Switcheroo Read online

  “Huh?” Bob, his mouth now full of broccoli, stopped chewing for a moment and furrowed his brow.

  She had his attention. “Okay,” she said. “In four words or less: drove car into pool.”

  Bob managed—just barely—to swallow the broccoli. Sylvie wondered idly whether she still remembered CPR, just in case the vegetable got caught in his throat. “What?…why the hell?…are you kidding…?” he choked out.

  Now he was listening to her. Not about Hawaii or her birthday, but about the car. Now, however, she didn’t want to talk. Did he still want it in four words? Sylvie counted on her fingers. “Felt bad. Turned right.”

  Bob put down the fork and stood up slowly. Sylvie realized that this was the first time she’d seen him move slowly in months. Lately he was always in a rush, always on the go. “Your car? Our pool?” he asked. It seemed that he could talk in four words now too. Silently, Sylvie nodded. She watched him move slowly, like a sleepwalker, to the kitchen window and look out. It was getting dark earlier and twilight had fallen. The blue corner of the pool and the glinting car within it glowed. Bob stood absolutely still at the window, his back to Sylvie, his hands spread wide and as flat as two flounders against the countertop. It was very quiet in the kitchen. Sylvie could hear the ice maker growl on. Bob continued to stand there, his back to her. “Why in the world would you do a thing like that?” he asked, his voice full of wonder. “That’s nuts.”

  Sylvie hung her head. All at once her anger deserted her and she felt like a preschooler, as wrong and needy as Kenny had ever been on his worst day. “Maybe I just wanted us to have something to talk about,” she managed to whisper.

  Bob turned away from the window, but only for a minute. He swiveled his head back as if he were unable to tear his eyes away from the unnatural panorama. “We have plenty to talk about: Kenny, Reenie…,” he paused, obviously stuck, “…Hawaiian brochures,” he added lamely.

  Sylvie lifted her head. Bob was obviously mesmerized; she could see the willpower it took him to force his eyes from the window. His voice was hoarse, either with broccoli or emotion. “A BMW underwater. It’s so…so wrong,” he said. In the light of the kitchen, she could see that his face was registering shock. “I can’t even imagine how I would feel if that was Beautiful Baby.”

  “I’m not as close to my car as you are.”

  He didn’t even notice her sarcasm. “But why, Sylvie? Why? I know you’re…spontaneous. You know…Lucy Ricardoesque. Maybe sometimes a little…well, flaky. But this is not the kind of thing that happens to us.”

  Sylvie looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “Bob, I don’t feel like there is an ‘us.’”

  “Don’t be silly. We’re married. That’s as ‘us’ as you can get.” Bob crossed the floor, leaving the window and its shocking view. He gave Sylvie another quick bear hug. Then, taking her hand, he led her out the back door, into the soft darkness of the yard. How long had it been since they had held hands? she wondered. She couldn’t remember the last time. He led her across the patio and onto the lawn.

  The sky hadn’t turned inky yet, but the hedges and shrubs had. The back garden was now fifty shades of indigo. When she and Bob had bought this property, the yard had been a huge forlorn lot with nothing but a scrawny Norfolk pine and an ugly border of chrysanthemums. Since then they had done so much together. In the last fifteen years the bushes and evergreens that she and Bob had planted had grown into an encircling shelter. And her flowers had thrived. Sylvie looked up.

  There was only one star overhead. That dot of light and the lunar glow of the white impatiens in the border were the only touches of light in the darkness—except, of course, for the Technicolor glow in the center of the yard. The turquoise and silver of the pool and the car drew them to it.

  Bob stood beside her at the edge of the pool, looking down at the sunken convertible. To Sylvie its sleek, metallic-gray chassis looked like the corpse of a shark. “You didn’t lose control of the steering?” he asked. “Nothing went haywire?”

  “No,” she told him. Nothing but me, she thought.

  “But how could you have an accident like this?”

  “Bob, it wasn’t an accident…” She was about to launch into the stuff about her feelings, about gifts, about attention, when he spoke again.

  “I understand,” he said.

  “You do?” She could hardly believe it. Somehow her gesture, extreme as it was, had gotten through to him. “You really do?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  Sylvie felt a flood of relief wash over her. Then Bob spoke again.

