Change of Heart

by Sally Mandel

  Sadness mingled with her relief, and she felt her eyes sting. She gazed up at the stained-glass windows, the deep-blue light like glistening seawater through her tears.

  Chapter 47

  Diller had sent Sharlie home with a list of permissible foods—bland, dietetic items that she learned to detest. After three weeks of obedience she decided that in her new life—the resurrection, she had taken to calling it—she would allot one day every four weeks to consumption of contraband. At the beginning of each month she gleefully pinpointed the night of sin on her calendar and tantalized herself for days with fantasies of the forbidden delicacies she would devour.

  Tonight was Wednesday, the twenty-first of August, and she and Brian met in front of Mario’s Pizzeria on Second Avenue and Seventy-fourth Street.

  “I hope it’s really greasy,” she said as they took a table by the window.

  “Don’t look at me when your voltage drops to ten,” he warned.

  “Don’t nag me, Brian.”

  His head snapped up from the menu.

  “Sorry,” she said, but her face was tight “If I had to stick to that miserable glop, I might just as well be dead. I have to be normal every once in a while.”

  Brian nodded, but it wasn’t until their pizza came that they began to talk again.

  On their way up to the apartment an hour later, just as the elevator doors were closing, a frantic voice called, “Hold it!” from the lobby, and Susan, Brian’s downstairs neighbor, slid through the opening. She was out of breath from running, and in her tennis dress she was tan and lean, exuding vitality from every bronzed square inch.

  “Brian!” she cried delightedly. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “California,” he said, and before he could introduce Sharlie, she rushed on.

  “They kept telling me ‘out of town’ at your office. God, I’ve been scrounging partners all over the city, but nobody can give me our kind of game. When, my dear, when?”

  With an uncomfortable smile Brian said, “Susan, I’d like you to meet my wife, Sharlie.”

  Susan’s jaw dropped. “Hi,” she said to Sharlie finally, eyes very wide. They had arrived at the seventh floor, and Brian held the door open as she talked. “You’re who was in California, huh? Well, lucky girl. I’ve been working on him ever since I moved in, but I finally decided I’d better be satisfied with a singles match once a week.”

  She stepped out of the elevator and turned to Brian with a weak grin. “Married. Well, listen, don’t let me keep you. But I want a game. Sharlie won’t mind. Will you?” She looked at Sharlie, and the great dark eyes stared back until Susan’s smile faded. The doors shut, and they heard Susan’s deflated voice call, “Best wishes …” as the elevator rose to the floor above.

  They walked down the hallway in silence. Brian unlocked the door and turned to give Sharlie a mischievous look as they went inside, intending to tease her for what he assumed was jealousy. But her face was set hard.

  “You’ve slept with her, haven’t you?” she said.

  Brian, taken aback, hesitated, and Sharlie burst out, “I knew it. I could tell. She didn’t give a shit, did she, whose feelings she clomped on with her P.F. Flyer Superwoman sneakers.”

  Brian pointed to the floor in alarm. “Hey, calm down.”

  This only enraged her further. “No, I don’t want to calm down. I’m sick of calming down. She’s so goddamn healthy, I hate her.”

  She slammed into the bedroom, leaving Brian to stand in the middle of the rug, suspended halfway between laughter and fury. He stood still for a few moments and then decided the best course was to ignore the entire incident. He went into the kitchen, drank half a quart of milk, and settled himself by the television. He flipped past the special ballet performance and stopped the dial at Charlie’s Angels.

  God damn her, he thought, staring morosely at the screen. Let her stew in her own venom.

  Half an hour later Sharlie crept out of the bedroom and sat down beside him, very prim and quiet, her slight body barely making a dent in the sofa. He looked at her solemnly, and she stared back with huge eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

  He tried to keep his face stiff but finally looked away, attempting desperately to maintain his righteous exasperation.

  “I’m really sorry,” she repeated, her voice barely audible.

  “Oh, shit,” he said. He reached out for her, and she felt the ferocity in his arms.

  “Do you think we’ll burn up with it?” she murmured against him.

