The Not-So-Perfect Man

by Valerie Frankel

  “Big. Bright. Lots of pictures. Boxes for everything. A box for the remote controls. A box for pens, coasters, onions. Even this bed is a box, with the posts and canopy.”

  Frieda said, “I like things to be contained.”

  “I’ll bet you’d like to contain me,” said Sam.

  She laughed. “I don’t think they make boyfriend caddies at Pottery Barn.”

  “At some point, I’d like you to tell me about your stuff.”

  “Where I found my end tables? How I picked my china?”

  He said, “You’ve accumulated a lot.”

  “I have.”

  “I haven’t,” he said.

  Frieda said, “The night table on your side of the bed. Notice how the surface of the wood is pockmarked?” Sam nodded. “Every night when Gregg came home from work, he’d toss his keys on the night table, leaving the little marks. You’re on his side of the bed, by the way.”

  “Great, so now every time I look at this night table, I’ll see Gregg’s indelible mark,” Sam said. “You don’t have to worry, Frieda. I won’t forget what you’ve been through.”

  “That’s not why I told you about it.”

  Sam said, “Sure it is.”

  They were silent for a minute. He said, “Are we still doing a postmortem?”

  She nodded. “Start with Ilene.”

  Sam leaned up on one elbow and then kissed Frieda before saying, “She’s not as beautiful as you are.”

  Ilene had long been recognized as the most beautiful sister, certainly possessing the lioness’s share of style. Frieda said, “Thank you for lying.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “She was quiet, actually. Not what I’d been expecting. She gave good gifts. Can’t think of the last time I wore a tie. We might be able to think of a use for it, though.” Sam grabbed her wrist, and made eyes at the posts of her bed.

  Frieda got up on one elbow, in the same position as Sam, and said, “Did you talk to her?”

  He said, “Not really. She asked me a little bit about Oliver!”

  “Did you talk to Betty?”

  “Not really. She said she was sorry to have missed Oliver!”

  “Both of them came into the kitchen and told me how intelligent and sophisticated you are,” she said.

  “Now who’s lying?”

  “What did you think of Earl?” she asked.

  “Drunk.”

  “Besides that.”

  “He likes Betty,” he said. “She likes him. When he made that toast, I thought she’d pass out with happiness.”

  After the turkey and stuffing, before the coffee and pie, Earl had held up his (sixth? seventh?) glass of wine and said, “And now, I’d like to discuss my traveling plans.” He’d explained that his original schedule called for him to return to Chicago at the end of December, but he’d launched a campaign to remain in New York for an additional six months. He’d said, “I called my boss and told him, ‘My work here is not done.’ And he’s given me permission to stay.” Betty had jumped out of her chair and hugged Earl with abandon, in love or close to it.

  Sam said, “I saw Peter and Betty talking conspiratorially in the kitchen.”

  “They’re diet buddies. They were sneaking pie.”

  “Sneaking?” he asked.

  Frieda waved it off. “What else did you see?”

  “Ilene talked to everyone but her own husband. Peter had four Scotches. Justin gravitated toward Betty, but she didn’t want to be crawled on in her new outfit. Earl called Justin ‘kiddo.’ ”

  “Did you talk to Peter?” she asked.

  “Not really. He bought the soundtrack to Oliver!”

  “So you’re saying all anyone could think to ask you about was Oliver!” she said.

  “That’s the size of it.”

  “No one asked about your Norman Rockwell childhood in Maine?”

  “They must be saving that for the next forced social encounter.”

  Frieda nodded. Her hand roamed the length of Sam’s torso.

  “I should have facilitated,” she said.

  “You were busy with the food and Justin,” he said. “Be-sides, your sisters just wanted to get a look at me, not sit down and have a meaningful conversation. I got the vibe, especially from Ilene, that getting to know me would be a waste of time.”

  “She’s just being protective.”

  “How is that protective?”

  Frieda shrugged. “She’s the oldest sister. She thinks my happiness is her responsibility.”

  “And she doesn’t think you’ll be happy with me.”

  “Don’t get defensive,” said Frieda. “She hardly talked to Earl either.”

