Switcheroo (17 page)

“How does she do that and stay so thin?” Dimples, at the end of the table, dared to verbalize, as if she were the spokeswoman for the whole group.

The brassy blonde leaned forward. She had introduced herself, but maybe because Sylvie was lightheaded from hunger or maybe because she wasn’t interested, she couldn’t remember the woman’s name. “What are
you
in for?” the woman asked Sylvie, as if this were a prison. That must mean my bruises have healed, Sylvie thought, so she gave a noncommittal answer. Then the woman turned to Marla. “You must be here just to keep your twin sister company,” she said. Enviously, she eyed Marla’s plate. “But if you keep eating for two, you’ll be back alone soon enough.”

Sylvie took that in. She’d gone from being mistaken for Marla’s mother, to her older sister, to her twin. Marla and Sylvie exchanged a look. Perhaps it made the brassy blonde feel left out, because she raised her voice. “Hey, I’ve got a joke for ya,” she blurted, breaking the silence with volume. Sylvie and Marla both looked up at the woman. Heartened, she continued, “A big millionaire has three girlfriends, all about the same, and he has to decide which one to marry.” Now everyone was listening. She leaned into the table and lowered her voice. “So he gives each one a million dollars to spend any way she wants. The women don’t know it, but this is how he’s going to decide which one to marry.” Sylvie and Marla stared at the woman, who went on, “The first one, she goes out and blows the whole thing shopping. The second one takes it to the bank—she
saves
it. The third one, she invests it and doubles the million. So which one do you think he chooses?”

Sylvie and Marla looked at each other. “The investor?” Sylvie guessed.

“No, silly,” Marla said with superior wisdom. “The one with the biggest tits!”

Bob didn’t remember ever eating this badly—not in college, not at summer camp, not even in the frat house. When, during the last ten days, had he eaten anything green, except for that leftover tuna salad, and he hadn’t noticed the mold until he’d bitten into it late last night. Tonight he and John were on their way out to dinner. Bob was driving Beautiful Baby despite John’s discomfort in it. John was too tall and gangly for such a small car, but Bob couldn’t take any more change—with Sylvie away and Marla out of town he’d had his whole life disrupted.

“So, you want Italian?” John asked.

“Nah. I don’t. I had Italian for breakfast.”

“Who has Italian for breakfast?”

“Italians,” Bob told him, grim. “Look, I’m living on takeout. This morning I had two cold slices of pizza. I’m doing my own laundry. I can’t even get my socks to match.”

“All of this because you cheat on your wife.”

“No I don’t. Not now.”

John brightened. “Oh. You broke it off with P and N—”

“Almost.”

“Almost? What does ‘almost’ mean? This is binary. You’re on or you’re off.”

“Not necessarily,” Bob admitted. “She’s away. You want Chinese?” Bob asked as they drove past Beijing Palace. He paused. “Nah. Forget that. Since they went from Peking to the new spelling the food’s gone downhill.”

John shook his head. “Fella, you should be more worried about your marriage and less about your diet.”

“Of course I’m worried about my marriage.”

“Which is a marriage you never should have had in the first place. If you had stayed away in our senior year,
I’d
be married to Sylvie now.”

“That would be terrible,” Bob admitted. “She’s been gone for almost two weeks. The house is in an uproar. I miss her.”

“Do you miss her when you’re visiting Pink and Naked?”

“I don’t think about anything at her place. Thinking is not what she’s about.”

“Well, I think it’s my turn to step up to the plate,” John said. “Maybe I can appreciate what you don’t. I picture Sylvie lonely at night. She could be spending that time with me.”

Bob looked over at John, his knees pushed up high by the low seats. “In four words or less, would you tell me if you’re trying to steal my wife?” Bob asked him.

“Goddamn right, buddy,” John snapped back. “And that’s only three words. Anyway, it’s not stealing. She was mine first.”

They drove in silence for a few moments. “Hey! How about steak?” Bob asked, swerving in both the conversation and the highway lane. He pulled into the Hungry Heifer restaurant parking lot.

“Marbled fat flesh? You better come in for a cholesterol count this week,” John said as he unfolded himself from the car, a kind of human origami in reverse. John patted Bob’s shoulder as they walked toward the restaurant. “You’re
really
living dangerously,” he told his pal.

