The Not-So-Perfect Man (8 page)

Saturday, November 16
9:30
P
.
M
.

“Yes, Frieda,” said Ilene. “He’s very good.”

“More than good,” said Frieda. “He’s awesome!”

Ilene regarded her younger sister, the beaming face, the excited flutter of her hands. They stood outside the theater during intermission. It had to be 40 degrees on the street. Frieda hadn’t bothered to button her coat. Ilene said, “David seems to be enjoying the show.”

“David?” asked Frieda, transfixed by a six-foot-high poster of Sam Hill as Fagin hanging from the theater’s canopy.

“My friend,” prompted Ilene. “The man sitting next to you in the aisle seat?”

“Of course,” said Frieda. “I was surprised when you showed up with him. And Peter.”

Ilene had said nothing about bringing Peter and David to
Oliver!
When she’d called the box office to order the tickets, she planned on getting just two. Then, she thought Peter might want to come. If nothing more, it would get them out of their increasingly claustrophobic home environment. And why get three tickets when she could even it up with four? She’d promised to take David out once he got settled. And this could be the perfect way to introduce him to Frieda. Ilene assumed that when Frieda saw Sam Hill onstage in his grubby costume with this shaggy fake beard and wig, she would come to her senses about him. As an alternative ideal, David would be sitting right next to her.

But things were not proceeding as planned. As soon as Frieda laid eyes on that huge poster of Sam Hill, she began talking about how exciting it was to see him in his element, and hadn’t stopped since. His element, much to Ilene’s dismay, wasn’t a rinky-dink off-Broadway showcase basement. City Center, a three-thousand seat theater, was opulent and well maintained. Glittering crystal chandeliers hung from a pressed-tin ceiling. The red velvet curtains and red carpet were lush. Overstuffed seats were covered with still more red velvet. She’d expected a card-table set-up for selling T-shirts and Cokes. Instead, she found a full-size mahogany bar staffed with three bartenders in tuxes serving champagne cocktails, large boxes of peanut M&M’s and a cast recording CD ($25!) The theater was sold out. The patrons represented a cross-section of New York: young and old, black, white, elegantly dressed matrons, and students in jeans. Thousands of people had come to see this show. Sam Hill was the star. It
was
impressive.

But nothing could change the basic truths of who Sam Hill was and what Frieda needed in a partner. Ilene would press her agenda, presenting David as a stable alternative to Sam.

Frieda said, “I had no idea Sam could sing like that. And so loud! Sam told me they’re not miked. Not even the child actors. That boy playing Oliver. He’s doing well. His mother must be proud. Sam told me he’s actually thirteen. And the Dodger is really sixteen, but he looks like a ten-year-old. I guess, to be a child actor, you’ve got to be tiny.”

Ilene said, “Small body, big head.”

“Sam was so funny in the pickpocketing scene, wasn’t he?” interrupted Frieda. “And he was wonderful in the ‘I’d Do Anything’ part. I felt like he was singing directly to me! I’m totally in awe. He’s so composed up there. So professional.”

“It
is
his job,” said Ilene. “Interesting, isn’t it, that Sam can have this degree of success as an actor, be this talented, and still have no money. Imagine what it’ll be like when he’s out of work.”

Frieda narrowed her eyes at the direct insult to Sam. “Imagine what it’ll be like when he gets even better work.”

And where would that leave Frieda? Ilene said, “All I’m trying to say is that the life of an actor must be hard. He
is
very good. Highly entertaining. We should enjoy him for his entertainment value.”

“Entertaining is where you
start
to talk about Sam,” said Frieda. She was bristling. Ilene had overplayed her hand. Stupidly. She should have realized that Frieda was nursing a serious infatuation, her defensiveness exacerbated by criticism.

Ilene should never have bought these tickets. Certainly not spent the additional $200 for Peter and David’s. The men seemed to like the show, but both were quiet tonight. She looked at the poster of Sam Hill in his red wig and beard, his huge, brown eyes riveting her attention despite the garish makeup and fake hair.

The lights under the marquee flashed. Intermission was over. Time to find their seats and rejoin the men. The sisters walked back inside, Frieda rushing to her seat like her pants were on fire (they were, actually). Ilene followed more slowly. She hoped to catch David on his way out of the bathroom to ask him what he thought of Frieda. She scanned the crowd, searching for her tall, handsome colleague.

Instead, her gaze settled on a barrel-chested man at the bar. He was trying to get the bartender’s attention, failing, even when he raised his arm and waved. The motion of his arm made his jacket pull tightly across his shoulders, the seam threatening to split. She cringed inwardly. If only Peter could see himself from across a crowded room, she thought.

