Switcheroo (31 page)

“Of course not,” Sylvie said as nonchalantly as she could manage. “There’s nothing to spy on, is there?”

Reenie and Brian exchanged a guilty look, then shared a laugh. It was an intimate laugh. Sylvie, more nervous than ever, moved closer to Reenie. She put her arm protectively around her daughter. She meant to do it casually, but once she felt Reenie’s young body she squeezed her breathless. “I’ve missed your hugs, Mom,” Reenie said.

“I love you, Reenie.”

“I love you too,” Reenie said. Then she pulled back. “Plus, it’s very important to me that you accept and love Brian.”

“Well, of course it is.” Sylvie noticed that Brian looked away as Reenie said this. “I’ll try to, though it might not be the exact same way I love you, toots.” Sylvie paused for a moment. How could she possibly explain to her beautiful daughter the consequences of trusting the wrong man? “Love is very serious. It takes time and trust. I hope that you try to stick to the values that I’ve taught you.” Sylvie turned and smiled brightly at Brian. He was paralyzed. Reenie, though, was unfazed.

“In addition to your values, Brian and I are adding some of our own,” Reenie said.

“Like?”

“Oh, we’ve decided we’re not going to hold ourselves responsible for our actions,” Brian said, speaking up for the first time. Sylvie’s face registered the shock she felt, until she realized the boy was joking.

Reenie began laughing hysterically. “Oh, Mom. Don’t you love it? What you’ve just experienced is Brian’s so-called sense of humor.”

“Deeply amusing,” Sylvie said and was shocked to hear her voice sounded exactly like Mildred’s. “Brian, could you excuse us for a moment?” Sylvie asked. He nodded, picked up some wood, and moved to the house. Reluctantly, Reenie watched him go until Sylvie pulled her away. They stepped into the garage. Sylvie looked at her daughter’s beautiful, trusting face. Where should she begin? “Enough with the jokes. What have I always told you?” Sylvie asked. “Sex is so much better when there’s love.”

Reenie made a “duh” face. “Sure. I brought Brian home because I want to see if I
do
love him. Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll let you know the second we have intercourse. I’ll bring my cellular, along with condoms, and call you from bed.” Sylvie stood there for a moment, her mouth open, and then she and Reenie both burst into laughter.

“Okay,” Sylvie said, “I’ll simmer down.” She hugged Reenie again until the girl broke free, eager to hurry back to Brian.

When Sylvie came out of the garage, Kenny and the other boys were playing soccer on the back lawn. Sylvie watched for a moment. She thought of Marla’s comments about his sexual orientation, but Marla was crazy. Lime green auras. Come on! To Sylvie it seemed the guys were healthy and sportsmanlike, even when they patted each other’s butts.

“Kenny! Can I see you for a second?” Sylvie yelled out to her son.

Kenny left the pack and came over to his mother. He was flushed and out of breath. “Is this important, Mom? ’Cause we have a big game next week and we need the practice.”

“I just wanted to hug you and tell you how much I miss and love you.” Sylvie paused. “That and to ask you if soccer is considered a contact sport.”

Kenny, not getting the question, said, “I missed you too, Mom. Don’t worry. I won’t get hurt.” He paused, looked around the garage for a moment, then lowered his voice. “Don’t tell anybody, not even Dad, but…”—Sylvie held her breath—“…there are times when I really get homesick.”

Sylvie smiled at her son, the boy who towered over her. More than anything, she wanted him to be happy. She figured he had a better shot at it if he didn’t have to trust a man. Let him find a girl to adore him, and if he betrayed
his
wife, she’d come after him with a hairbrush. “That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” she told him, and patted his arm. “But you have your…friends. And you all seem very…close.”

“It’s more than close,” Kenny said.

“As a group, right?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

Sylvie felt relieved. Not that she would really, really mind, as Marla might put it, but…

“Most of the time,” Kenny said. “But Hugh and I…we’re really close. By the way, Mom, you’re looking good.” He looked at her appraisingly. “Maybe we could go downtown, get you some really cool outfits.”

Sylvie was worried by that, but Kenny ran off. Sylvie shrugged. She’d accept him any way he was. Slowly, she walked away, her half hour over.

