The Not-So-Perfect Man

by Valerie Frankel

  A commitment to novelty? A passion that burns despite the cooling of years?

  “You both have small bladders?” asked Peter.

  “Pea size,” said Tim.

  Chapter 27

  Wednesday, June 18

  9:23 A.M.

  Physical Effects of Spousal Abandonment

  1. Nausea (comes in waves)

  2. Insatiablehunger (quells nausea)

  3. Constipation/gas

  4. Afternoon fatigue

  5. Aversion to formerly appealing scents (rose and patchouli)

  The list could go on, but Ilene was too hungry to continue. At least her unrelenting appetite served to distract her from emotional angst. Who needed a husband anyway, when she’d found a new love? The morning muffin. She’d always been a bagel person. But last Wednesday morning, while perusing breadstuffs at the corner deli, her eyes locked on the muffin with the cranberry smile. It was enormous, a mother muffin that had swallowed her young, only to be swallowed by Ilene in turn. She got another muffin the next day. And the next. She was hooked. Savoring the heavenly bake of flour, sugar and cranberries had become the highlight of her day.

  Ilene licked muffin crumbles off her fingertips, hummed tunelessly as she sipped her coffee. For the duration of her morning meal, she was happy. As soon as she wadded up the wax paper and threw it in the garbage, she was adrift. The confection was a temporary float. And, much as she would have wanted to, she couldn’t eat muffins all the live-long day. She’d have to wait at least a couple of hours.

  Work distracted her for longer periods, an hour at a time. But even the sanctuary of work was disrupted. Cash and Bucks were competitors. At nearly every editorial meeting, someone would say something about Peter’s magazine. Ilene used to laugh and threaten to tell Peter about the criticism, or pretend to be a willing spy to see if Bucks was planning a certain story. But now, simply hearing the word bucks put her on edge. Often, she wore her sunglasses in meetings. Even in the evening. She wasn’t sure if anyone noticed the change in her temperament, or the five pounds she’d gained in the past week. Or her mad dashes to the ladies’ room to throw up. If any of her colleagues had, none mentioned it. She was safe with her secret for another day. And the days rolled along.

  She wanted to talk about her separation, to somebody, anybody. But she hadn’t. She just couldn’t. That would be an admission that the marriage was over, and she steadfastly refused to let that thought take hold. She had been close to confiding in David Isen many times. He’d been there. But, like her, he kept his separation to himself for a while. He’d probably been waiting for Georgia to make things right, just as Ilene was waiting for Peter. If only he’d make the one big romantic gesture to prove he’d forgiven her. Until (unless) he did, she would do nothing. Making the first move would be groveling. Peter loved her (had loved her) for her strength. He would never respect her if she groveled.

  The phone. David Isen, calling from his office. She said, “If you’re calling about the google IPO—”

  He said, “Your sister is here. Shall I bring her down?”

  “Frieda’s there?” To see David? Ilene shouldn’t be surprised. She knew they’d spent most of the weekend together with Justin and Stephanie. The kids had clicked, too. Stephanie must have been sent back to Vermont already. With the child gone, Ilene suspected that Frieda and David would keep seeing each other, even without the excuse of play-dates. It was just a matter of time, Ilene was convinced, before Frieda saw David as the perfect man for her. Sam would fade away, just his name recorded as a footnote in the Schast sisters’ romantic history.

  Ilene said into the phone, “Bring her over.”

  David said, “Not Frieda. Betty’s here.”

  “Betty?” asked Ilene.

  “She needs some advice on a business idea,” he said. “We’re coming down.” He hung up.

  And within what seemed like seconds, Betty and David were in her office. Ilene did a double take whenever she saw Betty lately. Her baby sister had changed so much, not just in body size, but in style and attitude. She wasn’t closed and defensive anymore. She’d become direct, confident. How she marched into Ilene’s office, looked around, and sat in the chair opposite her desk without asking. Not that Betty had ever been timid. She just wouldn’t have made herself as comfortable with such entitlement before.

  Ilene said, “Betty! What a surprise! Why didn’t you come to me with your business idea?”

