The Switch (22 page)

The other problem, the extortionists—he'd talk to Ray Shelby, see who could possibly have known anything, like some guy who might've worked for him and was fired. A colored guy. Christ, there were all kinds of colored guys working for him.

Melanie was peeking in at him. “You awake?”

“I'm going home,” Frank said.

“You mean
home
home?” She came over and sat on the edge of the bed, getting a warm expression in her eyes, ready to smile or look sad.

“I've got to go back, I've got a business to run.”

“Did the phone wake you?”

“No”—eyes opening with alarm, ruining his determined look—“who was it, Mickey?”

“It was the black guy again. You sure you don't know him?”

“What'd he say?”

“I don't think his heart's in it anymore. He tried another sort of half-assed threat and I said hey, hold it there, sport. You'd call the feds on Mr. Dawson with a
kid
napping charge hanging over you? Bullshit.”

“How much does he want?”

“He's down to $150,000. I asked him how he'd
arrived at that, a hundred and fifty. You know, why not a hundred and sixty, that's ten grand more. He mumbled something.”

“If I knew who it was—” Frank said.

“Well, it's up to you, but I know what I'd tell him. I mean after all, you
know
it's a bluff. They've already let your wife go, I think because they're scared shitless. They got into something over their head. This guy probably got high on something and decided to come in with a discount offer, you know? Like one last try.”

“Did he say he'd call back or what?”

“No, he doesn't know what he's doing,” Melanie paused. She said, “Frank, you're an awful lot smarter than I am, but if you want a suggestion—”

“What?” Frank reached over and took his girlfriend's hand. “Tell me.”

“I'd go home,” Melanie said, “and act as though the whole thing never happened, if you're worried about your wife I mean. If I were you, I suppose I would be too.”

“Come here,” Frank said, reaching for her. “Lie down with me, Mel.”

Mel
. She hated to be called Mel. But she curled up next to him, putting her hand on his chest and giving him some breast against his bare skin. Very softly she said, “I've been so worried about you, Frank. I just want it to be over.” Her hand moved
down from his chest, down over the mound of his stomach. After a moment she heard him suck in his breath and let it out slowly. “Do you like that?” Still softly. “All I want to do is make you happy, Frank.”

He murmured something about how they would be together for a long long time.

Ordell said, “That's the Florentine, huh? What else you got? . . . Hey, where you going? He lay back on the pillows against the headboard and had to wait for her to go to the bathroom. When she came out he said, “You sure a fine big girl.”

“Thank you,” Melanie said. She stood looking at him, hands on her hips, thoughtful. “We've got a minor problem. Well, actually we've got some good news and some sorta not so good news.”

“Yeah, I had a feeling you had some kind of news,” Ordell said. He put his hands behind his head, waiting there at ease for her to tell him.

Melanie walked over to her shirt and cut-off jeans lying on the imitation-Swedish hotel chair. “He's leaving tomorrow, going home.” She stepped into the cut-offs, pulled them tight over her can, wiggling her hips, and zipped up. She said, “Ouch,” and made a face. “I'm always catching my pubes.”

Ordell was patient, with a mild expression in the
flat light of the room. “Is that the not so good news?”

“It's not
bad
really, is it?” Melanie said. “His story is, he has to see his wife now, make an appearance, and get back to his business.” She stood facing Ordell in pants but no top. “And, he wants me to come to Detroit. Which is fine, right? I'll be able to stick fairly close to him and report in. But it does fuck up getting anything settled right away. I mean while we're here.”

“Wants you to go with him,” Ordell said, “to his home?”

“No, I'm not actually going with him, on the same flight or anything. He just wants me to come to Detroit for a few days. Probably stay in a motel.”

“Be around, hold his hand.”

“That's what it sounds like. See, he stares at the wall a lot. I'm telling him things, stroking him, trying to brainwash him around a little, and it's like trying to give him ideas with an eye-dropper.”

“You going to Detroit,” Ordell said, “was that your idea or his?”

“Well, I didn't come right out and suggest it. I reminded him sorta I'm the only one around he has if he wants to talk about it; the sympathetic listener. See, we don't want him to get away completely. But here's the good news. You ready?”

“I can't wait,” Ordell said.

“Okay, I think what's in his head, because of the
guilt trip and what's happened and everything, he wants to go back to his wife and call off the divorce.”

“He say that?”

“Not in so many words. What I'm getting at, if he wants her back then he obviously doesn't want her dead. Right?”

“That's the good news,” Ordell said.

