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.
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
