Switcheroo (3 page)

“Oh no! A trip? Now?” He turned away from the mirror. “Come on, baby. That’s out of the question. We have the new models just jamming the lot. Your father’s talking about an advertising push, and I’m flirting with the idea of this political thing. Anyway, with two tuitions…we just can’t.”

“It’s not expensive,” Sylvie gabbled. “Not at this time of year. The season hasn’t begun yet. There’s a package deal. And I have money saved from lessons.”

“Hey! Pay for your own fortieth birthday present? I don’t think so.” He bent to her cheek and kissed her. His aftershave smelled of lime, unfamiliar. “Anyway, I already got your present for you. I brought it home tonight. Want to see it?” He dropped his towel, pulled on his briefs, stepped into his slacks, and looked around for his belt. Sylvie handed it to him. As he threaded it through his belt loops, Sylvie watched the brochure slide slowly down the wet mirror and settle in a pool of water on the vanity.

Bob, his shirt on, gave her another bear hug. “Hey! Come downstairs. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten your upcoming big day. Four decades! And you don’t look a day over forty.” She smiled weakly at him. He took her hand. “So, come on down and see your reward.”

Sylvie slowly followed Bob as he led her downstairs, through the kitchen, out the back door, past the rose bed and her row of double zinnias, over to the driveway. The light was beginning to fade, and his car—his obsession—was parked in front of the garage.

“You’re giving me Beautiful Baby for my birthday?” Sylvie joked mildly. If Bob had a choice between losing his car or his prostate, he’d probably keep the two-seater. It was a perfectly restored BMW, a 1971 XS200. But what in the world had he gotten for
her
? Her heart fluttered for a moment. Bob’s car was tiny, but there was enough room in the glove compartment for a jewelry box.

“You know my birthday isn’t until Friday. Shouldn’t we wait until then?” Sylvie asked. She felt guilty that she’d had ungracious thoughts about Bob. He really was thoughtful.

“Come on! You seem a little down. I want you to enjoy this as soon as possible. Use it on your birthday.” Bob pressed the remote to open the garage doors. As they swung up, he turned on the lights.

There, illuminated by the overhead fluorescent, was a new BMW convertible. A huge red bow was stretched across the hood. A car? Bob put his arm around her. “Happy birthday, honey,” he said. “Kids are gone. Time for a toy. Enjoy yourself.”

Sylvie looked at the sparkling silvery-paint-and-shiny-chrome object. “You took away my sedan?” she asked weakly.

“Don’t worry about a thing. Already detailed and in the previously owned lot.” He gestured to the convertible. “Isn’t she a beauty? Isn’t that better than a trip to Hawaii?”

Sylvie reluctantly nodded. She should feel grateful and excited, she told herself. Even if the family did own a BMW dealership and she got a new car every couple of years as a matter of course. This one
was
special. She knew Bob couldn’t keep the new convertibles on the lot. So why did she feel so…disappointed? She looked up at Bob. “Thank you,” she said, trying to muster some enthusiasm. She failed. “It’s really extravagant. It’s great,” she said, and she heard the flatness in her voice. God, she hoped Bob didn’t. She wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings.

But Bob didn’t seem hurt. He patted the leather of the seat. “You’ll love it as much as I love mine,” he told her. Sylvie doubted that, but she managed a smile. “Look, I’ve got to go,” he continued. “We’ll take the car out for your birthday, okay? Maybe we’ll drive up to the lake. Eat at L’Étoile. We haven’t been there in a long time.”

“Sure. Okay.” Sylvie paused. What was it? Oh. “That’s funny, because when Honey Blank came over today—”

Bob had pulled out his car keys. “Honey Blank? That piece of work? Can you tell me in four words or less?” he asked. “Or, better, save it for later. I really have to go.”

“Never mind. I’ll tell you when you get home,” Sylvie agreed. What difference did the coincidence make? Barely a conversation point.

“I might be late. I won’t wake you.” Bob got into Beautiful Baby and started her up. For a moment Sylvie saw him there as a stranger, a middle-aged man with a bit of a paunch sitting in a sports car built for the very young.

“I wouldn’t mind if you did wake me,” she told him, hoping he’d get the hint, but he had already begun backing out of the driveway. He waved as he pulled into the cul-de-sac and then accelerated. Sylvie watched him go. She stood for a moment in the twilight, the ugly fluorescent shining out of the garage behind her making the macadam under her feet look purple with oil.