  “You know, Sylvie, this has been a time with a lot of adjustments for you. Your birthday. Both of the kids gone. I mean, maybe it’s time to think about some medical help.”

  “Medical help?” she echoed. “What do you mean? Psychiatrists?”

  “No, no. I mean, not yet. Not unless you feel you need one. I just think maybe you’re a little moody, a little down. Maybe it’s time for that hormone replacement therapy. Maybe you should see John. Have a checkup.”

  “Have you been watching the Lifetime channel secretly again?” Sylvie snapped. “Bob, this isn’t about my estrogen levels. It’s about our communication. Or lack of it.”

  Bob was staring again at the pool bottom. “Jesus! Did Rosalie see this? Does your dad know? Well, all of Shaker Heights will be talking about this over granola and prune juice tomorrow morning.”

  “Who cares?” Sylvie demanded. “I only care about what we talk about. Or don’t. We don’t talk.”

  Bob turned to her and took her shoulders in his hands. They were warm against the cool autumn air and she shivered. “Look. I’ll talk to you about whatever you want to talk about,” Bob said, his voice as soft as the night. Sylvie took a deep breath, but before she could begin Bob continued, “I just can’t do it now. I have to get to this meeting. Tomorrow night though, over dinner, we’ll talk about whatever you want. I promise. It’s your birthday. It’s your night.” He took her elbow and moved her away from the pool edge. “I’ll take care of the car. Don’t worry about a thing. Then the weekend is coming up. We’ll talk some more. But, Sylvie,” he paused. “You make an appointment with the doctor. It can’t hurt.” He had propelled her across the slate and was opening the screen door. He helped her up the steps as if she were an invalid but then closed the door from the outside. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “But don’t worry. We’ll talk.”

  Sylvie pressed her hand against the screen that was shutting her in as she’d shut Rosalie out. She began to tell him…well…to tell him something, but Bob had already swung around into the darkness and was gone. There was something, or a lot of things, out there more important to him than she was. She’d never talk to him again. She promised herself that. Then, in the harsh light of the kitchen, Sylvie dropped her hand, turned away from the door, and began clearing her untouched dinner from the table.

  5

  Bob Schiffer drove his car down Longworth Avenue and pulled into the Crandall BMW lot. The sun glinted off the cars. It was a perfect day, but Bob felt uneasy. Well, worse. How long could he get away with this? Sylvie was upset and his girlfriend, well, she was pressuring him. Roger, from maintenance, waved as Bob pulled past him into the special parking space he had reserved for his car. She purred to a stop and he switched off the ignition and patted the dash. “You’re beautiful, Baby,” he said to the car, which was how Sylvie had given it the name. He got out of the car and carefully closed the door. If he left her in the sun for any length of time he covered her, but he’d had a roof built over this spot so that her perfect paint wouldn’t fade.

  The Crandall BMW car lot was on the edge of Shaker Heights. Jim Crandall, Sylvie’s father, had started the business almost thirty years ago when Beemers ran unbelievably behind Mercedeses in status and sales. He’d struggled for years, first against Detroit and then against Japanese imports. Finally, when he’d welcomed his son and son-in-law into the business, his days of glory had commenced. Now the l
ot spread over an entire block on Longworth Avenue and Jim was as proud of the neat landscaping, lush grass, and pristine building as he was of the healthy bottom line. Bob knew that Jim found his own son, Phil, a disappointment. He also knew that Jim thought of him as a son rather than a son-in-law. And Bob, whose own father had died when he was twelve, looked on Jim as a father. And, why not? After all, he spent more time with Jim than Sylvie did. The old man could certainly be a pain in the ass at times, though.

  Now Jim was crossing the lot, his white hair glaring in the autumn sunlight. So was he, and talking before he was close enough for Bob to hear. “Let me get this straight,” he was saying. “She drove the car right into the pool?” Jim asked. He’d asked the question several times already last night and this morning over the phone.

  Bob nodded. “Into the pool, Jim.”

  “Wasn’t she looking where she was going? And why was she driving in the backyard?”

  “That, indeed, is a legitimate question. But what is the answer?”

