Читать книгу The Switch - Olivia Goldsmith - Страница 11

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 lot 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 brow ser, 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 ground40. 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 lie. 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 always 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.”

“Yeah, but it was a decade ago. To this day I regret it. Nora’s dead almost four years and I still feel really bad about it.” Bob patted John on the shoulder. John came out of his reverie. “Just look at your brother-in-law.”

“God. Do I have to?”

“I mean, look how he ruined his life. His ex-wife hates him, his children are turned against him. And he can’t afford a meat loaf sandwich.”

“But he had an excuse: he was married to Rosalie.”

“What does that mean?”

Bob gave John a look. “Rosalie pushed him into infidelity. Me, I just slipped. I never meant for this to happen,” Bob admitted. “This girl was just there, all pink and naked.”

“She was pink and naked right when you met her?”

“Well, no. But, I could tell she wanted to be…. Hey. Come on. You think I want to lie to my wife?”

John’s voice finally became sympathetic. “No, buddy, I don’t.”

“In its way, my position is its own kind of hell,” Bob said mournfully.

John nodded. “I’ve been there.” Then, for a moment, John became distracted by a racing green 530i that passed them on the right. “Nice model,” he commented.

“Forget it,” Bob told him dismissively. “It’s not for you. A vinyl interior. If you’re going to trade up, trade up for the best.” John nodded his agreement. He pulled back into the right lane. There was a truck ahead of them. John should have passed it too. Bob hated sitting in the passenger’s seat.

“You know, Sylvie is too good to risk losing.”

“I know.” Bob sighed gustily. “Let’s face it. Men are pigs.”

“The worst form of human life,” John agreed.

“Slime….” Bob figured he’d change the subject while he could. “So, you seeing anyone?”

John shook his head. “You know I haven’t been able to see anyone since Nora passed away…. Maybe it’s the guilt over that … episode.” He reflected for a minute, his eyes on the road. “This month we would be celebrating our twentieth anniversary. I ignored her more than I should have when we were married. During med school, and my internship, and then building my practice. Jesus, Men are stupid.”

“Yeah,” Bob agreed. “But women are crazy.” John stopped for an amber light that Bob would have slid through. God, he was a cautious driver. Cautious about everything, in fact. Bob looked over at his pal, who now seemed very depressed. “You know, I didn’t realize your anniversary … well … that has to be hard for you.”

John nodded. “It’s not easy. A guilty conscience is never easy to live with.” He gave Bob a look. “Know what I mean?”

The light changed. John just sat there staring ahead at nothing, or something only he saw, some flashback from an earlier time. Bob pointed to the green light and John blinked, then accelerated. “Look,

I know I should stop,” Bob admitted. “And I’m going to. As soon as I find an opening.”

“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.