Bob fell into bed, his stomach distended. He couldn’t have eaten the whole porterhouse. Lying down, he struggled out of his pants, but left his shorts on. He was even too tired to take off his polo shirt. Well, he could sleep in it—if he
could
sleep. He hadn’t been sleeping well lately—and couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept alone for this long. Not since college, he guessed. And he didn’t like it. The whole bedroom—usually a haven—had become uncomfortable. He hadn’t made the bed in a week, and the sheets were wrinkled, the blankets pulled into ropes. Piles of his clothes lay, like drifts of dirty snow, around the room. Newspapers and junk mail were taking up both nightstands and there was a lot of other stuff on the floor that he couldn’t identify without a closer look. Sylvie would faint if she saw all this. Tomorrow he’d have to get organized, he thought. If he could get through the night. He groaned and turned on his side. He wouldn’t be sleeping on his stomach, if he slept at all.

Just as Bob reached to shut the light the phone rang. He put his hand out, but the phone wasn’t in its usual place. It took him a minute to find the phone—he had to follow the wire to locate it—almost under the foot of the bed. He got to it by the third ring. Who would be calling him at this hour? It had to be Sylvie. He lifted up the receiver and fell back into bed, relieving the pressure on his stomach by lowering the band of his shorts. “Hi, honey, I’m home,” he said. And from the other end of the line he was rewarded for his trouble by Sylvie’s giggle.

“You are now. I tried to call earlier but you weren’t in. Out with a girlfriend?” Sylvie asked.

“Out with your boyfriend,” Bob grumbled. “John made me take him to the Hungry Heifer and spent the night telling me how perfect you are.”

“Gee, I think I detect two lies in that sentence,” Sylvie teased. “John
made
you eat a porterhouse? With your cholesterol levels? I doubt it. And I’ll bet he didn’t spend more than twenty or thirty minutes talking about me.”

“Right on both counts,” Bob laughed, rubbing his belly with the hand that wasn’t holding the receiver. It felt better already. It was good to be understood. “You got me,” Bob admitted.

“Do I?” Sylvie asked.

Bob stopped for a moment and didn’t respond, at least not quickly enough. Sometimes, lately, it seemed as if Sylvie was…He’d just let it drop. “So how’s Ellen?”

“Ellen? Oh. Ellen is fine. She’s doing great and so am I.”

“I thought you said there was a problem with her scabs,” Bob complained. “If she’s fine, come home.”

“Well, not
quite
yet,” Sylvie said. “See, it’s not just Ellen. I had a little tiny nip and another tiny tuck.”

“You’re kidding!” Bob said, almost sitting up until his belly rebelled. “You didn’t need anything. You look great.”

“Well, now we both look great,” Sylvie said. “But I don’t think Ellen’s going to make it to our house for Thanksgiving. Hey, did you hear from the kids?”

Before Bob could answer, he heard the call-waiting tone. “Hold on a second,” he said. “I have another call.”

“At this hour?” Sylvie asked.

“It’s probably one of the kids,” Bob murmured, though he doubted it.

“This late?” Sylvie said, concerned. “They never call at night unless it’s an emergency.”

“Hold on,” Bob told her. He clicked the phone.

“Hi, Cookie Face,” Marla’s voice cooed in his ear. “I snuck out of Grammie’s and walked all the way down to the 7-Eleven to call you.”

“Marla.” Bob paused. “I’ve missed you. I can’t believe your grandmother doesn’t have a phone.” Bob felt his upper lip break out in beads of sweat. Sweat, or maybe pure grease from the porterhouse. “Hold on a minute, babe,” he said. “I have another call.” He clicked back to Sylvie. “Sylvie?” he asked. Then, for a horrible moment, it occurred to him that it might still be Marla, but, thank God, Sylvie’s voice responded.

“Yes. Was it Reenie? Has she switched her major again? Is everything okay?”

“No. No. I mean, yes. It wasn’t Reenie.”

“Was it Kenny? Is he still having trouble with the roommate?”

“No. It was just one of those sales calls. You know. A veteran who wanted to sell me lightbulbs. Oops, could you hold for a minute?” he asked without giving her time to respond. He had to find out when Marla was returning. But he couldn’t put off Sylvie.

“Hello,” he said into the phone tentatively.

“Say, hey! I’m not going to have enough quarters to pay for this,” Marla’s voice told him. “You know I’m too smart to call your house collect.”

“Look, I can’t talk now,” Bob told her. “When are you coming home?” His stomach was really beginning to bother him, and now his forehead and his upper chest were also covered with sweat.

“I walk all the way down here in the dark, where they don’t even have streetlights, and you tell me you can’t talk? Bobby, have you got another girlfriend?”