  “Insanity,” Jim barked. “Not that your mother-in-law can drive. She’s had more fender benders than a demolition derby. Well, Sylvie didn’t get it from my side of the family. Crandalls can all drive.” Bob forbore to mention the several accidents Jim had been in. “You making the arrangements?”

  “Yeah. I’m on it. So I guess we’re canceling the commercial shoot?”

  “No. In fact, I got an idea. Let’s use the car in the pool as part of the commercial.”

  Bob looked at his father-in-law. “Is a wet Beemer an inducement to purchase?” he asked. “I mean, it’s not like the old Volkswagen beetle. Believe me, Jim, this car is not floating.”

  “Hey. We don’t shoot it in the water. We shoot it in the air. When they’re lifting it out. Hell, even Phil can think of the patter. Christ knows he’s good with bullshit.” Jim turned around and started back toward the office. “Me, I’m playing golf this afternoon. You can get me at the club if you need to.”

  Jim was in what he called “semiretirement,” but one of the problems was you never knew at which moment he was in “semi” and which moment he was in “retirement.” Bob shrugged. This morning appeared to be the former and would therefore be a killer. They were in the process of doing inventory, preparing for the special promotion, shooting a commercial, and now, as if that weren’t enough, he had to keep an eye out for Jim and take care of Sylvie’s little…mishap. He shrugged and pulled his phone out of his sports coat pocket. He punched in a number. It was busy. He hated that. It was almost the millennium. Hasn’t everyone heard of call waiting? Bob sighed and began to dial another number. He was a man with a lot on his mind.

  “A crane. That’s right, a crane…because it’s in the pool, that’s why…Please don’t make me say it again.” Bob had finally gotten through to the wrecking company. He was at the farthest end of the lot, overseeing Sam Granger and Phil, who were going through the inventory. It had been a busy morning, except in terms of sales. Now a woman, middle-aged but attractive, was idly wandering among the gleaming cars, a row behind Bob. Normally he would approach her, but she had the look of a browser, not a buyer. Despite the risk, Bob motioned to Phil. “Why don’t you handle her?” he asked. Phil nodded and moved toward the woman. Since Phil had been put in charge of service he relished selling opportunities. Bob just hoped Phil didn’t take his suggestion literally.

  Since his divorce, Phil blamed everything that was wrong in the world on women. The fact that he’d caused the end of his marriage by continuously cheating on his wife never entered his mind. Lately he was also slightly delusional, assuming every female was interested in him in a carnal way. Bob looked at his brother-in-law. He was still sort of good-looking, despite his receding hairline, his paunch, and his questionable taste in clothes. Yet he saw himself as Ohio’s answer to Brad Pitt. This was a guy who would order a hamburger at lunch and, when the waitress asked how he wanted it, would leer and insist her question was a double entendre. “How do I want it?” he’d repeat, nudging Bob, who’d squirm with embarrassment while the bored waitress stared out over the parking lot. Invariably, after the girl left, Phil would begin his excited whisper. “You heard her. It’s not like I started it. How do I want it? Why doesn’t she just give me the key to her place? I tell you, they can’t leave me alone.”

  The woman was looking at the sticker price of a sedan. She was squinting in the sun. Phil looked over at her. “Did you see that?” he asked Bob.

  “What?”

  “The way she stared at me, checking out my package,” Phil cried hoarsely. Sam Granger snorted. Bob rolled his eyes. Phil was a danger to himself and others. Rosalie the Horrific might have been a witch, but she’d certainly had her hands full with Phil.

  “Phil, behave,” Bob warned. “Take it easy or I’ll tell your father on you.”

  “Hey! She better take it easy. The laws against sexual harassment cut both ways, ya know.”

