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The Switch

Год написания книги
2018
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“Those openings are tricky,” John said dryly.

Bob gave his friend a boyish punch on the shoulder. “Hey, enough. I take your point. Today my job is to make you feel better. It’s time for a change. You’re going to trade your car in for a newer, shinier model. It’s exactly what a man needs when he’s contemplating his own mortality. And I’m going to give you an unbelievable deal. As a tribute to Nora.” He paused. “But I do need a little favor.”

John shrugged. “It’s yours.”

“Can you make an appointment to see Sylvie? Casually, but as a professional. Talk to her?”

“To what end?”

“Put her on hormones or something? She’s just not herself. Frankly, I’m worried.”

“What? Hormones? Why? Anyway, I’m not a gynecologist. And they’d want to run blood work first. You know, I don’t hand out powerful drugs as if they were candy corn.”

“Look, I didn’t mean to insult you …”

“Anyway, what’s wrong with Sylvie? You’re the one who’s sick. Sylvie is fine. We both know that.”

“Fine? Would you say that if you knew she drove her new car into our pool yesterday?” Bob’s cell phone rang. He pulled it out and flipped it open while John, openmouthed, stared at him. Bob wished he’d keep his eyes on the road.

“Yes?” Bob snapped into the phone. “Uh-huh. Right. The crane goes to my house. Yes. Through the yard, into the back. How else could it get over to my pool?” He sighed deeply. “Please don’t make me explain it again.” When Bob hung up, he looked over at John to see him shaking his head.

“She drove the car into the pool?” John asked. They were both silent for a moment as John drove—too slowly—through Highland Heights. “And you think this affair isn’t affecting Sylvie?”

“Sylvie doesn’t know anything about it,” Bob said vehemently.

“Come on, Bob. Even if she hasn’t heard about it—yet—Shaker Heights is a small town. Anyway, haven’t you ever heard of the sub-conscious? Sylvie must know something is wrong. Not to mention the girl. She may have called Sylvie, for all you know.”

Bob’s stomach clenched and a nasty taste of bile rose to his throat. “I told her not to even talk about Sylvie, much less talk to her.”

“Well, I hope she’s good at obedience,” John said. “Aside from all this, if the Masons find out, you’d get drummed out, or whatever they do to a shamed Mason.”

“Who cares? The Mason story is just a cover-up to give me an excuse to go out at night. God, I’m an asshole. No, I’m the world’s biggest asshole.” Bob stared out the window. “Think of the biggest asshole in the world. Now raise it to the power of ten. That’s me. I am a thousand assholes.”

“Don’t be so grandiose,” John told him. “You’re just a common garden-variety adulterer. I see them every day. Your dick is running the company right now. I might as well be talking to it.”

Bob nodded morosely. “You’re right.” He looked down at his crotch. “He’s the C.O.O.” He sighed. “You know what I wish? I wish I could get him off the board of directors. Or just cut it off. Or better, I wish it would just fall off. It’s ruining my life.”

John snorted. “Bob, eunuchs are not happy guys.” He swerved around the corner and Bob instinctively pressed his foot down where the brake pedal should be on the passenger’s floor.

“I’d like to see the research on that,” Bob said as John turned the car into the driveway.

As John and Bob pulled up to the house, the whole cul-de-sac looked more like a derailed circus train than a suburban street. “Looks like my brother-in-law is in charge.” Bob said. Phil, gesturing madly, looked as if he were either teaching parallel parking or directing the crane.

“Well, good luck with him. And, Bob … think about what I said. Your life is becoming unmanageable.”

“No it isn’t. But as God is my witness, I’m ending the … you know,” Bob promised John. “Sylvie deserves better. The poor girl deserves better.” He looked at his pal. “Do you think I’ll ever forgive myself?”

“Somehow, Bob, I think you’ll manage,” John said and laughed. “Kiss Sylvie for me. If you don’t, maybe I will.”

Bob got out of the car. Vans, a couple of trucks, and the crane were scattered over the sidewalk and lawn. People milled around. Confusion reigned. Bob headed for the backyard, stopping to bear-hug everyone in his path. Phil was by the pool already, yelling, looking up at the convertible, which was being lifted by the crane. Bob stared up at the suspended car doubtfully. Perhaps his life was unmanageable.

6 (#ulink_e66e92fd-2e16-5376-8d72-b2aac792af58)

Today would be a full day for Sylvie. Not only did she have back-to-back students, but then she also had to try and get Bob to talk with her about why she decided to transmute her car into an amphibian. Blessedly, that wouldn’t come until tonight. Now she just had to try to concentrate on Lou, her oldest student. He was sitting at the piano blundering through “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers Anymore” as if this were his fifth lesson. Actually, it was closer to his fifty-fifth. Lou had been taking lessons twice a week for months now—not that he got any better or more enthusiastic. Lessons were by doctor’s orders. John Spencer had sent Lou over to Sylvie, so she couldn’t say no. Since Lou had retired, he was having a hard time. For Sylvie, listening to him play wasn’t easy either, but she always tried to encourage him. Now Lou missed two notes, stumbled on the sharp, and paused to look up at her. “I can’t do it,” Lou stated and dropped his hands into his lap, utterly defeated.

“Yes, you can,” Sylvie reassured him, and approached the piano.

