Change of Heart (23 page)

It was one of those reluctant Monday mornings when Brian couldn't bear to sever the companionship of the weekend by leaving for the office. They kept the shades drawn against the bright September sky and prolonged breakfast.

But eventually Brian picked up his briefcase and stood regarding Sharlie sorrowfully from the threshold. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and closed the door behind him. Brian pried open the peephole from the outside and muttered, “Bitch.”

When he got to the office, there was a telephone message waiting for him:
Wife at 9:12. Please call.

“Morgan's … uhh … Butcher Shop,” Sharlie said into the receiver.

“Oh, yeah?” Brian responded. “You got any chickens there?”

“Oh, mister,” she went on breathily. “Have I got a chicken for
you.”

“I'll take two breasts and two thighs.”

“Okay,” she said. “But only if I get your drumstick.”

Brian laughed. “What happened to the sweet young thing I married?”

“My innate raunchiness is emerging,” Sharlie said. “With your encouragement, I might add.”

“My wife, the porno queen.”

“You wish. Can you have lunch?”

Brian looked at his calendar. “A quick one. Early.”

They hung up. He extracted the Foreman file from the heap of papers on his desk and walked down the hall to Barbara's office. Their clients were already sitting inside, Mr. and Mrs. Foreman with their daughter, Brenda, between them on Barbara's secretary's chair. She was twelve years old and had been barred from her school's soccer team. Both older brothers had excelled at the sport, but Brenda was a girl and hadn't been allowed to try out.

Brian admired the Foremans. Brenda was a charming, bright pixilated, gutsy kid, and she wanted her rights. Her parents had responded to their daughter's outrage with positive action, and Brian was pleased that Brenda would not grow up feeling helpless in the face of injustice. This morning she wore a dress, and her light-brown hair was pulled back from her face with a barrette. She had apparently drawn the line at her shoes, however, because on her feet she wore the usual battered sneakers. Brian smiled as she poked at the thick carpet with one foot, swiveling her chair back and forth. Her face was solemn under the sprinkling of freckles.

“Brenda,” Brian whispered through the adults' conversation. The girl looked up at him, bright-blue eyes alert and curious. “You can give it a real whirl if you want.” She grinned and pushed off with her sneaker to set the chair spinning.

After the third trip around, Mrs. Foreman said, “Enough, dear,” and Brenda went back to making subdued little twists. Every now and then she shot Brian an appreciative glance.

In the meantime Barbara and Mr. Foreman discussed the scheduling for pretrial discovery. Brian had been through it already, and found his mind wandering to the little girl he imagined Sharlie once was. How he wished she had been blessed with a sturdy body like Brenda's. The thought of the child Sharlie, pale and fragile, playing her solitary games in that austere old townhouse brought a lump to his throat God, what a life. But he thought of their lunch date and smiled.

“Brian, you with us?” Barbara asked pointedly.

“Punitive damages not less than ten thousand dollars,” Brian quoted, grateful for his ability to record conversations in his head while simultaneously thinking about something else altogether. All those years of listening in court to the monotonous litany of the opposition. If he hadn't trained himself to manage several levels of consciousness at once, he would have gone mad from boredom long ago.

Barbara shot him a suspicious look and went back to her conference with the Foremans. Soon Brian drifted away again, wondering if Brenda Foreman admired Barbara Kaye and would someday aspire to become a lawyer. What would Sharlie have aspired to if she had been well? He tried to imagine her a powerful, aggressive businesswoman. Impossible. Just how much of a traditionalist was he anyway? He couldn't visualize her wearing Barbara's “invincible blue suit,” but she must find something to do. How suffocating to just vegetate as she'd done all those years under the iron-eagle wings of Walter Converse. Brian would come home at night to talk to her as if she were a plant one sang to to keep it from dying of loneliness.

