The Not-So-Perfect Man

by Valerie Frankel

  “A few months ago.”

  “Before or after he said he loved you?”

  “After,” Frieda said. “Look, I see the money as just one more thing I have to offer. He gives me so much, the scales are even.”

  Ilene said gently, “What does Sam give you?”

  “Love. Sex. A feeling that I’m not alone.”

  Even as Frieda spoke the words, Ilene could hear the leaking hiss of doubt in her sister’s voice. Frieda had been complaining, ceaselessly, that his departures made her feel alone and untrusting of Sam’s feelings. The lack of sex was self-evident. Ilene thought about Peter, and how he’d shown her love, been constantly available for sex, had always been there for her, in the bedroom, or at the end of the phone.

  Ilene said to Frieda, “Enough for one night. But you might want to acknowledge—to yourself, at least—that Sam may not be a love god sent from heaven to save you. He’s just a young man with lots and lots—and lots—of flaws.”

  “I agree,” Betty said. “He’s got problems. But, then again, the perfect man does not exist.”

  A shout from across the street. “Ilene! Over here!” A man, tall, slim, holding the hand of a small child. He waved at her, looking both ways before crossing First Avenue. The little girl ran to keep up with the man’s long churning legs.

  “Ilene! Hey!” he said, upon them. “You remember Stephanie?”

  Ilene said, “Yes, of course. Hello, Stephanie. I’m a work friend of your dad’s. Betty, Frieda, this is David Isen, a writer at Cash.”

  They all exchanged greetings. David reminded Frieda— didn’t need to—that he’d seen Oliver! with her last fall. Betty recalled having met David on the street once.

  Ilene was pleased to see her friend. David had made a quick recovery from his divorce. His usual amicable, easygoing demeanor was fully restored. If she were to confide in anyone about her separation from Peter, she would choose David. But he’d been out of the office, first on a business trip, and last week on vacation. She couldn’t call him at home or show up at his apartment because his daughter was visiting from Vermont for a couple of weeks. The girl held firmly to her father’s hand. Her eyes scanned the three women at the table distrustfully and with the solipsistic impatience of a seven-year-old.

  David seemed a bit frantic. Overly excited to see them. He said, “Grown-ups! I’ve been adult deprived for days.”

  “What are you doing down here?” asked Ilene, wondering how and why he’d bring a child into this seedy neighborhood.

  “We had dinner at the Second Avenue Deli.”

  Ilene looked at pretty Stephanie with her auburn hair and sparkly pink T-shirt. “That must have been fun,” she said, inviting a response.

  Stephanie ignored the comment. David sighed. He said, “She’s been with me a week. Another week to go. We’ve seen every G-rated movie in the theaters. I’ve taken her to the Bronx Zoo, the Planetarium, Chelsea Piers. We’ve hit four museums.”

  “Dad, let’s go,” said Stephanie.

  “I think she’s bored,” he said.

  “Bored at museums?” asked Frieda with feigned shock and horror. She leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, “I don’t blame you.” Stephanie, sensing that Frieda was child-friendly, smiled back. The presence of a child— an innocent—distracted them from the tense topic of Sam.

  David said, “I made a huge list of things to do, and I’m trying to avoid TV dependency. But I’m running out of ideas. You can go to the park for only so long. I think she misses her friends. And her mom. I’ve tried to set up a play date with kids from her old school, but I haven’t been able to reach anyone.”

  Ilene knew full well that Justin, too, was currently between school and camp and that Frieda struggled to keep him occupied during the day. That the two children were just one grade apart. For months, she’d been soft-selling David to her sister as the man she should be seeing, a golden alternative to Sam. This was a handcrafted ideal opportunity to arrange for her favorite sister and good friend to spend time together, help each other out, let the kids meet. It was a wide-open door, the flawless scenario, one Ilene couldn’t have dreamed up in her wildest machinations. But—and it shamed Ilene to let such a dastardly thought enter her alcohol-addled brain; shamed her deeply, to the core, but the thought popped up nonetheless—she wanted David for herself. Not for a boyfriend (if anything, Peter’s leaving made her realize how much she wanted to stay married to him). She needed David’s attention in the uncertain months ahead. If David and Frieda started dating, she’d lose both of them to each other.

