The Not-So-Perfect Man (14 page)

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.”

“You know I’m seeing someone.”

“
Seeing
is a bit of a euphemism,” he said.

“Sam is coming back tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll see him then.”

David said, “But he’ll leave again. And again. I know how it feels to be left.”

His wife had left him for another man. Frieda had heard the blow-by-blow. In fact, she’d gotten the blow-by-blow of David’s entire life story. And he’d gotten hers. Whenever the kids were playing, or eating, or napping, they had told each other stories. They knew the names of each other’s childhood pets, the first-hand-job anecdotes, the where were you when Reagan was shot, the Challenger exploded, the towers went down. They had shared and confided, as if the past revealed the teller’s true character. Frieda wasn’t sure. Maybe it did. They talked because they weren’t having sex. Did that mean she and Sam had sex because they weren’t talking? That wasn’t fair. She and Sam
did
talk. Briefly. Between sex sessions.

“We’re comfortable together,” said David. “Our families mesh. We have social overlap. You’re a strong, battle-tested woman. You’re exactly what I’m looking for.”

So she matched his shopping list. Technically, he matched hers, except she’d thrown out the list when she met Sam. David was the antithesis of Sam. He represented a Gregg-like reprise—a relationship based on friendship, comfort, security. She could easily put a frame around that. A nice, gold one, kids in clean, ironed clothes, standing in front of the handsome couple. She tried to put a frame around Sam. No use. Sam was impossible to contain. That might be the ultimate source of her anxiety about it, she realized suddenly.

Frieda said, “Comfort and social overlap aren’t grounds for marriage.”

“Who said anything about marriage?” he asked. “We can start slow. With dating. Sex.”

“I haven’t felt a big attraction on your part,” she said.

“I was waiting for you to stop talking about Sam,” he said. “You’ve mentioned him less and less, actually. Not once today. I took that as a sign.”

Frieda said, “Prepare yourself for a triple-negative sentence structure.”

David said, “Ready.”

“Even if I don’t talk about Sam, that doesn’t mean I don’t love him,” she said.

“I made my move too early,” said David. “I should have waited.”

“Sam and I are not breaking up,” she said.

“I didn’t say you were.”

Frieda didn’t need this. They had two kids in the tub, a mess on the floor. And now she had to deflect David’s advances, too? Frieda should be flattered that a man like him was tossing in his hat. He was, according to Ilene, perfect for her. And she did like him. But at present, she just felt pressure, not pleasure.

Frieda said, “I’ve got another sister, you know.”

He nodded. “I like Betty a lot. She’s very attractive. I’ve always thought so. But she’s not a full-fledged adult yet.”

Frieda considered his observation. “Perhaps not.”

“May I make one suggestion, and then the subject is closed?” he asked.

“Go on.”

“I suggest we kiss.”

Echoes of what she’d said to Sam, months ago, the first day they’d met. Frieda started to shake her head, and then, stopped. A flat, boring kiss would put David off, and then he’d forget the whole thing. She readied her lips, mentally turning them into dry putty.

She said, “I’ll allow it.”

He leaned toward her, over the bucket of water. She leaned forward, on her knees. Just as their lips were about to make contact, the sound of wet kid feet came sloshing down the hall.

“He keeps calling me Luke,” whined Stephanie from the doorway, wrapped in a pink towel.

Justin, towel draped over his head ominously, said to her, “Come to the dark side. It is your destiny.”

“I know which movie we’re watching tonight,” said Frieda, and gathered Justin in her arms.

Later that night, after David and Stephanie left to meet Georgia, Justin and Frieda sat on the couch together watching
The Empire Strikes Back.
They shared a bowl of popcorn and a liter of diet ginger ale.

Justin was halfway on her lap, leaning back on her chest. Her free hand rested on his shoulder. For the first time in many months, Frieda could feel herself relax. She hadn’t obsessed about Sam for hours. Hadn’t really thought about him all day. They’d been so busy. Post cleanup, they went for ice cream, then the park, then Chinese, back home for cartoons. Their movements prevented David from hitting on her again. When he left, he didn’t try to get the kiss she’d agreed to. She had to admit, she was disappointed he hadn’t gone for it. Once the surprise of his advances wore off, Frieda liked his wanting her. What woman wouldn’t? Her confidence was up. She felt admired.

Sam was returning tomorrow after five weeks away. Frieda had yet to do her legs.

Saturday, June 21
10:14
P
.
M
.

Alone in her Avenue A apartment, Betty spread the evidence of Earl’s petty thievery across her bed. She had dozen of pages, printouts, Xeroxes—the goods. And she was going to use them like a hammer, and nail him. Nail his ass to the ground. She cackled, loving the image: Earl Long sitting opposite the
uber
boss at Burton & Notham, her evidence piled high on the desk between them. Earl squirming in his chair, frantic to come up with an explanation for why thirty-two pay-per-view hotel-room screenings of
Anal Intruder
were billed as “entertainment, misc.” on his monthly expense sheet.

