The Not-So-Perfect Man (3 page)

Monday, September 23
3:03
P
.
M
.

“Mommy!” Justin spotted her and ran toward Frieda, his backpack swinging from side to side. He reached out his arms. It was her cue to brace for impact. He jumped. She caught him mid-flight, his body slamming into her chest, forcing her to step back a pace. Justin was small for his age, only forty pounds, not quite four feet tall. Unlike many of the kids in his kindergarten class, he had yet to lose a tooth. He cried about it at night, demanding answers to life’s big questions (“
When
will it happen?” “
Why
hasn’t it happened yet?”). Frieda promised him over and over that he would not go off to college with baby teeth, and that if he ate more vegetables they would fall out sooner.

Frieda lowered him to the ground. She waved at his teacher, took his hand and started to leave the garden courtyard at the Packer Collegiate Institute, his private school in Brooklyn Heights. Kindergarten had started al most three weeks ago. Frieda had successfully avoided conversation and eye contact with the other moms at pickup. They meant well with their sympathy. She realized that. But they always looked at her with The Face of Raw Pity. She hated that.

“Frieda! Wait a moment.” Justin’s teacher, Marie Stanhope, waved and walked toward her. Marie—Ms. Stanhope to Justin—was a cheerful, warm, wonderful teacher who’d been at it for thirty years. She’d seen a thing or two, and had taught fatherless children before. Frieda trusted her as chief ally in Justin’s care. He and Marie spent six hours a day together. Almost as much time as Frieda did.

Marie caught up with Frieda, smiling as always. “Justin,” she said with her slightly Southern accent, “why don’t you go play on the swings for minute while I talk to Mom?”

Justin looked at Frieda, and her eyes told him to go. “We’ll just be a minute,” said Frieda. Once he was gone, Marie’s smile dropped. Frieda sighed. “What happened today?”

“I think we should make an appointment with the school psychologist. Just to talk. Nothing serious.”

“Tell me.”

Marie’s turn to sigh. “We were looking at a book with pictures of the planets and the sun. Justin started talking about his father in heaven, wanting to know where it was in the picture. One of the other boys said that his parents told him heaven didn’t exist. Justin insisted that it did. The other boy said that when you’re dead, you’re dead. And Justin reacted.”

Frieda said, “Which kid?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Marie said. “Justin punched him in the nose.”

Frieda asked, “Did it bleed?”

Marie nodded. “I had to notify the child’s parents.”

Oh, great,
though Frieda. Now she was pariah pity widow
and
mother of a violent child. Frieda scanned the courtyard, looking for a kid with a swollen face.

Marie said, “The boy was picked up early.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” Frieda looked again, trying to figure out which kid was missing. Should she expect an angry phone call tonight from the parents? Probably not, she decided. If anything, the parents should call her to apologize for the insensitivity of their kid.

Marie said, “Justin had a time out. I thought it would be best to let him finish the day.”

“Should I call Dr. Schmidt, or will she call me?” Barbara Schmidt. The school psychologist. Frieda met with her briefly when Gregg was first diagnosed, thinking it was the responsible, bases-covered thing to do.

Marie waved Justin back over to his mom. “I’ll have Dr. Schmidt call you in the next few days. She may refer you to a therapist outside of school. And talk to Justin tonight. I don’t think he’ll hit his classmates again if we both make him understand how wrong it is.”

“Should I punish him?” asked Frieda, relying on Marie’s experience and judgment. She often felt like she had no idea what she was doing. At times, Frieda feared that one good tug would unravel her completely and the contents of her life would spill onto the ground like lipstick and quarters from an overturned pocketbook.

Marie said, “He’s already been punished with the time out. Tell him that hitting is wrong, and that if another child says or does something to upset him, that he should tell me or my assistant. We’ll handle problems. He doesn’t have to.”

Justice was the purview of grown-ups. What a comforting idea to present to Justin. Frieda stared at his blond head as he loped back to her, smiling, the incident compartmentalized.

She said, “Home, Justin.”

Friday, September 27
1:00
P
.
M
.

“How’s the salad?” he asked.

“It’s fine. Good,” said Ilene. She’d been picking. Not hungry. Nor had she been an entertaining lunch date. She looked across the table and gave David Isen a radiant smile. “It’s wonderful. This is my favorite salad in the entire city of New York.”

