The woman lying next to him wasn’t the woman he went to sleep with. He knew it as soon as he woke up. It wasn’t the sounds she was making—the rhythm of her breathing or the putt-putt noise her lips made when she exhaled. It was just that over the years, he’d developed an acute awareness of the kind of warmth a person gave off while sleeping—there was no way to mistake the truthfulness of a body at rest. When he turned to look, instead of the brunette he went to sleep with the night before, now he was lying next to a redhead.
Nothing else around him changed on these nights. The chipped watermelon-colored lamp was still on the night table, as was the glass of water he’d drunk from the night before. The dresser was the same, and so was the yellow ceramic dish he kept for pocket change. Olivia, his wife, used to laugh at him for keeping the dish, pointing out—sometimes with a tiny stream of spittle following after an accusing finger—that he was a geezer before his time. With his eyes closed, he could recall details like that about her, and yet he wondered if he’d recognize her if he saw her again. It had been a long time since she’d left him, and sometimes he wasn’t even sure if these memories of her were real or imagined.
A rumbling sound filled the room suddenly. The redhead was lying on her back, and now with every exhale, the putt-putt sound had given way to a loud snort. Slowly, he inched closer to get a better look at her face, the springs of the mattress creaking slightly underneath him. Thick auburn ringlets that looked like caramel popcorn on a string covered much of her face, but her breasts, he could see them clear as day, and for a moment, the way they rose out of her t-shirt, like the sun at the beginning of a day, they made him happy. The brunette from the night before had a pretty smile, and was nice enough, but she had the body of a little boy. It was true that there were trade-offs. He’d learned this over the years. This new woman may have been more appealing to him, but he had to live with her, day in and day out until the next switch happened. He knew this, and he wanted to want a good person more than anything else, but for a few moments, before he’d have to do the hard work of learning to be with yet another new person, he’d just let himself be content.
The first time he woke up with a new woman in his bed after Olivia left, after he got over the shock and covered himself up like a shy little girl, he asked the woman what her name was. She grabbed the blanket he’d covered himself with and laughing, she told him she loved him. He couldn’t remember much about that woman or the time he’d spent getting to know her, but the thing he couldn’t forget was how he felt hearing a perfect stranger tell him she loved him and somehow believing that she meant it.
He carefully moved off the bed and went into the living room so as not to wake the redhead up. Family pictures, he’d noticed, were always in the same place and in the same frames that he’d bought with his wife years before. After a new woman appeared in his bed, the only difference was the people standing next to him. In his wedding picture, he was still in the same rented tux with the same rented smile, but Olivia was replaced by the curvy redhead sleeping in his bed. In another picture in the black lacquer frame Olivia bought when they first moved into the place, he was surrounded by a group of redheads—the snoring woman’s family, he supposed. The only frame missing was the one of his son, Tim. It disappeared the same night Olivia did. He assumed she took it with her.
“Baby, what are you doing?” the redhead called out from the bedroom. Though laced with sleep, it was clearly a nasal, high pitched voice, accustomed to loudness. The man didn’t answer because he was too busy looking for a purse, or a wallet—something with the woman’s name. Eventually, on the kitchen table, he found a small crescent-shaped bag, and in it, he found a license. Her name was Cherokee. He wondered if maybe she was an actress. Who else would have a name like that?
“Baby, honey, come back to bed,” she called out again, this time louder and clearer than before. He raced back into the room and found Cherokee sitting up. She looked familiar to him, but he always thought that after a switch happened. “I may have a little extra time before I start my day….” She whispered this in such a way as to make the man blush. He spent the next few minutes keeping away from her, standing in the corner of the bedroom, talking quickly, but she just stared and waited him out. Though he’d learned to accept switches because the world around him forced him to, he still felt a tinge of guilt and awkwardness on those first mornings. “Come here, would you?” she said, her voice was now less angular, rounder. He kept trying to change the subject, or at least get her to look away from him, all the while thinking of the women who appeared in his bed over the years and how all of them seemed to know him: the books he’d just read, his favorite sexual positions, the fact that he always lined the seat of the toilet even at home. That kind of knowledge was worth something, he told himself, and he knew Olivia wasn’t coming back. So he let Cherokee pull him onto their bed.
Right as she got on top of him, her legs spread over his, the phone rang, and all the interest she’d shown him until now seemed to drain out of her face. “Business, sorry,” she said as she pushed herself off him and ran into the study. For the rest of the time he was home, she answered the phone, which rang almost constantly. If she was an actress, he thought, she certainly had a good career going.