“No. I can’t do it. And this is my last shot at life.”

“You remembered to take your medication today, right, Lou?” Sylvie asked.

“Yes. And if I’m this depressed on antidepressants, what’s the use?” Lou said, shrugging.

Sylvie caught a glimpse of something or someone flash by the French doors. Oh, please, not Rosalie, she thought. Sylvie put a hand on Lou’s shoulder to try to comfort him. Then she saw something else flash by. This time, Sylvie looked up in time. There, strategically positioned in her backyard, was a crew of construction workers trying to direct a large piece of equipment around the hedges. What? Turning her attention back to Lou, she forced herself to encourage him. “C’mon, Lou. Look, all men have trouble with transitions: from single to married, from couplehood to family. It’s tough to have your kids leave home. It’s tough to go into retirement. But change is a joyous part of life.”

“Yeah? So how come there are no joyous songs about menopause? You wait. You’ll play a different tune then.” Lou sighed, then started to move his fingers over the keys as if to play. Sylvie was sure that he was going to do a bit better when, instead, he fisted his hands and began to pound the piano keys.

Gently but firmly, Sylvie lifted his hands off her precious Steinway and closed the lid. “Lou, have you thought of taking a trip?” Sylvie asked, rubbing his shoulder.

“I’m too old,” Lou said. “And besides, who wants to die on a strange mattress?” He sat, immobile. Sylvie moved back to the window. Without even trying to talk him out of his stupor, she watched the activity brewing in her backyard. After a time Lou opened the piano, began to play, and caught the melody of the song for a moment. Sylvie thought of Bob. He didn’t send her flowers anymore either, she thought, and leaned up against the door frame.

The classical piece, a Schubert sonata, was being played far too quickly. Sylvie winced, but continued looking through the French doors. Now there was a crane poolside, along with a milling crowd of cameramen setting up for some kind of shoot. Would her drowned car make the local news? Sylvie turned away and looked back at her twelve-year-old music pupil, who was playing frantically. Too much Ritalin.

“Slow down. It isn’t a race, Jennifer.” Jennifer looked up. You could see that though she tried to hide it, she was totally crushed by even this slight criticism . Jennifer already excelled at gymnastics and tennis, and was the leader of the girls’ swim team. No wonder she rushed. She had a lot to do, and she tried to do it all perfectly.

Sylvie focused on the girl, leaving the growing pageant at the window and putting her hand on the girl’s shoulder, trying to gently explain. “Play it as if you were falling in love for the first time,” Sylvie suggested and sat down at the piano. She played the Schubert dreamily, and the yearning and romance of the piece came through. Sylvie herself fell under the sonata’s spell. “Feel it, Jennifer.”

“I don’t know what that love stuff feels like.” Jennifer sat, as solid as a packed laundry sack.

“You will,” Sylvie told her reassuringly. Looking at Jennifer’s doubting face, she continued: “Love heightens the senses and makes you do things that are so surprising,” she lowered her voice, “and feel so-o-o good. You’ll be amazed. But you have to go slow then too.” Then, as if she were waking up from a dream, Sylvie realized how inappropriate she was being. To cover her slip she smiled brightly, a teacher-to-pupil face. “Don’t worry, Jennifer, you’ll feel it after your first kiss.” Sylvie got up from the piano and went to look out the window again at the activity around the pool. “Try it again,” she encouraged.

“I’ve already been kissed, like, three times,” Jennifer told her, still defensive. Then she began playing the piece again, almost as maniacally as before.

Sylvie turned back to her. “Maybe you just need a better kisser,” she suggested. Jennifer giggled, perked up, and actually slowed down. Good. Poor kid. Sylvie wanted her students to enjoy their lessons, and Jennifer had talent. She just needed the capacity to enjoy it. The girl finished the piece and Sylvie made it a point to praise her. Meanwhile, when she glanced back, her backyard had become even more of a circus.

“Come over here and take a look,” Sylvie told the girl. Jennifer and Sylvie both peered out the window. The crane, tearing the hell out of the lawn, was poolside. Men with hard hats were gesturing, one of them obscenely. “How did your car get in there?” Jennifer asked, sounding awed.

“I don’t know. Maybe it wanted one more swim before winter.”

Jennifer giggled, until her mother, Mrs. Miller, appeared on the walk outside the French doors and stepped in to join them. She was the kind of suburban matron who not only had to have her children do everything, but always had to know everything herself. “Sorry I’m a little late,” she apologized, but it didn’t sound like she was sorry. “There’s a lot of confusion in your driveway. How did the lesson go?” she asked brightly.

Jennifer tore her eyes off the crane and looked up at her mother. “She told me I had to get kissed better. Like, maybe with tongues.”

Mrs. Miller opened her eyes wide and turned to Sylvie. Great, Sylvie thought. She shook her head. “No, Jennifer, I did not say that. I didn’t give specifics,” Sylvie reassured Mrs. Miller. “We were talking about tempo, actually.” She raised her brows and lowered her voice. “I’d also suggest you monitor her television.” Jennifer’s mother, pacified, took her daughter by the arm and left.

Sylvie walked out into her yard. People were all over. Phil was yelling at a guy with a video camera. She felt as if it were some kind of foreign film and she was in it. “What is all this?” she asked her brother.

“We’re shooting today’s commercial here.”
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