  David said, “Oh, she read my June article on corporate crackdowns and—”

  Betty cut him off. “I’m going to get revenge on Earl Long by squealing on him.”

  “How underhanded and rotten,” said Ilene. “Can I help?”

  David said, “I’m helping.”

  Betty said, “Thank you, David.”

  “It’s been my pleasure,” he said. “And really, if you need anything…”

  “I will call,” said Betty.

  Dear God, was David hitting on Betty, too? Was he a walking erection? Betty, to her credit, and Ilene’s relief, showed no interest in David. Only in Ilene, whom she stared at openly.

  After David left, Betty said plainly, “I’ve figured out what’s going on.”

  Ilene’s chest convulsed. “You’ve spoken to Peter.”

  “No,” said Betty. “But I realized that he isn’t taking my calls because he’s afraid to let the cat out of the bag. The two of you have a secret, don’t you? I’ve thought about what kind of secret a married couple would keep. And the explanation was only too obvious.”

  She knows, thought Ilene. “I suppose my behavior was the giveaway.”

  Betty nodded. “The way you picked at Frieda about Sam the other night. I might have found that cruel—honest, but cruel—until I factored in the new information and realized your attack on Sam was protective. And I couldn’t help notice how you reacted to the alcohol. Plus your weight gain. It’s all makes sense.”

  It does, thought Ilene. Instead of feeling mortified, Ilene was relieved not to have to say the words out loud, grateful that her youngest sister had done the hard work for her. She said, “I’m so glad you figured it out.”

  Betty said, “Frankly, I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

  Ilene said, “You have?”

  “We all have.”

  “Frieda, too?”

  “Come on, Ilene. You can’t say that you haven’t wanted this yourself for years.”

  She could say no such thing. She might nag at Peter. She might have treated him badly on occasion. But Ilene loved him. She had since the moment she saw him sitting in the front row. How could she have fucked up so badly?

  Ilene said, “I love Peter.”

  Betty said, “I hope so.”

  “We will make it work.”

  “Of course you will.”

  “Have you told Frieda?” asked Ilene.

  Betty shook her head. “I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

  Ilene said, “I’ll do it. Today.”

  Betty nodded and stood up. She walked around to Ilene’s chair, leaned down and hugged her sister, tight. Ilene responded to the affection. She’d been missing that. She didn’t think she’d touched another person in a week.

  Betty said, “We will be right there with you, the whole way. Just like we were for Frieda.”

  Ilene just nodded against Betty’s shoulder.

  After a very long clinch, Betty pried Ilene’s arms off her. She said, “I’ve got to get back to work. I brought this for you.”

  Ilene accepted the Burton & Notham bag. Ilene said, “Thanks.”

  Betty said, “Congratulations!” and showed herself out.

  Ilene took the book out of the bag. Instead of Divorce for Dummies, she held a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting.

  She laughed. Talk about misunderstandings. Betty thought she was pregnant? Absurd! And all that time, Ilene assumed Betty had figured out that she’d been deserted. So her sister didn’t know the truth. She’d taken Ilene’s fati
gue, nausea, ravenous appetite, weight gain and mood swings as signs of pregnancy? Ridiculous! After a half decade of trying, to succeed unwittingly at the worst possible time? It just wasn’t feasible.

  Then again, if Ilene were observing herself, she might leap to the same ludicrous conclusion. She and Peter had been doing it an awful lot before he left. She was, as a point of fact, quite late with her period. By two or three weeks. She assumed that she was skipping the month due to emotional stress.

  Just to be absolutely sure Betty was wrong, Ilene slipped out of the building and ran into the Duane Reade on the corner. She bought the cheapest pregnancy test she could find, brought it back to work and locked herself in a bathroom stall.

  She sat on the lid and read the box, front and back, side to side, up and down. She examined it for so long, she could have rewritten the instructions from memory. Ilene’s heart pounded. What did she want the results to say? Could she face life as a single mom? Maybe Peter would come back if he knew she was knocked up. She could leak the info. No, no. Ilene wouldn’t use a baby as leverage. That wasn’t fair to her, the child, or Peter. He would have to come back on his own, without a word from her, or any knowledge about the baby. If there was one.