Betty had been a busy, busy girl. The manager at the Union Square Grande Hotel hadn’t been willing, at first, to give her copies of all of Earl’s room charges for the eight months he’d stayed there. It took fibs (“Mr. Long needs a copy, and I told him I’d help him get it,”) cajoling (“Come on, you know me! I’ve been here dozens of times!”), deception (“Does this look like the face of a liar?”), and, ultimately, bribery (“Thirty percent off any best-selling hardcover for the next twelve months”). In the end, she got the dirt. Betty and Gert also combed through phone bills, petty-cash vouchers, and car service and Internet charges, looking for flagrant abuses.

In their research, Betty learned several fascinating tidbits about the man she’d wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Earl had a secret sexual fetish, quite pedestrian, for leather boots (he’d used the company charge to set up an account at hotfoot.com.) She should have known. On their very first shopping expedition, he’d been insistent about those high-heeled boots at Daffy’s. He also had a thing for sunglasses, having purchased twenty different pairs in six months, describing them as “protective construction gear” on his expense reports. The biggest shock of all: He had a three-year-old son in Chicago. Repeat calls to the 312 area code had been placed from Betty’s office phone to a woman named Stella Bridle. Betty called Ms. Bridle and found out about Earl’s “love child,” as Stella described him.

Of course, the discoveries galled Betty. But what ate at her the most was Earl’s confidence that he would get away with everything. He’d done little to cover his tracks. He must have assumed Betty would be too embarrassed about being dumped to expose him. How he’d underestimated her. She could hardly wait to blow the whistle, long, and loud, and to the tune of “Another One Bites the Dust.”

Betty gathered her incriminating papers and slipped them into a sturdy plastic binder bought especially for her project. She put the binder under her mattress, lay back in her bed, and plotted her next move. When would she alert the powers that be about “the puzzling expenses she discovered quite by chance and felt duty bound to report”? She wanted maximum impact. Timing was key. Revenge was a dish that people of taste preferred to eat cold. Could she wait for the cool? Or should she act now, while her anger was red hot?

After the initial post-dump weeks of numbness, she’d come alive again in anger. Hatching the revenge plot was a massive turning point. She’d been having sexual fantasies again, too. Interestingly, they featured leather boots. She felt the urge coming on, and turned down the lights.

She’d just gotten started when the buzzer sounded, jerking her upright on the bed. She tried to ignore it, but the intercom beeped out a staccato rhythm to get up, get up, get up. Betty buttoned her pants, pressed the intercom and asked who it was.

“Betty! Thank God you’re home. It’s Peter! Can I come up?”

Peter? The man who hadn’t returned her phone calls in weeks, the father of her future nephew/niece? What the hell was he doing on the Lower East Side, late on a Saturday night? She buzzed him in, and quickly straightened her bed, checked her clothes. She looked around the rest of the apartment. It was untidy, but not a complete disaster.

Knock on the door. Betty opened it and saw a strange man on the threshold. “Jesus, Peter. I didn’t recognize you for a second there. Come on in.”

Betty had lost only about half the weight Peter had. She didn’t look too different—the same, but slimmer. But Peter! His face used to be bloated and round. Now it was angular, his dark eyes wider and hungrier. His hair seemed thicker, his hairline lower. Smile wider. He looked fresh and collected in a tan summer suit. A big change from the sloppy, sweaty butterball in too-tight navy jackets. Ilene must love this, to be married to the same man, and get a whole new body to play with, thought Betty.

Peter walked in, looked around nervously. “You look flushed. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just exertion. From cleaning.”

“Cleaning?” he said dubiously. His eyes swept the apartment. “I haven’t been here since Ilene’s moving day.”

Over eleven years ago. “It hasn’t changed much,” observed Betty. When the apartment was handed down from oldest to youngest sister—Ilene moved in with Peter the same month Betty graduated from college—Betty had had little money to redecorate, and Ilene hadn’t taken much of her furniture with her anyway. As soon as she settled in, Betty added her own touches. She threw a building-block quilt on the sleigh bed, a Navaho blanket on the black velvet couch. She hung tassels from the dresser knobs. She also brought in a purple iMac, a large bookshelf, a hand-painted lamp she found at a Village thrift store, a rag rug, some gauzy, off-white curtains. She hadn’t added anything or made any other changes in years. It was as if she’d been frozen in time—stuck, decoratively speaking, in her early twenties. Her stuff had aged, though, just as she had. The quilts and curtains had been brighter when they were new.

Betty said, “So. Congratulations are in order.”

Peter looked horrified. “How can you say that?”

“Isn’t that what most people say?” asked Betty.

