You never do anything even remotely bad. What did you do, play ‘Für Elise’ in quarter time? Come on, kid, tell me about it.” He put down the flyer and glanced at her. “But I’m running late again so tell me in four words or less.”
Sylvie looked out the window again. She couldn’t help but stare at the car in the pool. It was an eye magnet, glowing like a grape submerged in aqua Jell-O. God, I must be insane, Sylvie thought. Maybe I’m more upset about my birthday than I think. She vamped for time.
“I hate it when you give that four-word order,” Sylvie told Bob and then took a deep breath. “Let me ask you this: how long does it take a submerged BMW to rust?”
“Huh?” Bob, his mouth now full of broccoli, stopped chewing for a moment and furrowed his brow.
She had his attention. “Okay,” she said. “In four words or less: drove car into pool.”
Bob managed—just barely—to swallow the broccoli. Sylvie wondered idly whether she still remembered CPR, just in case the vegetable got caught in his throat. “What? … why the hell? … are you kidding …?” he choked out.
Now he was listening to her. Not about Hawaii or her birthday, but about the car. Now, however, she didn’t want to talk. Did he still want it in four words? Sylvie counted on her lingers. “Felt bad. Turned right.”
Bob put down the fork and stood up slowly. Sylvie realized that this was the first time she’d seen him move slowly in months. Lately he was always in a rush, always on the go. “Your car? Our pool?” he asked. It seemed that he could talk in four words now too. Silently, Sylvie nodded. She watched him move slowly, like a sleepwalker, to the kitchen window and look out. It was getting dark earlier and twilight had fallen. The blue corner of the pool and the glinting car within it glowed. Bob stood absolutely still at the window, his back to Sylvie, his hands spread wide and as flat as two flounders against the countertop. It was very quiet in the kitchen. Sylvie could hear the ice maker growl on. Bob continued to stand there, his back to her. “Why in the world would you do a thing like that?” he asked, his voice full of wonder. “That’s nuts.”
Sylvie hung her head. All at once her anger deserted her and she felt like a preschooler, as wrong and needy as Kenny had ever been on his worst day. “Maybe I just wanted us to have something to talk about,” she managed to whisper.
Bob turned away from the window, but only for a minute. He swiveled his head back as if he were unable to tear his eyes away from the unnatural panorama. “We have plenty to talk about: Kenny, Reenie …,” he paused, obviously stuck, “… Hawaiian brochures,” he added lamely.
Sylvie lifted her head. Bob was obviously mesmerized; she could see the willpower it took him to force his eyes from the window. His voice was hoarse, either with broccoli or emotion. “A BMW underwater. It’s so … so wrong,” he said. In the light of the kitchen, she could see that his face was registering shock. “I can’t even imagine how I would feel if that was Beautiful Baby.”
“I’m not as close to my car as you are.”
He didn’t even notice her sarcasm. “But why, Sylvie? Why? I know you’re … spontaneous. You know … Lucy Ricardoesque. Maybe sometimes a little … well, flaky. But this is not the kind of thing that happens to us.”
Sylvie looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “Bob, I don’t feel like there is an ‘us.’”
“Don’t be silly. We’re married. That’s as ‘us’ as you can get.” Bob crossed the floor, leaving the window and its shocking view. He gave Sylvie another quick bear hug. Then, taking her hand, he led her out the back door, into the soft darkness of the yard. How long had it been since they had held hands? she wondered. She couldn’t remember the last time. He led her across the patio and onto the lawn.
The sky hadn’t turned inky yet, but the hedges and shrubs had. The back garden was now fifty shades of indigo. When she and Bob had bought this property, the yard had been a huge forlorn lot with nothing but a scrawny Norfolk pine and an ugly border of chrysanthemums. Since then they had done so much together. In the last fifteen years the bushes and evergreens that she and Bob had planted had grown into an encircling shelter. And her flowers had thrived. Sylvie looked up.
There was only one star overhead. That dot of light and the lunar glow of the white impatiens in the border were the only touches of light in the darkness—except, of course, for the Technicolor glow in the center of the yard. The turquoise and silver of the pool and the car drew them to it.
Bob stood beside her at the edge of the pool, looking down at the sunken convertible. To Sylvie its sleek, metallic-gray chassis looked like the corpse of a shark. “You didn’t lose control of the steering?” he asked. “Nothing went haywire?”
“No,” she told him. Nothing but me, she thought.
“But how could you have an accident like this?”
“Bob, it wasn’t an accident …” She was about to launch into the stuff about her feelings, about gifts, about attention, when he spoke again.
“I understand,” he said.
“You do?” She could hardly believe it. Somehow her gesture, extreme as it was, had gotten through to him. “You really do?” she asked.
“Sure.”
Sylvie felt a flood of relief wash over her. Then Bob spoke again.
“You know, Sylvie, this has been a time with a lot of adjustments for you. Your birthday. Both of the kids gone. I mean, maybe it’s time to think about some medical help.”
“Medical help?” she echoed. “What do you mean? Psychiatrists?”
“No, no. I mean, not yet. Not unless you feel you need one. I just think maybe you’re a little moody, a little down. Maybe it’s time for that hormone replacement therapy. Maybe you should see John. Have a checkup.”
“Have you been watching the Lifetime channel secretly again?” Sylvie snapped. “Bob, this isn’t about my estrogen levels. It’s about our communication. Or lack of it.”
Bob was staring again at the pool bottom. “Jesus! Did Rosalie see this? Does your dad know? Well, all of Shaker Heights will be talking about this over granola and prune juice tomorrow morning.”
“Who cares?” Sylvie demanded. “I only care about what we talk about. Or don’t. We don’t talk.”
Bob turned to her and took her shoulders in his hands. They were warm against the cool autumn air and she shivered. “Look. I’ll talk to you about whatever you want to talk about,” Bob said, his voice as soft as the night. Sylvie took a deep breath, but before she could begin Bob continued, “I just can’t do it now. I have to get to this meeting. Tomorrow night though, over dinner, we’ll talk about whatever you want. I promise. It’s your birthday. It’s your night.” He took her elbow and moved her away from the pool edge. “I’ll take care of the car. Don’t worry about a thing. Then the weekend is coming up.
We’ll talk some more. But, Sylvie,” he paused. “You make an appointment with the doctor. It can’t hurt.” He had propelled her across the slate and was opening the screen door. He helped her up the steps as if she were an invalid but then closed the door from the outside. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “But don’t worry. We’ll talk.”