He listened to Barbara harangue Mrs. Foreman on the advantages of Brenda's presence at the pretrial conference and thought, No, Sharlie wasn't that type, and besides, she would always tire too easily for a regular job. Perhaps something creative—interior decorating, something in the arts. Maybe he could talk her into organizing group therapy for transplant patients. He smiled to himself, anticipating what she would do with that idea:
Your local chapter of TA (Transplants Anonymous) is holding a panel discussion entitled, “Kidneys and Hearts: Your Organ is Your Own Best Friend.”

Fact was, he didn't want to let her out. He wanted to keep her safe inside their world where nobody could get at her. Well, once upon a time, maybe he could have pulled that off. But she had changed. Her unpredictable flashes of temper had dismayed him at first, angered him, made him wonder if married life would always be like swooping through the days on some kind of roller coaster. No, Sharlie would never again submit to the life of the hothouse plant, and he knew it And he was glad of it really. After blowing off steam, she no longer stared at him with haunted eyes as if her own feelings had exploded at her from some mysterious place outside herself. Yesterday, after they made love, he had put his hand on her left breast and said, “How's that lucky guy who lives under here?” and she had smiled at him and answered, “Oh, I'm doing my best to show him a good time.”

“… anything to add to that, Brian?” Barbara said.

He shook his head. “No, I agree that it'd be valuable having her brothers there.”

Barbara's mouth twitched. She knew he wasn't really there but couldn't trap him. He smiled at her mischievously as she ushered the Foremans out. Brian put his hand on Brenda's shoulder, holding her in her seat. Then he gave her a mighty push. She pulled up her feet and shrieked with pleasure. As they walked out of Barbara's office together, Brian touched her hair and said, “If I was putting together a soccer team, you'd be the first person I'd choose.”

Brenda grinned and marched off after her parents, but before Brian stepped into his office, she turned and flashed him a look of absolute adoration.

Sharlie slipped into the office without a sound. Brian was so involved with his work that he didn't notice her creeping around behind him until she had wrapped her arms around his neck and very delicately placed her tongue in his ear. She knew his left ear was particularly susceptible, and she felt him shiver. He swung his chair around and pulled her onto his lap to kiss her. After a minute Sharlie murmured against his mouth, and he released her.

“The door,” she gasped, laughing.

Brian glanced at the office door. It was wide open, and he wondered if perhaps his secretary had stood there watching them. Or Barbara. Barbara wouldn't have blinked. She always accused Brian of pretending Sharlie was on his lap, so it should barely make a difference to her.

He tried to hold Sharlie still, but she slipped away from him and closed the door. Then she came back and stood looking down at his pants. They were bulging conspicuously. She gave his penis a tentative poke, and said, “Hmm,” as if she were checking the quality of a cucumber in the grocery store. Then she sat down on him demurely, smoothing her skirt over her knees.

“You know who I ran into on my way down here?” she asked. Her eyes were sparkling.

He shook his head.

“Mother.”

“How nice,” Brian said, moving his legs under her in delicious torment.

“Thank God she was in a hurry. I felt very odd talking to her.”

“Why was that?”

“Because I don't have any underpants on,” she said blandly.

He examined her expression, deadpan except for the dancing eyes. After a moment she got up and said, “It's getting very lumpy here.” Facing him, she swung one leg over to straddle his lap. Her eyes seemed like prisms, each facet glittering intensely and each reflection unique—daring and humor, hunger, vulnerability, adoration. He was torn between the wish to stare into the burning eyes forever and the pressure of the bare softness beneath her skirt. She lowered her eyes finally and began unbuttoning her blouse. He slid his hands up the smooth skin of her thighs and around behind, pulling her against him. Before either of them had gotten their clothes off completely, he was inside her, and for them both, orgasm was almost immediate.

Sharlie leaned against him, then lifted her face to grin at him.

“What?” he said groggily.

“You look like a little kid.”

“Mmm,” he said, stroking her back under the open blouse. “I'm amazed the phone didn't ring.”

Sharlie looked at the clock and giggled. “It was only about eight minutes, my love.”

“Oh.”

“Let's see,” she went on. “An hour for lunch, that's sixty minutes. Eight into sixty is seven plus. We can do this seven times and still have four minutes left over for Chock Full O' Nuts?”