When he got to the office, the man went straight to speak with Stephen. This was part of his routine on mornings when switches occurred. Stephen had been his assistant for years. The man couldn’t remember how long exactly, but he knew Stephen had come on board about the same time Olivia left him. He knew this because though on most days he hardly spoke to Stephen, on mornings like this, he always made it a point to share what happened to him. He’d made a simple calculation early on: Stephen was not only a loyal employee proven to respect the bounds of his boss’ privacy. There was also the simple fact that even if Stephen was the type to divulge secrets, he wouldn’t have been able to.
The man had noticed how the other assistants in the office avoided him. They didn’t appreciate the fact that he always seemed to know what his boss wanted before being asked, which in turn, made them have to work harder to keep up with their own bosses. They also hated the way he spoke—that trembling whisper of his reminded them of youthful days confined in dusty libraries. But most of all, it was Stephen’s hands that the other assistants hated most—the way they scuttled over surfaces and wiggled in pockets. They were like wild things and because they never stopped moving, they were always damp. No one was going to listen to Stephen—no matter what he had to tell. That much, the man knew.
“Stephen,” he said as he walked in the office, “do you have a moment?”
Stephen’s hands sprinted to move his work off to the side. In the fluorescent light of the small space, the man could make out the trail of dampness Stephen’s hands had left in their wake. “Has it happened again?” Stephen asked before the man could say anything else.
“As always, I need this to stay between us,” the man said.
“Of course,” Stephen whispered back.
“She’s a redhead, now.”
“Your wife?”
“Did you know that—that she was a redhead? Do you know her name?”
“I’ve met her a couple times at the Holiday Parties,” Stephen said. “Don’t you remember introducing me?”
“Not to this woman.”
“I can only tell you what I remember,” Stephen said. “She’s a redhead. She’s always been as far as I know.”
“Do you think this happens to other people?”
He noticed Stephen’s hands were clutching the end of the desk.
“Are you alright?” the man asked.
“Of course, he’s alright” Roy, the owner of the company, appeared out of nowhere. “He’s Stephen. The real question is you, kiddo. You’re not looking very rested, today.” Roy was in his 60s, always tan, and since the age of forty had decided not to wear ties.
“Everything’s fine,” the man assured his boss.
“Good, good.” Roy paused, looking around the small office. “Jane’s not in today, and I was going to ask if I could borrow Stephen for the day. You mind?” The man looked at Stephen and for a moment, he could’ve sworn that his assistant looked relieved. Roy then told Stephen to meet him in his office and waited til he was alone with the man. “I’m going to see you tonight—right?” Roy asked. “It’s really important that you show up. Don’t disappoint me, ok kiddo?”
The man remembered that Roy was throwing a get together that night to celebrate his tenth anniversary with Richard. “Seven, sharp. Cherokee’s coming, right?” Roy asked. He told Roy yes, assuming that like everything else, the plans he’d made before Cherokee appeared would carry over as well.
By the time the man arrived at Roy’s that evening, the living room was filled with the same tall, preternaturally tan men who usually came to Roy’s parties. Many of them young, all of them there for the free alcohol. And yet there was something unexpectedly somber about the event. Their faces were stone-like, and most of them just stood around not talking. Even the light in the room, usually abundant from the floor-to-ceiling Arts and Crafts styled windows Roy loved so much, seemed more restricted, as if sunlight were now only allowed in small increments.
The man scanned the room for Cherokee, but before he could find her, Richard grabbed his hand. “Roy’s been looking for you.”
He followed Richard down the hall, past the overly serious tall men, and into the study Roy had added on for Richard. A long rectangular painting of a woman seated at a desk hung on the far wall, and off to the side, Roy sat looking out at his swimming pool, which was completely empty. Usually, on such a warm evening, there would’ve been a number of guests enjoying themselves, playing Marco Polo or positioning themselves to catch the last few minutes of sunlight, but the pool was as quiet as the living room.
“Who painted that?” the man asked looking at the portrait. “Is it Richard’s?”
“There’s no time for that now,” Roy said. The skin on his face, so accustomed to the creases and folds of his smile, seemed as if it were being stretched tight by a sad concentration that the man had never seen before. Roy looked into the cloud of smoke he’d just exhaled, “I wanted to give you a heads-up before she gets things started.” He looked over at the man. “You don’t know what I mean, do you? Of course you don’t.”