  “Sometimes I think so,” he said.

  “You’re going to turn me into a piece of ash,” she whispered, holding him as tightly as she could. Then she tilted her head back to look up at him mischievously. “And that’s with an h!”

  Chapter 48

  It was one of those reluctant Monday mornings when Brian couldn’t bear to sever the companionship of the weekend by leaving for the office. They kept the shades drawn against the bright September sky and prolonged breakfast.

  But eventually Brian picked up his briefcase and stood regarding Sharlie sorrowfully from the threshold. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and closed the door behind him. Brian pried open the peephole from the outside and muttered, “Bitch.”

  When he got to the office, there was a telephone message waiting for him: Wife at 9:12. Please call.

  “Morgan’s … uhh … Butcher Shop,” Sharlie said into the receiver.

  “Oh, yeah?” Brian responded. “You got any chickens there?”

  “Oh, mister,” she went on breathily. “Have I got a chicken for you.”

  “I’ll take two breasts and two thighs.”

  “Okay,” she said. “But only if I get your drumstick.”

  Brian laughed. “What happened to the sweet young thing I married?”

  “My innate raunchiness is emerging,” Sharlie said. “With your encouragement, I might add.”

  “My wife, the porno queen.”

  “You wish. Can you have lunch?”

  Brian looked at his calendar. “A quick one. Early.”

  They hung up. He extracted the Foreman file from the heap of papers on his desk and walked down the hall to Barbara’s office. Their clients were already sitting inside, Mr. and Mrs. Foreman with their daughter, Brenda, between them on Barbara’s secretary’s chair. She was twelve years old and had been barred from her school’s soccer team. Both older brothers had excelled at the sport, but Brenda was a girl and hadn’t been allowed to try out.

  Brian admired the Foremans. Brenda was a charming, bright pixilated, gutsy kid, and she wanted her rights. Her parents had responded to their daughter’s outrage with positive action, and Brian was pleased that Brenda would not grow up feeling helpless in the face of injustice. This morning she wore a dress, and her light-brown hair was pulled back from her face with a barrette. She had apparently drawn the line at her shoes, however, because on her feet she wore the usual battered sneakers. Brian smiled as she poked at the thick carpet with one foot, swiveling her chair back and forth. Her face was solemn under the sprinkling of freckles.

  “Brenda,” Brian whispered through the adults’ conversation. The girl looked up at him, bright-blue eyes alert and curious. “You can give it a real whirl if you want.” She grinned and pushed off with her sneaker to set the chair spinning.

  After the third trip around, Mrs. Foreman said, “Enough, dear,” and Brenda went back to making subdued little twists. Every now and then she shot Brian an appreciative glance.

  In the meantime Barbara and Mr. Foreman discussed the scheduling for pretrial discovery. Brian had been through it already, and found his mind wandering to the little girl he imagined Sharlie once was. How he wished she had been blessed with a sturdy body like Brenda’s. The thought of the child Sharlie, pale and fragile, playing her solitary games in that austere old townhouse brought a lump to his throat God, what a life. But he thought of their lunch date an
d smiled.

  “Brian, you with us?” Barbara asked pointedly.

  “Punitive damages not less than ten thousand dollars,” Brian quoted, grateful for his ability to record conversations in his head while simultaneously thinking about something else altogether. All those years of listening in court to the monotonous litany of the opposition. If he hadn’t trained himself to manage several levels of consciousness at once, he would have gone mad from boredom long ago.

  Barbara shot him a suspicious look and went back to her conference with the Foremans. Soon Brian drifted away again, wondering if Brenda Foreman admired Barbara Kaye and would someday aspire to become a lawyer. What would Sharlie have aspired to if she had been well? He tried to imagine her a powerful, aggressive businesswoman. Impossible. Just how much of a traditionalist was he anyway? He couldn’t visualize her wearing Barbara’s “invincible blue suit,” but she must find something to do. How suffocating to just vegetate as she’d done all those years under the iron-eagle wings of Walter Converse. Brian would come home at night to talk to her as if she were a plant one sang to to keep it from dying of loneliness.

