The Not-So-Perfect Man (13 page)

“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.”

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?”

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 under 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.”

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

“You both have small bladders?” asked Peter.

“Pea size,” said Tim.

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 fatigue, 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.