“Well. That’s impressive.”

Sylvie looked up. God, it was Rosalie the Bitter, her ex-sister-in-law. Not right now, Sylvie thought. It wasn’t that Sylvie didn’t love Rosalie and feel sorry for her. She even took her side over her own brother’s, but Rosalie
was
difficult.

“A new car?” Rosalie asked. “I can’t even get Phil to fix my transmission. And he’s in charge of the service department.”

Sylvie had long known there was no way to have a conversation with Rosalie. Everything was a complaint or an attack. Though she’d wound up with the house, alimony, and healthy child support, Rosalie still felt cheated. Of course, Sylvie had to admit, Rosalie had been cheated on. Even if Phil was her brother, Sylvie thought he’d gotten what he deserved. But she couldn’t help wishing Rosalie didn’t live right next door.

“Have you been jogging?” Sylvie asked, partly to change the subject and partly to just say something. Rosalie was in shorts and the kind of industrial Nikes that cost in the three figures. Sylvie pressed the garage button to close the door. Rosalie, thin as a rake, ignored the question. It seemed to Sylvie that she’d displaced most of the energy she’d used nagging Phil and now used it to exercise with. Rosalie jogged, lifted weights, taught aerobics, and even attended a yoga class in downtown Cleveland. Maybe, Sylvie thought, she should give Rosalie her thigh master. Not that she needed it.

“You know how lucky you are?” Rosalie demanded. “Do you know?” Rosalie looked around at the flower beds, the lawn, the house. “A new car in your garage, two nice kids in college,
and
a husband in your bed.” Rosalie shook her dark head. Sylvie turned away and started for the back door. She felt sorry for Rosalie—her three kids argued or ignored her, had dropped out of school and out of work. But Rosalie never stopped complaining. Now she followed Sylvie across the slate patio. Rosalie the Relentless. “Forty isn’t easy for any woman. But if anyone has it easy, you do,” Rosalie was saying. “You’re lucky. You’ve always been lucky.”

Sylvie got to the screen door, opened it, and slipped in. Then, she very deliberately locked the button. “You’re right, Rosalie,” Sylvie said through the screen. “I’m lucky. My life is a paradise.”

And she shut the back door.

Sylvie had put the top down on her new car although there was a chill in the air. It was wasteful to drive with the heat pumping and the top off but she was doing it. What the hell. She’d be self-indulgent. She was almost forty. Live a little!

The groceries she’d just bought were arranged neatly in four bags across the backseat and, as she took a sharp turn, she glimpsed them in the mirror. They shifted but didn’t spill. Before the children had left she used to have to fill the backseat and the trunk of the sedan with groceries—Kenny and his friends ate like horses. Now four bags and a dollar tip to the box boy was all it took to fill the backseat and restock the larder at home.

She took a curve much faster than usual. The wind whipped at her hair. It was odd there was so much air, yet she couldn’t seem to breathe. Somehow all she could manage were shallow breaths. Maybe she should take a yoga class.

Last night, after choking down a solitary dinner of overdone chicken, she’d waited for Bob. He’d come in after midnight and he hadn’t wanted to talk. Sylvie didn’t push it. Instead, she’d lain awake most of the night, sleepless and confused. She had—

Out of nowhere a car pulled out of an almost hidden driveway on her right. Sylvie moved the wheel and the convertible swerved responsively. A van was in the oncoming lane. The slightest touch brought her car back, long before the van was a real danger to her, but she was shaken. So were the groceries. Sylvie had to admit that the convertible was beautiful to drive, but she didn’t want it. It was wrong somehow. It felt all wrong.

What’s wrong with
me?
Sylvie thought. Most women would give up their husbands for a car like this. Or, for that matter, give up their cars for a husband like mine. And I have both. Rosalie is right. I’m very lucky. I should be grateful. She began her litany. I’m healthy, I love Bob, he loves me, the kids are fine. It’s a beautiful sunny day, and the leaves are just starting to turn. This unease she felt, this nagging sense of dissatisfaction, wasn’t like her. Sylvie felt ashamed at her unhappiness, but it was still there, right under her breastbone. She braked for a red light, the car gliding smoothly and effortlessly to a stop.