She strode toward the bar and stood next to her husband. Peter was still trying to flag down the bartender. She leaned toward his ear and whispered, “Where’s David?” The men had gone off to use the restroom together during intermission.

Peter startled at her voice and grabbed his chest. He said, “How long have you been standing there?”

She said, “The show’s about to start.”

“One second.”

By now the crowd had thinned at the bar. Peter caught the bartender’s eye and waved him over. He said, “I’ll take the CD.”

Ilene said, “You’re not buying that.”

“Why not? It’s a great show. Frieda’s boyfriend is fantastic.”

Ilene snapped, “Come to the seats now. And forget about the CD. It’s overpriced and the performances are horrible.”

The lobby lights flashed off and on again. Peter looked at her, confused, his face dark, light, dark, light with the blink of the theater lights. She felt shapeless anger pulsing underneath her skin. Peter must have sensed it. He frowned and said tightly, “I’ll be there in a minute.”

She spun on her heels and left him at the bar. She was about three paces away when she heard his voice again.

“Yes, one CD,” he said. “And a box of M&M’s.”

Monday, December 2
9:30
A
.
M
.

“Have a seat on the couch or the chair,” said Denise Bother, Ph.D.

“Thank you,” said Frieda, choosing the straight-back chair with thin metal armrests. It seemed conspicuously spartan, and Frieda wondered if the choice between the soft, inviting couch and the hard, unforgiving chair had been a psychological test, that she’d be sending a message to Dr. Bother about her opinion of therapy, this process, Justin’s progress.

“On second thought,” Frieda said, rising. “I’ll take the couch.”

“Good, good,” said Dr. Bother.

In another context, Dr. Bother (referred to Frieda by the school shrink) looked like the kind of woman Frieda would be drawn to as a friend. She had long, tawny hair, unceremoniously down, free of barrettes or ponytail holders. She wore a light white cotton shirt and an ankle-length denim skirt with brown suede boots. The doctor was free of makeup and jewelry, except for the modestly sized diamond studs in her ears. Frieda found her nonthreatening to look at, yet she was ominous nonetheless. If she was any good, Dr. Bother knew the inner workings of her son’s grief. He confided in her. They had private confidences. Justin never told Frieda, although she asked each week, what he and Dr. Bother talked about.

Denise said, “I called you in because I’ve noticed a change in Justin.”

Frieda’s lower back muscles clinched. She said, “A positive change?”

Denise said, “He’s a fantastic child, Frieda.”

Should Frieda take credit for that? “He is,” she said.

“Can you tell me what you’ve noticed in the past month?”

Frieda tried to think. She hadn’t been scrutinizing her son’s mental health lately. Frankly, she’d been wrapped up in her own life, in her increasingly passionate and consuming affair with Sam Hill. She was sure she’d pick up on any conspicuous red flags. “He’s eating well,” she said. “Sleeping soundly. He hasn’t gotten into any fights at school. Hasn’t been crying.”

“Anything else?” asked Denise.

This was like a pop quiz Frieda hadn’t studied for. She said, “He had a good time at Thanksgiving. We went around the table at my sister’s house to say what each of us was thankful for, and Justin said he was grateful for me, his aunts, and a father watching over him in heaven.”

“What did you say you were thankful for?” asked Denise.

Frieda said, “Justin, my family, my health.”

“Are you thankful for anything else, something you couldn’t talk about in front of Justin?”

Was this woman a witch or an inquisitor? She said, “I have a boyfriend. I haven’t told Justin about him yet. It’s too soon.”

Denise said, “Justin knows already. Children are more perceptive than adults realize. He told me that you’ve been going out often at night, leaving him with baby-sitters. He’s heard you on the phone talking about a man. He overheard some of your family members discussing your relationship.”

“A happy parent makes for a happy child,” said Frieda, spinning this as best she could. But she was blindsided by the wallop of guilt. Was her affair causing Justin pain?

Denise said, “Usually I agree with that philosophy. Please don’t misinterpret me. I’m glad that you’ve found someone to spend time with. It’s crucial for your sanity. I don’t mean that colloquially, either. The state of your mental health has improved dramatically. It’s obvious.”
Okay then,
thought Frieda, her back muscles relaxing with relief.

Denise continued, “Understand a couple of things about Justin. Of course he wants you to be happy. He far prefers it to the way you’d been. The change in you reminds him of the way you used to be, before Gregg got sick.”

Frieda said, “Why hasn’t he said any of this to me?” She felt insulted that Justin had confided in Denise and not her, proud of her son’s powers of perception, guilty for not being as observant about him, plus the fresh slap of grief about Gregg and the way things used to be.

Denise, treading slowly, said, “You were wonderful with Justin during the illness. You’ve told me that you made a point of being honest with him every step of the way. You never lied or kept anything secret from him.”

