Switcheroo (24 page)

“Wait a minute,” Sylvie was telling her. “It’s Wednesday, John’s day off. It’s the only day he drinks at lunch.” Maybe they
could
get away with it, Sylvie thought, if Marla didn’t talk too much. John would like to believe in the wonders of modern surgical science. “Okay,” Sylvie agreed. “Here’s the deal: you’ll have lunch with John, I’ll do Eena. Then you have to cut out early and do Brightman’s feet.”

“But what are
you
doing? It’s not fair! I still have to shop for the Thanksgiving groceries,” Marla whined into the phone.

“Do it later. And be careful with John. Don’t drink and don’t talk. We’ll both be dead if you make a mistake. Then do Brightman”

“But I don’t have my equipment!” Marla whined. “My oils or my incense or my aromatherapy.”

Sylvie pulled up to a stoplight. On her right was a black sports car. She couldn’t help herself. With her younger look Sylvie felt a whole new confidence. She lowered the passenger window so she could see more clearly. The noise made the man turn his head and he looked at her. He was nice-looking, with a mustache. But he didn’t smile. A look of utter confusion, or even horror, crossed his face as he turned his head from one side to the other. Then he closed his tinted window. When the light changed, his sports car burned rubber. Only then did Sylvie see Marla in the far lane. The guy had been sandwiched between them! They’s been stereo for him. Someone behind her honked, and Sylvie put her foot on the gas, then turned left while Marla, not noticing any of this, turned right.

“Well, if I do Brightman, you’ll have to do the laundry,” she was saying. “There’s just so much. I can’t get the machine to turn on. And I don’t have time for everything.”

Sylvie sighed. Bob probably hadn’t done a load since she left. “Okay, it’s a deal. I go to Eena’s, just to get some practice. You do John, then come and meet me at Brightman’s. I give you the oils and your bag. And while you do Brightman, I’ll do the laundry. But be quick, and be careful with John. He’s a very smart doctor.”

“I’ve done doctors before,” Marla said, sounding insulted. “Where is this…?” She apparently still couldn’t find the country club.

“What? Can’t hear you, I’m in a tunnel.”

“I’ll be fine with John,” Marla shouted. “You meet me at Brightman’s. If I’m late, just go in. I’ll take over. His office has an outside door. And then
you
can go do the laundry.”

The Shaker Heights Country Club had all the brick, ivy, and curved driveways it could possibly need. It was done inside in the rich deep blue and green and wine that meant “class” to Marla. The walls were hung with pictures of people on horseback, and other pictures of dead birds and dead rabbits. She’d once worked in a restaurant like this as a hostess. The people who eat here ride and shoot animals, she thought. Weird that they love to sit on some while they kill others. Stuff like that confused her. Perhaps that distraction was the reason she didn’t plan this out better. As she entered the dining room it occurred to her for the first time that she didn’t actually know what John looked like.

The dining room was large, and as most of the tables were already occupied by groups of women, it made it easy to rule
those
out. Then there were tables of men. Tables of women, tables of men. It was interesting, Marla noted, that there were no men and women sitting together except for one very, very old couple, and it looked as if that man was more dead than alive. He was in a wheelchair, so maybe even
he
didn’t want to be eating with a woman but he couldn’t get away. She scanned the room for John. There was a man sitting alone, but he was pretty elderly. He was looking at the menu, but as if he felt her eyes on him, he dropped it and looked up. From across the room he smiled and winked. Marla couldn’t believe John would do that. But this man did look familiar. God, was he a client? Anyway, this guy was too old—a real geezer, though not bad-looking for a geezer. She could wink back…but she decided to pointedly ignore the geezer. She wasn’t going to do any flirting with anyone except John.

Then she saw the only other man alone, seated at a corner table, and she was glad she’d resisted her first temptation. He was tall—she could tell that even though he was sitting down—and staring out the window at the golf course. Was he John? Marla figured that if he saw her and waved or stood up or something she’d know. But what should she do? Shout out “Is there a doctor in the house?” Other people might be doctors, though. Just then Marla felt her arm taken by a bony hand. Before she could protest and tell whoever it was not to throw her out, that she was Mrs. Robert Schiffer and a member here, she turned and realized it was Mildred behind her. “He’s the one in the corner,” Mildred hissed.