They were at Café Centro, a midtown two-star restaurant. She’d ordered her usual mixed field greens with olives, cranberries, sundried tomatoes and raspberry vinaigrette— the sight of which usually filled her eyes and heart with desire.

He said, “Starving yourself won’t make Peter lose weight.” David cut a juicy piece of steak and popped it in his mouth with an audible moan of pleasure.
This is a man who loves meat,
she thought. With his metabolism—and the marathon training—David could eat anything. She’d seen him shirtless a couple of times over the years. His body could have been drawn from an anatomy textbook. Hard shoulders, long legs, chiseled six-pack. Peter had never had a six-pack. His belly looked more like the cooler.

Ilene dropped her fork to rub her temples. “I don’t know what I can possibly do,” she said. “I’ve tried talking to him, and he rebels. I’ve tried not saying anything, and he responds by eating everything in sight. He claims to have no vanity issues about it, but I don’t understand how that’s possible.”

David said, “Give him a break.”

She asked, “Sticking up for your gender?”

“Women have no idea what they do to men.”

“Explain.”

David continued eating, not looking at her directly. “A man considers his love relationship to be the only area of his life that is personal. I see women in the office get upset about some slight from a colleague. Or a snide comment from Mark”—their boss, the editor in chief of
Cash
magazine— “and they fall apart, run crying to the ladies’ room. You’ve run crying to the ladies’ room.”

“I have not,” she said.

“Last year, when he killed your feature on Krispy Kreme.”

She blushed. “I had something in my eye.”

He laughed. “You had big, salty tears of self-pity in your eye. Mark was embarrassed for you. So was I.”

Ilene stabbed an olive. “This talk is really helpful. I feel much better now.”

“Mark wrote it off—as I did—because you’re a woman. When you’ve been insulted, you think it means you’re worthless. I saw a woman get upset when a stranger on the street told her she had a fat ass.”

That would ruin Ilene’s day. “Ridiculous,” she said.

“A man takes any kind of insult or criticism, assesses the remark’s value, and then takes it for what it’s worth. Not for what
he’s
worth.”

“Any insult.”

“Anything.”

“You, David,” she said, “are an asshole.”

He thought about it. “I’m not taking that personally. I’ve assessed your comment, and rejected it. I don’t believe I’m any more of an asshole than I did five seconds ago.”

“How convenient for you,” she said, a glint in her brown eyes, which she knew were luscious and wanton, having been told so by every boyfriend she’d had since high school. “How convenient for men, how ingenious, to have license to dismiss the opinions of others, people who might know better. For example, if some construction worker, sitting on the curb, eating his lunch from a pail, has a butt-eye view of a woman’s behind, he can more accurately judge the size of it than she can—even if she painstakingly examined the area in the mirror while getting dressed. His opinion
does
have value, and a woman values all opinions.”

“Giving equal weight to her boss, a construction worker, the manicurist, her friends, and her husband, diluting her own opinion.”

“Now you’re just being silly,” she said. “My manicurist doesn’t speak English.”

He smiled. His crow’s feet appeared like magic. On
his
face, somehow, they made him look younger. Just part of the miracle of David, the physical glory of male. Thank God they were both attached, safely within the protective walls of marriage.

David said, “A man cares, emotionally, about one other person’s opinion. Just one. Not his barber or his golf partner. He cares what his wife thinks.”

Ilene frequently underestimated her affect on Peter. She wondered, as she often did, whether Peter would take the health risks of his weight more seriously if they had a child. Ilene said, “How’s Stephanie’s fever?”

“You’re changing the subject,” said David. “She’s fine.”

Ilene remembered when David’s daughter was born. The whole editorial department of
Cash
visited Georgia and Stephanie at the maternity ward at NYU. Georgia looked exhausted but still beautiful, with her cheekbones and flawless skin. After seeing the joy at the hospital, Ilene went home and announced to Peter that she’d like to get pregnant. Peter confessed that he’d been waiting for her to be ready. That was six years ago. Neither one of them had brought up the subject of fertility treatments.

David said, “I’ve always liked you, Ilene.”

She blushed. She smiled and said, “I’ve always liked you, too.” She took a taste of Sauvignon blanc.

“Georgia and I have been separated for a month.”

Ilene choked on the wine, initiating a coughing fit that lasted a solid two minutes. The whole while, David sputtered, “Are you all right? Can I get you anything?”

“What about the other night? You still go out to dinner as a couple?” She didn’t understand.