Frieda said, “Until now.”

The good doctor nodded. “The two of you have been partners. Your having a new friend, especially a man, will be threatening to him no matter what, but less so if Justin’s allowed into the relationship. Not that you should bring him on your dates. But Justin has to feel like he’s involved in some way, or else he’ll be afraid he’s losing you.”

“What am I supposed to do?” asked Frieda.

Denise said, “Tell me about your relationship.”

Frieda said, “What do you want to know?”

“What do you do together?”

“Well, I go to Sam’s apartment, we drink a little, and then we have sex for hours.”

“Sounds like you’re having a good time,” said the doc slowly.

Frieda said, “It’s more than a good time. It’s the best time. The best time I’ve ever had. I could go into detail, but we don’t know each other that well. I’m sure a lot of your patients come in and talk nonstop about their sex lives.”

“I work exclusively with children.”

Frieda said, “Let me reel that last comment back in.”

“Do you think that Justin and Sam would get along?” asked the doc.

Frieda pondered that. “Well, they’re both young. They both like to play pretend. Sam’s an actor. He’s very talented. He’s at an audition today for a beer commercial.”

Denise raised her eyebrows inquisitively. “Do you see this as a lasting relationship?”

Frieda said, “I don’t want it to end. But I don’t want it to change, either. I like going off at night, entering the parallel universe with Sam. He knows so little about my life before, it’s bliss to rediscover myself with him, reinvent myself. I’m not Justin’s mom or the tragic widow. I’m this sexy chick, and he’s the ultimate hot date. I think about him obsessively. Every spare thought is about him and what we’ve done, or what I’d like to do. His apartment— where we spend all our time—is this ratty studio, but it’s a sanctuary to me. I walk up the stairs a woman, step inside and transform into a goddess.”

Denise’s eyes widened. Frieda must have seemed un-hinged. “The feeling you describe has a psychological term,” said the doctor. “It’s called limerence, the early stage of infatuation. The obsessive thought and passion is caused by a flood of chemicals in your brain—dopamine, norepinephrine, testosterone. Limerent subjects have described the feeling as walking on air, being on cloud nine. Sensual input is more intense, lights are brighter. Music is sweeter. Colors more vivid. Researchers have done brain-chemistry analyses of the syndrome. Interestingly, the hormonal activity is similar to people with obsessive-compulsive disorder. The hormonal flood lasts for about six months to a year, and then levels off. Once the rainbows and stars fade, couples move into the attachment stage—a committed relationship, a marriage—or they go the other way.”

Frieda said, “It’s not about hormones for us.”

“No?”

“It’s magic.”

That stopped Denise’s recitation. She said, “I’ll just float this out there. Most people who’ve suffered a major loss need two years to pass before they’re on solid ground emotionally. Before that point, they’re susceptible to erratic mood swings and can place inflated importance on relationships formed within that time. Gregg died, when? A year ago.”

“A year and three months.”

Denise nodded. “Have you and this man ever talked about leaving the ‘parallel universe’ and entering the daily reality of each other’s lives?”

Sam had asked her, a couple of days ago, if he should meet Justin. They were on the bed (as usual) in each other’s arms after their first session (of many) that night. Frieda was surprised by the question. She didn’t want to share Sam with anyone. And if she brought him home, he’d see another side to her. The mother. The one who had to pay attention to Justin, to the cooking, the dishes, the lunchboxes. Goddesses don’t pack lunchboxes. Goddesses don’t clean ovens or scoop poops out of the cat litter.

Frieda had said to him, “I’m sure Justin would love you, but I’m not sure how you’d react to me when I’m around him.”

Sam asked, “You’re a different person at home?”

“I’m the same person,” she said. “But when I’m with him, I have to pay attention to him. I have to listen to him and draw monsters and beg him to eat broccoli. I wouldn’t be able to focus on you.”

“What makes you think I’m such an attention hog?” he asked.

He was an actor. His choice of profession was all about look-at-me. His age made him naturally egocentric. Frieda said, “I don’t think that about you.”

Another of Sam’s long silences. Finally, he pushed her flat on her back and started kissing her neck and face. She reflexively reached for him. He moved her hand away and said, “No. Let me pay attention to you for a while.” And he did. For a long, long time, until the back of her head exploded. Twice.

Denise said, “Frieda?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“We have to stop now.”

“Okay. Thank you for being honest with me.” Frieda stood and started to button her coat.

Denise said, “If you aren’t ready to introduce them, at least tell Justin about your boyfriend.”

“I will.”

“And, Frieda?” said Denise. “In the same spirit of honesty?”

“Yes?”

“Be careful.”