“Oh, babe, believe me, one’s enough.” Bob realized the tone his voice had taken and tried to lift it. “You’re all any man would ever need. Listen, I have to—”

“If I’m all any man needs, how come you’re still with your wife?” Marla asked.

“Hold on a minute,” Bob said and clicked back to Sylvie. “Hello?” he said and paused. He waited to hear whether Sylvie would respond. Sometimes the button on the phone didn’t work and you had the same person on you’d had on before you clicked. It would be bad to call Marla “Sylvie,” but it would be fatal to call his wife by another name. As fatal as this porterhouse which, at the moment, seemed to be sitting not only in his belly but on his aorta.

“Bob? Who
was
that?” Sylvie asked.

“Oh, it was the damn veteran again. He had to tell me how he was in a wheelchair. You know, it’s probably a scam but I bought a dozen bulbs. But, anyway Syl, honey, I don’t feel well. I think—well, let me just say that this meat hasn’t gone down well. In fact, it may come right back up.”

“Oh, baby,” Sylvie cooed, “I’m so sorry. I wish I was there to hold your head.”

Bob figured he could escape on that line and find out when Marla returned. “Hey, I’ve got to go. Love to Ellen,” Bob said, and just barely waited for his wife’s response before he clicked back to his waiting girlfriend. But when he got on the other line he heard only the buzzing of the dial tone.

Marla had hung up.

The next morning Bob, in recovery, was sucking on a couple of Tums as he carefully washed down Beautiful Baby. There was something calming, something almost sensual about sudsing her fenders. Washing your car was one of those few acts in life that deeply satisfied because, if you took pains, you could do it perfectly. As he rinsed the soapy sponge, Bob spotted his brother-in-law Phil coming across the lot. Bye-bye serenity. As he got closer Phil started to speak. “Is Pop here today?”

“It’s Wednesday. He’s golfing.” Jesus, after five years of his father golfing on Wednesdays Phil still didn’t get the schedule. Didn’t he pay attention?

His next question proved the answer to be no. “Hey, where’s Sylvie been? I stopped by the house earlier and she wasn’t there.”

“Wake up and smell the anesthesia,” Bob said, looking up. “She went to your sister’s for a few days. Ellen’s having something ‘done.’”

“Oh, she’s always redecorating. No kids. Gives her something to do.”

“No. I mean elective surgery. You know, cosmetic.”

“Yeah? What? A hooterectomy?” Phil probed, obviously deeply interested. “I tried to give a boob job to Rosalie on our last anniversary.”

“Maybe that’s why it was your last,” Bob commented, shaking his head. His mood, his entire meditation, was ruined by this clown.

“You’ve heard the one about the guy whose fiancée was perfect in every way? You know, gorgeous, young, rich, and sexy. Just one thing wrong: she didn’t have big knockers. You heard this one?” Phil asked.

“No, Phil. I don’t believe I’ve heard this one,” Bob answered, turning back to his car. Rubbing it would bring him peace. He’d ignore this mosquito buzzing. “Can you give it to me in four words or less?”

Phil put a hand on Bob’s shoulder, stopping him from buffing. “So anyway, of course he’s hesitant to marry her. I mean, no bazookas. But one of his friends says, ‘Are you crazy? You’d give up a beauty like that just because she’s a little titularly challenged?’ ‘But I like ’em big!’ the guy says. ‘So I got the solution,’ says the other one. ‘Just have her pat them with toilet paper three times every day. Before you know it, she’ll be Pamela Lee.’ ‘You’re kidding me,’ the guy says. ‘Toilet paper? This works?’ ‘Sure,’ says his buddy. ‘My wife’s been wiping her butt with it for years and now her ass is bigger than a house.’” Phil fell into hysterics. “Hey, you hear the one about the millionaire with three girlfriends?”

Bob, unmoved, looked at Phil and answered simply, “Phil, you’re a throwback. So out of date: it’s not Pamela Lee anymore. She’s Anderson. They got a divorce.”

“Oh yeah? Now she and I have something in common.” He shifted on his feet, but didn’t offer to help Bob with the car.

“So have you heard from Sylvie?”

“Every day, but those telephone conversations are never enough.”

“Are you kidding? Women can kill you on the phone. I kept telling Rosalie 1 didn’t need details. I know more than anyone needs to know about her mother’s…”

Bob looked over at his brother-in-law. He sounded so bitter. “So you don’t regret…?”

Phil was silent for a minute and looked away, across the lot of empty models. “Sure I do. I haven’t had a solid bowel movement since Rosalie the Vindictive threw me out. Sicilian girls! They live for vendetta, but they sure can cook.”