The Not-So-Perfect Man

by Valerie Frankel

  “You want me to surrender to you,” she said. To relinquish her power to him, allow him to lead her around like a dog on a leash. What was the destination, anyway? She doubted she could find love at the end of a leash. But, then again, she hadn’t found it roaming freely, either.

  “I don’t want you to surrender,” he said. “We’re not at war, Betty. I just want to buy you a new outfit, one you’ll feel sexy wearing, and then take you to dinner to show you off.”

  “Where you’ll order for me,” she said.

  “If that’s all right.”

  “As long as you order a large cocktail,” she said.

  Earl took her gloved hand and tugged her back into Daffy’s. True to his word, he did have an excellent sense of what would look good on her. She told him she was a size 14, but Earl brought back size 12s, which fit pretty well, actually. One pair of slacks shaped her nicely, slimmed her middle and emphasized her legs, which weren’t that bad. He opted for a few shirts that had low cleavage. Showy ruffled things, the kind of hyper-girlie gear she previously wouldn’t have been caught dead in. Except, she had to admit, the soft fabric and the frills did go well with her straight brown hair. The low front drew the eye toward her breasts, which, like her legs, weren’t terrible. Earl left her to stare admiringly at herself in her new slacks and blouse, and returned with high-heeled ankle boots—shiny leather, very sexy.

  Betty laughed when she saw them. She hadn’t worn heels since her college graduation, and only then because her mother, out of some ridiculous notion of formality, had objected to her sneakers. She said, “You can’t be serious.”

  He said, “Just try.”

  She took the boots. They were the right size. She squinted at him, questioningly. He said, “Lucky guess. Come on, Betty. If they feel uncomfortable, forget it.”

  She grudgingly put them on. They didn’t hurt at all. She hoped they wouldn’t prove to be murder as the night wore on. More important, at the end of her not-terrible legs, the boots looked like dynamite exploding from a keg. With the extra height, Betty felt like a tower of strength. The heels forced her to think about posture. The result: She stood upright, not slouched. She had to lean back slightly, which further de-bulked her belly and highlighted her rack.

  Earl came up behind her and kissed the back of her neck while she watched the action in the full-length mirror. She closed her eyes, sinking into the moment. He touched her on the ruffles, right there, for all to see in the Daffy’s women’s department. He touched her new slacks, too. Dropped his hand inside them. And Betty let him. The truth was, she would have died had he stopped.

  He’d been absolutely right. She did feel attractive in the outfit. Like the heels, sexy was a foreign feeling, one Betty would have to get used to. She hoped it wouldn’t prove to be murder as the night wore on.

  Chapter 19

  Thursday, December 19

  2:29 P.M.

  Ilene loved the cold. The blast of wind on her face, the softness of the faux-fur collar of her coat, her hair flying around her cheeks. She felt like an arctic princess. Her blood temperature seemed to rise to counter the chill. Lesser mortals hugged their coats closer, fighting the elements that were, for Ilene, friendly and welcoming. With the slightest regret, she walked into the Citibank on the corner of Madison and 42nd, out of the brisk air and into the overheated ATM vestibule.

  She had shopping to do. Frieda’s pre-Christmas dinner was coming up, and her gift list was long. Justin would get toys, Betty and Frieda clothes. For Peter, Ilene had ideas but nothing she was completely happy with. She would poke around a few stores and wait for inspiration to strike. She’d decided to buy generic and impersonal accessories from Brooks Brothers for Sam Hill and Earl Long. In short, ties. Not that she was trying to be symbolic. She didn’t believe her sisters’ boyfriends would have lasting ties to the family. She didn’t expect to see either of them at next year’s dinner.

  The pre-Christmas dinner was a family tradition going way back. Their parents, not wanting their daughters to feel left out, had done gifts and a turkey on Christmas Day since they were little girls. As adults, getting together for Christmas got complicated with travel plans and spouses. Plus, as their collective consciousness rose in the age of terrorism, gathering on the birthday of the baby Jesus felt like a betrayal of their Jewish heritage. The family began a new tradition: the pre-Christmas dinner, held earlier in December during Hanukah, another in the long line of Jewish holidays commemorating how their ancestors were almost killed by enemies but managed to kill the enemies instead, after which point they noshed for three days. L’chiam.

