The Switch. Olivia Goldsmith

head. “A dead giveaway. Men tip big to make up for other things that might not be.” Mildred lifted two other receipts. “So you didn’t go to Vico’s?”

      “No. But Rosalie thinks I did.”

      “What was she doing there, anyway?” Mildred wondered.

      “She’s dating some guy with nine toes. He probably took her. Anyway, are you convinced?” Sylvie asked.

      “Oh yes,” Mildred said. “I’m optimistic, not stupid.” She shook her head. “I’m so disappointed in Bob. So what now?”

      Sylvie had wondered the same thing herself. As she had gone through the pile of proof, she’d moved from disbelief to fear to denial and all those other phases that Elizabeth Kübler-Ross had described as the stages of accepting a death, because what Sylvie had been through was not just Bob’s desk but the death of her marriage and the end of all her future dreams. In her heart, buried somewhere deep under her optimism and blindness, there had been a core feeling that had told her something was wrong although she had refused to listen. There, at Bob’s desk, she had had to not only face this reality but decide what she was going to do about it. She had known immediately that she couldn’t pretend, that she couldn’t excuse it, nor could she doubt that it had happened.

      “Sylvie?” Mildred’s voice was gentle. “So what now?”

      “Well, before I decide, I want to show you just one more thing,” Sylvie said, and the tears in her voice were laced with bitterness. She pulled out a small package from the bottom of Bob’s desk and handed it to her mother. Mildred looked down at the condom in her hand.

      “Well, at least he was having safe sex.”

      “The only safe sex Bob can have is with me,” Sylvie said. “And that hasn’t happened for fifty-six days.”

      “You’re counting?” Mildred asked. “It’s a bad sign if you’re counting.” She sighed. “My god, if I counted the last time your father and I—”

      “Mother, please!” Sylvie stood up and gathered all the evidence, throwing it into a large envelope. Then she crossed the room.

      “What are you doing?” Mildred asked. “Where are you going?”

      “Upstairs to pack.”

      “Pack?” Mildred echoed as her daughter disappeared into the hall. “Oh no, Sylvie. You mustn’t do that.” She ran up the stairs after her daughter. I already have one ex-in-law on the cul-de-sac. You can’t leave the house.” Sylvie was already in her bedroom, and by the time Mildred got there she had thrown an opened suitcase onto the bed. In fact, she had already thrown some of her cotton underpants into it. “Sylvie, don’t do it. This is where your life is.”

      Sylvie opened the closet door, took out a blouse and a suit—a Karen Kahn she hadn’t worn since the twins’ eighth-grade graduation—and threw them into the bag. “What life? This is not a life. It’s a sham. I have to go. I’m married to a man who not only cheats and lies but also has his toenails buffed.” She knew she was as angry at herself as she was at Bob, because some part of her had suspected something and another part—the stupid part—had refused to acknowledge it. Sylvie picked up the little lamp on her dressing table, unplugged it, and threw it into the suitcase.

      Mildred put the lamp back. “You won’t be doing much reading for a while, I think. But if you were to pick up a book, may I suggest A Week in Firenze? Camilla Clapfish is such a good writer. She knows everything about middle age.”

      “No. I’ll be too busy calling lawyers,” Sylvie said bitterly. “You know, I’m actually glad I found out. I’m strong. I’ll survive. I’ll become a lawyer or a forensic psychiatrist, or marry a senator. No. I’ll become a senator—a thin one. I’ll pass a bill tripling import duties on foreign cars. Then Bob will be sorry.”

      “So will your father.”

      Sylvie ignored her mother. “This was a man I used to trust. My only regret is that I did the laundry before I left.”

      Mildred moved across the room, opened Bob’s leather jewelry box, and rattled it like a cocktail shaker. “This is a man who used to have very organized cuff links,” she said. Then she opened the box, took out one of each of the good cuff links, and put them in her own pocket. “That will drive him bananas. Listen, Sylvie. You’re angry. You’re hurt. Take my advice: act out. Spend money. Scream. Cry. Have an affair if you have to. Make him pay emotionally. But hold on to your marriage.” She looked intently at her daughter. “I know Bob. Your husband is a man who likes order and routine. Most men do. And you give him that. Not some bimbo named M. Molensky. Perhaps he’s taken what you give him for granted, but he needs it. Just let this blow over.”

      Sylvie turned her back to her mother, added a couple of bras to her suitcase, and then threw in a framed photo of the twins. Mildred watched, shook her head, and opened Bob’s shirt drawer. All of his sports shirts, back from the laundry, were starched, folded, and arranged meticulously by color. He was a nut about his shirts. The dress shirts had to be hung in the closet facing the same direction. Mildred took out the cardboards, pulled off the collar forms, and stirred them as if they were a stew. “Sylvie, put your clothes away,” she commanded.

      “Mother, you have no idea how I feel. I couldn’t possibly get back into this bed and sleep with Bob.”

      “Oh, be realistic!” Mildred snapped. “You’re not going to be doing any sleeping for weeks anyway. Look. I admit this is a shock. I admit it’s awful. But I don’t believe it’s ever happened before. I know Bob. So do you. Why believe it will ever happen again? You’re not the only one who’s facing your mortality, you know.” Mildred pulled open Bob’s bedside table drawer, took out his carefully rolled socks, and began mismatching them. Then she rerolled them and threw them back into their accustomed place. Meanwhile, Sylvie added a photo album to her cache and was about to put in the Christmas cactus when Mildred sat down on the edge of the bed. “Sylvie, where are you going to go?”

      “Mom, times have changed. Women don’t just put up with this behavior. They don’t stay anymore. I want to confront him, I want to punish him, and then I want out.”

      “Listen to me, this feeling will pass. Don’t run. And Sylvie, don’t point the finger at Bob.”

      “I want to point the finger! And I want him to hurt like I do.” Sylvie picked up the phone.

      “What are you doing?” Mildred demanded.

      “I’m making an appointment.” Mildred tried to pull the phone away but Sylvie wouldn’t let her. “I’m in hell. Why shouldn’t he be?” Sylvie asked. Then the phone was answered by the lot receptionist. Sylvie, with an effort, managed to speak in a sweet voice. “Betsy? Mr. Schiffer, please…. Oh, fine. They’re both fine…. He’s not? Oh…. Off the lot? … No. No message.” Sylvie slammed down the phone, and in a second she had gathered her things, ready to leave.

      “What, the finger in person?!” Mildred asked.

      “Yes! I’m not wasting this rage. Can I borrow your car?”

      “Listen. The two of you have history. That’s worth something. You have a past and maybe a future. You point the finger at him he gets mad, then deaf.”

      Sylvie picked up the suitcase. “Your thinking is so out-of-date.”

      “Out of date my buttocks,” Mildred croaked. “You think, Sylvie. Think hard. Do you know what you want? A future like Rosalie the Bitter?” Sylvie just shook her head, grabbed her purse, and left the room. “Where are you going?” Mildred cried, then followed her daughter.

      “I’ve called a taxi. I’m going over to the lot, confronting Bob, and then I’m leaving him.” Sylvie was down at the bottom of the staircase. “And I’m taking back my old car to do it.”

      “Oh, no,” Mildred moaned. There was a honk from outside and Sylvie opened the door, waving to the driver. She