The Not-So-Perfect Man

by Valerie Frankel

  He turned to check her effect on their dinner companions. David Isen, Ilene’s colleague and friend, and Georgia, his wife, sat across the table at Il Travatore, a popular East-44th-Street after-work spot for media people. David laughed as Ilene told a story about their boss. Georgia was less than captivated, or just distracted. Peter noticed that she’d checked her cell phone several times.

  Georgia interrupted Ilene mid-story and said, “I’m going to step outside and call the baby-sitter.” David volunteered to do it, but Georgia had already gotten up.

  In the wake of shuffling chairs and the shift in the table’s social dynamic from four to three, Peter asked his wife, “Are you going to eat that?” He pointed at the barely nibbled cannoli in front of her.

  Ilene gave him a warning with her eyes, and then, her voice calm but packed with the high pitch of meaning only dogs and Peter could hear, she said, “I’m stuffed. Aren’t you?”

  She didn’t want him to finish her dessert, but she wouldn’t explicitly say so in front of David. Peter took advantage of the situation. “Enough room for one last bite,” and pulled the plate over.

  Peter knew he could stand to lose a few, but he maintained that he wasn’t too heavy. The weight had come on gradually, a few pounds a year for the last decade. Except for the portly belly, which had the right curve for supporting a beer or a book, he was in decent shape. His shirt buttons didn’t pop open. He could zip his pants, although he did have to belt them underneath the swell of his gut, which made his pleats bunch. Peter hoped that women, upon seeing the sag, would assume he was weighed down with an extra-large package. In any event, he had a closet full of double-breasted jackets. He wore one tonight, although he’d had to unbutton the pants after he’d finished his linguini alfredo.

  Ilene scowled as Peter’s fork moved like silver lightning over the cannoli. She said for David’s benefit, “Peter is a man of great appetites.”

  David, a man of puny appetite, judging from his marathon-runner body, smiled on cue and said, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard the story of how you two met.”

  Pussy, thought Peter instantly. What kind of man gives a shit about how couples meet? Or was he just remarking on the disparity in their physical conditions? Peter, plump. Ilene, perfect.

  Peter, not wanting to let his mind continue in that direction, said, “We were both covering a Guiliani press conference on the city budget deficit.”

  Ilene, slender arms aloft again, said, “It was love at first sight.”

  Peter rolled his eyes broadly. David laughed. Ilene grinned, enjoying the game, relishing her role as the feminine romantic with an audience of men.

  She said, “I was working for Crain’s. Peter was at the Post business section then. It was one of Guiliani’s first conferences, and the pressroom at City Hall was packed. Peter had a front-row seat. I noticed him immediately. He was gorgeous.” She paused, putting her hand on his shoulder and added, “This was ten years ago.”

  David said, “I thought you’ve been married for ten years.”

  Ilene said, “We have.”

  Peter said, “We had a short engagement.”

  “How short?” asked David.

  “Five weeks,” said Ilene. “I told you. It was love at first sight. I introduced myself after the press conference. Peter asked me to dinner that night. And the next. And the next. On the fourth date, Peter proposed.”

  David asked, “What did you say?”

  Peter shrugged. “The standard. ‘Will you marry me?’ ”

  Ilene added, “And I said, ‘What took you so long?’ ”

  Laughter—bouncy, floating in perfumed air—burst from Ilene. Peter relished it. Her laughter had been the sound-track of the first five years of their marriage, and a greatest hit for the next three. The past year and a half, though, he hadn’t heard enough of it. Hardly any of it, actually.

  David exhaled deeply and shook his head. “Georgia and I dated for three years before we got engaged. And then we had a two-year engagement.”

  Ilene said, “When you’re sure, you’re sure. My parents got married after knowing each other for a couple of months. My sister Frieda and her husband Gregg got engaged after three months. It’s part of my genetic code, I suppose. Schasts don’t hesitate.”

  “Frieda, the widow?” asked David. “How’s she doing?”

  Ilene said, “She’s fine!”

  “No, she’s not,” said Peter.

  “She will be,” corrected Ilene. “She’s on a date tonight.”