“Roy, I’m here because we’re celebrating you and Richard—remember?”
“In a way. Listen, this is completely out of character for me, and I don’t like it. I’ve told her that. It’s throwing everyone. Look at this place—it’s a fucking morgue.”
“You told who? What are you talking about?” the man asked.
Roy lit another cigarette. “You want a drink? I could use one. What do you want? I got everything.”
“What’s wrong with you?” the man asked. “And why are you smoking? I thought you gave it up.”
“Nothing’s as it seems, kiddo. Haven’t you noticed that?”
The man didn’t answer.
“Look, you ever wonder why it happens?”
“Why what happens?” the man asked.
“The women,” Roy whispered. “The switches.”
“You know? How do you know?” The man raised his voice. “Did Stephen say something?”
Roy moved closer. He’d already been drinking, and with the cigarettes, smelled like an old bar. “She thought it’d be better coming from me,” Roy said. She thinks because I’m gay, I’m more sensitive, and I’ll be more gentle, or something. Why do hetero women always think that, by the way? I’m as insensitive as the next guy.”
“Why are you whispering? And who is she?” the man asked.
Richard walked back in the room at that moment and whispered in Roy’s ear so the man couldn’t hear. The message made Roy stand up suddenly. “We better get started,” he said.
“No, wait. Tell me how you know about the switches.” The man was now standing up as well, trying to block Roy from leaving.
“She needs us all to go in. Please,” Richard said sternly, as he grabbed the man’s arm so Roy could pass.
“What’s wrong with you guys? Richard, why are you being an ass?” The man could hear Roy in the living room now, clapping his hands: “People, come on. Let’s get this over with.” By the time, the man entered the living room, he found everyone standing in a big circle in the middle of the room.
“You’re the star tonight, kiddo.” Roy walked over and took the man’s hand and tried to pull him into the middle of the circle.
“What is this?” the man asked, resisting. Stephen came from behind and grabbed his other arm. Stephen’s hands were damp, as always, but the strength of his grip surprised the man. “I’m sorry, sir,” Stephen whispered. “But this is the way she wanted it. It’s got to be in front of everybody.” The man still resisted but felt a third person—he assumed it was Richard—pushing at him from behind until he was finally in the middle of the circle.
“I’m sorry about this,” a woman said as she stepped toward him. Because of the poor light in the room, he couldn’t make her face out in any detail, and yet he was sure he knew her.
“What are you doing?” Roy asked the woman. “This was not the plan. This wasn’t how you described the scene to me.”
“Olivia?” the man asked, wanting to get closer but being held back.
The woman took another step forward and cupped his face with her hands. A strong scent came off her skin that made the man’s tongue twist inside his mouth. “Timmy?” he said. He closed his eyes and he could see his son’s face. “Where is he?”
“She’s gone, sir,” Stephen whispered.
The man opened his eyes and saw that Cherokee had taken the older woman’s place. She was now holding his face in her hands.
“It’s what you wanted. That’s what she told us, at least,” Cherokee said.
“Get off me,” the mad said, pulling his face away. “Who the hell are you talking about? Where’s Olivia?” He looked over at Roy. “Goddam it! Where’d she go?”
“I would’ve never gotten involved if she’d told me…” Roy looked up and started talking to the ceiling. “Do you hear me? You’re just being mean now.”
“Roy. You can’t talk to her like that,” Cherokee said.
“Oh, whatever!! She needs to hear it. She made us all go along with this—telling us we’d be helping him grow. All that closure bullshit. But look at him. He’s a mess. It’s totally out of character for him. Do you hear that?” Roy said, pumping his fist to the ceiling. “You’re losing control! You used to come up with interesting ideas. You were a pretty good storyteller once. But now all you do is write about him. All these years, and you can’t even name him. It’s pitiful!”
“Come on, Roy. Calm down,” Cherokee said. “This isn’t about you.”
“Oh it isn’t?” Roy asked, still looking up at the ceiling. “You could do a lot with me—hell, you could write whole books about any of us.” Roy pointed at his guests who were still standing in a circle. “The room’s filled with queens and whores—people love to read about us,” Roy said, as he turned to look at the man. “I’m sorry, kiddo, but hetero men who can’t commit—it’s been done already—a million times. No one wants to read about that anymore.”
“Who the hell are you talking to, Roy?” the man asked. “And where did Olivia go?”