  He listened to Barbara harangue Mrs. Foreman on the advantages of Brenda’s presence at the pretrial conference and thought, No, Sharlie wasn’t that type, and besides, she would always tire too easily for a regular job. Perhaps something creative—interior decorating, something in the arts. Maybe he could talk her into organizing group therapy for transplant patients. He smiled to himself, anticipating what she would do with that idea: Your local chapter of TA (Transplants Anonymous) is holding a panel discussion entitled, “Kidneys and Hearts: Your Organ is Your Own Best Friend.”

  Fact was, he didn’t want to let her out. He wanted to keep her safe inside their world where nobody could get at her. Well, once upon a time, maybe he could have pulled that off. But she had changed. Her unpredictable flashes of temper had dismayed him at first, angered him, made him wonder if married life would always be like swooping through the days on some kind of roller coaster. No, Sharlie would never again submit to the life of the hothouse plant, and he knew it And he was glad of it really. After blowing off steam, she no longer stared at him with haunted eyes as if her own feelings had exploded at her from some mysterious place outside herself. Yesterday, after they made love, he had put his hand on her left breast and said, “How’s that lucky guy who lives under here?” and she had smiled at him and answered, “Oh, I’m doing my best to show him a good time.”

  “… anything to add to that, Brian?” Barbara said.

  He shook his head. “No, I agree that it’d be valuable having her brothers there.”

  Barbara’s mouth twitched. She knew he wasn’t really there but couldn’t trap him. He smiled at her mischievously as she ushered the Foremans out. Brian put his hand on Brenda’s shoulder, holding her in her seat. Then he gave her a mighty push. She pulled up her feet and shrieked with pleasure. As they walked out of Barbara’s office together, Brian touched her hair and said, “If I was putting together a soccer team, you’d be the first person I’d choose.”

  Brenda grinned and marched off after her parents, but before Brian stepped into his office, she turned and flashed him a look of absolute adoration.

  Sharlie slipped into the office without a sound. Brian was so involved with his work that he didn’t notice her creeping around behind him until she had wrapped her arms around his neck and very delicately placed her tongue in his ear. She knew his left ear was particularly susceptible, and she felt him shiver. He swung his chair around and pulled her onto his lap to kiss her. After a minute Sharlie murmured against his mouth, and he released her.

  “The door,” she gasped, laughing.

  Brian glanced at the office door. It was wide open, and he wondered if perhaps his secretary had stood there watching them. Or Barbara. Barbara wouldn’t have blinked. She always accused Brian of pretending Sharlie was on his lap, so it should barely make a difference to her.

  He tried to hold Sharlie still, but she slipped away from him and closed the door. Then she came back and stood looking down at his pants. They were bulging conspicuously. She gave his penis a tentative poke, and said, “Hmm,” as if she were checking the quality of a cucumber in the grocery store. Then she sat down on him demurely, smoothing her skirt over her knees.

  “You know who I ran into on my way down here?” she asked. Her eyes were sparkling.

  He shook his head.

  “Mother.”

  “How nice,” Brian said, moving his legs under her in delicious torment.

  “Thank God she was in a hurry. I felt very odd talking to her.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Because I don’t have any underpants on,” she said blandly.

  He examined her expression, deadpan except for the dancing eyes. After a moment she got up and said, “It’s getting very lumpy here.” Facing him, she swung one leg over to straddle his lap. Her eyes seemed like prisms, each facet glittering intensely and each reflection unique—daring and humor, hunger, vulnerability, adoration. He was torn between the wish to stare into the burning eyes forever and the pressure of the bare softness beneath her skirt. She lowered her eyes finally and began unbuttoning her blouse. He slid his hands up the smooth skin of her thighs and around behind, pulling her against him. Before either of them had gotten their clothes off completely, he was inside her, and for them both, orgasm was almost immediate.

  Sharlie leaned against him, then lifted her face to grin at him.

  “What?” he said groggily.

