The Not-So-Perfect Man

by Valerie Frankel

  “Come with me,” her assistant instructed.

  Betty, still weak from her flash of fantasy, hadn’t the strength to protest. When Gert had something to say, the flow of her words was a force of nature—like a tornado or hurricane—that couldn’t be stopped had Betty tried.

  Gert escorted her behind the checkout desk in the CD section. Uncomfortably close to Earl. He was well within Betty’s eye-and ear-shot. When he coughed, she could hear it.

  Betty said, “How can I help you?”

  “You can help yourself,” said Gert.

  “To what?”

  “You are rude, condescending, and outright hostile to that man,” said Gert. “That’s no way to treat someone you’re interested in. Don’t give me the innocent look. I can tell you like him because you’re bitchy to him. You’re always mean to the men you’re attracted to. It’s the kind of thing girls do when they’re in high school. Junior high. They don’t know how to handle their feelings, so they react with hostility.”

  “Where’d you dream that up?”

  “I didn’t dream it. I lived it,” she said. “After my divorce, I wasn’t very trusting, as you can imagine. I did the same thing. You, on the other hand, don’t have a divorce to hang your stupidity on. But you do have inexperience. You’re still in high school, romantically speaking. Oh, don’t be embarrassed. And don’t scoff as if this doesn’t matter. You have to face your self-destructive tendencies, Betty. We all do. Otherwise, we’ll suffer for them, every day, until we die.”

  Betty was impressed. She liked Gert, but hadn’t thought of her as a particularly insightful person. “Thanks for the advice,” said Betty. “And now, you’re fired.”

  “I am not.”

  “You are.”

  “Go over there and be nice to Earl,” she said. “Give him a reason to ask you out, and I bet he will.”

  Betty shook her head. “I can’t do it. It’s too hard.”

  Gert gave her a soul-sucking look of pathos. She said, “I’ve been watching the two of you.”

  “I’ve been watching you watching us.”

  “I can tell that he likes you,” she said.

  Betty laughed scornfully. He could never. She’d been nothing but dismissive. She wasn’t a crisp wafer of blonde hair and tits that men like Earl gravitated toward. Betty wouldn’t listen to this drivel. It insulted her intelligence. It offended her sensibilities.

  She asked, “How can you tell?”

  Gert smiled, warmly, motherly. “He chases you around the store. He asks you dozens of useless questions to get your attention. He looks you right in the eye when you talk to each other. I hate to say it, because I’m trying to discourage your adolescent behavior, but your meanness may have intrigued him.”

  “So, by that logic, I should continue on the same path.” Done, Betty thought. Back to familiar, comfortable ground.

  Gert shook her head. “The time has come to surprise him. You can be a bitch for only so long before intrigue turns into boredom. That’s right,” said Gert, nodding, teased hair floating above her. “The truth hurts. Here’s what you say. ‘Earl, you’ve been working so hard. I really appreciate it.’ He’ll run with it.”

  “That’s it?” Betty asked.

  Gert nodded. “I don’t think he’ll need much encouragement. Look at it this way: He’s been in town for a month. He doesn’t seem to have a lot of friends in New York. He works all day, and then, according to my covert intelligence, he goes to his hotel each night after work. This guy needs to get out, be with people. Most people need social interaction and regular sex.”

  “So you’re saying he’s desperate for company, so he might as well use me,” said Betty. “And what’s with the ‘covert intelligence’?”

  Gert said, “Just go over there and be nice. I know it might kill you to smile, but a date is worth the risk.”

  Betty said, “I’ll sleep on it and get back to you.”

  “You’ll do it right now,” said Gert. She raised her arm and started waving. “Earl!” she called. “Come over here for a minute.”

  Betty was trapped. Gert had blocked her exit from behind the checkout counter. And Earl was walking toward them, easy and slow, like an ambling, moseying cowboy, wrapping the long black cord of the earphones around his hand like a lasso.

  He stopped in front of the counter, leaning against it so his belt make a ting sound when it came into contact with the glass. He said, “What’s up?”

  Betty froze. She couldn’t move, nor speak. Gert nudged her. But Betty’s nerves had taken control of her voice box, wrapping themselves around it, choking her.

  Finally, Gert opened her mouth to speak. She would break the ice. Betty could have kissed her.

  “I’ve got to run,” said Gert. “Later!”

  Betty could have killed her. She attempted to smile at Earl, and she felt a shot of pain rip through her forehead. Aneurysm? Stroke? She might die after all. Gert was right: It would kill her to smile.

  Earl said, “Gert wants you to ask me out, right?”

  “You’ll have to excuse me while I go throw up,” said Betty. She tried to escape the trap behind the counter, run to the bathroom where she could easily surrender the contents of her stomach.

  “No, wait,” he said. “I’ll save you the trouble.”

  “The trouble?” she asked, not comprehending his meaning, her cement-mixer stomach having usurped the blood flow to her brain.

  He said, “I’ll take you to dinner tonight. And then we can walk around the East Village. You live in Alphabet City, right?”

  “Only tourists say Alphabet City,” she said. Why was she being dismissive, even now, when he was asking her out? She said, “Sorry. I don’t intend to be rude.”

  “Be as rude as you want,” he said. It was like a dare. He was asking her to give him her best shot, and they’d see who was still standing at the end of the night. If they made it that far.

  He said, “So? Tonight?”

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked.

  He said, “It’s obvious you don’t think much of yourself, Betty. I know it must mean something is fucked up about me, but I find your low self-esteem appealing. I like the humility of it. And the challenge to make you think better of yourself. I can do it. I’m sure I can.”

  She drew in a breath and said, “You’re absolutely right.”

  Earl said, “I am?”

  “Yes,” she said. “There is something fucked up about you.”

  Chapter 15

  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 po
ster 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.”

  Chapter 16

  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.”