Switcheroo

by Olivia Goldsmith

  “I’m a professional,” Marla answered without hesitation. Sylvia wasn’t sure if that meant toe sucking was in or out. She gagged.

  “The deal was that you would be doing your special customers,” Sylvie said.

  “Yes, but what if there’s an emergency call and Bob doesn’t want me to go out in the middle of the night? I’m not gonna let you lose any of my regulars.”

  “What the hell is an emergency pedicure?”

  “Well, okay. It’s not just pedicures. I’m more, like, a therapist. See, my clients feel they can call me any time—night or day.”

  “So it’s not just feet?” Sylvie said, pouncing.

  “It is feet. You know very little about people.”

  “Marla, are you a hooker?”

  Marla sat up. “Now that was cruel. I have never—ever—gotten paid for sexual intercourse. My specialty is…well…foot fetishes.”

  “You mean you actually put it in your mouth?”

  “No. Usually I let them suck mine, though. Men love that. The royal family is into it big time. I’ve seen pictures.”

  “That is gross. That is disgusting.” Sylvie shivered visibly. “You do that with Bob?”

  “Of course. He’s a Sagittarius on the Capricorn cusp. That’s a very sensual sign. It’s also probably why his toenails are so hard.”

  “I knew there had to be a reason for it. But he likes…sucked?”

  Marla didn’t speak, she merely licked her lips and nodded her head, giving Sylvie a cat-that-sucked-the-canary look.

  “I don’t care,” Sylvie said, rebelling. “He doesn’t deserve to have his toes sucked. Or any other part of his body. And there’s no way I could suck strange men’s toes.” Sylvie shut the light and turned her back on Marla.

  “Fine. Then we’ll call the whole thing off and I’ll get Bob the hard way.”

  The salon was crowded. Each client lined up in one of the chairs before the mirrors, no matter what her age or coloring, was going blonder. They all had blue cream on their roots or foil in their hair. Sylvie was doing both: blonding her hair and getting streaks. That was nothing. A chubby dark woman in shorts was going platinum.

  “Are you sure I’m going to be Gwyneth Paltrow blonde?” Sylvie asked her beautician, Leonida, nervously.

  “Absolutely. A Hollywood friend of mine swept up some actual samples after her last trim. I can show them to you if you like.” Sylvie shook her head. She thought of the medieval reliquaries that housed saints’ fingers and shank bones and teeth. Were movie stars the saints of our day? Saint Gwyneth. “Maybe if it was Mozart’s hair,” she murmured. “Otherwise, just make me look good.”

  “No problem,” Leonida assured her. “It’s your sister I’m worried about.”

  “Do you believe in fate?” Marla asked.

  Sylvie’s ears were burning and her upper lip was dripping from the heat of the dryer. She adjusted the cotton. She’d been in the salon for more than three hours. How long did this transformation take and how much upkeep would it require? “Hate?” she said. “Of course I believe in hate. Right now I hate my husband for making me go through this pain.”

  “Who doesn’t?” asked the newly platinum woman. She was under the next dryer. Both Sylvie and Marla ignored her.

  “Fate, I said. You know, destiny.”

  Sylvie shrugged. There was a thin line of brown dye slowly moving down Marla’s forehead. It looked sort of like the letter “J.” It looked very dark. Sylvie wondered if it might mark the younger girl’s skin permanently. Too bad it hadn’t dripped into an “A.” “I don’t think so,” Sylvie said.

  “Oh, I do. Like, totally. See, I think I’m fated to be married to Bob.”

  “You do?” Sylvie swiveled her head so quickly she nearly severed her ear on the hot rim of the dryer. “Why?”

  “Well, for three reasons. First because my mother, she once had her fortune told by this woman whose cousin was married to a gypsy. And she even said to my mother that she was going to have trouble with me but then I was going to settle down. She also said my mother’s ringworm would go away and it did, once my stepdaddy killed the cat.”

  Sylvie couldn’t help but be fascinated by this logic. “What are your other proofs?” she asked.

