The Not-So-Perfect Man (12 page)

Peter could have started groaning and not stopped until Tuesday. He watched several waiters pile broken pieces of plates and glasses in the hammocks of their aprons. They worked quickly and quietly. The other patrons stopped staring and returned to their own meals with a story to dine out on here or elsewhere for months.

Bruce helped Peggy out of her chair—miraculously untouched in the fray. He gave her a tight, loving squeeze, and she returned it. Bruce smiled meekly at his wife, his face a palate of vulnerability that even Peter would have succumbed to. That famous McFarthing charm, at work again. Peggy smiled back up at him like she’d struck gold.

Bruce said, “Can you forgive me for being so stupid?”

“I do every day,” said Peggy.

They kissed and left together.

Peter waved the maître d’ over. He said, “I’m being charged for the full cost of the meals?”

“Well, you see, sir, we’ve already started preparing the food to order, and—”

“Doggie bag it. All of it. Including the basket of bread. And the water. And the lime in the water.”

Ilene grinned nervously. He’d seen that expression before, whenever she knew she’d done wrong and had some reparation to make. She put a hand on his shoulder. She said, “Peter, I’m so sorry. I am proud of you. Can you forgive me for being so stupid?”

Peter said, “No. I can’t.”

Monday, June 9
10:03
A
.
M
.

Frieda liked the
New York Post.
She should read the
New York Times,
and often did, but she relished her gossipy tabloid. Unlike her child, her apartment, her gallery, her relationship, the
Post
was easy. Uncomplicated. The broad-sheet made no emotional or intellectual demands. She could flip through the pages in seconds, scan, scan, scan, turn. Except when, on the odd morning, she was blind-sided by an item. Like today, right there, on Page Six, she read that Gwyneth Paltrow was having a hard time dealing with the death of her father from cancer.

Gorgeous Gwyneth missed her father?
Boo fucking hoo,
thought Frieda. He lived long enough see his perfect daughter get an Oscar. He got to love his wife deep into their middle age. Gwyneth had decades’ worth of memories of him. Justin, meanwhile, asked Frieda last night if his dad had had blue or green eyes. He couldn’t remember, and it was hard to tell in photos. Not that there were many photos or videotape. Gregg had always held the camera. He was greedy that way. His voice was all over the video, narrating (“Justin, roll over. That’s it, roll over. Nearly there, come on, kid. Frieda? Frieda, move that chair. Move the chair. Yes. Good. Back to Justin. Nearly over. One more push,” etc.) But Gregg’s face was rarely seen.

Frieda was alone in the gallery. She took a sip of coffee, a bite of bagel. She spotted an article in the
Post
’s health section: fascinating new research about the addictive properties of male ejaculate. According to scientists in England (randy bastards), seminal brine contained certain hormones and chemicals that, upon consumption (vaginally, orally, anally), gave women an endorphin-like rush of happiness. The greater their fluid intake, the happier women were. However, upon the sudden deprivation of said fluid, women sank into a withdrawal state that made them irritable, angry, and depressed.

That explained it, thought Frieda. She’d have to ask Sam to bottle a few samples next time he went away.

Whenever Sam left Brooklyn, Frieda thought about Gregg. Without the distraction of Sam’s naked body in her bed, memories came alive. Gregg had been her life partner. They had been united in the struggles and joys of marriage, work, parenting. Sam’s absences opened a gaping yawn of doubt. Was he just another man who vanished on her? Gregg left her, but only once. Sam disappeared again and again. Each time he left, she missed him like he’d never come back.

Granted, this was a particularly bad morning. Sam had been gone for a month already, not set to return for another fortnight. His phone calls had been erratic. The production was troubled. The director had quit after a few days, and Sam had to take the reigns. When he directed, he was single-minded, dedicated to the show’s success, admirably so. But in his myopia, he’d forget to call. And when he did, he’d talk about the show for a second before making hang-up noises. The details of her life seemed miniscule, not worth describing, like she’d stood still since the last phone call and hadn’t traversed the landscape of two long days. He seemed to assume that the relationship was frozen as of the date of his departure, and would defrost exactly as he’d left it upon his return. How could he know so little about basic relationship maintenance? Ilene’s standard response to Frieda’s complaints was, “I told you he was too young.”