“We’re not hookers, just for the record,” Cherokee said.
“Sorry,” Roy said. “It was just a figure of speech.”
“You’re a prostitute?” the man asked turning to Cherokee.
“Didn’t you just hear what I said?”
“All of them—since Olivia—they’ve been prostitutes? I’ve never paid anything,” the man said, a bit defensively.
“No. She takes care of it,” Roy said.
“I don’t understand any of this,” the man said. “Olivia! Olivia, come back!”
“She won’t,” Roy said.
“Why not?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Roy’s face had now begun to soften again—the creases and folds reappearing slowly. “You’re dead, kiddo. Nothing matters to you—nothing should, at least.”
The man began to laugh. He couldn’t help himself. It started with a quiet chuckle but the more he heard himself, the more he let himself go until he was almost gasping for breath.
Roy looked back up to the ceiling. “I won’t tell him the rest.”
“What else could you tell him, Roy?” Cherokee asked not sounding very pleased.
“We were supposed to be honest with him, but we don’t have to be cruel about it,” Roy insisted to the ceiling. “This is a cruel way to end this story, and I, for one, won’t be part of it.”
“Baby,” Cherokee said to the man after he stopped laughing, “baby, you need to hear this: she found you naked in front of your computer.”
The man could now hear some of the tall, tanned men standing in the shadows, snickering. “What are you talking about?” he asked, trying to pull loose from Stephen, who was still holding him.
“It was your heart,” Cherokee continued as she put her hand on his chest. “It gave out. Just stopped. Would’ve given out regardless. Anyway, your son found you that way, and she was pretty angry about it, and embarrassed. You can’t blame her for that. And then, after she took care of the funeral and everything, she went through your files and saw the credit card slips—for the hotel rooms and you know—and all the e-mails you used to write me and the others. All that stuff.”
While he listened, the man found that the sound of Cherokee’s voice had changed from earlier in the morning. She must be an actress, after all, he thought. Someone with a voice like a chameleon—sometimes, edgy, sometimes calming and familiar. At that moment, her voice made him feel that each perfectly wrought sound was a gift she’d prepared just for him. “Sometimes I ask for things, and she gives them to me,” Cherokee was saying, coming closer so that now her face was inches away from his. “Maybe you could ask for what you want and she’ll listen.”
“You’re the woman from the porn site, aren’t you?” the man asked, realizing why she’d looked familiar to him earlier, why her voice comforted him.
Cherokee looked at Roy without answering the man.
“Why you looking at me? You told him everything else. Go ahead, finish it,” Roy said.
“That’s why you look familiar. Isn’t it?” the man asked in a louder voice.
“Yes,” Cherokee answered.
He pulled loose from Stephen and though he heard Roy calling after him, he didn’t stop running until he got out of the house and into his car. More than anything, he wanted to be home, but the traffic that wound its way through the Santa Monica Mountains was heavy as usual. An accident ahead, or just the usual crowd of people who also desperately wanted to be home filled the lanes of the 405.
As he sat in traffic, inching his way home, he went over the night’s events until a strange sensation came over him, a feeling of calm that he hadn’t felt in years. He felt as if he’d found the answer to a question he didn’t even know he’d been asking himself. All those people sitting in their cars so near him, and yet not connected to him. That, the man realized, was the real reason why people hated sitting in traffic. Speed was the drug of choice. It was pure escapism from loneliness. And these switches that had been happening to him for years were the same. His life since Olivia, the man told himself, had been nothing more than a prolonged rainbow rush of colored boxes. And this realization took him somewhere deeper, somewhere he’d been avoiding: he missed his wife more than he knew.
“Olivia,” he screamed making the mother in the car next to him look over. “Olivia!” he yelled out again and again for the rest of the ride home.
She looked down at the man’s unanswered plea on the ancient computer screen she’d inherited from her dead husband, took a sip of water from the glass that stood next to the chipped watermelon-colored lamp she knew she had to get rid of one day soon. Her eye caught a glimpse of the dish of dusty change on her dresser and she smiled to herself, wondering what her agent would think of this novel she’d just finished. Maybe “the man” seemed too unsympathetic, or maybe she should change the ending, wrap it up, make it prettier, more hopeful. But she wouldn’t change a thing in the end. She knew the story was right, true in the way a story should be true. Who better than her would know what a man like the one in her story deserved?
Who better than her?
Who better?