“Yeah.” Melanie seemed disappointed or surprised, a little pouty. “Well, the bad isn't that bad and the good isn't exactly sensational. But what it does, it gets things back to normal. I mean the money's still there, but the panic's over. Now you'll have time to set it up and do it right.”

Ordell waited. He watched her put on her shirt without unbuttoning it, slipping it over her head, and the smile for him as her face appeared. The big girl was a show.

Tying the shirttails in front, she said, “You're a hunk, Ordell, but from what I've seen you're a piss-poor extortionist, if you don't mind my saying. Think about it. You've got hubby back home with little Mickey. So what do you do? You start over. And this time maybe I can help you.”

“If hubby's back home with little Mickey,” Ordell said, “where's little Melanie?”

“Little Melanie's around,” Melanie said. “He's still got the hots, but he's also got the guilts, and that's not something we can rush. I was thinking I
might even go home for awhile and see my folks, since it's been, God, almost two years.”

“Take our time,” Ordell said, “and have you on the inside so to speak. Help us set the man up, huh?”

Melanie nodded. “After he gets past his worries, quits looking over his shoulder. All that money'll still be sitting there. So what's the rush?”

“You giving
me
the rush,” Ordell said, “but it's a kick, you know it? Seeing a mind working above those big tits.”

“Scout's honor,” Melanie said. “If there's something that bothers you, hey, then let's discuss it.”

“Bothers me you staying in a motel up there all by yourself. We got to do something about that,” Ordell said. He gave her a nice smile. “I'll tell you something. You're a fine big girl, Mel'nie, but if you didn't have a pussy there'd be a bounty on you.”

 

MICKEY STAYED IN THE HOUSE
all day Friday. She wasn't ready to go out, so told herself there was a lot to do. Dust. Do the kitchen floor. Rub out the stains on the oriental in the bedroom, though they were barely noticeable. The closet—she looked in, stooped to pick up the suits on the floor, abruptly changed her mind and closed the splintered door with the hole in it. It was Frank's closet, let him take care of it. If he ever decided to come home. There was no word from him all day Friday and she made her mind up she would not call him again.

She thought about lawyers. The only ones she knew belonged to the club and were friends of both of them and played golf with Frank. That probably didn't matter, but if she had to she'd get a name out of the Yellow Pages. What she wanted wouldn't require high-priced legal assistance or a formidable name. She thought. Though at this point she didn't know the least thing about getting a divorce. She
had not yet said the word aloud and just barely heard it in her mind.

She wasn't sure if she should tell Bo first. Or file and let Frank tell him, the
dad
. Or both tell him. She pictured Bo sitting in the den listening to them and finally saying, “Yeah, okay. Well, listen, I gotta go.”

She didn't tell her mother the plan. When she called during the morning she
listened
to her mother: Bo was having a wonderful time but didn't say much about the tennis camp. He didn't say much about anything, did he? Getting him to talk, you had to drag it out of him. He'd come home, eat dinner and go out again to meet some of his friends, all nice polite boys. Her dad had just left to take the Cadillac in to have the oil changed and the tires rotated; it was too bad Mickey hadn't called a little sooner. Her mother didn't ask her how she was or what she'd been doing all week, though she told Mickey she hadn't gotten a letter from her in quite awhile.

It was strange, listening to her mother and seeing Louis and Richard Edgar Monk in her mind and not saying, “You should've seen Richard, mom, Richard in his sagging Jockey shorts before I kicked him in the balls. Tell dad when he gets back from watching grease jobs I got drunk and stoned with an ex-convict who's been to Huntsville and Southern Ohio something or other.” Knowing all that
and not saying anything about it. And her mother, half-listening, thinking about something else or not accepting what she was hearing would say—What would she say?

Saturday morning she went to the A&P and thought about going to the club. But at eleven she was in back lying in the sun in her bathing suit, the patio door open so she could hear the phone. It didn't ring. The sun felt good at first. She wanted to fall asleep in it and wake up in shade. But then it was too hot in the closeness of the backyard. There was no air stirring. A wasp was attracted to her and she kept swiping at it with the
Saturday Review
, missing. Frank used
Forbes
and killed them instantly.

Lying in the hot sun she said, If you want to go to the club, why don't you?

She didn't want to go because it was the club; she wanted to go in order to say, Look, I'm still here. And maybe to prove something. There were still uncertainties to cope with. The new Mickey was free, but she wasn't yet that used to the idea.

They waved her over to have a Bloody and she was thinking, going into the grillroom, You might be wrong, you know. It might be you and not them at all.