  If there wasn’t, well, it was just five minutes of mental exercise, contemplating an unforeseeable event that would have forever changed the course of her life in ways she couldn’t possibly have imagined. Like Gregg’s death had for Frieda.

  Ilene liberated the pen-shaped test strip from its protective wrapping and held it in her urine stream for ten seconds. She waited the allotted three minutes before checking the two windows One line for not pregnant. Two lines for pregnant.

  There, before her eyes, Ilene watched the second, fainter line materialize slowly, patiently, in no rush at all. The un-foreseeable event had happened. And the course of her life changed forever, in ways she couldn’t possibly have imagined, while alone in a bathroom stall at work.

  Chapter 28

  Saturday, June 21

  11:20 A.M.

  Stephanie and Justin splashed in the tub together. Frieda, washcloth in hand, sopped up the overflow as best she could. David was kneeling at her side, holding another washcloth, scrubbing the paint off Stephanie’s forehead.

  David said, “At what age does mixed-gender bathing become inappropriate?”

  “Eight?” said Frieda.

  “I remember liking girls before then,” said David. “I kissed a girl when I was six.”

  Stephanie said, “Dad, that’s disgusting.”

  Frieda said, “Stop splashing, please.”

  Justin said, “It’s just water, Mom. Chill out.”

  Giving up on both containing the overflow and scrubbing every drop of paint off her child’s fingers, Frieda chucked her washcloth in the water, dropped a bath towel on the floor, and said, “Ten minutes.”

  Justin said, “Can I add hot?”

  “No.”

  David gave up his washcloth, too. “I’ll throw in the towel, too,” he said. “You might think about using it to get that paint off the walls.”

  Stephanie said, “What paint?”

  David pointed at the tiled walls around the tub. Diluted drops of red paint had created an eerie splatter pattern. David helped Frieda to her feet. The two adults left the kids and went into the kitchen to fill a bucket with Formula 409 and hot water. David took his choice of scrub brush like choosing his pistol before a duel, and they walked, armed and loaded with cleaning weaponry, to Justin’s room.

  David and Stephanie had arrived at Frieda’s apartment less than two hours ago. They were a pleasant surprise for Frieda and Justin, who had no particular plans for that steamy Saturday. Apparently, Georgia had paid David her own surprise visit very early that morning, showing up at his doorstep with Stephanie, announcing that she was speaking on a panel at the annual organizers exhibit at the Javits Center. She’d originally planned on taking Stephanie to the show, but realized quickly that it was a bad idea, serving no one’s interests. Georgia was sorry she hadn’t called; the whole trip down to New York had been very last minute. But could David take Stephanie for the day?

  One phone call and a taxi ride later, David and Frieda were making sandwiches in the kitchen of her apartment to take to Prospect Park for a picnic. Stephanie and Justin were playing quietly in his room. Curiosity pulled Frieda down the hall to discover that the kids had taken out the paint set (forbidden without supervision) and decided that Justin’s wood floor would look better speckled. The spots were randomly ordered, sized, and shaped. The sight of them made Frieda see red, as well as blue, yellow, orange and green.

  First, the reprimand. Frieda contained her anger fairly well. She was the first to admit that she had an obsession (nonclinical) with neatness. Usually, she became apoplectic when Justin created extra cleaning work for her. He was supposed to help her, not make her life harder. She used that motherly refrain upon seeing the spots, but not with her usual shrill vibrato. If David hadn’t been here, Frieda would have gone ballistic.

  Frieda dropped the bucket on the painted floor. She dipped her brush and scrubbed. David did the same. She said, “You know that TV commercial for bionic paper towels that shows a cute kid in a baseball cap spilling a gallon of orange juice on the floor, and when the mother sees what he’s done, she shakes her head and smiles like she can hardly wait to clean up?”

  David said, “I refuse to buy those paper towels in protest.”

  “Obviously, Justin did this to see how I’d react in front of you,” said Frieda.