  “Well, once we were in Atlanta, my girlfriend Tonya and me, and we threw money in the fountain at the Hyatt hotel. It’s, like, a really good hotel. Anyway, so she wished that Buddy—that was her boyfriend, now he’s her husband, well, actually, they’ve been separated for the last year and she served papers. But, anyway, back then Tonya wished that Buddy would give her an ankle bracelet and, like, just four or five months later, at Christmas, he did. So I wished that I’d get to marry a nice guy like Bob. I mean, I hadn’t met Bob yet but I figured I would meet him someday. So that’s another reason. And then the last reason is because when I called the Psychic Friend’s Network, Hoshanna—she channels an Indian spirit—told me everything was going to work out really great.”

  Sylvie took a deep breath. If she spent a lot more time with Marla, one of them would wind up in a mental institution. It was just a question of which one. Marla was looking down at the pedicurist, who was busy painting the large toenails of the platinum woman. “Oh, no,” she said. “No. You should never start with the big toe. It blocks the energy from the kidney and liver. It’s, like, really, really bad.”

  The pedicurist and the woman both looked up.

  “When you start at the pinkie, it gives time for the negative ions to move to the larger toes and be released,” Marla explained matter-of-factly. “Otherwise you just wind up with a lot of yang energy trapped in the ball of your foot.” She shook her head, a warning look on her face. “And you know what that feels like.”

  Marla was on the chair next to Sylvie. The hairdresser just finished blowing out Marla’s hair. It had been turned mousy brown, and was in the nonstyle that Sylvie wore. Marla turned her eyes from the pedicure and stared at her image in the mirror. She made a whimpering sound. Then she hung her head and covered it with her arms. She was clearly depressed.

  Up and down the row of chairs, women leaned in to look. “What did I do?” Marla cried.

  The hairdresser, patting her shoulders, tried to console Marla. “I know, I know. It’s very difficult to go from light to dark. Why did you do it?”

  “She made me,” Marla said, pointing a finger at Sylvie.

  “You don’t have to do what a younger sister tells you to,” the newly platinum woman told Marla. “She’s probably jealous.”

  “Not anymore,” quipped the woman from New York. Sylvie, her hair a now streaked blonde mane, sank into her chair.

  “When I went from honey blonde to just a light brown, I needed massive doses of Zoloft,” another customer added. “I was on antidepressants for months.” Marla burst into sobs.

  Trying to comfort Marla, Platinum patted her shoulder. “Winona Ryder is a brunette,” she said, “and she had Johnny Depp.”

  “For a while,” added the New Yorker.

  “And look at Princess Di. Where did blonde get her?” a third woman chimed in sadly. “It doesn’t look so bad.”

  Marla moaned and got into a deeper and deeper funk. Finally she got out of the chair, strode over to Sylvie, and pulled her down the aisle, past the other women and outside.

  “It’s off. The whole thing is off. What an idiot I am! I didn’t really realize after all this that I was going to actually look like you.”

  “Did I look that bad?” Sylvie asked, surveying Marla. Her hair was not only brown but bowled around her head. Without makeup and without the height her mane gave to her face she looked a lot like a Doberman.

  “Worse! You looked like this with wrinkles. This deal stinks.” Marla turned to the wall and hit it. “God, I’m always getting suckered! I’ve put on thirteen pounds. And how are you supposed to get me a man when you couldn’t even hold on to your own?” Marla turned and started walking to their room. “I’m out of here.”

  Sylvie, pani
cked, followed her and desperately tried to calm her down. “Marla, come on. You can go back to blonde in two weeks. You’ll get back in shape.”

  “But I really, really like eating now. I mean, I hadn’t eaten in years. Food is addictive. Last night I dreamed about macaroni and cheese. You know, in a casserole with crunch bread crumbs on top.”

  “Well, at least that’s starch with a starch. According to your theory, isn’t that okay?”

  “Ha! You think I can just go cold turkey? Oh god, I’m talking food again.”

  “Well, it’s almost Thanksgiving.”

  She wasn’t listening. “I’ll end up being alone, fat, drab, and unmarried for the rest of my meaningful years.”

  “Marla, calm down. This has just been a shock, but it’s not so bad. Marla, there are benefits to this. Really. Remember how you wished Bob would sleep over? He’ll sleep over every night now.”

  “So what? We won’t do anything.”

  Sylvie was thinking as fast as she could. They’d come so far. She couldn’t let the scheme fall apart now. One of the exercise instructors was walking by. She smiled at Marla. “Got to make a few more classes, Sylvie,” she said.