“Mom!” Marla said and gave Mildred a big kiss. “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t overdo it, dear,” Mildred said, pecking her cheek, “and sit with your back to the rest of the room.” Then she nodded to the geezer. “Did you say hello to your father?” she asked.

“That’s my dad?” Marla whispered. “I thought he was…” She stopped before she got to the wink and how she’d snubbed him. Marla stared at the man, who was back to looking at the menu. When he looked up again she said, “Oh! I have his eyes.”

Mildred rolled hers. “A quick hello and then get over to John. And make
that
quick too,” she warned.

Marla walked across the carpet to her father. She’d never known her real father before and, even though she reminded herself that this really wasn’t him, it
might
have been him, or somebody who looked exactly like him. She felt herself choking up. There was something so solid about him—his thick thatch of white hair, his clean, very clean, sun-speckled skin, and the tweed sports jacket with the Oxford-cloth blue shirt. He looked like a perfect dad. Much more solid than Mike Brady on
The Brady Bunch
or even Charles Ingalls on
Little House
—although Pa Ingalls was definitely hotter. “Hi, Daddy,” she said in a soft voice.

“Oh,
now
you say hello! Three weeks away, not a call, not a word!” He looked her over. “I gotta say, you’re looking a treat, Sylvie. That dip in the pool must have done you some good.” He patted her head. “I think the chlorine lightened your hair.” Marla thought of how much lighter her hair had been and sighed. “But I didn’t know you were going to have lunch with us,” her dad was saying.

Marla felt an odd lump in her throat. “I’m not,” she said. “I’m…” But she really wanted to. She realized that more than anything she wanted to sit down here with her nice clean daddy.

“She’s lunching with John,” Mildred said. “Get on over there,” she told Marla. And, before she could burst into tears, Marla turned around and made her way across the dining room to the corner table.

John, still gazing out the window, must have sensed the attention because he turned, spotted her, and stood up. Marla’s mood instantly brightened. She could see she’d made a good impression on him because his mouth hung open. Even with the brown hair and extra pounds she guessed she could still look okay—at least to this guy who expected frumpy Sylvie. “Sylvie, sit down,” John invited, holding the chair for her. “Do you want some wine?”

“Sure,” Marla agreed. “Do you want to meet my mom and dad?” she asked.

He looked up from pouring her wine. “Meet them? I’ve known them all my life,” John said.

Marla, flustered, took a sip of her wine. “Of course you have. Silly me.” She smiled to cover up her slip. Then she started to run her hand suggestively up and down the stem of the glass.

John, marveling, watched her hand, then moved his eyes up to her face. “You look…beautiful.”

“Well, this is the new Sylvie,” Marla said, smiling.

John laughed. “As a philosopher, I have to say I have problems with cosmetic surgery. As a professional, I just have to tell you that whatever you did to yourself, you look terrific.” He lowered his voice. “As a man, I want to tell you that you look better than terrific.”

Ah, this was more like it. Marla gave John a look from beneath her lids. “What’s
better
than terrific?” she urged.

“I would say it’s in the range of breathtaking,” John said, and then looked down at his drink. He seemed to blush.

“Why, Dr. John! You are a flirt!” Marla said, finishing the wine. She should have eaten some breakfast. “You really, really should have asked me to marry
you
before Bob did.”

“I did,” John said.

Marla, confused, stopped for a moment. “Which is why I respect you so much,” she told him, recovering.

“I respect you too, Sylvie.” He reached out and took her hand.

Marla deeply enjoyed hearing that. Men had adored her, had lusted after her, had courted her. But respect? “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that word before…applied to me.”

“I can’t believe that,” John said. The waiter came to take their lunch order, and John pulled his hand back, breaking the mood. When the waiter left, John seemed to get serious. “You said you had something urgent to tell me.”

“I do, but you may not respect me when you hear it,” Marla said, hanging her head.

“Try me”

Marla thought she would like to, but used her better judgment and didn’t tell him. She looked down at the glistening Cartier ring gleaming on her finger—now hers forever. She took a deep breath. Now
she’d
get the chance to be a victim. “Okay, John. You’ll have to get this the first time. It is
so
painful that I’ll never be able to say it aloud again. Not even to you, my best friend.”

