The Not-So-Perfect Man (19 page)

Thursday, September 18
11:15
P
.
M
.

Drunk, stoned, in a dimly lit room, with a pretty woman’s head on his lap. Peter reviewed the situation and was pleased to find himself in it. He was especially impressed by one thing, though: His dick was not in the least bit hard. Not a single blood cell was within stiffening distance.

Peter and Betty were on the couch of her living room. The movie was nearly over. The bottle of Kahlua empty. A resin-stained roach in the ashtray. He looked around the room. The tapestry hanging on the wall, the cheap Indian print sarong used as a slipcover. The distressed (not on purpose) furniture. The scene was a flashback to college. If he were to act like he had back then, he’d be all over Betty, feeling her up, trying to revive her from her alcohol-and pot-induced slumber.

He touched her hair. It was thick and black, like Ilene’s, but not as shiny and well tended. Ilene kept herself immaculately groomed. He’d always appreciated that, the care she put into herself, the courtesy to him that her legs were always smooth, moisturized and exfoliated to petal softness. He’d told her early on that he wasn’t offended by body hair. He assured her that he would love her furry. She said she would never insult him by coming to bed with stubble. Of course, Peter enjoyed the smoothness.

He’d sent the separation papers for one reason: to get her back. Convoluted logic, true. He figured that the reality of their situation, presented in the form of legal documents, would make her see that this standoff had gone too far. When he received
her
package with the overnight mail receipt, he was devastated. He had to leave work immediately, glad to have the errand of picking up some pot.

When Betty got home, he was waiting on the couch, already one drink and half a joint away. He let her take off her jacket and said, “I’m a statistic.”

“You’d be a statistic if you stayed married, too,” she said.

“Can we put on the movie now?” he said.

Braveheart.
He’d never seen it before. For the first half hour, he kept thinking of a joke. He had to tell Betty.

“I can’t concentrate until I let this out,” he said, pausing the action, “A Scottish guy. Goes up to a bonnie lass and says, ‘Aye, lass, look under me kilt.’ ”

Betty said, “I like your brogue.”

He said, “The lass says she can’t do it, but the Scot insists. Finally, she looks under his kilt and says, ‘It’s gruesome!’ The Scot says, ‘Look again. It’s gruesome more.’ ”

Betty laughed. She said, “You’re gruesome.”

If anything, he’d shrunk somewhat. The movie was full of boils, spit, death, and blood. He was touched. Especially by the disembowelment scene at the end. Made him tear up.

Betty was sagging on the couch. He asked if he should help her to bed. Instead, she put a pillow on his lap and rested her head upon it. He braced himself for the erection to come, but it didn’t. His bladder felt okay. He relaxed and watched the credits roll.

It was a nice position to be in. Peter felt warmly toward Betty. If he’d ever thought about transferring his affections from Ilene to her sister, he couldn’t possibly consider it now. He may have lost a wife, but he’d gained a true friend in Betty. He was so grateful for that, he nearly cried. It would be safe if he did. She was asleep and wouldn’t hear it.

He let a sob escape. She shifted slightly and said, “I’m awake,” she said. “Go ahead and cry if you have to.”

“I just might,” he said.

“This is a top-five tender moment for me,” she said.

The credits finished and the VCR kicked automatically into rewind. The TV screen turned blue. Betty said, “Just for the record, I never put my head on Gregg’s lap.”

Peter thought about Gregg at the end. The tenderness Frieda showed him in the hospital. The ravages of Gregg’s illness, images that haunted him still, and would forever.

Betty said, “Did you notice that Gregg never doubted that he’d beat the cancer. That he’d be the exception, the miracle case.”

“That was his personality,” said Peter.

“But it wasn’t,” she said. “Gregg was a pessimistic hypochondriac.”

“What were his options? Concede defeat?” asked Peter. “He might have been keeping a strong front for Frieda and Justin’s sake.”

“Frieda told me early after the diagnosis that she couldn’t live without Gregg,” said Betty. “Maybe that’s the takeaway. The life lesson. That no matter how much you love someone, how dependent you are on him—or her— even if you believe you can’t live without him, you can. You will. Even the deepest connections may be temporary by design.”

Peter realized Betty was stoned and therefore contemplative. She was trying to rationalize the way things had played out for her so far. He was also high, but he didn’t believe that all connections were temporary. He’d made a commitment to Ilene for life. And even if—when—the divorce went through, he wouldn’t stop loving her.

Peter said, “I’m going to have to move out at some point,” he said. “This apartment is too small for two people.”

“I know,” she said. “We should look for a bigger place.”

Friday, September 19
7:34
P
.
M
.

“I have an announcement to make,” said Frieda at the sister dinner, the first since June.

