The Not-So-Perfect Man (5 page)

Tuesday, October 15
5:44
P
.
M
.

Peter should have worn a heavier jacket. New York went from summer to winter overnight. What happened to fall? When had the middle ground given way to extremes? He wrapped his suit jacket as tightly around his girth as he could, feeling the tug across his back, fearful he might tear the seams. He had to rush, having promised his sister-in-law, Betty, that he’d get from his office in midtown to the Union Square Burton & Notham by 6
P
.
M
. to pick up his order of books, namely
The Zone
and
Dr. Atkins’ New Diet Revolution.
He would attempt a life without bread for a week, but first he would read all about it.

He walked quickly out of his office building on Madison Avenue and 45th Street, past the Cosi sandwich shop, the Sugar ’n’ Spice pie shop, and the seven street vendors outside of Grand Central Station selling hot knishes, beef on skewers, pralines and hot dogs. The scents shot into his brain like bullets, hitting all his hunger receptors. With superhuman strength, he avoided the temptations and pushed through the revolving doors into Grand Central.

Blessed warmth. The relief made him shudder. He hurried along a passageway, intending to take the escalator (past Michael Jordan’s Steakhouse and the Cucina takeout) to a subway platform. But first, a quick stop at the Hudson News. He loved New York newsstands, especially this one. It was massive, selling hundreds, maybe thousands, of journals, papers, and magazines. When he’d been promoted to editor of
Bucks,
he’d come to Hudson News every lunch hour to watch if people bought the magazine. If they flipped through it, he wanted to know which articles made them stop. Good research, he thought. More useful than the contrived focus groups where housewives were paid $50 to bash his hard work while he watched behind a two-way mirror.

He did a quick scan by the financial journals. Miraculously, a fantastically attractive woman—the whole package: blonde, tight as a tiger in a leather skirt, black boots up to her knees—was reading his magazine. It was like the opening to a
Penthouse
“forum” letter. He could approach her, introduce himself as the editor of
Bucks
. She’d be impressed, worshipful—an aspiring young business writer looking for her break into publishing. She’d be eager to please, and who was Peter to discourage her?

He leaned against the wall of sports and fitness titles, pretending to read
Shape,
and let his imagination take over. She was incredible, legs as long and curvy as a river. And she’d stopped flipping to read an article on municipal bonds that Peter himself had written. A hot woman, reading his words (not moving her lips), with the crease of concentration on her otherwise unlined forehead. He had to arrange his shoulder bag to hide a growing erection.

Beautiful women, they had to know men stopped to stare. How could they not? With the sweep of his eyes, Peter realized he wasn’t the only man at the newsstand pretending to read a magazine for the momentary pleasure of beholding this woman. In fact, three others, dressed just like Peter, were rearranging their shoulder bags in front of their trousers. As he made this deflating (literally) discovery, the blonde turned a page of the magazine, her eyes rising to find him in full gawk. Peter could have caught his heart in his hand when she winked at him.

Logically, he knew the wink meant “Busted!” But, with eternal optimism, Peter let himself believe she wanted him. The thought was both emasculating (was he man enough to make a move?) and exciting. His erection doubled in size, lifting his bag off his hips.

He really needed more sex.

“Excuse me, Mr. Vermillion?”

He turned toward the small voice that came over his right shoulder. She was petite, brunette, vaguely familiar, not altogether unattractive. He glanced back to see the blonde tiger put the magazine back in the rack and click off in her man-killer boots toward the elevators.

He said looked down at brunette and asked, “Have we met?”

“Forgive me for interrupting your
reading,
” she said. He realized with an embarrassed start that he’d been holding
Shape
upside down.

“It’s quite all right,” he said, fumbling to close the magazine.

She said, “I followed you from your office. We’ve met a few times. I’m Bruce McFarthing’s wife.”

Wife of the man he’d fired. “Mrs. McFarthing,” he said. “Of course I remember you.”

She smiled ruefully. She knew he’d forgotten her. “I’d like to speak to you about my husband.”

Peter said, “I have to get downtown.”

She said, “Bruce is threatening to sue you for discrimination.”

“Have his lawyers call our lawyers.” Talk about climatic extremes: His mood went from red hot to ice cold in seconds.

She said, “He said you were jealous of him. He feels he’s been discriminated against because he’s fit and handsome.”

“I don’t have time for this,” said Peter. This woman followed him from his office to threaten a lawsuit and call him an insecure egomaniac? Discrimination on the grounds that Bruce was too attractive? Peter felt a tightness in his chest. He wondered if he were having a pre-heart attack, if such a thing existed.

She put her hand on his elbow, stopping him from clutching his chest. “Bruce said the same thing about his last three bosses.”

