie,” Bob said. “Let’s get into our positions.”

Sex. Uh-oh. She’d promised Sylvie she…not only that but while she’d gone over sex with Sylvie, Sylvie hadn’t gone over sex with her! Marla cocked her head. “Tell me just once more what our positions are,” Marla murmured.

“Sylvie, are you all right?” Bob asked, sitting up. “We’ve been falling asleep the same way for twenty-one years.”

Oh,
that
was what he was talking about…sleeping. “Boy! You forget one little thing—” Marla began.

“We spoon,” Bob continued.

Marla got it. Bob spooned up against her. She cuddled her back into his belly. They lay beside each other in the darkness. Marla felt herself relax. This was what marriage was like. Night after night. She liked it. She knew she would. But it was so new that she wanted to talk, to connect more with her husband. “Bob, I’m sorry about your father,” Marla said.

“What about my father?” Bob asked drowsily.

“Being dead and all.”

“Sylvie, are you all right?” Bob asked, rising on one elbow. “Did you hit your head when you moved all this stuff? Who’s the president of the United States?”

“Like you don’t know.” Marla smiled and pulled the blankets up to go to sleep, a man beside her for the whole night.

There were definitely some advantages to sleeping alone, Sylvie thought as she stretched out diagonally across Marla’s bed. She didn’t have the whole bed to herself, however. Sylvie looked at the roses, now badly wilted, lying in bed next to her. It was silly, sentimental, but she had slept with them, a symbol of her victory to come. She was still wearing the ridiculous Marla nightwear—the girl didn’t seem to have a single pair of comfortable pajamas. Sylvie had felt foolish in the baby dolls and her after-face-lift chin strap, a charming combo. It was something she’d never let anyone, much less Bob, see her wearing in bed.

But she’d woken up with a bad anger hangover. The problem was that she didn’t know if she was angry at Bob or herself. After all, she had orchestrated this switcheroo, and though it hadn’t worked exactly the way she’d planned, she had definitely pulled it off. Yet she didn’t like it.

Firstly she couldn’t get over the fact that Bob had come to her—Marla—first. She’d lost her bet with Marla, but there was more than her precious ring at stake. There was an emotional backlash to be paid for, a very real cost.

And if she’d gone this far, shouldn’t she have gone all the way—in both senses of the word? Shouldn’t she have snagged Bob? Shouldn’t she have grabbed the chance to be Bob’s lover and prove to him—and herself—that she could do it?

Sylvie lay there, confused and miserable. She didn’t know what to do. What she needed was some time at her piano. If she could sit down and play some Bach or maybe Mozart’s Sonata No. 23 she’d be able to order her thoughts. Then it hit her: No piano. She hadn’t thought about how she’d live without a piano, even for a week. Right now it seemed impossible. What could she do? She couldn’t think of a single thing, so she called her mother. “I’m back,” she said.

“And where are you?” Mildred asked. “At the bimbo’s?”

“Watch what you call her, Mom. She may be a bimbo, but she’s my bimbo.”

“Oh my god!” Mildred snapped. “It’s the Stockholm syndrome. Sylvie, you’re identifying with the enemy.”

“No, Mom. I
am
the enemy. And Bob came over here to me last night.” Sylvie thought she was happy, but then, to her surprise, a sob escaped her.

“That’s a pretty sad statement after more than twenty years of marriage.” There was a pause. “I’m sorry, Sylvie,” Mildred said. “People we love hurt us. It’s a terrible thing. Should I come over?”

“Yes, please,” Sylvie said.

Marla had awakened at dawn, thrilled to find Bob gently snoring beside her. It was so homey to wake up next to a man. Inspired, Marla had slipped into a fluffy robe, donned warm slippers, and crept down to the kitchen. Now, at 7
A.M
. she was putting happy faces on freshly baked cookies. As she frosted them, each smile got bigger and bigger. The phone rang and she happily picked it up. “Schiffer residence…hi. How was last night?”

“Confusing as hell,” Sylvie’s voice told her.

“Say, hey! Me too. And it’s good to have a reason for it.” She continued to decorate the cookies.

“Was Bob happy to see me?” Sylvie asked.

Marla felt a pang, and not sure if it was guilt or pity, decided to he. “Oh, yeah. A big fuss. Well, not too big. You know, he was really, really tired. So, was it good?”

There was a momentary pause. Marla, holding the phone under her chin with a hunched shoulder, opened the oven and pulled out another batch of cookies. “Don’t you worry,” Sylvie’s voice said in her ear. “It was all good. Wonderful, terrific.”