The Switch

6

Today would be a full day for Sylvie. Not only did she have back-to-back students, but then she also had to try and get Bob to talk with her about why she decided to transmute her car into an amphibian. Blessedly, that wouldn’t come until tonight. Now she just had to try to concentrate on Lou, her oldest student. He was sitting at the piano blundering through “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers Anymore” as if this were his fifth lesson. Actually, it was closer to his fifty-fifth. Lou had been taking lessons twice a week for months now—not that he got any better or more enthusiastic. Lessons were by doctor’s orders. John Spencer had sent Lou over to Sylvie, so she couldn’t say no. Since Lou had retired, he was having a hard time. For Sylvie, listening to him play wasn’t easy either, but she always tried to encourage him. Now Lou missed two notes, stumbled on the sharp, and paused to look up at her. “I can’t do it,” Lou stated and dropped his hands into his lap, utterly defeated.

“Yes, you can,” Sylvie reassured him, and approached the piano.

“No. I can’t do it. And this is my last shot at life.”

“You remembered to take your medication today, right, Lou?” Sylvie asked.

“Yes. And if I’m this depressed on antidepressants, what’s the use?” Lou said, shrugging.

Sylvie caught a glimpse of something or someone flash by the French doors. Oh, please, not Rosalie, she thought. Sylvie put a hand on Lou’s shoulder to try to comfort him. Then she saw something else flash by. This time, Sylvie looked up in time. There, strategically positioned in her backyard, was a crew of construction workers trying to direct a large piece of equipment around the hedges. What? Turning her attention back to Lou, she forced herself to encourage him. “C’mon, Lou. Look, all men have trouble with transitions: from single to married, from couplehood to family. It’s tough to have your kids leave home. It’s tough to go into retirement. But change is a joyous part of life.”

“Yeah? So how come there are no joyous songs about menopause? You wait. You’ll play a different tune then.” Lou sighed, then started to move his fingers over the keys as if to play. Sylvie was sure that he was going to do a bit better when, instead, he fisted his hands and began to pound the piano keys.

Gently but firmly, Sylvie lifted his hands off her precious Steinway and closed the lid. “Lou, have you thought of taking a trip?” Sylvie asked, rubbing his shoulder.

“I’m too old,” Lou said. “And besides, who wants to die on a strange mattress?” He sat, immobile. Sylvie moved back to the window. Without even trying to talk him out of his stupor, she watched the activity brewing in her backyard. After a time Lou opened the piano, began to play, and caught the melody of the song for a moment. Sylvie thought of Bob. He didn’t send her flowers anymore either, she thought, and leaned up against the door frame.

The classical piece, a Schubert sonata, was being played far too quickly. Sylvie winced, but continued looking through the French doors. Now there was a crane poolside, along with a milling crowd of cameramen setting up for some kind of shoot. Would her drowned car make the local news? Sylvie turned away and looked back at her twelve-year-old music pupil, who was playing frantically. Too much Ritalin.

“Slow down. It isn’t a race, Jennifer.” Jennifer looked up. You could see that though she tried to hide it, she was totally crushed by even this slight criticism . Jennifer already excelled at gymnastics and tennis, and was the leader of the girls’ swim team. No wonder she rushed. She had a lot to do, and she tried to do it all perfectly.

Sylvie focused on the girl, leaving the growing pageant at the window and putting her hand on the girl’s shoulder, trying to gently explain. “Play it as if you were falling in love for the first time,” Sylvie suggested and sat down at the piano. She played the Schubert dreamily, and the yearning and romance of the piece came through. Sylvie herself fell under the sonata’s spell. “Feel it, Jennifer.”

“I don’t know what that love stuff feels like.” Jennifer sat, as solid as a packed laundry sack.

“You will,” Sylvie told her reassuringly. Looking at Jennifer’s doubting face, she continued: “Love heightens the senses and makes you do things that are so surprising,” she lowered her voice, “and feel so-o-o good. You’ll be amazed. But you have to go slow then too.” Then, as if she were waking up from a dream, Sylvie realized how inappropriate she was being. To cover her slip she smiled brightly, a teacher-to-pupil face. “Don’t worry, Jennifer, you’ll feel it after your first kiss.” Sylvie got up from the piano and went to look out the window again at the activity around the pool. “Try it again,” she encouraged.

“I’ve already been kissed, like, three times,” Jennifer told her, still defensive. Then she began playing the piece again, almost as maniacally as before.

Sylvie turned back to her. “Maybe you just need a better kisser,” she suggested. Jennifer giggled, perked up, and actually slowed down. Good. Poor kid. Sylvie wanted her students to enjoy their lessons, and Jennifer had talent. She just needed the capacity to enjoy it. The girl finished the piece and Sylvie made it a point to praise her. Meanwhile, when she glanced back, her backyard had become even more of a circus.