Bruce was insane. Peter had been right to fire him. God knows what kind of trouble the magazine would be in if he’d let Bruce stay on staff. Peter said, “If Bruce wants to pursue legal action…”

“I’m not threatening you,” she said. “I just want to know the truth.”

He said, “I fired him because of the quality of his work.”

“You read his clips when you hired him,” she said.

He didn’t want to get into the detailed explanation. Good clips could mean good writing—or good editing. You could never be sure. Peter said, “His clips were not extraordinary. He came across well. I thought he could fit in at the magazine. He had great references.”

“So you hired him because he made a good first impression. So why did you fire him?”

Grossly aware that any word out of his mouth could come back to him in court, Peter said, “I can’t say anything.”

Mrs. McFarthing (he tried desperately to remember her first name) started to cry. At full volume. Her face reddening with each rattling wail, she teetered in her low heels and leaned against Peter’s bulk for balance. Arms limp and impotent at his sides, he allowed her to wipe her wet eyes and nose against his tie. The contact was excruciating.

He said, “Please, Mrs. McFarthing.”

“I’m beginning to wonder if the man I married is all style, no substance,” she said through her tears.

“How long have you been married?” Peter couldn’t help asking.

“Fifteen years.”

That was a long time to begin to wonder. His style was, apparently, good enough for the first fifteen years. Peter thought instantly whether his own substance had a shelf life to Ilene. Was there a point when a woman—any woman—started to want what she didn’t think she had?

Peter said, “Look, Mrs. McFarthing, I’d be happy to make some calls on his behalf.”

“Don’t bother,” she said, lifting her face off his tie. She brushed the tears away with the back of her hand. When she looked up, shamed by her outburst, confused about what she’d do next, Peter saw a vulnerability that was, actually, quite terrifying.

She said, “My name is Peggy.”

He shook. “Peter.”

“I know,” she said, sniffing. “Sorry about your tie.”

“Bruce will find a job,” he lied.

“I’m sure he will. For as long as that one lasts.” Peggy took a mirror out of her purse. She looked at her eyes. She snapped the compact closed, startling Peter.

“I look terrible,” she said.

“You’re fine,” he said.

She
was
fine. A fine-looking woman, but not beautiful or sexy. Bruce had chosen Peggy over what must have been an endless supply of sexy women. Maybe Peggy was brilliant, or rich.

Peter asked, “Are you also a writer?”

Peggy said, “I’m a nutritionist.”

“You help people diet?”

“Yes,” she said, regaining composure.

“My wife would like me to lose twenty pounds.”

Peggy said, “I’d say forty.”

Okay, he really had to go now. “Good luck with everything,” he said.

“You, too, Mr. Vermillion,” she said. “You’re going to need it.”

Thursday, October 17
8:12
P
.
M
.

The three sisters sat together at Bouillabaisse, a tiny bistro near Ilene’s apartment in Chelsea, for their monthly dinner/ agenda meeting. The restaurant’s menu changed nightly and was written in script on a chalkboard that the waiter had to lug from table to table. No liquor license. Diners could bring their own wine. Ilene had selected both the vintage (’01 Shiraz) and the place. Betty noticed that whenever it was Ilene’s turn to choose, she always picked a place in her own neighborhood.

They all met at Ilene and Peter’s expansive Chelsea apartment first. Betty came up from the East Village with Peter’s package of books. He’d apologized again about blowing her off last week, and asked if he could take her to lunch to make it up to her. Betty had never had a solo meal with Peter. She hesitated, wondering what the two would say to each other for an hour. But Peter had insisted. Betty was stuck. She thought he was decent enough, but they’d never had much of a bond.

Frieda and Justin arrived next from Brooklyn. Peter and Justin settled in to watch the World Series. Betty had to admit, Peter was brilliant with Justin. He’d offered to step up after Gregg died, and he had, taking Justin to Knicks games, accompanying Frieda to parent-teacher conferences. Ilene must like seeing him with Justin, too. She kissed her husband on the forehead, and the sisters took off for Bouillabaisse.

Everyone was in a good mood tonight, thought Betty. She smiled across the table at Frieda in a blossom pink sweater. Ilene was in her usual black, but her dress was flirty linen. Betty considered her own baggy T-shirt and jeans. Not flirty. But comfortable, as was her aim.

Ilene took the lead. “Shall I read the minutes from our last meeting?” she said.

Betty groaned. “For once, can we just sit down to dinner without the framework of a social-club agenda?”

“I have an announcement to make,” said Frieda.

Ilene and Betty turned toward her. Frieda was smiling so hard, Betty feared her jaw might unhinge.

“I’ve met a man,” said Frieda. “He’s from Maine!”

“Maine?” said Ilene. “How masculine. He must know how to build a fire and trudge through ice in snowshoes.”

“He came into the store,” said Frieda. She told them the story of meeting Sam Hill, reciting the
Times
review from memory, giving some biographical details.