He laughed. “Good choice.”

She looked puzzled.

“Chuck Full O' Nuts?”

He watched her eyes blink as she figured it out. “Oh,” she said. “I just thought of the first place that had hot dogs.”

He looked at her in disbelief, and she blinked again.

“Well, what do you want from me?” she protested. “I'm in my prime.”

“You're also in my lap,” he said. “And I don't think I'll ever walk again.”

The intercom buzzer sounded. He picked up the phone and said, “Just a second,” then whispered to Sharlie, “Get up. Barbara's coming in.”

Brian zipped up his pants on his way to the door. Sharlie buttoned her blouse quickly and tucked it into her skirt. When Barbara walked into the room, they were both standing very stiff, faces flushed. Barbara, neat and cool as always, in a trim gray dress, passed her glance without comment over their wrinkled clothes and awkward smirks.

“Hello, Mrs. Morgan,” she said to Sharlie. And to Brian, “Got the Foreman file for this afternoon?”

Brian nodded. “Yeah,” he said, his voice a croak. He coughed elaborately.

“Dry in here,” Barbara said. “You're looking well, Sharlie. Enjoy your lunch.” Then she left.

Sharlie glanced at her watch and wailed. “She just used up our four minutes for food.”

“Come on,” he said, grasping her hand and pulling her toward the door. “I need sustenance to endure the greedy passions of my wife.”

They started toward the park, munching hot dogs and enjoying the brisk air. The leaves were yellow against the deep blue of the sky. A cool breeze billowed under Sharlie's skirt as they walked up Fifth Avenue.

“I had to pick today for my liberation from underwear,” Sharlie said. “I've got a gale force wind blowing up my skirt.”

“Feel good?”

“A little vulnerable,” she said. “But I think maybe I'd like it in summer.”

As they entered the park at Fifty-ninth Street, the strong gusts sent thousands of leaves swirling through the air in a brilliant yellow blizzard. Sharlie stopped short, tugging on Brian's arm to look. They stood in silence, the golden storm eddying around them crazily.

After a moment the breeze died down, and they walked on, their feet making uneven trails through the leaves.

“Mother's weird, you know?” Sharlie said thoughtfully.

“Why do you say that?”

“I don't know. She's got this sort of sneaky gleam in her eyes lately. She almost acts as if she's feeling guilty about something.”

“Maybe she's got a boyfriend.”

“Oh, Brian, don't be ridiculous,” Sharlie said.

“Typical attitude of the child toward its parents' sex life. If you didn't have the evidence staring out at you from the mirror, you'd swear they never made love.”

“They never did. Make love. They just screwed. Or
he
just screwed, and she lay there looking pained.”

“How do you know? You ever catch them at it?”

“No. But I know.”

“When you ran into her today, I'll bet she wasn't wearing underpants either.” Sharlie burst out laughing. “That would explain the mysterious gleam in her eye,” he said.

She socked him in the arm. “Pervert,” she said cheerfully.

They entered a playground that was nearly deserted except for one small child and his nursemaid at the seesaw. The swings made a metallic screeching sound as they moved in the wind. A bottle sat in the middle of one of the swings, and Sharlie walked over to inspect it. Suddenly she recoiled, but though her face was pale with horror, she continued to look. Brian came up beside her, took her arm, and stared inside. The bottle was half-filled with what looked like sticky cola soda, and there were at least a dozen bees swimming frantically in the dark liquid, struggling to free themselves. Many had already died, and their bodies floated on top, crowding the frenzied survivors.

Sharlie's hand in Brian's was clammy. “Brian …” she pleaded. He picked up the bottle and with a flick of his wrist sent it flying into the underbrush. Then they walked back to Fifth Avenue in silence.

Wednesday was a late night for Brian. At eight o'clock Sharlie fixed herself a “Diller sandwich”—waterpacked tuna with almost no mayonnaise and lots of lettuce. Then she curled up on the couch to watch the American Ballet Theatre reproduced microscopically on the minute screen of Brian's television set.