  “Did you talk to him?” asked Sam.

  “Not really,” she said. “He told me he liked the apartment. That I had good taste in wine. He also said he was sorry to have missed your performance in Oliver!”

  Sam said, “You should have told him the pockmarked-night-table story. I’ve sure he would have been deeply moved.”

  Frieda laughed. “You’re an asshole.”

  “But I’m your asshole,” he said. “I am undeniably, utterly, smittenly, your personal property. And you can tell Ilene that I’m not going anywhere. That she’ll have to deal with me one of these days. And then she’ll realize that a broke twenty-eight-year-old actor is exactly what you need.”

  “I’ll pass that along,” said Frieda, smiling at him, staring at his marvelous face.

  He said, “As long as you look at me that way, I’ll always love you.”

  “You love me,” she said.

  “I was holding off on saying it until I met your son,” he said.

  This confused her. “If my son had turned out to be awful, you wouldn’t love me?” she asked.

  He said, “I probably would’ve been able to pull back.”

  An honest response. Sam had been consistently truthful. She couldn’t fault him for it. “I’m not sure I like that,” she said.

  “I said ‘probably.’ My love might have been an unstoppable force despite a monster child. But we won’t know now because Justin is a good kid.”

  Sam pushed Frieda onto her back and started the rubbing and touching business that made her brain shut off and her body liquefy. In seconds, she would lose all reason. She stopped him and said, “Just tell me if you liked my family. Generally speaking.”

  He said, “You’re all very close. It’s intimidating to come up against that. Especially when I get the feeling you’re the only one rooting for me.” His hand was well under the comforter now, and she couldn’t concentrate. Sam whispered in her ear: “And now, I’d like to discuss my travel plans.”

  Frieda said, “You’ll be staying in New York another six months?”

  “I’m leaving tomorrow for six weeks,” he said.

  She tried to sit upright, but Sam held her down. He said, “I have to go to Maine for Christmas. And then we’re doing a Midwestern tour. It’s decent money, and I’m contracted to do it.”

  Panicky, Frieda said, “Six weeks?”

  “I told you when we met that I travel a lot.”

  “That was before I got addicted to you,” she said.

  He said, “You’re not addicted to me.”

  “I am! Being with you is everything to me.”

  “Besides Justin,” he said.

  “Justin is beside the point,” she said.

  Sam said, “It’s just six weeks. I’ll be back and it’ll be better for being apart. Think how great it’ll be to see each other again. We’ll talk every day while I’m gone.”

  “Tonight is our last night. We’ll miss New Year’s,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  He said, “I knew you’d be upset.”

  She was upset. Terribly upset. She found herself anticipating the aloneness, knowing it well, the muted color and thorny texture.

  Sam said, “You’ll get back into work at the gallery. You’ll spend time with friends. Justin has winter break. The weeks
will pass. You’ll hardly miss me.”

  “Are all your ex-girlfriends going, too?” she asked.

  “Some,” he said. “Look at me. You never have to worry about that. I am faithful like a dog. I’ve never cheated in my life. And I won’t dare do anything to fuck this up.”

  She took a few deep breaths. He was leaving her. She thought of Dr. Bother, of her warning to be careful. That she was susceptible to emotional swings. Suddenly, she was in the midst of one.

  He held her close. She said, “Where in the Midwest?”

  Sam said, “Iowa, Illinois, Michigan. They love musical theater in Michigan. They give us a cheese platter in the green room in Wisconsin.”

  “They do not.”

  “It’s true. They cheese us up.”

  “I haven’t told you I love you back,” she said.

  “I noticed.”

  She said, “I can’t say it yet.” She was too rocked by his news. The idea of losing him had brought up some Gregg stuff. She tried to push it back down, but couldn’t.

  Sam moved toward her and licked her lips. She could kiss him for hours, had kissed him for hours. She’d nearly come from just hugging. She found herself slipping into his kiss again. And the Gregg stuff did go away. For now.

  She pulled back. “Oh, fuck it,” she said. “I love you. You know I do. I’ve loved you since that first time we kissed at the gallery. You have me. I am at your mercy.”