“Most people say they’re sorry to hear it,” said Peter. “Separation is not a cause for celebration.”

Separation? Peter had left Ilene? In her condition?

“You
shit,
” said Betty.

“You’ve only heard her side of the story.” He defended himself, still standing in the middle of the living room.

“Actually, I haven’t heard her side either.”

“She hasn’t told you?” he asked. “I thought that’s why you were calling me all the time. To yell at me to go back.”

“I don’t yell,” she said. “I use snide undertones.” Betty quickly calculated when he’d stopped returning her calls. “Do you mean to tell me that you left two weeks ago?”

“Thirteen days,” he said. “I lived with my assistant for a week. I’ve been staying at the Marriott in Times Square for the past week. It’s just too lonely. I can’t bear it.” He sat down on the black couch, completely dejected. “I can’t believe she hasn’t told you about this. Does she care at all about our marriage?”

Betty realized with a start that Peter didn’t know Ilene was pregnant. Ilene hadn’t told Betty that she was separated, and she hadn’t told her husband about the baby. Come to think of it, maybe Ilene wasn’t even pregnant. Betty had assumed her erratic behavior was due to pregnancy, but it could be explained by the breakup. Sort of. Betty didn’t know what to think.

She said, “You have clothes, luggage?”

“At the hotel.”

“You’ve wandered a long way tonight.”

He sighed heavily, the tonnage of a tractor-trailer. “She doesn’t love me, Betty,” he said.

The phone rang, saving Betty from having to respond. She held up her index finger, said, “Wait one second,” and picked up the receiver on the desk.

“Hello?”

“Betty,” said the phone. “It’s Ilene.”

“Ilene,” said Betty. Peter’s head shot upright. He jumped to his feet and started frantically waving, mouthing, “I’m not here.”

Ilene said, “I need to ask you a favor.”

“Anything,” said Betty. Peter was pacing now, nervously excited to be connected, by proxy, to his wife.

“If you speak to Peter, please don’t tell him I’m pregnant.”

“So you
are,
then.”

Pause. Ilene said, “Yes, I am. But I haven’t told Peter yet. I want to surprise him with the good news. I want to tell him at just the right moment.”

“When?” asked Betty.

Peter looked at her and silently repeated her question.
“When what?
”

Ilene said, “I’ve got it all planned. I’ll tell him next weekend. We’re… we’re going away, to Montauk. It’s our eleventh wedding anniversary, and we’re just so much in love, I thought it’d be the perfect time to tell him how lucky we are.”

“Good thinking,” said Betty.

“So you won’t tell him?” asked Ilene. “In fact, maybe you should stop trying to reach him. He’ll call you. Okay?”

Betty said, “Okay.”

“Thanks.”

“Ilene?”

“Yes?”

“Take care,” said Betty, trying to transmit concern without giving Peter a reason to freak out.

Pause again. Betty sensed Ilene wavering, deciding. Then she said, “I will,” and hung up.

Peter stared at Betty like a man on a deserted island, starving for news of his wife. Betty didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t explain her sister’s behavior. Why all the secrets? Betty would have to think that one through carefully. But not now, with Peter here.

He said, “Did she mention me?”

“She’s pretending everything is normal,” said Betty.

“Our separation is too insignificant to talk about.”

“Bullshit, and you know it,” said Betty. Ilene must be drowning, thought Betty, isolating herself during the biggest crisis of her life. Until Ilene confided in her, Betty would do what she could to help Ilene indirectly. For starters, she would keep a close eye on Peter.

Peter rubbed his temples. “I have never been so bone-cracking tired in my life.”

Betty said, “Pick up your stuff at the hotel tomorrow and move in here. You shouldn’t be alone. The couch pulls out. It’s more comfortable than it looks.”

He mustered a smile. “I won’t stay long.”

She nodded. “You’ll be home soon. Things will work out with Ilene,” she said. “But first, let’s make you feel better right now.”

“Not possible.”

She walked into the kitchen area of the living room (basically, a sink, oven, and refrigerator tucked into a corner). Opening the freezer door, she reached inside and pulled out a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Coffee Heath Bar Crunch. She had bought the pint on the way home from work the day after Earl dumped her, and she’d planned on eating the whole thing that night. But when she sat down to commit the act of self-destruction, she just couldn’t do it. Stopping herself was a defining moment for Betty. Ever since, she’d looked at the full ice-cream container as a symbol of strength. She vowed to leave the pint in her freezer forever to remind her to stay strong.

But considering Peter’s predicament, her ice-cream-as-heroic-symbol theory seemed silly. Purposefully abstaining was just as wrong-headed as mindlessly shoveling. She should think of ice cream the way a normal person would, as a special treat on a hot summer night.

Betty took two spoons out of the dish rack, and handed one to Peter. “As your diet buddy, I advise you to eat this.”

“You look so much like her,” he said.