  Peter said to David, “Ilene is trying to arrange Frieda’s next marriage.” He looked down with surprise at the empty plate, his fork still moving across it. He’d barely registered a single bite, but he’d masticated and swallowed the entire cannoli. Peter lowered his utensil, and found himself looking across the table at the plate of almond cookies abandoned by Georgia.

  Meanwhile, Ilene was still talking. “Frieda’s been a basket case for a year, it’s true. But she seems to be coming out of it. I’m trying to help her. That’s what sisters are for.”

  Peter bit his lip. Fortunately, he tasted cannoli on it. He was opposed to Ilene’s matchmaking. Frieda should be left alone. She had enough to deal with—the frame store, her five-year-old son, Justin, the unresolved issues over Gregg’s estate—and didn’t need the pressures of dating as well. Ilene insisted she knew what was best for her own sister, speaking with such adamancy that Peter could do nothing but silently disapprove. He did so as loudly as possible.

  Peter had spent a decade observing the relationship among the three Schast sisters—Ilene, Frieda and Betty, the youngest. He’d decided they were like the three corners of a triangle, connected by the family genes, each with her own unique angle. The space inside the triangle contained their collective pain and joy. If one was happy, they all were. When one was sad, they plunged. Peter was a fixed point somewhere on the outside. So was Gregg.

  The horrible business of Gregg’s cancer and death brought out the best in the sisters. Ilene and Betty had been heroic. Peter, an only child, watched with awe as they took care of Frieda, Gregg, and Justin. Anything that needed doing—food shopping, baby-sitting, handholding— his wife made herself available and ready for service. Not that Frieda asked for anything. It’d been year since the death, and Ilene was still available to Frieda. Peter continued to wait for his wife to return to him.

  Peter stared at the plate of cookies across the table. Where was Georgia? Wasn’t she coming back? And, more important, would she be hungry?

  David said, “So, Peter, how are things at Bucks?”

  “Fine, fine,” he said. “Can’t get specific, you understand.”

  Peter was the editor in chief at Bucks magazine; Ilene and David were reporters at Cash, a competing title. Ilene and Peter were considered the dynamic duo of financial journalism. His field of expertise: bonds. Hers: retail IPOs. Donuts, T-shirts, kitchenware. Bonds and retail were opposites. One investment was safe, secure, simple. The other was dangerous, complicated, tricky. “Opposites attract,” was Ilene’s line on that subject. Peter wasn’t sure what David’s specialty was. It would have been polite to ask, but Peter was very ready for this dinner date to end. It’d been a long week. The meal with Ilene’s friends exhausted Peter. He wanted to go home and get in bed—preferably with his wife naked and willing next to him.

  Georgia returned. “I’m sorry that took so long. David, we have to go. Stephanie’s fever is worse.”

  “What is it?” asked David.

  “One hundred.”

  “That’s hardly an emergency,” said David. Then, seeing the look in Georgia’s eyes, he said, “But we should go.”

  David took out his wallet, but Ilene said, “I’ll expense it.”

  The couple left Ilene and Peter at the table to await the check. Peter signaled the waiter to bring more coffee, one eye on Georgia’s dessert plate.

  Ilene said, “Georgia’s so beautiful, don’t you think?”

  “She’s dog meat
,” said Peter. His wife laughed. “Georgia is very pretty. She’s nothing compared to you,” he added, meaning it.

  “Give me your cell,” she said.

  “Who are you calling?” Peter handed it over. While Ilene busied herself dialing, he sneaked a cookie into his mouth.

  “Hello?” his wife asked into the phone. “Frieda?”

  Peter shook his head. Ilene couldn’t leave Frieda alone even when she was on a date. He listened to Ilene’s half of the conversation.

  “He what? I’m so sorry. Okay, okay. I had no idea. Jesus, really? Yes, tomorrow. Okay. Bye.” Ilene hung up and handed him the phone. “Well, the bug man did not get under her skin.” Ilene looked around the restaurant for the waiter. She said, “The entire date lasted twenty minutes. He brought bug samples to show her, and when he whipped out the jar, she called it a night.”

  Peter, mouth full, scowled at the horror.

  “Frieda has called a reprieve from dating,” said Ilene, raising her arm, credit card in her outstretched fingers. “You’d think they’d be all over you to take the money.”