David said, “We made the dinner date before we agreed to separate, and I wasn’t ready to tell you the truth. But after that night, we decided to go public. That’s been harder than I expected.”

Ilene didn’t know what to say. Should she offer condolences? Congratulations?

David said, “Mark knows.”

Of course, he’d had to tell Mark. She said, “You moved out?”

“I’m living in a furnished apartment on East Thirty-fifth Street. It’s small, temporary. Georgia wants to move to Vermont,” he said.

“With Stephanie?” asked Ilene. That would be devastating for David.

He nodded. “She can write anywhere“—Georgia was the author of a best-selling book on closet organizing—”and she thinks a country upbringing is healthier for Stephanie. I can’t say unequivocally that I disagree. Once she finds a house, we’ll sell the apartment.” David and Georgia owned a duplex on East 17th Street. A real find. They’d lovingly restored the apartment room by room. It took years. They’d thrown a party to show off their labors not six months ago.

Ilene’s mind spun. He moved out, but she was moving to Vermont? What did Stephanie know? Would it be rude to ask for the whole story? She said, “I had no idea anything was wrong.”

“I thought for sure you picked up on the tension at dinner,” he said.

Ilene hadn’t. But now that she was clued in, she did think David looked drawn, as lean and vulnerable as the meat on his plate. She felt a twinge. A tiny hammer with the softest blow struck her in an unlikely place. She crossed and recrossed her legs.

“David,” she said gently, “If you’d like to unload on anyone, unload on me.” Ilene worried that sounded vaguely sexual. “I mean, if you need to get off on my chest… I mean, if you need to get anything off of
your
chest, you can always come on me.
To
me. Come to me. Please. I’m here.”

He nodded and said, “Thank you.”

“Whatever you need.”

“Don’t tell anyone at work. I want to do it myself.”

“Not a soul.”

“You can tell Peter,” he said.

“Okay,” she said.

“I feel much better,” he announced, and dug into the rest of his steak like he hadn’t eaten in days. The meat made his lips shiny. Ilene drank her wine. David was a good man. He deserved a good woman. He’d need to meet people, get fixed up. Instantly, she thought of the perfect woman for him. They could start as friends. And see where that led. Unless, of course, they fell in love at first sight, which was not outside the realm of possibility.

David Isen, brother-in-law? It could happen.

Once he’d cleaned his plate and drawn a large mouthful of wine, Ilene said, “So, David. Are you ready to date yet?”

Wednesday, October 2
11:59
A
.
M
.

Peter returned to his office and sank into his chair. It was a dirty job, firing someone—especially in this dismal economy. Peter felt a wave of acid rise in his gullet. Even in the chill of early October, his collar was damp with sweat. He had issued warning after warning. But at a certain point, when alarm bells don’t resonate, and begging failed (literally begging: “Please show up on time, please meet deadlines, please don’t fuck up”), Peter had been forced to act.

He hit the intercom on his desk phone. His secretary, Jane Bambo, came in, closed the door behind her, sat down in the chair opposite his desk, and asked, “How’d it go?” Her face—open, features small and scattered—reminded him of a finch. She was a flitting thing, harmless, loyal. Finches returned to nest in the same place, every spring. Jane had been his secretary, seated at the same desk, for five years.

He said, “What’s going on out there?”

“Everyone is gathering around Bruce’s desk.”

“Why is it always the popular ones?” Peter would be distrusted by the staff for a while. Meetings would be tense. But, eventually, things would return to normal. Work was work. Deadlines had to be met.

Jane said, “Bruce was accustomed to getting by on his looks.”

“I suppose that happens a lot,” he said.

“Don’t worry, Peter,” said Jane. “It’ll never happen to you.”

He laughed. Jane smiled at his approval, letting herself giggle a bit, too. The burning sensation in his esophagus dulled. The laughter of a kind woman was potent medicine.

Jane said, “I have menus.”

Fanning them like a poker hand, Jane held them out across the desk, silently asking him to pick a menu, any menu. He took them out of her hand, and flipped through the stack, perusing. He said, “Comforting me with food?”

“I’m hungry!” Jane was always hungry. She couldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds and she ate like a horse. She could eat an entire horse every day and not look like one. He envied her. And feared her. Her appetite was part (an extra-large part) of the reason Peter could not reduce.

“What do you know about this Atkins diet?” he asked.