  “Control yourself, Phil. Try to sell a car.” Bob’s cellular rang and he pulled it out. He moved away from Sam Granger and put the phone to his ear. “Hello. Bob Schiffer. Oh,” he said. He lowered his voice. “Hi, Cookie Face. I can’t talk now. No. Really. I can’t.” Bob looked around. Phil was leaning up against the sedan, talking to the poor female prospect while Sam had disappeared into the front seat of a model a row away. “Come on, honey. You know this isn’t a good place for me to talk,” Bob murmured into the phone. He laughed out loud. “Sing? If I can’t talk, how can I sing?” She always made him laugh, but after four months he still wasn’t sure if it was intentional or accidental. That was part of her charm. Now he listened to her request. “But you called me. The song makes no sense if I sing. No. Of course I do. All right, but then I have to go.” Bob began to hum into the phone, then tried for a Stevie Wonder voice. “I just called to say I love you…I just called to—”

  When he was tapped on the shoulder, Bob must have jumped eight inches straight off the ground. John Spencer, Bob and Sylvie’s best friend, was standing behind him. “Gotta go…,” Bob hissed into the phone. “No. Not now. And be sure to get the crane there by one o’clock,” he added in his normal authoritative tone, then flipped the phone closed and slipped it into his pocket. He turned to John as casually as he could and gave him a big bear hug. “Hey. How ya doing?”

  John wasn’t buying it. “Why, you sneaky, slimy bastard. Bob the Saint…”

  Bob opened his eyes wide and tried to make a blank face. He wasn’t sure it was working and when John raised his brows upward Bob felt his stomach tug downward. “What? It was Sylvie,” he protested.

  John shook his head. “Maybe I’m just a general practitioner, but I’m not stupid. You, Bob? Come on. You’re no player. What the hell is going on?”

  “Nothing,” Bob said and sounded to himself like one of the twins when they were eight years old. He looked at John’s doubting face. “Okay,” he admitted. “Something. But nothing important.” He bit his lip. “I don’t want to hurt Sylvie. You don’t either, do you?”

  John looked him in the eyes. “I won’t tell, if that’s what you’re asking, but I won’t he. She’s my friend too. She was my girlfriend before she even met you.”

  “I know. I know. You remind me of that all the time. But this is…just a temporary thing.”

  “So? Temporary but indefensible.”

  Bob, trapped, knew he had no defense. “Well, Phil did it,” he said, sounding like one of the twins when they were ten.

  “Great response,” John snorted. “Let’s not forget that Phil is a delusional penis with a man attached. And he wasn’t married to a Sylvie.”

  Bob looked away, ashamed. John’s wife, Nora, had died almost three years ago, and if their marriage hadn’t been perfect then, it was now, enshrined in John’s memory. Since then John had thrown himself into his practice and into his avocation—Little League coach and professional widower—but in Bob’s opinion, he took a certain amount of pleasure in wallowing in his bereavement. Plus, there were alw
ays so many Shaker Heights women dropping off casseroles and inviting him to be the extra man at their dinner parties that his life wasn’t anything close to the living hell he depicted it as.

  But mine could be, Bob thought. It could if I lost Sylvie. And he had been meaning to end it with the girl. He just didn’t know how. He had never had an affair before. Best to come clean. “You’re right. You caught me,” he admitted. “I don’t know what I’m doing. One day I’m a nice guy, the next I’m a Kennedy husband.” He paused. John looked skeptical, as if he doubted Bob’s sincerity. “Wait. I’m worse. I’m dead dog meat.” John raised his brows. “No,” he corrected himself. “I’m dead dog meat with maggots.” John nodded. “Can we talk about this while you drive me to my house?” Bob asked. “I don’t deserve to sit behind the wheel of Beautiful Baby.”

  “Vehicular morality wasn’t the first concern I had.”

  “Please. Will you drive me?”

  “No problem. I can’t get enough of that dead dog meat smell in my car.”

  They got into John’s three-year-old sedan, which Bob had sold him after using it as a showroom model. He’d given John a real deal on it. They drove off the lot. It was time for Bob to recoup a little. After all, John was only a doctor, not a judge.

  “Don’t tell me you never did it. With all those women patients! With all those females who worship you. Swear on Nora’s memory that you didn’t.”

  “Not with a patient. Never.” John maneuvered the car into the passing lane.

  “Ah. With someone impatient! Come on. Come clean. You were human too!”

  John hesitated. “Only once,” he admitted.

  “I knew it! See. No one is perfect.”

  “Okay. Okay. But I was loaded. No excuse. I was on a business trip and it was with a pharmacologist, not with a patient. I regretted it immediately.”

  “Afterward, that’s easy. I always regret it afterward too.”