The telephone rang, and she reached for it, thinking it must be Brian. But as soon as she answered, a woman's voice, cheery and rehearsed, said, “Good evening. I'm pleased to inform you that you have been selected as the winner of a free gravesite at the Riverside Rest Cemetery in Yonkers, New York.”

“Excuse me?” Sharlie said.

The voice went on, relentlessly chipper. “Are you married, madam?”

“Yes,” Sharlie replied automatically, then instantly regretted answering at all.

“Is your husband home?”

“No,” said Sharlie. “Could you tell me—?”

“Your gift includes basic funeral expenses, our moderately priced coffin, with a credit toward the deluxe model, of course—”

Sharlie interrupted, “How did you get my name?”

There was a short silence. “What?” said the voice finally.

“How did you get my name?” Sharlie repeated.

The woman's voice was wary. “We don't
know
your name, madam. Only your telephone number.”

“But we're unlisted.”

The voice was placating. “It's purely random selection. We're given the first three digits, and the rest we just make up ourselves.”

“You didn't get my name from anybody?” Sharlie asked again, her voice rising now. “Not from the hospital or the newspapers?”

“I assure you, madam, we don't have any idea…” The voice faltered. “You say your husband is not at home?”

“No, he's not.” Sharlie said. “I don't see what that has to do with anything.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, we prefer to make our offer to married people, and since you seem a little … well, I thought maybe I should talk to—”

“You mean if I wasn't married you'd take away my free gravesite?” Sharlie asked.

Again there was a short silence, but after a moment the voice resumed courageously. “It's all part of the package. My company will make available an adjoining site for your spouse at ten percent off the usual cost…”

“I want to know why you picked on me,” Sharlie interrupted.

“I explained already. We're given—”

But Sharlie rushed on in a trembling voice. “How do you know what you're doing to the person who answers the phone? I mean, it's really a very personal thing, don't you think, a person's death?”

“Oh, we don't talk about
that.”

“Well, Jesus Christ, what
are
you talking about, then? I'm not going to jump into my free burial plot while I'm bursting with vitality, am I?”

“Listen, lady,” the voice said in an injured tone. “Our intention was to offer you an unprecedented value. There's no need to get into the area of … passing away.”

“Well, how do you know a person doesn't have a brain tumor or terminal cancer or something and you're calling me up with this … what about my obituary? Don't I get a free obituary?”

“I take it you're refusing the offer,” the voice said.

“Oh, my God.”

There was a click, and Sharlie sat with the phone in her hand until the dial tone began again. The buzzing sound suddenly made her think of the soda bottle filled with dead and dying bees. She replaced the receiver carefully and sat huddled in a corner of the couch, her arms around her knees, staring blindly at the television set.

The next evening Sharlie sat on the floor by the fireplace watching her parents drink their coffee. How long, she wondered, have they been sharing one end of the couch like that? Their thighs were even touching.

“I've never heard much about the San Francisco trip,” Sharlie remarked.

“Oh, that seems like a very long time ago,” Margaret said.

“Did you enjoy it?”

Margaret glanced at Walter.

“Yeah, we did,” Walter replied. Sharlie thought she detected an unfamiliar quality in her father's voice, almost a kind of carefulness.

Then Margaret began a recitation about the scenic spots they'd visited in the Bay Area. As her mother talked, Sharlie let her eyes wander about the room. Everything was as it had always been—the clock on the marble mantelpiece, the heavy leather-bound books that once belonged to Margaret's grandfather, the worn place on the Oriental rug beside the couch. Exactly the same as when the three-year-old Sharlie had sat on this floor and pointed out the shapes in the carpet, delighting her father when she named the hexagon.

The same, and yet all of a sudden so strange. The first time she'd come here to dinner with Brian, she'd felt the impulse to send her husband off with a goodnight kiss at the end of the evening and go upstairs to her very own bed that she'd slept in for twenty-six years. But tonight there was a museumlike quality about the place, the objects in the old house like relics from the past, reminders of another life she'd left behind forever.

