The Switch. Olivia Goldsmith
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he said. “We were a decade too late and we had a life instead.”
“Bob. About Hawaii. For my birthday I’d really like to—”
“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