  “I am on my honor,” he promised, speaking against her cheek.

  “You’d better be,” she said.

  In the morning, hours after Sam left, Justin plodded into her room. She’d had two hours of sleep. With Sam gone, knowing she wouldn’t see him again for weeks, fatigue settled into her bones. She wouldn’t open the store today. She’d put the original Star Wars trilogy on for Justin, and try to sleep over the sound of light sabers.

  But first, the morning routine. Frieda got up, made Justin’s breakfast, fed the cats, the turtles, watered the plants. Washed the dishes. Made Justin’s bed, folded the laundry.

  While he ate his Frosted Flakes, Justin said, “Mom. About Sam.”

  “Yes?” she said.

  “He’s a good guy.”

  Six Months Later

  Chapter 21

  Thursday, June 5

  6:20 P.M.

  “Where is he now?” asked Betty into the phone.

  “Florida,” said Frieda. “A few more weeks.”

  Betty absent-mindedly tugged at the waistband of her new Seven jeans. Actually, one could hardly call it a waist-band. It was a hipband. The pants were so low-rise, her panties stuck out like a diaper when she sat down. She stood up, pulled the jeans as high as they’d go and sat down again, feeling that annoying tug downward. Dressing her size-10 body demanded at least an hour of her time every day. She’d actually used a stopwatch to calculate exactly how long it took to select an outfit, put it on, accessorize, do makeup, check herself out in the mirror, and obsess about how she looked. When she was twenty pounds heavier, at size 14, she would throw on baggy pants and a sweatshirt, and be done with it. Five minutes, tops. Betty had no idea what she used to do with the extra hour a day she now spent dressing. Nothing productive. She probably ate French fries.

  Frieda said, “You there?”

  “Love my new body; hate my new jeans,” said Betty.

  “So tell Earl to fuck himself, and wear comfortable clothes,” said Frieda. Her testiness was a new phenomenon, usually spiking the day Sam left for a tour, simmering for the duration of his absence, and softening upon his return. Betty kind of liked Frieda’s new snappishness. Ilene had been through some personality adjustments, too, acting atypically sullen lately. Betty, meanwhile, basked in her own altered temperament. She’d become munificent. Socially confident. The friendliness was eye opening. People were easier to deal with when she smiled at them.

  “Hey, Earl,” said Betty. “Frieda says you should go fuck yourself.”

  Sitting in her office, his heels on the corner of her desk, Earl said, “Sounds like a terrible waste. And please don’t curse, Betty.”

  Frieda asked, “He’s sitting right there?”

  Betty said, “Yup.”

  “Call me when you’re alone.” She hung up.

  Betty, now off the hook, gathered her things. It was the end of the workday. The night manager was arriving shortly, and she had big plans. A surprise itinerary for the perfect romantic summer evening in New York. First, a stroll across the Brooklyn Bridge at sunset with a view of the South Street Seaport and the Statue of Liberty. On the Brooklyn side, she’d take him to the Fulton Landing, where they could look at the glittering Manhattan skyline. A few cocktails at the floating River Café. And then the ferry back to the city, a slow churn across the East River. You couldn’t sell New York City or romance harder than that. Betty wanted to give Earl every opportunity to tell her that (1) he loved her, (2) he was going to move to New York permanently, (3) he wanted to marry her, and (4) he wanted to start a family.

  They’d been a couple for seven months. Betty didn’t want it to end. She’d taken a few messages for Earl from Burton & Notham headquarters about his next move. They wanted him to set up audio-book booths at the Chicago flagship store as soon as possible. He hadn’t said a word to her about his (their) future, even when she handed him the messages from his boss. But she was sure he was thinking about it. He’d been secretive lately, ducking out of the building for an hour here, a half hour there. Ring shopping, perhaps. Gert reported running into Earl in the diamond district last Saturday. When she asked him what he’d done that morning, he’d told Betty he was at his (their) gym.