“He’s Catholic?” asked Ilene.

“Oldest of six,” said Frieda. “Non-practicing. Disdainfully so.”

“Thank God for that,” said the oldest of three.

“I like it,” said Frieda. “It’s different.”

“Well, we can’t all be New York Jews,” said Ilene.

“Of the disdainfully nonpracticing variety,” Betty said. “Can we get back to the kissing part?”

Frieda blushed. “It started with a peck. And then moved to a full-blown, slobbering kiss. He grabbed me, squeezed the pulp out of me, and then mauled my mouth. He totally took me over, which was such a shock because his first kiss was just that little peck. I thought he might be shy or passive. Boy, was I wrong. We went at it like that for fifteen, twenty minutes. And then someone came in and we had to stop.”

The way she punched each word—
went at it
—made Betty jealous beyond measure. She doubted that, in her fumbling sexual encounters, she’d ever
gone at it
with ferocity.

Betty said, “He walks in to get something framed, and inside of ten minutes, you’re making out? Why does this never happen to me?” Betty felt Ilene watching her dip a piece of baguette into a dish of garlic-infused olive oil and pop it into her mouth.

Frieda said, “I am floating on a cloud. I see rainbows in street puddles. I have been sprinkled with magic dust. He is absolutely adorable! I keep thinking of what Mom told me the night before I married Gregg. She said, ‘At the end of the day, only one thing matters in a marriage: When you sit down to dinner and look across the table at your husband, you think he’s cute.’ ”

Ilene laughed. “She told me the same thing.”

“I always thought Gregg was cute,” said Frieda.

In unison, Betty and Ilene said, “Very cute.”

Frieda nodded. “Sam Hill is of a different order. He has a face people pay to watch. A quick look and he seems almost ordinary. And then, if you look again, he’s stunning.”

“Did he go from ordinary to stunning before or after the mouth mauling?” asked Betty.

“I’m thrilled for you, Frieda,” said Ilene. “You need to have fun. And the timing couldn’t be better. Sam Hill is the ideal transitional man. Totally inappropriate marriage material. He’s like a trial run. And when you’re ready to get serious, I have the perfect man to fix you up with. He’s a guy from work, recently separated but not ready to date yet. In six months—you’ll have had your fill of Sam Hill by then—my guy will be raring to go. I could not have planned this better myself.”

Frieda said, “I wouldn’t say that Sam Hill is inappropriate marriage material.”

“Of course he is,” said Ilene. She laughed. “You can’t honestly say that you have high hopes for a lasting relationship with him. Just enjoy the hell out of it for what it is. And when you’re ready for more, I’ll set you up.”

Betty watched the frown appear on Frieda’s face. Clearly, Frieda was smitten, regardless of Sam Hill’s marriage worthiness. That must have been some kiss.

Betty said, “You don’t know what’s going to happen, Ilene. I’m sure Frieda isn’t thinking about Sam Hill’s future prospects. She’s living in the moment.”

“Exactly,” said Frieda. “I’m focused on right now. Six months down the road, who knows? That was the amount of time between Gregg’s diagnosis and death. None of us has any idea where we’ll be in six months, who we’ll be with, what we’ll be doing. But right now, all I want is to see Sam Hill again.”

Betty said, “When will that be?”

Frieda answered, “Next week. He has performances every night.”

Betty said, “That seems like a long time to wait.”

Ilene said, “Waiting is the downside of living in the moment.”

“I can do it. I’ve waited over a year for someone to make my heart beat faster. I can go for one more week. I do worry, though. He might get a load of me naked and think, ‘Am I fucking my mother?’ ”

“You’re seven years apart, not seventeen,” said Betty.

Ilene added, “A penniless itinerant actor? He’s lucky to stand next to you on line for the bus. Besides which, if
you’re
old, what does that make me?”

Betty said, “Older.”

Ilene said, “Let’s drink to that.”

The women drank. They refilled the glasses, killing the bottle—and they hadn’t even ordered their entrees. This happened every time. Frieda offered to run to the wine store a half block away. She grabbed her purse and hurried to the door.

The oldest and youngest sisters remained. As soon as Frieda was out of earshot, Ilene said, “You know Sam Hill isn’t going to last. He’s nothing like Gregg. Where’s the compatibility?”

Betty dipped another crust of bread into the olive oil. She knew Ilene was watching her soak up the golden puddle of fat and calories. Betty said, “The whole stepfather thing. I don’t see this twenty-eight-year-old filling Gregg’s shoes there. He’s just too young to deal with that kind of responsibility.”

“Exactly,” said Ilene. “So you agree with me.”

Betty nodded. “I agree that Sam Hill won’t be around in a year. But we disagree about…”

“We’d have to disagree about something.”

“Let this run its course,” warned Betty. “If you try to steer Frieda away from Sam Hill, she’ll cling even tighter to him. It’s all premature anyway. She hasn’t had a date with him yet.”