“Go on. You know you’re always safe with me.” John took Marla’s hand again.

Marla took another deep breath, drank down the glass of wine, and looked deep into John’s eyes. “Bob is cheating on me,” she announced. She exhaled loudly. “There! It’s out in the open now. I feel much better.”

John looked more confused than concerned. “Sylvie. You already told me about that,” he said gently. “Before you left, you told me.”

Marla panicked for a moment, but then pretended to remember. “Oh, right. Well, then it’s old news.” She gulped her wine. “So I went away, thought about it all, and just decided it was nobody’s fault but blame itself. And I’m going to live by those words.”

“I don’t understand,” John said.

“Thank goodness!”

The waiter returned with their order and poured the rest of the wine. Once again John pulled back his hand. “Let’s have lunch,” Marla said brightly. Then, when they were alone again, she smiled seductively at John. This time
she
reached out and took
his
hand. John did not look unhappy that she did so.

Sylvie was sitting in the reception area waiting for Mr. Brightman. She had recuperated from the shock of Eena’s place—a tiny garden apartment filled with cats, crystals, dying houseplants, and some of the dirtiest throw rugs Sylvie had ever stepped on. When Eena had lifted her feet up, their bottoms had been absolutely black.

And Eena hadn’t just expected to have her arches rubbed: she’d wanted a reading. She needed to know whether it was her bladder or her kidneys that were acting up, because she wasn’t sure which healing crystal to use. Sylvie had faked it as best she could and then, when Eena mentioned that there was blood in her urine, Sylvie strongly suggested that she call John for an appointment.

She’d washed her hands five times since then; twice at Eena’s, then with Handi Wipes in the car, again at a gas station rest room, and here at Mr. Brightman’s.

Apparently, though Marla had called him a crook, Brightman was actually the president of some kind of trucking company. Men moved back and forth across the green linoleum of the office, talking about depots and weigh stations. Each of them managed to look her over, most of them either averting their eyes or winking. She sat there, as primly as she could, in a pair of Marla’s skintight blue leggings and a yellow sweater, feeling like she was a child in school waiting to see the principal.

“Mr. Brightman will see you now. He’s sorry you had to wait so long,” the receptionist told her with a smirk.

“That’s all right. I can wait longer,” Sylvie replied nervously. Where was Marla? She’d promised she’d come.

“He can’t. He has a three-thirty.”

“I could come back tomorrow,” Sylvie offered. Where the
hell
was Marla?

“He specifically said he needed to be relaxed
now
. He’s all ready.” The receptionist held up Mr. Brightman’s shoes as if they were a pair of dead fish. Sylvie felt as if she might faint.

“Right. Absolutely. Now.” Sylvie forced herself to rise, then started to walk toward Mr. Brightman’s office. The receptionist stopped her, redirected her to another door. “You know he likes it in there,” she said.

God, what was “in there”? Marla didn’t tell her about
this
. Was this something more than…playing footsie? “Oh, right. I don’t know where my head is today,” Sylvie murmured to cover up her mistake.

“That’s okay. You never did,” the receptionist said, so it was clear that Marla had on this been truthful—she was a regular.

Sylvie, slowly and hesitantly, moved to the door and entered. It was, thank god, not a bedroom. It was, instead, totally empty except for wall-to-wall pink carpeting, pink velvet drapes, and a black leather chair and ottoman placed in the precise center of the room. Mr. Simon Brightman was sitting in the chair. Sylvie saw that he had his feet naked and ready for her. He was portly, with thinning gray hair and a round face that seemed to be missing a chin. He wore a wrinkled plain gray suit and a white button-down shirt with the collar open, his blue tie loosened. But it was his feet, naked and propped up on the ottoman, that Sylvie couldn’t avoid looking at. His feet were tiny for a man his size, and sprouted enormous tufts of hair on each toe knuckle. The hair was almost long enough to braid, not that Sylvie wanted to get close enough to do that. The bottom of each foot was yellow with thick calluses, and the tops, up to the ankles, were covered with a road map of distended, ropy veins. Most disgusting of all were his toenails—painted a Molly Ringwald pink. Sylvie thought of Eena’s black-bottomed feet. Now these. Of all the feet in all the world she had to start with these?