“Come over here and take a look,” Sylvie told the girl. Jennifer and Sylvie both peered out the window. The crane, tearing the hell out of the lawn, was poolside. Men with hard hats were gesturing, one of them obscenely. “How did your car get in there?” Jennifer asked, sounding awed.

“I don’t know. Maybe it wanted one more swim before winter.”

Jennifer giggled, until her mother, Mrs. Miller, appeared on the walk outside the French doors and stepped in to join them. She was the kind of suburban matron who not only had to have her children do everything, but always had to know everything herself. “Sorry I’m a little late,” she apologized, but it didn’t sound like she was sorry. “There’s a lot of confusion in your driveway. How did the lesson go?” she asked brightly.

Jennifer tore her eyes off the crane and looked up at her mother. “She told me I had to get kissed better. Like, maybe with tongues.”

Mrs. Miller opened her eyes wide and turned to Sylvie. Great, Sylvie thought. She shook her head. “No, Jennifer, I did not say that. I didn’t give specifics,” Sylvie reassured Mrs. Miller. “We were talking about tempo, actually.” She raised her brows and lowered her voice. “I’d also suggest you monitor her television.” Jennifer’s mother, pacified, took her daughter by the arm and left.

Sylvie walked out into her yard. People were all over. Phil was yelling at a guy with a video camera. She felt as if it were some kind of foreign film and she was in it. “What is all this?” she asked her brother.

“We’re shooting today’s commercial here.”

“Here? In my yard?”

“Yeah. I rerouted the crew. We’d been scheduled to shoot one on the lot, but this is better. Now we’re just waiting for Bob to get ready.” Phil laughed and looked over toward the garage, where Sylvie was surprised to see her husband having his hair combed by a woman. “He’s becoming the Harrison Ford of car ads,” Phil smirked. He looked back at her. “It’s a hell of a thing to do to a Z2,” he told her. “But Pop thinks it’s a stroke of luck that you couldn’t control yourself. Women drivers.” Phil shook his head again.

Then Bob approached. Sylvie just looked up at him and his professionally combed hair. He smiled back sheepishly. “Hey, Bob, you—” Phil began but, klutzy as always, he tripped over a cable, then looked around to see who he could blame it on. Of course, Sylvie saw, he noticed the only woman on the crew, a pretty woman with freckles and auburn hair. “Hey! Red! Is this the way you hope to get a good-looking guy?” he shouted. “Try taking out a personal ad.” Sylvie cringed. Phil peered at Bob. “Makeup! We need makeup.” The woman Phil had just dissed picked up her makeup box and moved toward them.

“Well, I’m sure she’ll do a great job now,” Bob said to Phil, smiling again at Sylvie. She said nothing, just moved away as Bob was prepped and fussed over.

“Okay, okay, listen up. A star is born,” Phil yelled to the crew.

My brother is an ass, Sylvie thought. She watched as Phil hunkered down to talk to Bob. “You know what we need here. The usual bullshit. Sincerity until it hurts.” Phil paused in his directorial overdrive. He’d obviously seen what Sylvie just had—Rosalie’s face popping up over the fence. “Get that head down out of the shot or we’re going back to court!” he shouted.

Rosalie disappeared. Poor Rosalie. She’d always been loud and insensitive, but no woman deserved Phil. Sylvie looked back at Bob, who’d been powdered down and was now being led to his mark. Phil handed him the script. Bob was used to doing all this, but he looked nervous. Sylvie watched him. Somehow, he looked different. It wasn’t just the makeup. She approached him.

“Sylvie, I know that you—” Bob began.

From behind, Phil interrupted. “Got your lines down?” he asked.

Bob gestured toward the script. “I don’t think it’s—”

Phil, the half-pint Quentin Tarantino, was in his glory. When they were shooting a commercial, he got himself confused with an auteur. “Come on. No temperament,” he said to Bob. “And people: let’s get this the first time or die,” he called out. Sylvie saw one of the crew members roll his eyes. She blushed for her brother. Meanwhile, Bob turned to the camera.

Was this, then, all the attention she got after doing something as crazed, as outrageous, as dunking her car like a doughnut? Had Bob, before he’d even spoken to her, before he’d had a chance to … before she’d had a chance to—well, to talk—digested this bold act of hers? Had he processed it in his own way, turned it to his advantage and already moved on, leaving her frozen here, unable to move?

Somehow Bob had managed, literally overnight, to turn her discomfort, her confusion and pain, into an advantage, or at least an ad. No wonder he’d been president of the Rotary and head of the Chamber of Commerce!

Sylvie 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.