The phone. Dr. Bother asking to see her again. Justin was fine, doing well, she said. “He’s worried about you,” she said. Frieda made an appointment and hung up.

The phone. Betty, wanting to confirm the sister dinner date, and to know if Frieda had spoken to Ilene or Peter. She’d been unable to reach them for a couple of days. Frieda reported that she hadn’t spoken to either one. Nor had she heard from Sam since Saturday. Betty said she had to go.

The phone, again. “Frieda?” It was Sam. “I can’t talk long. I’ve got a rehearsal in ten minutes.”

The potency of his voice. The immediate
whoosh
of bad air exiting her lungs. The jumper cables to her heart.

“Sam, how are you? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. You?”

“Fine.”

Long pause. What to say? Confess the truth, that she couldn’t stand these separations? That she’d become as obsessive about his absence as she’d been about his presence?

He said, “The kid playing Oliver has bronchitis. We have to hold emergency auditions tonight. Local talent. It’s going to be a nightmare.”

Frieda said, “That’s terrible.”

“You have no idea.”

She said, “Justin’s summer break starts next week. I have him signed up for day camp, but that doesn’t start until two weeks from now. I’m looking at a long stretch of Disney movies, computer games and whiffle ball. I promised to take him to Great Adventure.”

“Should be fun,” said Sam.

If Gregg were alive, she wouldn’t have to shoulder unstructured weeks of parenting by herself. She missed Gregg nostalgically, mournful for the lifestyle of shared responsibility.

Frieda had tried to explain this to Betty (perhaps too soon after the Earl dumping). She said, “I think I’m using Sam as a distraction from my ongoing grief.”

Betty blurted out, “Both of them are—were—a distraction.”

Frieda said, “A distraction from what?”

“We all have to face our self-destructive tendencies at some point, Frieda,” said Betty. “And your tendency is to let your biggest fear rule your life.”

“What fear?” she asked.

“The fear of being alone,” said Betty. Then she went on to postulate that Frieda knew this on some level, and had done herself the favor by choosing Sam. “The mood swings, the grappling with his absence. It’s all a super-sized serving of what your subconscious has cooked. You’ve devised a test for yourself. You’re failing miserably. But, one day, in the distant, unforeseeable future, it is possible that you might conquer your greatest fear and feel comfortable by yourself.”

At present, fretting on the phone to Sam, Frieda was miles from conquest. She wasn’t in the same time zone as the battlefield.

She said to him, “I hate this. I hate being apart. I think I may go crazy from it.”

Long, long silence. And, after that, another helping of silence. With all her might, Frieda resisted speaking over the nearly inaudible cracking of the phone wire.

After an eternity, Sam said, “Relax.”

“That’s it?”

“When I get back, it’ll be okay.”

“I know you’re occupied with the show, and you’re very busy, while I’m sitting here counting the minutes. I understand it all. You might be good at long-distance relationships, but I can’t get used to it. I’m tired of being alone.” She drew a breath. “You promised me you wouldn’t forget what I’ve been through.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he said. Muffling in the background. “Hold on a second.”

She held. By a thread. He came back. “I’ve got to go,” he said.

“Of course you do.”

“We’ll talk later,” he said. “I love you, and I miss you. Just bear with me. Okay?”

“I don’t know if I can,” she said. “I need you here.”

“I can’t be there,” he said flatly. “This is my job, Frieda. If I can pull this off, maybe I’ll get another directing job. A better one. Do you think I want to be sweating it out in Florida, auditioning ten-year-old amateurs? Don’t you think I’d rather be with you?”

She said, “I’m supportive. I want you to do well.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said.

They hung up a second later. She felt awful about the conversation. She’d alienated him. He would break up with her for sure. And then she’d be alone again. Her anxiety migrated across plains and hills. Miles and miles from the battlefield.

Wednesday, June 11
9:45
P
.
M
.

“I haven’t been to the East Village in years,” said Ilene. “Did you see that man? He had a metal spike sticking out of his cheek.” And look, a gnawed chicken skeleton on the sidewalk. And smell that, the odorous homeless person on a grate. And over there, a tattooed mob of teenagers smoking cigars. Ilene felt a wave of nausea as she walked along Second Avenue. Sickness marched up her innards like a slow line of ants. She swallowed hard, and smiled as brightly as she could at her two sisters. Betty looked as bad as she felt. And Frieda would not shut up.