  “I’m not Sylvie…” Marla began, but the woman had passed them. “Oh my god! She thinks I’m you,” Marla whispered. “It’s worked. It’s really worked.” Marla began to sob.

  It had, Sylvie realized. She grabbed Marla by the shoulders and tossed her mane of hair.

  “Listen to me. It’s not so easy to wind up secure. Finding a man, a family, is a big thing. You need help. Everyone does.”

  “They do?” Marla said, though she kept weeping.

  “You do. It takes a village, or at least a cul-de-sac. I could teach you how to be a good wife so you’ll get another man. I’ll be the role model you never had.”

  “Thanks, anyway,” Marla said, pulling away and wiping her nose with her hand. She began to walk away.

  Sylvie was desperate. “I know every rich, single man in the area. I’ll help you get a husband.” Sylvie brightened. “How about if I guarantee you a husband?”

  Marla stopped. “How about I don’t leave your house until you do?”

  Sylvie considered, then decided to go for broke. She nodded her head. “It’s a deal. I’ll find you someone.”

  “Good. Because otherwise I’m keeping Bob.”

  Sylvie tried not to hear that. “Marla, listen. You have no idea how much respect a wife gets no matter how she looks.” Sylvie pulled Marla toward the reception desk. “I want you to get a taste of what it feels like. Watch this.” Sylvie took Marla by the hand, led her back to the salon, and approached the receptionist. “Excuse me. Mrs. Schiffer would like to pay our bill now.”

  The receptionist found the bill immediately. “Color. Color. Cut. Cut. Full-head highlights. Blow dry. Blow dry. That will be $357.00. How would you like to pay, Mrs. Schiffer?” She looked at Marla.

  “She would like to pay with her Mrs. Schiffer Visa Gold card.” Sylvie passed a credit card to Marla. Marla looked at it, smiled wanly, and handed it over to the receptionist.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Schiffer. Would you like a cappuccino or espresso, Mrs. Schiffer?”

  Marla broke into a broad grin. Holding her heart, she murmured, “Mrs. Schiffer. Mrs. Robert Schiffer.” Marla was clearly overwhelmed; Sylvie was simply relieved.

  Marla and Sylvie were lying down, Sylvie because she couldn’t stand up after her last abs of steel session and Marla because in their last days she’d packed on every ounce of fat she could. No more leg lifts.

  Now Sylvie had her pad in her hand. It had been almost filled by the notes on Marla’s life though, sadly, it seemed that there wasn’t a lot in it: some girls she knew at her gym, a neighbor with a cat, and her folks whom she’d rarely mentioned. “What if anyone in your family calls?” Sylvie asked.

  “Oh, they never call. But if they do it’s always collect. Just don’t accept it.” Marla didn’t seem upset, but it had to bother her. “Oh, and be sure not to promise them any money. They call if they need money.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Sylvie said, trying to show support.

  “You’re sorry?” Marla asked. “I used to send it.”

  Sylvie decided to move on. “Okay,” she said, instructing Marla. “I always sleep on the right. Please don’t forget where right is…” She took a breath. This was the last part she hadn’t had the courage to address before. But now, with her youthful face and flat tummy, not to mention the wheatfield of hair on her head, she thought she could handle it. “Now tell me what you and Bob do in bed.”

  “Ha! You’re gonna need a lot more paper than that,” Marla said, laughing, and she pulled a list out of her pocket. “Here. I figured you’d get around to asking. I prepared some notes. I wrote them up while you were doing squat thrusts.”

  Sylvie looked at Marla’s papers and got very scared. “Talk about squats and thrusts! You’ve done all this? Are you sure?”

  “I’m really, really positive,” Marla said. “Don’t tell me you’ve never done those things.”

  Sylvie cleared her throat. “Of course I’ve done…some of them.” She looked at the notes again. “Actually, some of these were the very first things Bob and I did. But—I don’t know—over the years we stopped exploring…” Sylvie tried to explain. “Maybe there was just no more unexplored territory. We went for comfort over novelty,” Sylvie admitted. “And it seems like a lot of trouble. Plus, it could throw Bob’s back out.”