  Betty said to Stephanie, “I bet you think boys are yucky.”

  “Please,” said Stephanie. “That attitude is so kindergarten.”

  Betty raised one eyebrow and laughed. “Well, Stephanie, if you think boys are okay, I’m sure you’ll like my nephew Justin. He’s going into first grade, but is very mature for his age.”

  David turned abruptly toward Frieda. “Your son is free?” he asked eagerly. “We would love to set something up. How about tomorrow? Tomorrow morning? You live in Brooklyn Heights, right? We’ll come to you.”

  Frieda said, “Are you really that desperate? You’d cross water for a play date?”

  David said, “Do I have to beg?”

  “I promised Justin that I’d take him to the Transit Museum tomorrow. It’s right in my neighborhood, and you have to go underground to get there. I’m not sure Stephanie could stomach another museum. This one, though, has rows and rows of old-fashioned subway cars and a big city bus you can pretend to drive. No paintings or sculptures, though.”

  David said, “Stephanie loves trains!”

  His daughter said, “That doesn’t sound too boring.”

  Frieda and David exchanged phone numbers, a sight Ilene had longed to see for months. But now, it made her stomach clench, the ants marching double-time. Ilene actually felt herself gag.

  Betty asked, “Are you all right?”

  Ilene waved her off, and excused herself. She went into the bar, recoiled from the eardrum-splitting techno music. She made her way toward the back of the bar, down a narrow stairway and made it into the ladies’ room just in time.

  After rinsing her mouth, she felt better. She was less drunk now. And hungry. Ravenous. She walked back upstairs to the bar and bought three bags of barbecue potato chips and three hard-boiled eggs. The only food on the premises. Oddly, the salt and protein were exactly what she wanted.

  Ilene brought the food back outside. David had left, having instructed Frieda and Betty to say his goodbyes for him. Frieda tucked the piece of paper with David’s phone number into the back pocket of her jeans. Ilene caught Betty staring at her. The look on Betty’s face was suspicious, pensive. Ilene held out a bag of chips to Betty. “You want?” she asked.

  Betty said, “I’ll take an egg.”

  Chapter 25

  Friday, June 13

  11:45 A.M.

  Betty was three seconds from quitting her job. She’d been three seconds from quitting for days, and living in a constant state of disgust was taking its toll. On the plus side, she’d all but stopped eating. On the negative side, her svelteness was irrelevant, since her body—only too recently a source of pride and gratification—had been reduced to an unused, untouched mass of flesh.

  She sat, as usual in the mornings, at the help desk on the ground floor at Burton & Notham, dealing with the customers. Every man reminded her of Earl Long in some small way. The color of his hair, the movement of his legs, the shirt, the eyes, the contours of his neck. Betty thought of Earl constantly (every square foot of retail space in the store had been defiled by his presence). She let the memories come. She couldn’t pretend the relationship hadn’t happened. The persistence of memory was overwhelming. That was why she wanted to quit. She had to get away from this place.

  A man approached the desk. This one, thank God, was blonde, short. Not dark and lanky like Earl. He wanted to know if she could print out a list of titles that analyzed
the culture dimensions and lasting social consequences of mid-twentieth century fascist regimes. Betty hated searches like this. She had to punch in a dozen keywords, scan hundreds of titles and read book descriptions in tiny type. He wanted her to do his library research. She was supposed to help with specific searches that directed a customer to the exact book he or she would locate and purchase right away.

  When she had a list of fifty titles, she printed it out and gave it to the man. He thanked her, took the list, but didn’t go away. He shuffled the pages, shuffled his feet. Loitered by the desk. Finally, he said, “I’ve seen you here a lot.”

  “I work here.”

  “I was wondering…”

  “I’m married,” she said dismissively.

  He pointed at her hand. “I’m sorry. You don’t wear a ring.” Then he skulked off, rejected and embarrassed. Betty felt nothing. Not pity, power, revenge. Deflecting male attention was all in a day’s work. Several times a day, lately.