  “You look like a little kid.”

  “Mmm,” he said, stroking her back under the open blouse. “I’m amazed the phone didn’t ring.”

  Sharlie looked at the clock and giggled. “It was only about eight minutes, my love.”

  “Oh.”

  “Let’s see,” she went on. “An hour for lunch, that’s sixty minutes. Eight into sixty is seven plus. We can do this seven times and still have four minutes left over for Chock Full O’ Nuts?”

  He laughed. “Good choice.”

  She looked puzzled.

  “Chuck Full O’ Nuts?”

  He watched her eyes blink as she figured it out. “Oh,” she said. “I just thought of the first place that had hot dogs.”

  He looked at her in disbelief, and she blinked again.

  “Well, what do you want from me?” she protested. “I’m in my prime.”

  “You’re also in my lap,” he said. “And I don’t think I’ll ever walk again.”

  The intercom buzzer sounded. He picked up the phone and said, “Just a second,” then whispered to Sharlie, “Get up. Barbara’s coming in.”

  Brian zipped up his pants on his way to the door. Sharlie buttoned her blouse quickly and tucked it into her skirt. When Barbara walked into the room, they were both standing very stiff, faces flushed. Barbara, neat and cool as always, in a trim gray dress, passed her glance without comment over their wrinkled clothes and awkward smirks.

  “Hello, Mrs. Morgan,” she said to Sharlie. And to Brian, “Got the Foreman file for this afternoon?”

  Brian nodded. “Yeah,” he said, his voice a croak. He coughed elaborately.

  “Dry in here,” Barbara said. “You’re looking well, Sharlie. Enjoy your lunch.” Then she left.

  Sharlie glanced at her watch and wailed. “She just used up our four minutes for food.”

  “Come on,” he said, grasping her hand and pulling her toward the door. “I need sustenance to endure the greedy passions of my wife.”

  They started toward the park, munching hot dogs and enjoying the brisk air. The leaves were yellow against the deep blue of the sky. A cool breeze billowed under Sharlie’s skirt as they walked up Fifth Avenue.

  “I had to pick today for my liberation from underwear,” Sharlie said. “I’ve got a gale force wind blowing up my skirt.”

  “Feel good?”

  “A little vulnerable,” she said. “But I thi
nk maybe I’d like it in summer.”

  As they entered the park at Fifty-ninth Street, the strong gusts sent thousands of leaves swirling through the air in a brilliant yellow blizzard. Sharlie stopped short, tugging on Brian’s arm to look. They stood in silence, the golden storm eddying around them crazily.

  After a moment the breeze died down, and they walked on, their feet making uneven trails through the leaves.

  “Mother’s weird, you know?” Sharlie said thoughtfully.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know. She’s got this sort of sneaky gleam in her eyes lately. She almost acts as if she’s feeling guilty about something.”

  “Maybe she’s got a boyfriend.”

  “Oh, Brian, don’t be ridiculous,” Sharlie said.

  “Typical attitude of the child toward its parents’ sex life. If you didn’t have the evidence staring out at you from the mirror, you’d swear they never made love.”

  “They never did. Make love. They just screwed. Or he just screwed, and she lay there looking pained.”

  “How do you know? You ever catch them at it?”

  “No. But I know.”

  “When you ran into her today, I’ll bet she wasn’t wearing underpants either.” Sharlie burst out laughing. “That would explain the mysterious gleam in her eye,” he said.

  She socked him in the arm. “Pervert,” she said cheerfully.

  They entered a playground that was nearly deserted except for one small child and his nursemaid at the seesaw. The swings made a metallic screeching sound as they moved in the wind. A bottle sat in the middle of one of the swings, and Sharlie walked over to inspect it. Suddenly she recoiled, but though her face was pale with horror, she continued to look. Brian came up beside her, took her arm, and stared inside. The bottle was half-filled with what looked like sticky cola soda, and there were at least a dozen bees swimming frantically in the dark liquid, struggling to free themselves. Many had already died, and their bodies floated on top, crowding the frenzied survivors.