Tyra Taylor said, “Hi, celeb. Sit with us and have one.”

It stopped her and she almost said she was going in to change and lie on the beach; but she was being open and herself and she
could
be wrong, so she said, “Fine, I'd love to.” Sat down and waited for someone to ask her how she'd been and what she'd been doing.

No one asked.

Tyra told them about her maid's car problems.

Ginny told them why she was taking Bitsy out of ballet.

Barb told them why Jackie never ate corn on the cob.

Patty told them why she was going to tell off Bank-Americard.

Ginny told them why she was going to tell off Bitsy's math teacher.

Tyra told them about Ingrid's sore bummy.

Barb told them what Chrissie liked for breakfast.

Mickey told them she'd been kidnapped.

Ginny smiled and sort of laughed; otherwise there was no response. There was no direct response to anything that was told; though when Barb said Chrissie liked Cheerios, Ginny said Bitsy liked Fruit Loops.

Then Barb, Ginny and Patty said, pretty much at the same time, that Chrissie, Bitsy and Timmie liked fried eggs, scrambled eggs, no eggs at all.

The new Mickey sat and listened for an hour and a half.

Tyra said Marshall loved her new baby dolls, one green, one apricot, with matching bikini panties.

The new Mickey tried to think of things to say but couldn't. Finally she said well, bye, and got out of there. It wasn't their fault, it wasn't her fault. It wasn't even a matter of fault.

Marshall Taylor was crossing the road from the golf course to the parking lot. Big Marsh, with his golf cap sitting on top of his head, clicking across the asphalt in his golf shoes. Big Stoop.

Mickey was between her Grand Prix and the car parked next to it. He might not see her. She watched, holding the door handle. He would go by and it would be a lot easier, not having to think up things to say. But the new Mickey said, Why would you want to do that?

“Marshall?”

As he stopped and turned his head, she saw the instant dumb expression. Think fast, Marsh. The expression changing then: a squint, mouth open, desperately trying to find a pose and words to go with it.

“Mickey? Hey, is that you?” Stalling. His gaze shifted quickly over the rows of cars—no one around—and he pulled on the peak of the golf cap.
The hand reached out to her as he came in between the cars. “My God, Mickey, how are you?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“I've been worried sick about you.” Frowning, perplexed, innocent. “Mick, what happened?”

“Did you try to find out?” Mickey said.

“What do you mean, when I didn't hear anything? Of course I did, I called your house. I called . . . other places. I've been looking all over for you.”

“Did you call the police?”

“It was the first thing in my mind. But then I thought, Wait a minute. If you're all right—see, I thought
you
called the police, or you ran out of the house to a neighbor's. So I got out of there. Then when I didn't hear anything I thought you'd probably gone to Florida to be with Bo, meet Frank, and I didn't want to turn in a false alarm and cause you any more additional trouble, if you know what I mean.”

“No, I don't,” Mickey said. “What do you mean?”

“I mean anybody finding out about, well, you and I.”

“Marshall, there's a hole in the closet door. There's blood all over Frank's suits.”

“Jesus, I know—”

“How's your head?”

“I had to have twelve stitches.” He took his golf cap off and lowered his head to show her the strip of bandage where his hairline had been shaved back a couple of inches. He said, “Maybe if we hurry up and get the door fixed—”

“What'd you tell Tyra, you were in an accident?”

“Yeah. How'd you know?”

“She says you love her new baby dolls.”

“Really, you see any way we can have that door fixed before he gets home? The suits, we can take ‘em in for one-day service.”

“Marshall, where do you think I've been all week?”

“I don't
know
,” Marshall said. “That's what I've been so worried about. What if I came over right now and got the suits? Except I'm meeting a guy from Diesel—” He was thoughtful. “See if I can get a carpenter—” Then shook his head. “No, I think you're gonna need a new door. Okay, I'll send somebody over to measure it, he'll
take
the door. That's better yet, then get the new one put in probably Monday or Tuesday. When's Frank get back?”

“I haven't heard,” Mickey said.

“If we can have it put in before—then it'll have to be painted, won't it? The suits're no problem, but the door—How about, he sees it's gone, tell him you ran into it with something?”

“The car,” Mickey said.

“I was thinking like the vacuum cleaner; you put a dent in it. Or you spilled some kind of chemical on it that had to be removed.”

“Martinis,” Mickey said.

“No, the door was warped and wouldn't close properly. So they had to take it. How does that sound?”