  “Did you react differently?” he asked.

  “Not really,” she lied. “Somewhat,” she revised.

  David said, “I wonder if you’d treat me differently if Justin weren’t here. If the kids weren’t here, and we were alone.”

  A strange thing to say. She ignored it. “What should we do to them, punishment-wise?” she asked.

  He paused his scrubbing to dunk his brush in the bucket. “I like ‘no snacks,’ meaning no sugary or salty substance, for a prescribed length of time.”

  “What? A day? A week?”

  “For this,” he gestured at the paint with his brush, “I’d give him the rest of the day. That’ll hurt. Especially if we go out for ice cream. Which we will do. As soon as we finish and get them dressed,” he said.

  “What about Stephanie?” asked Frieda, instantly defensive. Her son hadn’t acted alone.

  He said, “No ice cream for her either—or we could all get ice cream, and say no TV.”

  “Yes, but then what will we do with them after dinner? Without TV, we’ll have to entertain them ourselves.”

  “That is out of the question,” said David, doing masterful work on a blue splotch. “Okay, how about this? We don’t punish them, due to the mitigating circumstances, but we make them feel guilty and full of shame.”

  Frieda nodded. “Complain of back pain from scrubbing.”

  “The cost of having the floor cleaned professionally.”

  “The waste of a beautiful morning.”

  He said, “If we see people you know on the street, we will tell them what happened in very loud voices.”

  She laughed. “That is shameful.” David’s parenting style was so like hers. They both acted without fear for the child’s future on the therapist’s couch. After all, Justin was already on the couch.

  Frieda said, “ ‘Due to the mitigating circumstances.’ What did you mean by that?”

  David didn’t look up from the floor. “Justin knows your reactions. He doesn’t know mine. He’s on a fact-finding mission.”

  “I don’t see why he’d care,” said Frieda.

  “He wants to know what I’d be like as his stepfather.”

  “That’s crazy,” said Frieda, scrubbing harder.

  “They talk about it,” said David. “Stephanie told me.”

  “We’ve known each other for only a couple of weeks,” said Frieda.

  He sat back on his heels, hands resting on
his jeans-clad thighs. “Stephanie might be a bigger yenta than Ilene.”

  “Ilene has been pushing you on me for months,” said Frieda.

  “And you to me. She thinks she’s subtle,” he said.

  They both had a laugh at that. David smiled at her, a dot of blue paint in his chin. He said, “You know, Ilene might be onto something.”

  Frieda stopped laughing. “You mean up to something.”

  David said, “You and me is a pretty good idea.”

  What was this? thought Frieda. David liked her now? She hadn’t seen that coming. She certainly wasn’t sending signals. David was good-looking, she supposed, but Frieda had always gone for quirkier types.

  She said, “I haven’t put you in a romantic context.”

  “You don’t think scrubbing the floor, side by side, is romantic?” he asked.

  Frieda said, “Scrubbing? Romantic? I don’t think so.”

  David said, “I do.”

  Gregg’s idea of romance was to surprise her with diamond jewelry. Sam’s idea of romance was to remove her clothes with his teeth. David liked household chores?

  He said, “Anything can be romantic with the right person.”

  “Well, of course,” she said.

  “Not only is scrubbing romantic,” said David, “it’s sexy.”

  “Now sexy,” said Frieda.

  “You should see yourself,” he said.

  Reflexively, she looked across the room at Justin’s hanging mirror. Her hair was in a ponytail, curly strands sticking out like tentacles. Red paint was smeared across her nose. Her tank top was wet and soapy. Her shorts were stained, her bare legs covered with two days stubble.

  “I don’t see the hotness,” she said.

  “You and Georgia are a similar physical type,” he said. “Curvy and cute.”

  Frieda wanted to change the subject. The children. Always safe territory. “Hey kids!” she yelled down the hall.

  Two voices shouted back, “What?”

  “They’re fine,” said David. “So are we. Together like this. You have to admit you’ve thought of what it would be like if we were a family, not just walking around in the shape of one.”