The steering wheel under her hands was wet with sweat. The feeling that had been building in her, lodging in her chest, now moved into her throat and blocked it. She tried to swallow and couldn’t do it. It didn’t matter anyway—her mouth was so dry there was nothing to swallow. Either I’m going crazy or something is really wrong, she thought as the light turned green. A horn blared behind her. The driver hadn’t even given her a minute. She accelerated. All at once she was swept with a surge of anger—of rage—so complete that she had trouble seeing the road. She looked in the rearview mirror at the old man in the big Buick behind her, gunned the motor, and flipped him the bird.

God! She’d never done that before in her life. Road rage? What was going on?

She realized that it was more than not wanting this car. Bob hadn’t thought of her when he took it off the lot. It was a reflexive gift, not a reflective one. He hadn’t reflected, thought, for one moment about what she might want. He took her for granted. He hadn’t listened about Hawaii either. When was the last time he
had
listened? Sylvie didn’t want automatic gifts, no matter how luxurious. She didn’t want to be taken for granted. She didn’t want to be ignored by Bob. There was so many things she had that she
didn’t
want, she felt almost dizzy and nearly missed the left into the cul-de-sac. She jerked the wheel and the new tires squealed making the turn. She drove slowly on Harris Place, the street she lived on, where her mother had the big house with the white columns and where her brother had lived in the Tudor before he’d divorced Rosalie. The few other houses on Harris were all traditional, well-designed and maintained. She drove past the beds of vinca in front of the Williamsons’ and the row of gold chrysanthemums unimaginatively lined up along Rosalie’s fence. Everything appeared so right, but this foreboding, this sense that it was wrong, became insupportable. She still couldn’t breathe. It was as if the open top of the car let the entire weight of the universe in to crush her. Her house, the house she loved, loomed up.

Sylvie made a sharp right and felt the wheels of the BMW effortlessly move over the curb. She drove the car calmly across her own side lawn and, when she reached it, through the flower border, right over the zinnias. She felt an icy stillness as she proceeded onto the back lawn and engineered a carefully calculated right turn, avoiding the slate patio. The aqua rectangle of the pool was right before her and, without slowing down, she headed for it, the car, like a homing device, moving toward the concrete edge of the eight-foot diving drop. As the front wheels spun out into empty space, just before they took the plunge into the turquoise water, Sylvie was able to take the first deep breath she had taken all day.

“Sylvie! Sylvie, baby! Are you okay?”

Mildred had been rehanging the bedroom curtains and had looked down to see the L her daughter made in the lawn as she had done this crazy thing. Now Mildred stood at the edge of the pool. She couldn’t swim—never had—but she’d jump in to attempt to save her daughter if she must. Mildred was relieved then to see that Sylvie’s head had broken through the leaf-strewn surface of the water. Sylvie, a good swimmer, breaststroked gracefully over the trunk of the car and across the pool, still holding on to her purse. Her shoes had fallen to the bottom, but the shorts and blouse she had on felt surprisingly heavy, pulling her down. Still, Sylvie managed to move through the cold water to the ladder.

Mildred was panting, one hand against the ladder rail, the other hand on her heaving chest. “You frightened me,” Mildred said. There was a scream from the other side of the property and Mildred started and turned her head. Sylvie, still in the pool, couldn’t see but knew whose voice it was. “Oh god,” Mildred muttered. “I know
she
never washes her curtains, so what’s her excuse for seeing this?” She squatted down to get closer to Sylvie and extended her hand to help her. “Your ex-sister-in-law is waving to you,” she said.

Climbing the ladder, Sylvie turned and saw Rosalie’s dark head over the pickets of the north fence. “Trouble in Paradise?” Rosalie yelled.

Mildred, ignoring Rosalie, carefully helped her daughter out of the pool. “Why did you do that?” she asked.

“So I’ll remember where I parked?”

“Are you being flippant with your mother?”

Sylvie opened her purse, oblivious to the water that poured out, and dropped in her car keys. She snapped the purse shut. The noise it made, like a tiny sedan door closing, did not sound as solid as usual. “Flippant?” she echoed, distracted. She was a little dazed, but at least she could breathe.

“Sylvie, you do realize you’ve just done a very strange thing? If you don’t, it’s even stranger.”

Sylvie turned to look at the scene behind her. Three nectarines and a head of lettuce were now floating on the top of the pool. The car glinted up from the bottom like a silver fish lying under aspic.
What had she done?
And why had she done it? She put her hand up to her eyes to wipe away the water streaming down from her hair, only to realize there were also tears rising over her bottom lids. What had she done? Was she crazy? “I just want Bob to notice me,” she admitted in a whisper.