Frieda said, “Can someone please explain to me why Sam didn’t call today?”

Betty and Ilene made eye contact. Ilene said, “Can we not talk about Sam for five minutes?”

The whole rant was pointless. So Sam, a twenty-nine-year-old with scant long-term-relationship know-how, couldn’t manage Frieda, a woman with experience in abundance. This was surprising to Frieda? Beyond her comprehension? Ilene’s only hope was that her sister would dump him finally, and move on to a relationship with potential. Her patience with Frieda’s whining was nearing an end.

Her patience with everything was nearing an end. Peter had moved out of the apartment three days ago. Ilene hadn’t told Betty and Frieda about it. If Betty heard from Peter on the diet-buddy hotline, she hadn’t let on. It was foolish to keep it a secret, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit that her marriage was over, even to her sisters. Or herself. It’d been just a few days. Ilene was sure Peter would return soon. She’d ask him to come home, but she didn’t know where he was staying. Jane wouldn’t tell.

The night before the incident at Aux-On-Arles, Ilene and Peter had made love with a white-hot passion. Ilene and Peter had been enjoying each other quite a bit, actually, in the months before the blowup. She was more attracted to the slim him. Also, she wanted to see what he was capable of. If he
was
having an affair, surely he wouldn’t have the appetite or ability to satisfy two women on the same day. He succeeded at satisfying Ilene, each time. Regardless, she still thought he was cheating.

While he packed his bags to move out, Peter said, “You slept with me to catch me. Now all that great sex is tainted. I can’t win with you.”

He hadn’t been losing when he came like a train. He didn’t want to hear a word of it. So Ilene stopped defending herself. She sat on the edge of the bed and watched him put his new skinny suits into a garment bag. She had to lie down after a while, she was so inexplicably tired. She must have fallen asleep. When she woke up, he was gone— insulted, she was sure, that she’d drifted off.

The three sisters walked toward First Avenue. They intended to have their monthly sister dinner, but none of them was hungry. Betty suggested they go, instead, to Sidewalk Café, sit outside, watch the freak show, and drink until they passed out or threw up. Frieda was willing. Ilene nodded and smiled, game face on. She had never drunk to such excess. But it wasn’t like she was going home to anyone. Might as well start.

“Ilene, give Peter a message for me,” said Betty. “Tell him I know he’s cheating.”

“You know he’s
what?
” she asked.

“He’s not calling me back. Therefore, he’s cheating on his diet and doesn’t want to speak to me.”

Ilene said, “I’ll give him the message when I get home tonight. He’ll be waiting up for me, snuggled in the comfort of our loving marital bed.” She might be laying it on a bit thick. “Or watching TV in the reclining chair in an undershirt.” Too thin? “Probably reading
The New Yorker
on the couch.”

Betty said, “Sure he’s not jerking off with
Penthouse
on the toilet?”

Frieda, showing admirable strength to lift herself out of her own obsession and ask about someone else’s problem, said, “Any word from Earl?”

“Nope,” said Betty. “And you will not speak of the Devil in my presence.”

The sisters rounded the corner and Betty said, “Here we are.”

The Sidewalk Café resembled a bombed-out shanty in Baghdad. The awning was falling off, the brick façade covered in graffiti. Betty found them an outside table. It was round, its wood crackling, green paint chipping. A splinter hazard. Ilene dusted the metal folding chair and sat, placing her Kate Spade purse in her lap. She’d keep her prized bag close to her belly, like a marsupial pouch, or risk losing it. Frieda sat next to Ilene, facing the street. Betty went inside to get their drinks. She returned with two pitchers of beer and three plastic cups.

The hops tasted and smelled like tin. The metallic after-taste caused Ilene’s inner ants to march upward, toward her esophagus. To keep them down, she practically chugged her beer. Impressed, Betty and Frieda followed suit. Within three minutes, Ilene was tipsy. She started on her second glass. Within three sips, she was drunk. Slowly now, she took a quick look around. At thirty-nine, she was the bar’s most senior patron. Several of the other customers wore leather in June, and didn’t appear to sweat.