Marla had showered, changed, and was now frantically rummaging through the cupboards. The kitchen looked like a war room operating theater, with buckets and bowls and instruments and pans on every surface. It was past two o’clock, but she was only up to…up to no good, Marla thought. She did have the pies done, the potatoes peeled, the yams almost ready, but the green beans were already limp and the little turkeys didn’t seem to be cooking. She had them lined up in the oven like the Rockettes at Radio City. She also couldn’t find the egg beater, or the measuring cups, though her recipes called for both. The pressure was killing her. Her feet ached, right on the balls of the feet, which meant she was having heart problems. Probably she was having a heart attack and only her feet knew it! In desperation, Marla picked up the phone and called Sylvie.

Sylvie was watching the end of the Macy’s Day parade. She was trying to decide if she should put her TV dinner in yet or not. The phone rang and she was relieved to answer it. Even talking to Mr. Brightman was better than the feeling she had now of being entombed. She put the phone to her ear. It was Marla, whispering, “Okay, where the hell is it?” Marla asked.

“Where’s
what
?” Sylvie asked. “Anyway,
you’re
the psychic, not me.”

“The turkey baster,” Marla said, still whispering.

“God! I don’t know. I haven’t used it in years. Anyway, I
told
you to get a self-basting one,” Sylvie reminded her.

“I think one of them is. But you can’t expect it to baste all the others,” Marla whispered louder.

“The others? What others?” Sylvie asked. “How many turkeys do you have? What’s going on? Things were fine this morning,” Sylvie said, her eyes on the TV screen. The mute was on. She wondered what had gone wrong from the time the Popeye blimp had gone by to now, when the Hercules balloon was being marched down to Herald Square.

“Nothing’s fine now. The natives are restless.” Marla had forgotten to whisper. “Come over. Please. I need your help.”

“Now? The two of us in the same kitchen?” Sylvie asked. “Are you
in
-sane? We already took too much of a chance this morning.” Still, Sylvie sat up, feeling a little jolt of adrenaline. Maybe she
wouldn’t
have to face this impossibly empty day alone. “Do you want to quit? We could exchange places in the next ten minutes.”

“Forget about that!” Marla snapped. “I want to get the thanks and appreciation after all this work. I just need a little assistance here.”

Sylvie was tempted but said, “Marla, come on. We can’t both be in the same place at the same time. Everyone might ignore middle-aged women, but not when they clone right before their eyes. Why don’t you just call my mother?” Sylvie asked. “She’ll help.”

“I already did,” Marla admitted. “She is helping, but I need you. I’ll never do it alone. They’ve already finished
all
the chips, the cream cheese—stuffed celery, and even most of the olives. Do you know how many olives that is? Can people overdose on olives?” Marla asked. She did sound desperate. “Plus, Phil just tried to eat the pumpkin centerpiece. You know, we have to have a little talk about Phil. I’m not so sure he’s husband material. And speaking of husbands, it isn’t helping that your husband is serving a lot of booze.”

“He’s
your
husband today,” Sylvie said bitterly.

“Yeah, and he’s not pitching in,” Marla admitted, sounding equally bitter. “I thought Thanksgiving was a family holiday.”

“Wake up and smell the pumpkin pie. Wives do it solo. It’s just the way it is,” Sylvie said. She suddenly, clearly, remembered all the frenzied preparations she’d been through in the years before and smiled. Maybe this alone-on-the-sofa deal wasn’t as bad as she’d thought.

“Well, Bob is busy doing one thing: he’s topping off drinks. He and Phil and John and Jim—I mean, Dad—are all here, and they’re drinking,” Marla said. She paused. “They’re probably seeing double already. If they haven’t figured us out so far, they really, really won’t now.”

Sylvie was torn, and said, “I want to come.” She thought of the empty day stretching in front of her. “Frankly, Marla, right now I’m not happy with your life”

“Like
I
like
yours
,” Marla said and snorted.

Sylvie pulled up and parked around the corner from her cul-de-sac. She figured the best way to get into her own house was by going through the Beyermans’ yard. She certainly didn’t need two identical BMW convertibles parked along with the rest of the Bavarian convention in her driveway.