  Frieda wanted to host this year, to arrange the night as a coming-out for Sam. This would be the first party at Frieda’s since the shivah for Gregg. Ilene had offered to help, but Frieda wanted to handle it on her own. Unsatisfied to do nothing, Ilene contented herself with shopping. She’d come bearing gifts, if not food.

  Ilene took off her gloves and put her card in the ATM slot. She usually hated paying cash, but she didn’t want Peter to see where she’d gone shopping if he checked the action on their Visa card. The holiday season, combined with his weight loss, was rapidly thawing Ilene’s heart to him. Peter must have dropped close to twenty pounds. She noticed every ounce of the shrinkage, but didn’t say anything to him for fear of jinxing it. She had no idea what had finally inspired him to diet. What it something she’d said? She wished she knew. She was proud of him, and relieved. His risk of heart attack decreased with the numbers on the scale. Her knot of anger was unraveling. His diet was proof of his feelings. She felt loved again, and safe.

  Relationships are 90 percent perception. Ilene’s current perspective was sunny and clear, brightening her mind, the day, the season. She checked her face in the mirror above the ATM. She looked good. She felt good—and she’d show Peter just how good in bed tonight. Remarkably, she was looking forward to it.

  She punched in her PIN number to access the joint checking account, and hit “Get cash.” She’d take out $1,000, the most she could withdraw from the account on a single day. When she tried to extract the money, the ATM told her that $200 had already been withdrawn from the account that morning, and she could only get an additional $800, until tomorrow. Peter had taken out $200? Or was it a bank error? Ilene went to “Account information.” Scrolling down the transaction summary, she noticed a pattern. Apparently, Peter had been withdrawing $200 each week for the last six weeks.

  “Twelve hundred dollars?” she said to herself. Where had the money gone? He hadn’t used it to pay any bills. Ilene wrote the checks in the house. He hadn’t been shop ping for groceries. For budgeting purposes, Ilene used her credit card at the supermarket.

  After withdrawing the $800, Ilene tucked the cash in her wallet, crammed the wallet into her purse, slung her purse on her shoulder, and marched out of the ATM. No longer feeling the cold nor enjoying it, Ilene stormed straight up Madison Avenue to 45th street. The shopping would have to wait. Before she could do another single thing, she wanted to know what Peter was up to. They had an agreement, that all large cash transactions would be discussed first. Two hundred at a time wasn’t large, but the six withdrawals added up to a significant amount.

  The lobby of Peter’s office building always reminded her of a giant bathroom. The walls and floor were lined with marble tiles, and there were huge corn plants arranged every few yards. She hated the décor. The sight of it made her irrationally angry. She stopped at the security desk and signed in. The guard recognized her, but he informed her that the building had a new security policy. Every visitor had to be announced before going up to any of the offices.

  Ilene gave him Peter’s extension. He dialed on the security phone, whispered into the mouthpiece, and then hung up.

  “I’m sorry. Mr. Vermillion is out of the office.”

  “Give me that phone,” she said.

  The guard saw the look in her eye and gave her the phone. She dialed Peter’s extension. Jane answered.

  “
Hello, Jane. It’s Ilene. Would you happen to know where Peter is? I need to speak with him. It’s urgent,” she said.

  “Ilene, hi,” said Jane. “He stepped out. He should be back in about an hour.”

  “Stepped out. For an hour. At three o’clock on a Thursday?”

  “Can you hold, please?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Ilene.

  Jane paused. “The other phone is ringing.”

  “Let it ring.”

  “Is there something wrong, Ilene?” asked Jane in an exaggeratedly solicitous tone. Ilene laughed when she heard Jane disarm Peter that way. She wasn’t laughing now.

  Ilene said, “I’m waiting.”

  Jane said, “He had an appointment. I’m not sure where or with whom. If you want more information, you’ll have to ask Peter yourself. But, frankly, I don’t think he’ll want to talk to you when you’re in this kind of mood.”

  The lip! “How dare you… Why are you protecting him?” asked Ilene. The security guard seemed anxious to get his phone back. A line of people had formed behind her. She closed her eyes, ignoring them all.