Ilene said, “What’s the agenda for tonight?”

Frieda said, “I promise to stop talking about Sam.”

Betty and Ilene said, “Good.”

“Right after I make one last point.”

“Are there any points unmade?” asked Betty.

“About his infrequent phone calling…”

Betty said, “Do you ever call him?”

“I don’t want to push.”

“You should call him,” said Ilene. “I bet he’ll talk longer if you’re paying for the call.”

Frieda considered this. “True. Okay. I’ll call him.”

“Great, another thing you have to pay for,” said Ilene. Drunk on beer, how pathetic. The ants were at rest. But her inhibitions were just waking up. “I’m curious about something, Frieda. In the eight months you’ve been together, has Sam ever paid for dinner?”

“Nine. It’s been nine months,” said Frieda. “And no. He hasn’t.”

“Has he ever left a tip? Paid for a cab? A movie ticket? The beer he drinks at your house? Has he ever chipped in for the baby-sitting? Bought you a gift?”

“He gave me a CD on my birthday,” she said.

“From his own collection!” said Ilene.

“It was special to him. Autographed by André Previn,” said Frieda.

“You could probably get ten dollars for it on ebay,” said Betty.

Frieda swirled her beer; Ilene stirred the pot. “I’m going to crunch the numbers,” she said, safely within her professional wheelhouse. “You spend about a hundred dollars for a local night out, going up to three hundred for a Manhattan date, like when you got the opera tickets or went to the Oyster Bar for lobster. You took him for that weekend in Quogue with Justin. You bought him a suit jacket. A bedspread. A pair of sneakers. A new kettle.”

Frieda turned toward Betty, who said, “Don’t look at
me.
I’m not feeling very generous about men these days.”

Ilene wasn’t either. She continued her crunching. “You’ve taken him out about three times a month, on average. Minimum monthly expenditure, including gifts, travel and entertainment: six hundred dollars. Over eight—forgive me,
nine
—months. You have paid a grand total of five thousand, four hundred—minimum—for the honor and privilege of having Sam Hill, thespian, in your life.”

Frieda stared at her, dumbfounded. Betty seemed to be calculating in her head. Could that number be correct? Ilene hadn’t planned any of this, but now that she’d stumbled onto the financial facts, she’d connected the dots until the picture took shape. To Ilene, Frieda didn’t appear to be falling apart or overtly pained. She had to know that Ilene meant well, meant to protect her.

Ilene said, “I only bring up the money issue because you’ve been so miserable lately. Spending freely was one thing when you were happy and in love. The time seems right to consider the inequities in the relationship.”

Frieda said, “I can afford it.”

Indeed she could. Frieda
was
a wealthy woman. Gregg’s estate was of a decent size, and there had been that very large life insurance policy. Frieda and Gregg bought their apartment for next to nothing and, in the explosive Brooklyn Heights real-estate market, the floor-through had tripled in value in five years. Sol Gallery made no money— lost some, actually—but Frieda had wisely bought the Montague-Street property right after Gregg died, with money out of his family trust, eliminating her high rental costs and taking a sizeable tax deduction for her mortgage payment. Adding it all up—real estate, Justin’s college fund, stocks, bonds, money markets, etc.—Frieda’s net worth was about $3 million.

Ilene said, “I know you can afford it. Does Sam?” The implication was almost cruel. She instantly regretted it. “Let me take that back. Forget I said anything.”

Betty said, “Frieda lives frugally. Some might say cheaply. There’s no way Sam has any idea how loaded she is.”

“He knows,” said Frieda. “I told him.”

“You
what?
” asked Ilene and Betty simultaneously. They’d been raised never to disclose personal financial details to anyone, except family.

“We were talking one night, about Justin,” said Frieda. “Sam said it was a shame that Justin had learned to worry so early in life. I told Sam that at least Justin wouldn’t have to worry about money, and it all came out.”

“Sweet Jesus,” said Betty.

Her bud of a theory blossoming into a black poison rose, Ilene wanted to nip the conversation short. But Betty said, “When did you tell him?”

“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.”