The Switch

Chapter 1

MICKEY SAID, "I'll drive. I'd really like to."

Frank, holding the door open, said, "Get in the car, okay?" He wasn't going to say anything else. He handed her his golf trophy to hold, walked around and tipped the club parking boy a dollar. Mickey buckled the seat belt--something she seldom did--and lit a cigarette. Frank got in and turned on the radio.

They passed the Bloomfield Hills Police Department on Telegraph, south of Long Lake Road, going 85 miles an hour. Someone at the club that evening had said that anybody coming from Deep Run after a Saturday night party, anybody at all, would blow at least a twenty on the breathalizer. Frank had said his lawyer carried a couple $100 bills in his penny loafers at all times just to bail out friends. Frank, with his little-rascal grin, had never been stopped.

The white Mark V--washed daily--turned left onto Quarton Road. Mickey held her body rigid as the pale hood followed the headlight beams through the curves, at 70 miles an hour, conservatively straddling the double lines down the middle of the road, the Mark V swaying slightly, leaning-- WJZZ-FM pouring out of the rear speakers-- leaning harder, Mickey feeling herself pressed against the door and hearing the tires squeal and the bumpbump-bump jolting along the shoulder of the road, then through the red light at Lahser, up the hill and a mile to Covington, tires squealing again on the quick turn into the street, then coasting--"See? What's the problem?"--turning into the drive of the big brown and white Tudor home, grazing the high hedge and coming to an abrupt stop. In the paved turn-around area of the backyard, Frank twisted to look through the rear window, moved in reverse, maneuvered forward again, cranking the wheel, reverse again, gunning it, and slammed the Mark V into the garage, ripping the side molding from Mickey's Grand Prix as metal scraped against metal and white paint was laid in streaks over dark blue.

"Jesus Christ, you parked right in the middle of the garage!"

Mickey didn't say anything. Her shoulders were still hunched against the walled-in sound of scraping metal. After a moment she unbuckled and got out, leaving Frank's golf trophy on the seat.

It was cold in Bo's room. The window air-conditioner hummed and groaned as though it might build to a breaking point. Mickey turned the dial to low and the hum became soothing. In the strip of light from the door she could see Bo, his coarse blond hair on the pillow, his bare shoulders. His body lay twisted, the sheet pulled tightly against the hard narrow curve of his fanny. Mickey's word. Part of a thought. Practically no fanny at all, running it off six hours a day on tennis courts and developing the farmer tan--she kidded him about it--brown face and arms, white body. He didn't think it was funny. It was a tennis tan and the legs were brown, hard-muscled. He didn't think many things were funny. He would scowl and push his hair from his face. Now his face was slack, his mouth partly open. She kissed his cheek and could hear his breathing, her little boy who seemed to fill the twin bed. Bo would be fourteen in a month. "Going on thirty-five," she said to Frank. Only once. Frank had given her a tired but patient head-shake that was for women who didn't know about the concentration, the psyching up, the single-purpose will to win that a talented athlete must develop to become a champion. (Sometimes he sounded like a Wheaties commercial.)

She said, again only once, "What difference does it make if he wins or loses, if he's having fun?" Knowing it was a mistake as she said it. Frank said, "If you don't play to win, why keep score?" (Did that follow?) He then gave an example from the world of golf that drew only a vague parallel. Something about his second-shot lie on the 5-par 17th--the dogleg to the right?--where he could chip out past the trees, play it safe; or he could take a wedge and if he stroked it just right, to get his loft and a little kick, he'd be sitting pin high. "You know how I played it?" Mickey, showing interest: "How?"

An unspoken house rule: Never talk about Bo if it's anything that might upset Frank. When the lines from his nose to his jaw tightened, stop. Switch to Bo's overpowering forehand. Or let Frank describe his day's round of golf, the entire eighteen, stroke by stroke. Keep the peace. Though the tiny voice in her mind was beginning to ask, louder each time, Why?

It was a pleasure watching Bo sleep. It was a pleasure watching him eat. It was a pleasure watching him play tennis when he was winning. But it was not a pleasure simply to be with him and talk. Frank said, "He's thirteen years old, for Christ sake. What do you want him to talk about?"

Coming into the bedroom with a drink and his golf trophy, Frank said, "You know, it's funny, after fifteen years I still have to explain to you this is work, winning this thing. You make remarks like it's a piece of shit."

Mickey was already in bed in her long white pajama top, her face scrubbed clean of eye-liner and lipstick; but he'd caught her. The bed lamp was still on.

"What'd I say this time?"

"You made some remarks at the table; I heard you."

"I said it looks like the Empire State Building with a golfer on top."

"That's very funny."

"Well--" Mickey thought about it a moment. "How about the City National Bank Building?"

No, that was wrong; she should keep quiet. Frank was glaring at her, those little glassy eyes glaring away, the lines in his face drawing tight. Now he would either blow up or hold back and sound solemn.

"I'll tell you something," Frank said. He held the trophy high with one hand, showing her his strength as well as his reverence for the award. "Winning the club championship, bringing this home every year if I can do it, and I mean it takes work, is as important to my business as anything I do." He was having trouble holding it up.

Mickey said, "And the blazer with the club crest--"

Frank tensed. "You want to make fun of that too?"

"All I meant, it's another prize, something important to you."

"All you meant--" He turned away with the trophy and the drink and placed them side by side on his dresser. "All you meant, bullshit. That little innocent voice, Christ. All you do, you've got a way of putting everything down. You don't like the coat, you don't like the club crest on it. What else? The trophy--"

If she hadn't washed and brushed her teeth--if she'd turned the bed lamp off right away--She had thought Frank might stay downstairs awhile, watch a late movie with a drink and one eye closed.