“It sounds great,” Mickey said. She opened the car door and got in. Marshall stooped, the peak of his golf cap touching the window, saying something. Mickey rolled the window down.

“What?”

“I said why don't you take care of the suits and I'll call the guy about the door?” Marshall looked at his wristwatch.

“Or why don't you and Frank handle it?” Mickey said. She started the car.

“Wait a minute—
Frank?
”

“It's his closet, Marshall, and you messed it up. I'd say whatever you want to do, it's up to you and Frank.” She drove off.

On the way home Mickey was thinking, If you lined them all up in their Saturday night summer outfits, how would you tell them apart?

Six days ago lying in bed she had tried to imagine who, of all the men at the club, she wouldn't
mind having an affair with. And had decided—none of them.

How about, which one could she be married to? Wake up and there you are, married fifteen years. And thought, What difference would it make? They're interchangeable. If you lined them up and tried to pick a winner, it would be very easy to end up with another Frank or a Marshall. One a crook, the other a tinhorn. Or you might get a drunk or a lunch-caller or a bore, or all three. And if that was cynical or smart-ass, tough. She could revise her thinking some other time.

So if she didn't fit in, if she was uncomfortable as she tried like hell to fit, and if she got tired listening and wasn't any good at thinking up small talk, why bother?

She wasn't going home mad. Nor was it an urge to find a hobby or do something
meaningful
. She didn't plan on going to Central Africa with the Peace Corps or even to the Inner City with the Junior League. She didn't know where she was going; though a few days at Gratiot Beach would be nice. She had the key. Look in her grandmother's room—where her grandmother had died two summers ago—and see if it did look like the bedroom in Richard's house. It would be good to get off by herself. Sit on the beach and watch the freighters and ore carriers go by, the way they used to watch the ships when she was little, looking through binoculars
and seeing who could identify the flag or the company insignia on the stack.

Sit and not think for a few days. Read. She missed reading. Or try writing something. “How I Was Kidnapped and Found Happiness” by Margaret Bradley Dawson. In the October
Reader's Digest
. Noodle and biscuit recipes for
Family Circle
. Or for
Cosmopolitan
, “I Rapped With My Husband's Mistress.”

She wondered if there had been others before Melanie. She imagined Frank coming in with the towel, hair combed, teeth brushed, then the two of them in bed. She wondered what they said to each other in bed. She wondered what Melanie looked like; how old she was.

She remembered thinking, at Richard's house, that she didn't know her husband. But that was wrong. She had waited at least a dozen years for an individual to come out from beneath the Frank Dawson Big Dealer image. And what had finally come to light was essentially more of the same big-deal baloney, the self-importance, the trophy-winning (Melanie was a trophy), the serious business poses, the “in” attire, everything but a pinky ring. Maybe in the Bahamas he wore a shark's tooth and Melanie played with it.

Fifteen years ago her mother had said simply, “You're so lucky.” Her dad had said, “That young man has a head on his shoulders.” Her mother
had said, “Oh, I hope, I hope—” He was nice looking; he was neat; he was a business major; number three man on the University of Michigan golf team; he was a Catholic. What else? He was a Young Republican. He belonged to the Jaycees, Rotary, Knights of Columbus. He read books on personal achievement in business, the stock market and real estate. He vowed his wife would never have to work. And so they had picked out their china and bought furniture (direct from the plant in Grand Rapids at a fifty per cent savings) because it was time to get married and everyone else was doing it.

Did she love him then? Yes. Or did she feel she
should
love him? Everyone probably had a few doubts, misgivings. The first few times he was away on business she missed him and said, Ah, good. Then what happened? Nothing. That was the trouble. What had she contributed to the marriage? Not much. Why not? Well, she had wanted to; but all Frank seemed to need was a good wife. And that wasn't being cynical or smart-ass. She should've known.

She should've said to her dad, “For Christ sake, so he's good at business—” She should've known the moment she said to Frank, smiling a little, getting ready to giggle, “My dad says you've got a head on your shoulders.” And Frank, eyebrows
raised slightly, had shrugged, accepting it. She
did
know. But she sold out, covered the smile and was contrite. What was so funny? What did a skinny little girl with hardly any breasts know about the seriousness of business? That was her mistake right there, selling out and accepting Frank's blueprinted view of the world.

Why had he married her? Because he
knew
she'd always back off from a disagreement. No, he wasn't that perceptive. He never sensed what was in her head or was even curious about what she thought. He married her because she qualified, just as he did, and if marriage became monotonous that's the way it was; there were plenty of things to do to keep busy.