  “Have you tried his cell?” asked Jane.

  “Miss? I’ll have to ask you to hang up,” said the guard.

  “No,” said Ilene to Jane and the guard. She dug into her purse and found her cell. She dialed Peter’s number. Voice-mail. Ilene said into the landline, “It’s turned off.”

  Jane was silent. The guard stood and walked around the security desk to take the phone from her by force. Ilene could hear other phone lines ringing in Peter’s office.

  “What is he up to?” demanded Ilene, dodging the security guard.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Jane.

  “Please, miss,” said the guard.

  “Is he buying me jewelry?” asked Ilene with holiday hope.

  The guard said, “I’m going to have to call security.”

  Ilene said, “You are security!”

  “Jewelry?” said Jane. “Don’t bet on it.”

  Ilene pulled the phone away from her ear to look at it. Had Jane been possessed by demons? Ilene said, “Just tell Peter to call me.” She threw the receiver at the security guard. The line of people behind her applauded.

  Ilene hoofed it back to Cash, only a few blocks up Madison Avenue from Bucks. She ignored her assistant, slammed into her office and slid the door closed tight. Sitting down in her desk chair, Ilene tried to get a grip on herself, to think rationally. Approach this like an article. She took out a pad of paper and wrote at the top: “What costs $1,200?”

  She proceeded to make a list of what Peter could be buying with that amount. Ilene could make an infinite list of items she’d buy with $1,200, including the entire lamp department at ABC Carpet and Home. She crossed out her first question, and tried a new one: “What would Peter need to keep secret from me?” And then, she wrote out a list, including only scary, bad things.

  1. Drugs

  2. Pornography

  3. Botox (other beauty treatment? liposuction not that cheap)

  4. Gambling

  5. Debt to Mafia

  6. Blackmail

  7. Hookers

  8. An affair

  He had lost a lot of weight, possibly aided by chemicals. But she knew from her own college experiences that Peter hadn’t been exhibiting the signs of cocaine use (fidgeting, nonstop talking, smoking cigarettes and frequent trips to the bathroom). If he’d started smoking pot, he’d have gained weight. Heroin? She didn’t know much about the drug personally. But, as she understood it, that would cost more than $200 a week. And he seemed energetic lately, not in a morphine-induced stupor. Could be pharmaceuticals. She added “Prozac?” to the list, and moved on.

  Porn. Hard to imagine he’d spend that much on magazines and videos. She scratched that off. Okay, beauty treatments. Men were senselessly embarrassed to admit to getting help from trained Russian facialists. His skin seemed the same. No sign of UVB exposure from tanning booths. No injection marks from Botox. He couldn’t very well hide the crackling red burns of a fruit-acid peel. Cellulite suction treatment? He couldn’t stand the pain.

  Gambling, Mafia debt, blackmail. Unlikely, she thought. But who really knew about such things? Had Peter hit a kid in the Bronx while driving drunk—like in Bonfire of the Vanities— been seen, and had to pay off some wise guy? Wouldn’t the blackmailer ask for a larger sum, probably lump?

  Debt? On what? Not drugs. Gambling? He’d never shown any interest. The one time they’d tried roulette on a vacation in the Bahamas, Peter nearly wept when they lost $50. Hookers? Peter would be terrified of catching a disease.

  Which left an affair. Ilene put down the pad. Two hundred, once a week. The price of a two-star hotel room in Manhattan, plus a bottle of cheap champagne. He’d paid cash for the same reason she didn’t want to use her credit card for holiday gifts. The money was always withdrawn on Thursdays, she realized. Was he, at that very moment, humping some slut at the Waldorf? The weight loss. Wasn’t it a predictable cliché that a man got in shape before dissolving his marriage, or when he took up with a younger woman?

  Relationships are 90 percent perception. Her marriage, bright as the sun an hour ago, had plunged into a swamp of black gook. Should she feel upset, defensive, belligerent, or hopeless? Or all of the above? Until she sorted out her feelings and gathered information, Ilene had to present a calm exterior. “Pretend everything is normal,” she instructed herself.