“But she’s set on him,” said Ilene. “She wants him, so she’ll have to have him. But I know enough to be discreet. There are ways to dissuade her without overt criticism. Planting seeds, that kind of thing.”

“Evil gardening?” asked Betty.

“How’s
your
love life?” asked Ilene.

Frieda had rushed back in, bottle in a brown bag, able to catch that last part. “How
is
your love life, Betty?” she asked.

The conversation now focused on her, Betty drained her glass before speaking. “Okay. Here’s the thing.”

“The thing is…” prompted Frieda.

“The thing is,” said Betty, “I like a guy.”

Ilene and Frieda pounced on the morsel of candor. “Who is he?” asked Frieda.

“His name is Earl Long,” she started. “He works at Burton & Notham, but only temporarily. He’s setting up audio-books booths. I guess he’s in his mid-thirties. I have no clue about his religion, background, status, financial standing.”

Betty tried to sound casual about it, even though she was obsessed with Earl Long. Her thoughts chased him around Burton & Notham like a panting dog. If he stepped into the bathroom at work, she imagined following him in, locking the stall door, and assaulting him. If he sat down at the café for a sandwich or coffee, Betty pictured joining him, sneaking her fingers onto his thigh for a squeeze.

Frieda asked, “Does he know you like him?”

Betty nearly laughed. “No way.” She avoided him whenever possible. Their conversations were terse, businesslike. Betty’s attraction overwhelmed her, and she couldn’t muster a degree of warmth in his presence. She’d been aware of the tendency since high school: Out of fear, she treated the boys she liked with disdain. In return, they hated her. Their rejection emptied her of confidence, a void she filled with Ring Dings. She had put on five pounds since Earl appeared in her office. Despite the mini-chats she had with herself (e.g.,
“You know you’re eating this Big Mac because Earl Long pays more attention to Starr, the eighteen-year-old cashier, than he does to you
), Betty was powerless to stop herself.

“Does he like you?” Ilene asked.

“How should I know?” In the two weeks he’d been on site, Earl had touched her once, to get her attention. She’d been supervising a delivery at the store’s 17th-Street rear entrance, clipboard in hand. His touch on her shoulder had surprised her so much that she dropped the clipboard, alarming the delivery man, who asked if she was having a seizure. She couldn’t meet Earl’s eyes afterward. He apologized five times for surprising her, forgetting, in his embarrassment for her, what he’d wanted in the first place. And he hadn’t dared touch her again.

Ilene said, “Are you set on him?”

Betty was afraid to say yes. If she admitted it to her sisters, the risk of failure and rejection tripled, quadrupled in a mere second. Frieda could plunge into a relationship with Sam because she had an excellent track record with boyfriends. She seemed unafraid. Then again, after what she’d been through with Gregg, what could be worse? Betty had a long history of failure. But only experience could change that.

She would take inspiration from Frieda. Betty said, “Yes. I’m set on him.”

Ilene slammed her hand on the table and declared, “Then you’ll have to have him. Do you have a plan?”

God, no. “My plan,” said Betty, “is to do absolutely nothing.”

Ilene shook her head. “That won’t work.”

Frieda said, “Have you considered asking him out?”

Betty choked on her wine at the question.

At that moment, the waiter appeared, dragging the chalkboard menu with him. He described the night’s fare, and the sisters placed their orders: Frieda asked for the salmon steak; Ilene, grilled chicken with rosemary; Betty, filet mignon with pepper cream sauce and mashed sweet potatoes on the side.

Once the waiter was gone, Ilene said, “If you truly want this man, you should rethink your order.” Betty felt the blow in her solar plexus. After laying herself belly-up and vulnerable, Betty couldn’t believe Ilene would give her shit. Then again, when it came to the subject of weight, Ilene was relentless.

“Ilene, don’t,” said Frieda.

The oldest sister said, “Isn’t the whole point of these dinners to help each other? To lay out our problems and work as a team to solve them?”

Frieda said, “It’s been the unspoken objective, but now that you’ve described it like that, the whole idea seems contrived.”

Betty said, “We haven’t dissected your problems, Ilene. What can we help you with? How’s Peter? Your marriage? Any luck getting
him
to lose weight?”

Ilene said, “I’m sorry that I’ve upset you, Betty. But if you would stop being so defensive and sensitive and just listen to me, you’ll be glad you did. It’s nearly impossible to look at your own life objectively.”

“What makes you think you’re being objective when you look at my life, or Frieda’s?” asked Betty.

“Can we please change the subject?” asked Frieda, playing referee.

“And, thanks for asking, my marriage is perfect,” said Ilene. “Peter is perfect. He’s working very hard on his diet and appreciates my support.”

“Objectively speaking,” said Betty, “bullshit.”