  Peter tried to chew without moving his lips. He wasn’t sure if Ilene had seen him eat his third dessert, but she hadn’t said anything. He swallowed as quietly as possible, and said, “A reprieve might be a good idea. She needs a break.”

  “Frieda needs a man,” announced Ilene. “She’s always had a boyfriend. Since sixth grade. And I know exactly who she should be with. I can almost see him. He’s in his early forties, recently divorced. He has a child Justin’s age. He’s got money. He could step into her life and make everything right again. One look. That’s all it will take. I just need to find the right guy for her to look at.”

  Peter asked, “How come you never fix up Betty?”

  Ilene said, “Whenever I mention the joys of married life to Betty, she groans like she’s about to give birth. She thinks I’m a marriage nazi. She doesn’t want a boyfriend. She’s said so explicitly. And, even if she did, she’d have to lose a ton of weight to be fix-upable.”

  “Betty looks fine,” said Peter.

  “She’s as overweight as you are,” said Ilene sharply. “Betty also accuses me of being the fat police.”

  “I wouldn’t say police,” he replied. “You’re more like the local sheriff.”

  “I should arrest you for eating three desserts,” she said.

  To stop her from talking, he encircled her with his arms and kissed her mouth. She leaned into him, kissing back, and then stopped. She said, “It strains my neck to lean over your belly to kiss you.”

  He dropped his arms. “It pains my ass to listen to you bitch about it.” He’d reached his limit quickly tonight. “Every time I touch you, you pull back.”

  “I do not,” she said, glancing around the restaurant to see if anyone could hear them. “You touched me plenty last night.”

  “Yes, you condescended to grant me sex,” he said. “You were a million miles away. Probably calculating how many calories I was burning.”

  Ilene had her limits, too. She slammed the table with her open palm and said, “Your father had his first heart attack at forty. You’re thirty-nine, forty pounds overweight, and you never exercise. As far as I’m concerned, eating three desserts is an act of aggression.” She paused, and then finished big. “I want to be attracted to you,” she said. “But I won’t pretend I am if I’m not. And where the fuck is the waiter?”

  Peter had closely watched his lovely wife make her speech. He thought, for the millionth (and one) time, that he would never tired of looking at her. Listening to her, however, was getting harder and harder.

  Peter pushed Georgia’s dessert plate in front of his agitated wife and said, “Have a cookie. You’ll feel better.”

  Chapter 3

  Tuesday, September 17

  1:12 A.M.

  There he was again. Betty Schast had spotted him four times already in one morning. It was unprecedented. Usually, she was lucky to catch a glimpse once or twice a week.

  She sat behind the information desk at the Union Square Burton & Notham bookstore. She was the branch day manager. From her perch, protective computer monitors at eye level, she could stare at him unnoticed. He was wearing a long-sleeve white T-shirt underneath a navy short-sleeved one and inky-blue jeans. His black hair was an absolute mess, but what a mess! When he absentmindedly tucked some behind his ear, it created a lovely, dark, shiny spray. If she could only touch that hair. Or that ear. It was large and floppy, with a hanging, suckable lobe. No earring, thank God. She hated jewelry on men, except when they wore a shoelace of leather with a single bead snuggled into the hollow at the base of the neck. He couldn’t be more than twenty-eight.

  Betty, thirty-two, studied him as he flipped through the books at the new paperback fiction display table, a mere twenty feet away. She’d noticed that he browsed a lot but rarely bought. Betty assumed he worked or lived nearby and came into the store to kill time on breaks or during bouts of boredom. She’d seen him dozens of times over weeks and weeks of waiting to catch a glimpse. But she’d never spoken to him. She just couldn’t.

  It would ruin everything. If they spoke, they might become acquaintances, then friends. He’d never be her lover, and a friendship would be too painful for Betty to stand. She far preferred to keep him in his place, inside the carefully constructed fantasies Betty created for the two of them. Her former therapist deemed choosing fantasy over reality unhealthy. Of course it was—but Betty’s bad habit was only harmful to herself. And her fantasies were nice. Downright frilly. Lacy, velvety, doilied. She wasn’t some nut job who spent hours fantasizing about serial killing, animal torture, and sado-masochism. Plus, her fantasies usually ended with masturbation—the only aerobic activity Betty got. If she were to stop jerking off, she’d probably gain five pounds overnight. Now that would be unhealthy.