“If he wasn't going to make it, I don't see why he didn't just pick up the phone,” Walter said.

His voice jarred Sharlie out of her reverie. “He'll be here,” she said.

“The man is chronically late,” Walter grumbled.

“Is this going to be get-Brian time?” Sharlie asked.

Margaret quickly interceded, “I'm sure he'll be here in a few minutes. His meeting must have gone on longer than he expected.”

“Well, then, he could have called. It's ten o'clock already,” Walter muttered.

“Why don't you just go to bed and stop worrying about it?” Sharlie said angrily.

Walter, his face flushed, had begun to get up when the doorbell rang. Margaret pulled at his sleeve.

“I'll get it,” he said, and left the room.

“Let's have a nice time,” Margaret pleaded. “We don't see each other that often.”

“I
was
having a nice time,” Sharlie said irritably.

Brian and Walter walked into the room, and Brian bent to kiss Sharlie. “Sorry. I got stuck,” he said.

“Why didn't you call?” she asked.

“I couldn't get out.”

“You couldn't excuse yourself for one second to pick up the phone?” Her voice was rising.

“Brian,” Margaret said. “Can I get you some coffee?”

“Wait a minute, Mother. We're fighting.”

“I can see that,” Walter said.

“Help me up,” Sharlie said to Brian, holding out her hand. He lifted her from the floor, and she faced him angrily. “If you'd been at home with me and had to interrupt
our
time together to call some client, you'd somehow manage to squeeze it in.”

“I
said
I was sorry,” Brian said, his voice low. “Let's discuss this later.”

“Come on,” Sharlie said, pulling him by the hand. “We'll go to the dining room.”

They left, and in five minutes Brian returned to say that Sharlie was bringing him a cup of coffee and a sandwich. He hadn't had time to eat.

“Is everything all right?” Margaret asked.

Brian smiled. “Yes. I'm sorry to screw up your dinner. I hear I missed something special.”

Walter rose abruptly and excused himself. Margaret watched him stride toward the door, his shoulders tensed combatively.

“I'm afraid there's going to be a little bit more temper tonight,” Margaret said.

“What else did I miss, besides dinner?” Brian asked her.

Margaret shook her head. “Sometimes I think she gets more like her father every day. She was never so … temperamental,” she said with a sigh.

“Yes,” Brian replied. His voice was neutral, but his eyes twinkled at her. They sat in silence, wondering what was going on in the kitchen.

When Walter marched into the kitchen, Sharlie was spreading a thick layer of mayonnaise on a slice of bread.

“Hi,” she said, giving him a brief smile.

“I want you to explain something to me, miss,” Walter said. “Why is it you got up on your high horse when I merely pointed out that he was late, and the minute he walks in here, you let him have it for the very same thing. Explain that to me, will you, please?”

Sharlie's voice held a menacing quaver. “First of all, don't call me ‘miss.' I'm not your ‘miss.' And secondly, when you talk about my husband, you can call him Brian, not ‘he' or ‘that man.' He's got a name.”

“Hey,” Walter said, “I'm not crazy about your tone of—”

Sharlie interrupted him angrily. “And I'm not crazy about your complaining to me about my husband.”

“But you said exactly the same thing to him the second—”

“That's different.”

“Will you quit interrupting me? I don't like it. It's damn rude and disrespectful.”

“I want you to get this straight, Daddy. It's one thing for me to have a disagreement with Brian. It's quite another for you to sit harping about him to me. It's not your business. I don't give a damn what you say when I'm not around, but I don't want you finding fault with him in my presence. Ever.”

“Don't you threaten me, young lady,” Walter said, his face crimson.

“I hadn't gotten to the threat part yet, but since you bring it up, here it is. If this happens again, you won't see us. And I mean that.”

Walter was finally stunned to silence. The two stood glaring at each other. After a moment he said quietly, “All right. It won't happen again.” Then he wheeled around and stalked out of the kitchen. When Sharlie brought Brian's tray into the living room, he was asking Brian about the sex discrimination case he'd been working on. He didn't meet his daughter's eyes the rest of the evening.