  Numb. That was her state. She hadn’t masturbated or had a sexual fantasy since the scene with Earl on the Brooklyn Bridge. Now that she’d had a taste of where those fantasies could lead, she’d lost the appetite for them. Which was sad enough. What was worse: She was certain that if Earl Long called and said he’d made a horrible mistake, she’d take him back.

  Gert appeared at the help desk, bright with silver and gold spangles. She held a dozen magazines, yellow Post-It Notes sticking out the top of each one. She dropped the stack on the desk.

  “Some articles that might interest you,” said Gert.

  “Take them back to the magazine rack,” said Betty.

  “No.”

  “If you don’t take them back, you’re fired.”

  “Read them. For me,” said Gert. “I’ve spent the entire morning on this project.”

  “What project?” asked Betty.

  “The ‘I Got Her into This, I’ll Get Her Out’ project.”

  Betty said, “For the last time, I don’t blame you for what happened.”

  “I pushed you at him,” said Gert.

  “You did the right thing,” said Betty. “How could you know that Earl would turn out wrong? So very, very wrong.”

  Gert would beat her chest with guilt for months, Betty knew. Her friend believed she was instrumental in destroying Betty’s trust in men for the rest of her life. “The rest of my life,” Betty chanted to Gert often, using the loathsome phrase with impunity.

  Picking up the magazine on top, Sports Illustrated, Gert flipped to the marked page. She handed it to Betty and said, “Sarah Hughes. Gold-Metal winner, 2002 Winter Olympics.”

  “What can a sixteen-year figure skater have to say that is relevant to my situation?” asked Betty, irritated.

  “Just read it,” said Gert. “She talks about learning at an early age, through her experiences in sports, that failure is good. Failure is educational. Without failure in her life, she says she couldn’t have succeeded in the Olympics. She thinks her appreciation of failure puts her at ease on the ice. She doesn’t get nervous because of her Zen-like attitude. And, besides that—I know you’ll like this about her—she’s half-Jewish.”

  “The half with the bad hair,” said Betty.

  Gert placed the Sports Illustrated on the desk, leaving it open, and took the next magazine off the stack. Glamour. She found the page she was looking for. “Article called, ‘It’s Not You, It’s Me,’ about women who blame themselves when a relationship doesn’t work out, even if it’s not their fault. Some good quotes from shrinks about how comfortable it is for women to internalize their negative emotions instead of venting them.”

  Betty said, “I vent.”

  “Not healthfully,” said Gert. “Not in a way that expends justifiable anger. Only in a way that further alienates you.”

  Betty said, “A little warning: If you read enough of those women’s magazine articles, you start to sound like them.”

  Gert dropped the Glamour on top of the Sports Illustrated. She picked up Cash, Ilene’s magazine. “Article called ‘Corporate Penny Pinching and Ass Slinging.’ How large companies are increasingly vigilant about nickels and dimes, checking employee phone records, expense accounts. Nice big section at the end about the extreme consequences for employees who got busted for abusing privileges.”

  Now that could be interesting, thought Betty. She took the magazine off Gert’s hands, and started to read the article. Written by David Isen. The story was good. Inspiring.

  Betty picked up the phone, and dialed Ilene’s number at Cash. Her sister’s assistant connected her to Isen’s voice mail. Betty left a message and hung up.

  She smiled at Gert and said, “Don’t you have some phone records and expense reports to locate?”

  Chapter 26

  Monday, June 16

  2:07 A.M.

  Peter groped for his watch. It was on the coffee table somewhere. The room was black. He’d been asleep since ten. He found the timepiece and pushed the illuminate button. Jesus, only 2:00 A.M. Four hours of sleep this time. His old slumber pattern had been to go to bed around midnight or one, and wake up at seven or eight. Since he’d been living at Jane’s, sleeping on the couch, he’d gotten in the rut of turning on the TV at eight, eating a high-carb snack (he couldn’t resist Jane’s overflowing cabinets of ‘stop’ foods), conking out to the blue glow at ten and waking up in the middle of the night for good. Jane and her husband, Tim, a genial contractor who couldn’t have been more understanding about Peter’s situation, seemed to be okay with the loss of their living room. They hadn’t told him to leave.