  Marla shook her head, took out a few more sheets of paper from her pocket. “Sketches,” she said. “Just in case.”

  Sylvie glanced at, then studied them. She tried not to let her eyes widen. “You could have at least indicated ‘This Side Up.’ I’d need an open-book test to pass this!”

  “Hey, it better come naturally to you because he’ll come to you first when we get back,” Marla warned.

  “No he won’t. He’ll go to his wife first,” Sylvie said. If after almost three weeks away he didn’t, she’d kill him.

  “Wanna bet?” Marla asked, raising her brows. “Look, I used to be his mistress. I know he’ll come to me—I mean, you,” Marla said. Her eyes narrowed. She looked down at Sylvie’s hand. “What do you want to bet?”

  Sylvie looked down at her ring. Bob had given it to her on their fifteenth anniversary. It came from Cartier and was the most beautiful ring in the world. It was three separate rings of gold: white gold for friendship, yellow gold for fidelity, and pink for love. “Well, I know you like the ring,” she said.

  “Like it? I love it. What do you want?”

  “You mean, aside from Bob?” Sylvie asked. “I want everything he’s ever given you, including the car, returned.”

  “Well, he didn’t actually give me the car. He just leased it for me.”

  “Forget the car. I want all the little knickknacks. The lingerie, the necklace, the dead flowers. Every single little thing.”

  “Everything?” Marla whined.

  Sylvie nodded and held up the ring. The different golds shimmered in the sunlight.

  Marla rose, went to the foot of Sylvie’s bed, and spoke in a strict voice. “Fine. You’re on. Meanwhile, you’ve got to be serious about this, Sylvie. When he comes to you, be ready. Sexual energy is at the very center of our being. It’s like a vitamin rush. Our yin and our yang. It’s the most important thing. If you mess up with Bobby, you’ll never get to know what good sex is like with him again.”

  “Well, spelling is important too,” Sylvie said defensively. And grammar. I can’t even understand some of these notes. You can’t be a good wife if you can’t communicate in writing.” Sylvie knew her defense was weak, but she was flustered, even shocked by the pages she held in her hand. “Oh. Never let Bob see your handwriting. It’s awful. And you have to do something about your grammar, though I know what a pain in the neck grammar is.”

  “My gramma isn’t a pain in the neck. I mean, she had a pain in the neck, but since her cramp cleared up she’s
fine. Anyway, we’re not talking about my gramma.”

  Sylvie silently nodded assent to that. “Well, you spelled ‘oral’ wrong. It’s with an ‘a’ not an ‘e,’” she said primly.

  “Well, I might not know how to spell it, but I know how to do it. Men don’t send roses to stiffs. Rigid is frigid.”

  “Did he say I was frigid?” Sylvie demanded with heat.

  “No. No. He never talks about you,” Marla assured her. “I just figured he wouldn’t be looking for hamburger if he had steak at home.”

  Sylvie looked at the sexual menu spread before her. Her face flushed.

  “I’m going to do all of this,” Sylvie said with new determination.

  “Good girl,” Marla told her. “Oh, and don’t forget: he yells in bed when he climaxes. Don’t get scared.”

  “I know he yells,” Sylvie said resentfully. She paused, her pride fighting her curiosity. “What does he yell?” she asked.

  “I’m dying! I’m dying!” Marla howled in imitation.

  Sylvie tried not to change her expression, and if she had she wouldn’t have known whether to laugh or cry. “Okay, I haven’t heard that,” she admitted. “If I had, I would probably have called 911.” Sylvie tried to take all of it in.

  There was something here so serious, so intimate and so very real that Sylvie felt both physically sick and hurt. She was hurt all over again, as hurt as when she’d first realized Bob had cheated. But now, sitting there, she no longer had her anger to mask her pain. She actually lost her breath and felt a constriction in her chest. Not as if my heart is breaking, she thought. But like it’s hardening and shrinking. The pain was actually physical. She could feel it below her sternum and her right breast. She pressed her hand to her chest and had to look away from the pages in front of her.

  What did Marla understand about this? She seemed to look upon sex as a healthful aerobic activity. Did Bob whisper how much he wanted her, as he used to to Sylvie? The yearning in his voice had always brought tears to her eyes when they made love. Now tears filled her eyes for a different reason.