What a difference three months made. The women sat at the corner table at Pepe’s, a Mexican place on Atlantic Avenue around the corner from Frieda’s apartment, where presently David baby-sat Justin. Her son hadn’t wanted her to go. He’d been impossibly clingy, and Frieda had to peel him off her leg. David had done his best to bribe Justin into complacency with Gum by the Foot and a Nintendo Game Cube. Justin rejected the bribes. He didn’t want a Game Cube. He wanted his mommy.

Frieda dug into the Pepe’s red-hot salsa with a freshly baked corn chip. A chip of crunchy perfection: triangular, the size of her palm, puffy in the middle, crispy on the edges. Frieda bit into it, savoring the flavor of corn, tomato and lime. If only the perfect man were as uncomplicated a combination of flavors.

David had been impatient with Justin’s mood. He said, “He’s acting like a brat.”

Frieda jumped to defend her son. “He’s tired. He’s hungry. He’s overwhelmed.”

Justin cleaved to her side and said, “David will never be my father.” An echo of the night she and Sam broke up, when Justin had said, “Sam will never be my father.” The statement had maximum impact that time. But not now. Frieda had had nearly enough of Justin’s dismissals of these potential “father substitutes.” She’d never pitched the “replacement concept.” Not once.

Frieda said to her son, “So what?”

David and Justin both looked at her funny. “So what?” asked David.

“David won’t be your father,” she said to Justin. “You’re absolutely right. Your father is dead. So is my husband. I’m trying to be happy anyway, and so should you.” She turned to David. “As you shouldn’t expect too much from Justin. He didn’t fall in love with you at first sight. He needs time to let it develop. He might need a long, long time. He may never love you.”

Frieda knew she wasn’t talking about
Justin’s
feelings. Her son and David stared at her as if she’d just landed on their planet. She grabbed her keys and jeans jacket. She said, “I’ve got my cell,” and bolted. Out the door, into the Brooklyn night, free at last. One year ago, she’d felt the same exhilaration while walking toward Sam’s apartment. Now she felt it again, as she speeded away from her own. David was planning to move in as soon as he could sell his place.

The atmosphere at Pepe’s was festive. Piñatas hung from the walls, which were bright with strings of jalapeño-shaped Christmas lights. Red and green. The walls themselves were painted mesa yellow. The bottles on the mirrored bar wore mini-sombreros. Pepe’s boasted Brooklyn’s finest and largest selection of tequila: Forty-four varieties, many of which had the word
Diablo
or
Loco
on the label. The music: think Speedy Gonzalez cartoons. The pitcher of margaritas they’d ordered was nearly gone, and they hadn’t been served one of the five entrees they’d ordered. Ilene had begged off the hard stuff. She sipped a Corona. Had been nursing it like a newborn babe.

Betty and Frieda made up for Ilene’s sobriety by hammering their drinks. Ilene made up for her sobriety with gluttony. For every one salsa-laden chip Frieda or Betty ate (and they were not being ladies), Ilene shoveled in at least two. She was chowing
down.
Frieda hasn’t seen her in a while. Had to be a couple of months (how had that happened?). She was astonished to see how much weight Ilene had gained.

Licking the salt off her glass, Betty said, “Announcement?”

Frieda knocked back the remainder of her drink and poured another, the dregs of the pitcher sliding into her glass. She said, “David and I are getting married!”

Frieda’s sisters were silent. She added quickly, “It’ll be at City Hall. On Friday afternoon. Just to make it official. We’ll do a real ceremony and reception in a few months.”

“Congrats!” said Betty finally.

“I know it seems rushed,” said Frieda. “We’re hurrying for Stephanie. Her mom is moving back to New York, and Stephanie can’t get into a school. But if we get married…”

“It’s like a green card marriage,” said Betty. “But for school admission. A hall-pass marriage. Only in New York.”

Ilene said, “How romantic.”

“This is a real marriage,” said Frieda. “We’ve been close friends for a while, and we both want the same things for our children. We share interests, values, status. He’s wealthy and can provide for our future. He’s accomplished, talented, handsome.”

Ilene took a sip, a tiny one, of beer, and said, “Do you hear yourself? You sound like you’re reading from a catalog called
The Perfect Man.
”

“I sound exactly like you did when you were pushing him on me all year,” said Frieda. “It took a while, but now I agree with you.”

“Do you really?” asked Ilene, leaning forward, her newly chubby belly pushing against the table.

Betty said to Ilene, “You don’t seem surprised.”

“David gave me advance warning,” she said. “Just hints. I figured it out on my own.”

“And?” asked Frieda.

“And the thought of you marrying David makes me sick,” said Ilene. “Nauseated. I may have to excuse myself. Seriously, I may become violently, spectacularly ill at any moment.”