  “What are you looking at?” asked Gertrude, one of Betty’s underlings at Burton & Notham. Gert, a Rubenesque forty-five, wore too much makeup and dressed like a thirty-year-old Gap dancer. A natural blonde, she teased her hair up with glittery clips. She was divorced and independently wealthy (family money—her great-grandfather invented the gear-shift mechanism on bicycles). The only reason she took the job at Burton & Notham was the ever-changing, never-waning supply of men who came into the store. Gert stalked them at the magazine aisles on the third floor, hovering by the newsweeklies, The New Yorker, car and sport publications and, when she was being obvious about it, the soft-core porn (Playboy, Penthouse, Maxim). The strategy worked. Gert got dates.

  Betty asked her, “Anything good in the new Fly-Fishing and Tackle Monthly?”

  Gert said, “He looks dirty.” She pointed her rounded chin at Betty’s fantasy man.

  “I’m just looking,” said Betty. “Not smelling.”

  “Here he comes.”

  The big-eared guy headed toward the information desk. More peeved than pleased by his approach, Betty knew that her safety zone of twenty feet was about to be violated. Her basic fear, that he would reject her, had a flip side. He could turn out to be such a loser that Betty would have to reject him.

  He stood two feet away now. Betty asked, “May I help you?”

  Gert coughed loudly and sniffed her wrist. She was right. This guy could do himself a favor by browsing in the personal hygiene section. Dear God, the pores, Betty thought. They were massive. He had a trio of pimples on his neck, mingling with several days’ worth of stubble. And his hair wasn’t shiny, as it had appeared from across the room. It was greasy.

  He said, “I was wondering if you had any new books on serial killing, animal torture, or sado-masochism.”

  Bullocks, she thought. Now it was completely over between them.

  Betty said, “True crime and psychology. Second floor.”

  He said, “I’ve checked there.”

  She said, “Then you’re out of luck.”

  “Can’t you search the database?” he asked.

  Betty looked at him and fe
lt a mixture of sadness and regret. Another fantasy relationship screeching to an end, forcing the usual questions to bubble to the surface. Why couldn’t she attempt to meet a worthy man for an actual relationship? Was she really that chicken? She’d have to discuss this with Frieda soon. Her sister would be able to suggest specific steps. She was resolved this time to break the bad habit.

  The greasy zit man with the alien Jughead ears pointed at the computer on Betty’s desk. “Sometime today?” he asked.

  Betty searched the database. Keyword: torture.

  Chapter 4

  Monday, September 23

  3:03 P.M.

  “Mommy!” Justin spotted her and ran toward Frieda, his backpack swinging from side to side. He reached out his arms. It was her cue to brace for impact. He jumped. She caught him mid-flight, his body slamming into her chest, forcing her to step back a pace. Justin was small for his age, only forty pounds, not quite four feet tall. Unlike many of the kids in his kindergarten class, he had yet to lose a tooth. He cried about it at night, demanding answers to life’s big questions (“When will it happen?” “Why hasn’t it happened yet?”). Frieda promised him over and over that he would not go off to college with baby teeth, and that if he ate more vegetables they would fall out sooner.

  Frieda lowered him to the ground. She waved at his teacher, took his hand and started to leave the garden courtyard at the Packer Collegiate Institute, his private school in Brooklyn Heights. Kindergarten had started al most three weeks ago. Frieda had successfully avoided conversation and eye contact with the other moms at pickup. They meant well with their sympathy. She realized that. But they always looked at her with The Face of Raw Pity. She hated that.

  “Frieda! Wait a moment.” Justin’s teacher, Marie Stanhope, waved and walked toward her. Marie—Ms. Stanhope to Justin—was a cheerful, warm, wonderful teacher who’d been at it for thirty years. She’d seen a thing or two, and had taught fatherless children before. Frieda trusted her as chief ally in Justin’s care. He and Marie spent six hours a day together. Almost as much time as Frieda did.