It seemed as if the Beyermans were away for the holiday. At least that was what she thought until she got to the rhododendron wall that separated her yard from theirs. At that point Ching, their nasty black Pomeranian, darted out at her, barking furiously as he did virtually all day, every day. But now he sank his little pointed teeth into her ankle. Totally surprised, Sylvie shook him off, dove through the rhododendrons, and they yelped simultaneously as they hit the dirt, she in her territory and Ching in his. Crouching and limping, she managed to sneak around the garage, up the back steps, and then peeked, for the second time that day, through the kitchen window. Marla, still dressed pretty much as Sylvie herself was, in black leggings and a black sweater, was looking for her. She opened the door. From somewhere—Sylvie couldn’t even imagine where—Marla had gotten an apron. It wasn’t one of those practical Williams-Sonoma ones, it was a little number Betty Crocker might have worn in 1954. Sylvie limped into the kitchen. If she hadn’t already been breathless, the scene here would have taken her breath away. The place was more of a disaster than ever. Sylvie had never seen such disorder. “Hello, dear,” Mildred said. “Welcome to bedlam” Amid the bowls, pots, spatulas, and pans her mother had found just enough room to lean her elbow against the counter.

“Quick! Get in here,” Marla whispered to Sylvie. “You have to help with this meal.
And
you have to get me a different husband. I don’t want Phil.”

“Join the club,” Mildred said dryly. She sighed. “The middle-child syndrome,” she said, shaking her head.

Sylvie glanced around. She couldn’t begin to take it all in. Not with it being almost three o’clock, no smell of food cooking, and the totality of the chaos surrounding her. She looked at her kitchen island, almost sunk by the flotsam and jetsam. “Four whisks? I didn’t even know I
had
four whisks.” She lifted one. Some unidentified liquid dripped from it. “And you’ve used them all,” she added faintly. “Didn’t your mother teach you to clean up as you went along?”

“The only thing my mother taught me was French inhaling,” Marla snapped. “But it hasn’t been useful since I quit smoking.” She wiped her hand across her apron. “Does anyone have a Marlboro?” she asked.

“I hope not,” Sylvie said. She looked over at her mother, who simply shrugged. “Truthfully, is
anything
ready? Where are we?”

“It feels like Rwanda,” Mildred piped up.

“Nowhere,” Marla said simultaneously. “The desserts are finished, but I burned the potatoes, and I haven’t made the salad. I can’t get the electric can opener to work, so I don’t have the cranberry sauce out. And what are you supposed to do with this winter squash, anyway? How do you expect me to work with all this protein and starch? You know how I feel about mixing these together. I just can’t…” Marla stepped back from the counter and pulled off a shoe, rubbing her foot. “I think I’m having a heart attack,” she said, staring at her heel as if it mattered. Mildred gave Sylvie a quizzical look. Marla then turned to the stove top where all the pots were starting to steam. She was glaring at them so hard, it was as if she were trying a Yuri Geller, attempting to move them with telepathic powers.

“What are you doing?” Mildred asked.

“A watched pot never spoils,” Marla said, still staring at the pans.

Sylvie shook her head. “It’s not like you got here yesterday. What have you been busy with all this time?” she asked.

“Setting the table,” Marla told her.

“She sets a nice table,” Mildred confirmed. “The calligraphy place cards are a very personal touch. And I love those turkey napkins. Too bad there’s no turkey.”

“So where is everybody?” Sylvie whispered.

“Watching the game,” Marla said. “Everyone but the kids is drunk,” she added. “At least one thing here is like back home.” Then she turned to the window, pointed, and gasped. “Uh-oh! Benny and his friends are back from the park and looking this way.”

“
Kenny
, not Benny!” Sylvie corrected as she squatted down out of the line of sight. She rubbed her own heel while she was down there. She wondered idly if she needed a dog-bite shot. Tetanus or rabies? Meanwhile, the boys were in a noisy group, coming up the driveway. If they came in the kitchen door she and Marla were dead. They were coming toward the back door. “Marla, get lost! Quick,” Sylvie gasped.

“Where should I go?” Marla whispered, panicking. “I better get out of here. Too many cooks saves nine,” she intoned, looking around frantically for a place to hide.

“Into the laundry room. Hurry!” Sylvie told her.

“No,” Marla said. “I’m afraid of those machines. They hate me.
You
go.” Before Sylvie could strangle her, the boys drifted off behind the garage. Sylvie stood up. “I think they’re smoking joints back there,” Marla told her, looking out the window.

“What?” Sylvie asked, shocked. “Did you see any of those kids—”

“I didn’t see anything, but it’s what
my
brothers always used to do behind the garage,” Marla admitted. “Say, hey! I wouldn’t mind a hit myself.”

“Don’t you even
think
about it,” Sylvie warned.

Marla sighed. “Who has time? A woman’s work is never fun.”