  Peter checked his watch again. He was in for a long night of insomnia. Flinging his comforter aside (Peter attentively folded and stored his comforter and pillow in the hall closet each morning), he sat upright on the couch, rubbed his tired face, scratched his scalp. Standing took some effort. Then he walked the dozen paces in the dark to the bathroom. He opened the door, and flipped on the light.

  The scream hit him before the light did. It took a few seconds for his pupils to narrow. His eyes adjusted, and he saw Tim sitting on the toilet, seat down, with Jane astride him. They were nude. Fucking. Peter shut off the light, closed the door, and backed into the living room. The sight of their two bodies stuck to his retinas, a hazy orange purple outline around it.

  He found the couch, sat down, then lay down and pulled the comforter over his head. He hadn’t realized just how tiny Jane was until he’d seen her bony naked back. Her waist: Tim’s hands went all the way around. Peter was embarrassed by his intrusion. He couldn’t deny feeling a rapid pulse in his groin. Too rapid? He clutched his chest and breathed deeply, sucking the limited oxygen from underneath the comforter until he felt lightheaded. He had to come up for air.

  He pulled back the comforter. Even in the near darkness, Peter could make out the hulking shape of Tim Bambo, a towel wrapped around his waist, elbows on his knees, sitting on the coffee table next to the couch.

  Once Peter had pulled the covers down to expose his entire head, Tim said, “Sorry you had to see that.”

  Peter, in his defensive posture, said, “No, it wasn’t bad. In different circumstances, I’m sure I’d have enjoyed it.”

  Tim laughed politely at his wife’s boss’s joke. “The thing is, Peter, we haven’t minded having you stay with us. For the week.”

  “Time to move on?” asked Peter.

  Tim nodded. “Jane wouldn’t have said anything because she cares about you.”

  “Because I’m her boss.”

  “You are her boss, and she also cares about you,” said Tim.

  Peter nodded. Odd to carry on a conversation in the middle of the night with a nearly naked man he’d seen humping not moments before. “Why would you go at it in the bathroom when you have that nice big bed?” Peter couldn’t help asking.

  Tim said, “That’s none of your business, Peter.”

  Peter noticed the straightening of Tim’s spine. He reflexively pulled the covers a bit higher und
er his chin. Peter said, “I’ll find a new place to stay in the morning. A hotel, I guess. It’ll be kind of lonely.”

  “Why don’t you just go home?” asked Tim. “You’ve proven whatever you wanted to prove.”

  “Ilene doesn’t love me,” said Peter. The week of sleep deprivation and sadness threatened to spill out of his eyes. He could think of nothing more awkward than crying in front of Tim, a muscle-bulging prime cut of masculinity who’d probably never had a minute of marital doubt in his life.

  Tim said, “You’re not going to cry, are you?”

  Peter said lamely, “No.”

  “She loves you,” said Tim. “If she didn’t love you, she wouldn’t have married you in the first place. You’re not rich, handsome, famous, funny, talented, built or powerful.”

  “When you put it like that,” Peter said. “How could she resist?”

  “I guess you are kind of funny,” amended Tim.

  “I can’t face her,” said Peter. “I can’t go back. I’m always the one who makes the big romantic gestures. She fucked up this time. I want her to get me back. To show me one bit of effort. Otherwise, this marriage is over.”

  “Okay, okay. Settle down,” said Tim.

  “The only problem is that she has no idea what I want from her. So I’ll never get it.”

  Tim sighed. “I’m going to bed. I’m sorry I can’t help you with this. Maybe Jane can.”

  “Jane has already done enough,” said Peter. Jane sent Peter to Peggy in the first place. “I really appreciate your letting me stay,” he added.

  “You’re welcome,” said Tim.

  “What’s your secret?” asked Peter. “How do you and Jane stay so happy?”

  Tim rose to his feet. From Peter’s prone position on the couch, Tim was a colossus. “The secret of our happiness,” said Tim, “is why you’d find us together in the bathroom at two in the morning.”