  Yes, shocking as it may be, especially to herself, Betty had joined a gym. She never thought the day would come when she became another a jerk-off marching nowhere on a treadmill. Yet she found herself at the New York Sports Club in Union Square three times a week, speed walking, pumping iron, and grunting. Betty was toned. Gert marveled daily at the transformation, how Betty’s body got hard as her personality went soft. Betty fired Gert every time she made this observation. Yet Gert kept showing up for work.

  Earl swung his legs off Betty’s desk and asked, “What are you smiling at?”

  Betty said, “I’ve gone soft.”

  He pursed his lips, hesitating. “In the head?”

  “I can feel the spot,” Betty said, massaging her cranium.

  “Let’s get out of here. My place. Room service,” he said.

  She raised her an eyebrow with what she hoped was sly seduction. “Tonight, I’m taking you on a date. Don’t ask where. It’s a surprise.”

  For a second, Earl seemed worried. Then he said slowly, “Okay, that’s great. Yes.”

  Shit, thought Betty. The look on his face. The hesitation. What could that be about? Was it possible that her surprise plans were mangling his own? He might have something waiting in the hotel room. Like the box with a ring in it.

  Betty said, “Forget it. The hotel sounds perfect.”

  He shook his head. “No, I’d like to go out. That’s better. But we have to stop at my room first.”

  “Okay,” she said. Heart leaping, knees quaking, ears ringing. “Do you want me to wait in the lobby while you run up?”

  “Yes,” he said, avoiding eye contact. “That would work.”

  They left the store, walking the three blocks to his hotel in silence. He ran up, and was back down in a minute. They took the number 4 train to the Brooklyn Bridge stop at City Hall.

  The Brooklyn Bridge, 120 years old, one mile of suspension with tree-trunk-thick steel cables, two huge towers, a boardwalk-style footpath, was Betty’s favorite New York landmark. They headed uphill, looking at those cables, walking into a spider’s web. Betty was awed by the bridge’s history, the dozens of bends-related deaths during and after construction. By the Roebling father and son, who’d engineered the Bridge, both died during or due to its construction. By the fact that elephants were led across the walkway to convince New Yorkers the c
ables could support foot traffic. The brick towers—one on the Manhattan side, one on the Brooklyn side—seemed like relics, monoliths of America’s engineering infancy.

  As they walked, Betty prayed Earl liked the view, her company, anything. He’d been quiet all day. Too quiet. At the Brooklyn tower, three quarters across, Betty said, “Take in the view?”

  They stopped. One glimpse and Betty immediately remembered that the view from that spot was impressive in part for what was missing from it. She didn’t want to get into a discussion about terrorism or to rehash their previously exchanged “Where were you when…” anecdotes. Nor did she want the ghostly backdrop behind her when (if) he proposed.

  She said, “Windy up here.”

  A gust blew Earl’s black hair back. Without it falling around his cheeks, his face was oblong, horselike. Betty had never noticed that before.

  He said, “I’m going to Chicago next week.”

  She nodded. Betty suspected as much. She didn’t want to face the rigors of a long-distance relationship. If she took Frieda as an example, it’d be an emotional tumult. Since Sam started his touring season, Frieda had agonizing cycles: She was elated when Sam was in town, flew into a panic when he left, tumbled into sadness while he was gone, hit a spike of anxiety immediately before his return, and then was maniacal at his homecoming. It’d been like that since Christmas.

  Betty said, “You don’t have to go. You can quit.”

  Earl frowned at that. “I’m not quitting my job.”

  “Then I’ll come with you,” she said, spreading out her options like a blanket on a bed.

  The wind again. His horse face fixed on her. He said, “You shouldn’t come.”

  Betty had sorted it all out. She could get a temp job or do consulting. Maybe Burton & Notham would set her up in Chicago. And maybe, after they were married, he’d want a job that required less city-hopping anyway. They could move back to New York. She said, “I’ll do it to be with you.”

  Earl said, “I want to give you something.”

  This was it! she thought. He reached into his pants pocket, and pulled out a BLACK VELVET JEWELRY BOX. He said, “The last seven months have been fantastic, Betty. You’ve come so far. I’m proud to have made such an impact on your life.”