Free Switcheroo by Goldsmith Olivia Page A

play. The liquid glissando of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 17 filled the room. She’d played this piece at Juilliard, for a recital. Bob had been there. She remembered his face as he’d congratulated her afterward. They’d made love for the first time that night. He’d adored her then. She’d played well, but now—alone in the darkness—she knew she played better. Her fingers fumbled a few times, but her feeling, her timing, and the heart of the music was better, truer.
    When she heard the door open she started, dropping her hands. The shock of hearing the music ending abruptly gave her the energy to turn around to face her husband. She felt her heart thump painfully against her breastbone. But it was only Mildred, standing there in the music room doorway, carrying a sandwich on a plate.
    “You haven’t eaten anything,” Mildred said. “You have to keep up your strength.” Sylvie turned on the lamp, wordlessly stood up, took her mother by the hand, and led her down the hallway. At the dining room door Mildred surveyed the room, took in an audible breath, and put the sandwich down on the other end of the cluttered dining room table.
    “You want proof?” Sylvie asked. “I have it. In spades.”
    “So you don’t want the sandwich. You want a pistol,” Mildred said. “Where’s Bob now?” she asked, picking up one of the pieces from exhibit A.
    “He left a message. Supposedly he’s working late and then going to a special Masons meeting tonight. But there is no special meeting. I checked with Burt Silver’s wife. And there was no Masons’ meeting yesterday.” Sylvie sat back down at the desk. “I knew something was different,” she said. “It wasn’t just the usual, routine, taking-me-for-granted Bob. It was the new, improved, making-a-fool-of-me-cheating Bob.” Sylvie lifted up a crumpled slip of paper. “Look at this,” she said.
    Mildred crossed the room and took the receipt. She scrunched up her eyes and held the bit of paper out but still couldn’t read it without her glasses. “What is it?” she asked.
    “An American Express receipt from Weiner’s Jewelry.”
    “That thief. You shop there?”
    “ I don’t. I don’t buy jewelry. But somebody bought a necklace there.” Sylvie’s voice became high with sarcasm. “Who could it be? Wait! Look! The receipt was signed by Bob.” She turned away from her mother.
    “Maybe it was a pair of cuff links. You know how he likes cuff links.”
    Wordlessly, Sylvie handed her the store sales record. “No cuff links,” she said. “A necklace. And trust me, Bob hasn’t worn beads since college.”
    Mildred looked at the transaction record and then looked at her daughter. She sat down heavily at the head of the table. In Bob’s chair. “Maybe the necklace is for you. For your birthday.”
    “I got my present. Remember?”
    “Well, it could be for Reenie. When she comes home for Thanksgiving.”
    “Don’t try and justify my husband’s actions,” Sylvie said. “It was sent to an M. Molensky.”
    “M. Molensky? Is that the name of a girlfriend?” Mildred asked. “Sounds like an accountant.”
    Silently, Sylvie handed Mildred another receipt. “Save your breath. Read it and weep.”
    “Switzer’s?” Sylvie nodded, put her hand to her mouth, and stifled a sob.
    Mildred made her way over to her daughter, the final proof of her son-in-law’s infidelity still clutched in her hand. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry…” Mildred looked down and whistled at the amount at the bottom of the bill of sale. “We’re talking some serious lingerie,” she said.
    Sylvie was crying full force by now. “And I wear cotton panties I buy myself,” she sobbed.
    Mildred sighed. “Don’t men know anything about discount malls?” she asked. She stroked her daughter’s hair. “One of the main differences between men and women is that we brag about how little we paid for something. They brag about how much.”
    “That’s not one of the main