  She picked up the phone and dialed Peter’s office again. Jane answered. Ilene said, “Jane, it’s Ilene. I’m so sorry I was rude to you before. Don’t bother telling Peter I called.”

  Jane said, “The message was urgent.”

  “This Christmas, you deserve a full day of beauty at Georgette Klinger,” said Ilene. “For all your hard work and dedication.”

  Jane, who usually received a half day of beauty at Georgette Klinger from Ilene, said, “I’m ripping up the message right now.”

  “And you won’t mention my little episode?” said Ilene.

  “What episode?” asked Jane.

  Chapter 20

  Monday, December 23

  Midnight

  “I thought you did well,” said Frieda to Sam as they lay in bed.

  “Just now?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, “but I was referring to the party.”

  The pre-Christmas dinner had been a success. Her guests left a couple of hours ago. Frieda went to work on the dishes and Sam put Justin to bed, as if they were a normal family. Once Justin was sound asleep, Frieda and Sam made love on her four-poster bed, Christmas lights wound around the posts and canopy like a starry ship. They’d never had sex on her bed before, or had a whole night sleepover. He’d been introduced to her family. As evenings go, this was a significant one for their relationship.

  They’d decided that Sam should leave before Justin woke up. Frieda thought it might upset Justin to wake up and find Sam sleeping in his father’s place. Sam was amenable, as always. He’d leave at 5 A.M. That gave them five more hours, of which they’d make good use. Frieda would have another day on minimal sleep. She was getting used to the REM-deprived buzzing in her brain. The physical demands of her relationship with Sam were like having a newborn baby. She felt exhausted, with sore breasts and a well-traveled vagina.

  She said to him, “Party postmortem?”

  “Okay,” said Sam. “I like Justin.”

  Justin had appeared to like Sam.

  Showing up twenty minutes late (a high drama entrance), Sam had seemed wary at first. Who could blame him, walking into an apartment full of strangers? Frieda rushed to Sam’s side immediately, eager to introduce him around. Justin, who’d seen Sam’s head shot in the Playbill for Oliver!, approached him before her sisters had the chance. He said, “You’re Sam?”

  And Sam said, “And you must be Peter. No? Then you’re Betty. Ilene? Wait a minute. I’ve got it. You’re the butler!”

  Justin giggled app
reciatively, and that was that.

  Sam’s arrival had drawn Frieda’s sisters, Peter, and Earl into the living room from the kitchen. Frieda made the introductions. Sam shook hands around the semicircle of gawking people. Betty invited Sam to sit on the couch. He asked for a Scotch, which Peter supplied. Frieda said she had a turkey to baste. She headed back toward the kitchen. On the walk down the hall, she’d heard Justin say, “In your picture, you look a lot older.”

  Naturally, her sisters followed Frieda, leaving the men in the living room.

  Once safely in the kitchen, Betty said, “He is so fucking hot!”

  Frieda said, “I know!”

  Ilene said, “He is, truly, a knockout.”

  Frieda said, “I know!”

  “Very young,” added Ilene. “He looks like a kid.”

  Frieda snuggled closer to Sam, remembering her sisters’ praise. She said, “You and Justin played nicely together.” Sam had given Justin a piggyback ride and let him jump from his shoulders to the couch (not allowed ordinarily).

  He said simply, “Justin’s a good kid.” It was a benign statement, noncommittal. Frieda hadn’t expected Sam to say, “He’s exactly what I’ve been looking for in a stepson.” But something more than “good kid” would have been appreciated. She reminded herself that marriage wasn’t the goal. There was no goal. Only game.

  Sam said, “Justin showed me his room. The cats were sleeping on his bed. They’re named Black and White?”

  “They’re both Gray in the dark,” said Frieda.

  “And the turtles,” said Sam. The tank was in Justin’s room.

  Frieda said, “What about them?”

  “Named Sink and Swim?”

  “There used to be a goldfish in the tank, too.”

  “Justin told me. The turtles ate it,” said Sam. “What was the goldfish’s name?”

  “Lunch,” said Frieda.

  The couple lay side-by-side, bodies touching, holding hands, looking at each other and the red, yellow, and pink lights around the bed. She asked, “What do you think of my apartment?”