Betty said, “Bathroom’s that-a-way,” and pointed toward the back.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” asked Frieda. “David is your friend.”

“I’ve been thinking about Sam Hill lately,” said Ilene. “A man who, I assure you, is not my friend.”

At the mention of his name, Frieda felt her throat catch. She’d been fighting him out of her head every day. Frieda said, “I’ve made my peace with that. I spoke to Justin’s therapist about it, and I’ve successfully let him go. He was too much for me, really. I was frazzled from the intensity of it. We’re moving in different directions. Life is much easier with David. It’s level, stable.”

“Unexciting?” said Ilene.

“Maybe
you’d
like to make an announcement, Ilene,” said Betty suddenly.

Ilene turned toward Betty. The movement seemed to make her woozy. Frieda said, “What is going on here?”

Ilene nodded. “I do have an announcement to make. A couple of them.” Ilene turned to Frieda. “Last week, I had an amniocentesis to determine if the baby I’ve been carrying for the last sixteen weeks has a chromosomal abnormality. If the test had shown a problem, I would have aborted. But even if the results were positive, I was still unsure about seeing it through because—here comes announcement number two—Peter and I have been separated for the last three and a half months. I didn’t find out I was pregnant until after Peter left. It’s a legal separation. The paperwork has been filed.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” said Frieda.

“You mean,
Jesucristo,
” said Betty with a Mexican accent.

“You knew about this?” asked Frieda to Betty.

The youngest sister said, “I knew about the pregnancy. The Peter stuff…” Betty trailed off.

Frieda was stunned. She’d been oblivious, so wrapped up in her own drama, the turf war over her heart (a battle that hadn’t been won or lost; everyone just dropped his or her weapons and went home). Meanwhile, Ilene had been in torment for four months?

“What can I do for you?” Frieda asked Ilene. “I’ll be your Lamaze partner. I’ll take you to doctor’s appointments. I’ll teach you to breast-feed.”

Ilene said, “I haven’t told you if I’m keeping it.”

Betty said, “You wouldn’t do that without telling Peter. He’s wanted a baby for so long.”

Frieda said, “Peter doesn’t know?”

“Peter and I haven’t spoken to each other in months,” said Ilene. “Our marriage has been terrible for nearly two years. I blame Gregg.”

“Gregg?” said Frieda. “What did he do to you?”

“He died,” said Ilene. “Peter and I had opposite reactions to the death. He wanted to be closer to me; I wanted to pull away from him. I got the idea in my head that he was going to have a heart attack and die. And he refused to acknowledge the risk, or tolerate my fears. We started arguing. Tiny things would start huge fights. We all but stopped sleeping together. I was afraid to become a widow. I thought it was the worst thing in the world, to be in your shoes. And look at me now. A single mother in the making.”

“I had no idea,” said Frieda.

Ilene said, “I thought that if you could start over in a new marriage—recreate your life with someone like Gregg—then Peter and I could go back in time, too. I’ve only recently sorted this out. It was wrong for me to impose on you. I’m sorry.”

Frieda glanced at Betty to see how she was taking all this. Her younger sister poked at the salsa with her chip, listening passively.

Ilene went on. “I don’t want to be a single mother, like the woman in my office with twenty wallet pictures of her kids, and blouses that are always blotted with seltzer,” she said. “I can’t imagine being as devoted to another person as you are to Justin. I’m not fit to be a mother. I’m too old. I won’t have a clue. The child will grow up to be a serial killer. I’m sure of it.” She paused, and then finished: “Factoring in all of that, I’ve decided to keep it anyway. Her.”

“A girl!” shouted Frieda.

“They gave me the map of her chromosomes,” said Ilene. “You actually can see the two X’s.”

Frieda jumped up and hugged Ilene. If Frieda were to have another baby, she’d want a girl. But she probably wouldn’t. A family of four was large enough even if they would have Stephanie only every other weekend, Wednesdays, and some major holidays.

Betty said, “You must tell Peter. You need to talk to him.”

Frieda said, “Leave him out of it. Let’s leave all the men out of it. Ilene, come live with me. We’ll raise our kids together and never speak to another man. Except Justin.”

Ilene said, “You’re furious that I didn’t tell you.”

“I’m livid!” said Frieda. “But I’ll cut you some slack. I’m sure you had your reasons. I’d like to hear what they were. No rush. Some time later. Tomorrow.”

From her hug position, Frieda looked at Betty. “What about you?” asked Frieda. “Any announcements to make?”

Betty shook her head. “Not me,” she said. “My life is uneventful and not worth discussing.”

“Enough hugging,” Ilene said to Frieda. “I’m prone to pregnancy-related spasmodic gastric eruption, remember?”

Frieda gave her one last squeeze and took her seat. Three waiters paraded out of the kitchen with sizzling-hot plates.