The Switch. Olivia Goldsmith
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stood, frozen, while Phil the director signaled for Bob to start. But then Sylvie broke out of her trance and began walking toward her husband. Rosalie, along with another neighbor and a few kids, had come from her side of the fence and joined the crowd around the shot.
“Rolling,” the cameraman called out. “Speed.”
Bob began to speak his lines. “Why would I put a BMW in a pool? To prove to you—”
“Bob?”
“Great, Sylvie! You blew a take!” Phil cried. “You know we’re working here.”
“Bob?” Sylvie repeated, ignoring her brother. “You didn’t put the car in the pool.”
“No. I know that, Sylvie. I’m just reading the script.”
Phil got between the two of them and shook his head. “Even my own sister acts like a woman.” Phil signaled to the crew to begin again. “Sylvie, move out of the frame. Okay, people, let’s take it from the top. Rosalie, move back. No one wants that face in their living rooms.”
Rosalie flipped Phil the bird and stalked away.
Sylvie, who felt like doing the same thing to her brother, ignored him instead and looked only at her husband. “Bob, do you think I did this to improve car sales?”
“No.”
“Oh, come on!” Phil smacked his own thigh. If he’d been von Sternberg he’d have used a riding crop. “Are we playing twenty questions, Sylvie?” Sylvie just stood there.
Despite his brother-in-law’s impatience, Bob did, to his credit, keep his eyes locked with hers. “I thought you must have been upset about something,” he admitted.
“Have you thought about what, Bob?”
Phil smacked his own forehead, but not as hard as Sylvie wanted to. He pointed to his watch. “This is not the time for a tender marital moment.”
Sylvie kept the laser look on her husband. “What, Bob?” Sylvie repeated, ignoring not only Phil but all the now silent staff and neighbors crowding her yard.
Phil, a desperate look on his face, glanced at the watching crew.
Then he grabbed his sister’s hand. “Hey, how about you be in the commercial with Bob?” he asked in the false, cheery voice of a desperate clown at a children’s birthday party gone wrong. He regrouped and then continued in a tone that sounded apologetic. “Women buy cars.”
“No … really. I don’t want to—” Sylvie tried to pull free.
But Bob grabbed her other hand. “Come on! Wasn’t it you who wanted us to be spontaneous? Just kick off your shoes so they don’t get wet,” he told her. “We’re only shooting from the knees up.” He pulled her into the shot, hugged her, and then grabbed the nape of her neck. Bob tried to point her at the camera.
Sylvie was about to pull away when she looked down and saw that Bob’s own pant legs were rolled up, his socks and shoes off. She stared down at his bare feet. She couldn’t believe it. She stiffened and once again she found it hard to catch her breath. Bob’s hand on her shoulder became suddenly unbearable. “Sorry. No. I can’t,” she said, horrified, and pulled away.
“You can’t? Come on, Sylvie. Since when do you have stage fright?” Phil asked. He grabbed her hand.
“No. It’s not that. I forgot. I have to go.” Sylvie pulled away again.
“Where?” Bob wanted to know. As if he had any right.
“I just have to go. I need to …” Sylvie felt tears welling up in her eyes. She couldn’t think, couldn’t lie, couldn’t stay. She couldn’t bear for Bob to touch her, for them all to be looking at her. She felt exposed, humiliated. “I have to … go get a pedicure or something,” she said and bolted.
Jim, Sylvie’s father, was sitting in his wing chair, his feet on an ottoman, watching television. Mildred was deadheading her African violets. She noted that the pot on this one was cracked. She made a mental note to glaze another one at the pottery shop she owned. She looked over at her husband, seeing what the world saw. Jim was still good-looking, but he’d mellowed into a slightly overweight, grandfatherly type, the kind of man who could sell oatmeal on television. In fact, at the moment he had the television on, the remote in his hand. He was watching a PBS documentary on Dunkirk, or maybe it was Anzio—one that he’d probably seen a hundred times.
“Mildred. Look at this.”
“Please. Change the channel. You’re making me nervous,” she told him. “I hate it when you say, ‘Honey … the Nazis are on.’ As if I care.”
“I thought you wanted to see them lose again.”
“Jim, I’m not interested. Women don’t want to watch World War II unless Gary Cooper is an officer in it. Why don’t you give me the remote? There’s an Angela Lansbury rerun on.”
He waved her away, then realized she was teasing. “You know, we’ve been fighting about television since it was invented,” Jim commented.
Mildred laughed. Jim put his arm out but before he could hug her, gunfire broke out. He looked back at the screen and only patted Mildred’s back. Mildred had hoped for more and, anyway, she didn’t like to be patted. Never had. It felt … condescending. There, there, old girl. She turned to go back to her deadheading. Just then the doorbell chimed. Jim, of course, didn’t move, so Mildred went to the door and opened it. Sylvie was standing there, disheveled, out of breath and clearly upset.
“My God! Sylvie! What’s happened? Another car incident?”
Sylvie shook her head and tried to talk, but no words came out of her mouth. Looking in both directions, Mildred drew her into the foyer. No use sharing the latest bizarre family behavior with the entire neighborhood, not to mention Rosalie the Mouth. “Take a deep breath. There. Now another,” Mildred directed. “Okay. Talk.”
“Bob’s having an affair,” Sylvie finally managed to gasp.
The two women stared at one another for a silent moment. Mildred then shook her head. “Not Bob. I admit my son is crazy, but not my son-in-law. We took him into the business and the cul-de-sac …” She paused. “How do you know?”
“He’s never home. He forgave me about my car too easily. Did you see the crane he’s got in the backyard? He and Phil are using it to shoot a commercial. Daddy told them to.”
“I’m not surprised,” Mildred murmured.
“Mom, don’t you see? Next he’ll even let me drive Beautiful Baby. Something is definitely wrong. And … people are saying they saw us out together. But it’s always some place I haven’t been to.”
Mildred, her heart beginning to flutter in her chest, forced herself to take on the practical aspect that Angela Lansbury used in Murder, She Wrote. “That’s nothing. Circumstantial,” she said dismissively. “You still haven’t given me anything definitive.”
Sylvie burst into tears. “He’s gotten a pedicure.”
“A pedicure! My god!” Mildred took her daughter into her arms. Sylvie wasn’t just paranoid. “Was it a professional pedicure?” Mildred asked, giving her son-in-law the benefit of the doubt.
Sylvie nodded and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “He’s been stabbing me with those pointy, deadly, fungoid toenails for twenty-one years. And now, just when he’s ignoring me, they’re short and shell pink.”
“He had a professional pedicure?” Mildred repeated, outraged. “He was dying to get caught,” she muttered.
Sylvie