She cocked a thin dark eyebrow. “It works. My friend Linda lost forty pounds in five months.”

“Eating what?”

“Bacon, pork chops, steak, eggs, hamburgers, chicken. No pasta, rice, bread, cookies, cake. Some vegetables, but no fruit, juice or alcohol.”

“I can manage without fruit,” he said. “But no alcohol? No bread? How can people live without bread?”

“Exactly!” she said. “What do you use to sop up the cream sauce?”

The day was shot. Peter was too rattled to do any real work. He had a long list of phone calls to return and a pile of articles to vet. After the strain of the firing, he couldn’t focus on anything.

“Did you use the ‘three strikes’ line?” Jane asked.

He had. “I delivered the speech exactly as we rehearsed. Bruce cut me off right after the ‘not my call’ part, and started snarling that it
was
my call, that I’d never liked him, that his firing was personal.”

“He did not,” said Jane.

Peter nodded. “He thinks I was threatened by him. For questioning my judgment in front of other people.”

She said, “You did hate that.”

“It was the
way
he did it. Not
that
he did it.”

“Tone is important.”

“Tone is everything,” said Peter. “If you speak with respect, you can say just about anything and it’d be okay. I am the boss. Undermining my authority is not to be tolerated.”

“Before I forget,” said Jane, “your wife called.”

Peter said, “Okay.”

“What else did Bruce say?” she asked.

“Why did you bring up my wife just then?” Peter asked.

Jane seemed stymied. “What?”

“I was talking about the way Bruce tried to undermine my authority, and you said my wife called.”

“She did.”

“Jane,” he started, “I want your honest opinion. I want your brutally honest opinion. I’m not asking as your boss. I’m asking as a friend. There will be no repercussions or consequences to providing your opinion, which is something I have grown to respect and value deeply.”

She said, “Grown to respect? You didn’t always?”

He pondered that one. “I have to get to know someone before I deem her trustworthy, intelligent, and insightful. It takes years, decades maybe, to fully appreciate another person’s intuitive and analytical…”

“Just ask your question,” she said, cutting him off.

“Do you think my wife’s behavior toward me has changed?”

“Yes.” Jane did not hesitate.

“How?” Peter asked to clarify.

She shifted in her chair, trying to get comfortable. It must be a torture to sit on a hard plastic seat, hour after hour, on her bony ass. This was a benign observation, not meant as a criticism. Peter preferred an ass that had some flesh. A rump. Ilene’s ass had a nice shape. Curvy, slappable. He recalled one of the mental snapshots of Ilene that had burned themselves into his corneas over the years. He’d returned from the bathroom to find her sleeping nude on her belly, her tush round and sleek in the moonlight. She looked so supernaturally beautiful, he thought she’d disappear in a cloud of smoke if he took one more step toward her.

Jane said, “It’s been a gradual change. Over the last year, I guess. She made me swear not to tell you, but she wants me to e-mail her whenever you have something to eat.”

He was outraged. “Do you?” he asked.

“I tell her you have a salad every day for lunch, and an afternoon snack of yogurt and strawberries.”

Peter said, “She believes that?”

“She wants to,” said Jane.

He sighed. Deeply. Hungrily. “I am starving to death.”

“Since you value my opinion so highly, I’m going to give it to you straight, Peter,” said Jane. “You don’t have enough sex.”

He laughed. “You’re telling me?”

Jane shook her head. “You need to seduce her, romance her.”

“I do try to romance her,” he said lamely. “I guess I could buy some candles or something.”

“Oh, man, have you got a lot to learn. Most women wouldn’t care if you bought out the candle department at Pier One. They want oral sex,” said Jane. “When’s the last time you went down on your wife?”

Peter stammered, flummoxed. The honest answer: He wasn’t sure. “As usual, your thoughts are as precise as they are valuable,” he said.

She shook her head and said, “Conversation over?”

“And then some,” he said. Then, “Take a peek out there.” Bruce’s desk was only ten feet from Peter’s office. He could hear the staff, milling, murmuring. There was a conspiratorial, muffled lowness to their voices.

Jane cracked Peter’s office door and peered out. She closed it immediately. “They all looked up when they heard the door open.”

Peter sighed. “Let’s go with Big City Deli. Pastrami on rye. Fries extra crispy, gravy on the side. Lemon meringue pie. And a diet Coke.”

“I’ll have the same,” said Jane.