"I asked you what the crest meant," Mickey said. "How long ago was that? I haven't said a word about it since."

"No, you haven't said anything--"

He was unbuttoning his shirt, showing her his chest. He did have a good chest. But a little too much stomach after all the drinks and dinner and after-dinner drinks; the stomach straining against the white patent-leather belt that matched his loafers. Frank liked matching outfits. For the club he liked paisley pants with a yellow or lime-green sport jacket. He owned twenty-five suits. Men who sold them would show Frank the latest "in" styles and he'd buy them. He parted his dark straight hair on the right side and wore sideburns that came to points. He was neat, an attractive, masculine-looking man; not tall, but well built, good chest and shoulders. He smiled easily; he knew almost every member of the club by name. He grinned and punched shoulders and called his golf buddies "partner." His voice was easily identified in the locker room and he was known to tell jokes well. Sometimes Mickey thought he was funny.

But she never felt with him.

Even now she was perched somewhere looking down, a spectator, watching the two of them in a pointless scene. Thinking of lines she could give herself, zingers; but knowing he would either get mad or not get it at all. So usually she backed off, played it safe and continued to watch.

He was still delivering broad sarcasm.

"You never say anything that people know what you're talking about. You realize that? You pull all this cute shit. Cute little Mickey Dawson; oh my, isn't she a cutie? She's fucking precious is what she is. Skinny little thing, nice boobs. How does she keep her figure? Those fat broads're always asking you that, right? Making comments? Well see, what she does--anybody wants to know--she concentrates on her husband, watches him like a fucking hawk so she can count his drinks. See, she gets so wrapped up in it, her cute little brain working away, counting, it burns up energy.

"She's just a cute little bundle of energy, counting drinks, running out to the club every day, taking Bo to matches, very devoted." He paused to take his drink from the dresser and finish it, defiantly. "Okay. How many did I have tonight?"

She had never thought of herself as cute little Mickey Dawson. She had come to accept people telling her she was cute--tired of acting surprised and discounting her looks. She preferred to think of herself as natural looking--with her Revlon Light 'n' Lively hair worn fairly short, barely teased and parted on the side--and with an inner something-- she hoped--an awareness, that showed in her eyes, if anyone bothered to look. (The club lovers looked and saw their own reflections.) One thing for sure, she never felt cute or worked at it with cute moves.

"How many did I have. Come on."

"How many drinks?"

"Jesus Christ, I believe that's what we're talking about." Frank held his shirt open, waiting for the answer.

What was that supposed to do to her?

"I don't know," Mickey said. "I was there a half hour before you came out of the men's grill."

Frank unzipped his fly and she thought he was going to expose himself. "Okay, I had two in there, maybe three. How many more, after I came out?" He took his pants off, his back supported against the dresser. Still, he lurched as he threw the pants across a chair. "You counted them, didn't you?"

She was thinking: Take pictures of him sometime with the movie camera. Or have his tape recorder turned on and play it back in the morning. First, a tape of his nice-guy speech accepting the trophy, straight-faced, but with the hint of a boyish grin. ("I owe it all to clean living, a devoted wife and my opponent's double bogey on the fifteenth.") Then play the bedroom tape, the other Frank Dawson. He did not seem complicated; he played obvious roles. He was considered bright, but was actually very unaware. It would never occur to him that his wife was more intelligent than he was. Frank was the man, he was successful in business, he owned a $260,000 home, he played golf with a three handicap. (And she was the wife.) Maybe that's all there was to him.

She said, "I guess you'll drink as much as you want."

"Come on, how many did I have?"

"But I'm not going to drive home with you any more when you're drunk." There, she said it.

"Wait a minute. Now you're saying I'm drunk?"

Frank watched her close her eyes, face shining clean, hands folded over the neatly turned-back sheet. He walked over with the trophy, raised it and slammed it down hard on the empty flat side of the king-size bed. Mickey's eyes opened abruptly and she came up on her elbows as the trophy struck her legs, bounced awkwardly, and went end-over-end off the side of the bed.

Frank waited. After a moment he said, "I didn't mean to do that, but goddamn-it I'm asking you a question. You accuse me of being drunk, how many did I have?" Subdued, but hanging on.

Mickey was sitting up, touching her shins. They hurt with a throb, but she didn't want to push the sheet down to look.

"Aren't you?"

"Aren't I what?"

"Frank, why don't you go to bed?"

She lay back again, this time turning to her side, away from him. Reaching up to turn off the lamp, she saw the golfer on the floor, no longer on top of the Empire State Building.

Frank said, well, he counted them. She was always saying he should count his drinks, right? Well, tonight he'd counted them. He'd had eighteen since finishing golf at 6:30. Okay, now what was he supposed to do? You count drinks and then what? What was supposed to happen? Mickey didn't answer. You keep a record, is that it? What was it supposed to tell you?

At twenty past four Mickey heard her husband get up to go to the bathroom. She heard a bumping, scraping noise and raised her head to see Frank--a pale figure in the dark--pushing his dresser away from the wall, struggling with it, grunting, then wedging himself in behind it. There was silence before another sound came to her, soft and steady, as the Deep Run Country Club First Flight champ urinated down the wall and onto the oak floor.

After that, for awhile, she lay awake and asked herself questions.

What had they really been talking about? Not drinks. Why did she let him--Why did she play games with him? ... Why was she afraid to tell him what she felt? Why didn't she cut through all the words and get to the point? ... Why did she do things--sit around the club, smile, laugh at things that weren't funny--she didn't want to do? Playing kissy-ass, that's what it amounted to. Why was she so goddamn nice all the time? Nicey-nice. God.