The Not-So-Perfect Man

by Valerie Frankel

  “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.”

  Chapter 17

  Tuesday, December 17

  12:45 P.M.

  “It took two months, but here we are,” said Peter as he sat down to lunch with his sister-in-law Betty. “Love this place. Jesus, look at the waitresses.”

  They sat in a window booth that the glorified coffee shop called Coffee Shop, one block west of the Union Square Burton & Notham. Betty said, “All aspiring models and actors.” She admired the young hopefuls. “Nice to look at, depressing to contemplate,” she added.

  “Look at that one,” said Peter, pointing at a six-foot-tall redhead by the bar.

  Betty glanced over the top of her menu. “I could have come to midtown,” she said.

  “Not necessary,” he said. “I walked from my office. I needed the exercise.” Peter dabbed at his forehead with his paper napkin. He had enjoyed the cold air, the movement of his legs and hips as he trudged down Broadway. He’d walked a total of thirty-two blocks—one and a half miles— in just thirty minutes. He’d been walking the twenty-plus blocks to work from Chelsea each morning, too. The day’s total: nearly three miles.

  “I’m taking the subway back,” he said.

  “How can you be away from the office for so long?” Betty asked, putting her menu, folded closed, on the table.

  “We do a double issue in December, and then don’t publish again until February. This is my annual downtime,” he said.

  She didn’t look at him directly while he spoke. Her eyes darted to the bar, out the window, across the aisle. Did he make her nervous? He had no idea why. Peter had always liked Betty. She was wryly funny, tart, like biting into a green apple. He found her pretty. She and Ilene closely resembled each other, except for the difference in body size. Betty was the most guarded of the sisters. Hard to get to know. Purposefully distant.

  Peter scanned the menu. The lunch was a nice idea, to repay Betty for all the discount books she’d gotten for him over the past couple of months. But now, as they sat together without the buffers of Ilene, Frieda, or Justin, he had to wonder why he had pushed for this. He could tell she didn’t particularly want to be there, but was willing to take the free meal.

  He said, “The grilled-chicken salad is speaking to me.”

  Betty said, “It’s clucking your name?”

  “What are you getting?”

  She said, “I’m torn between the cheeseburger and the Ruben. So I’ll probably order the garden salad and a diet Coke.”

  “Are you dieting?” he asked. She did seem slimmer, now that he took a moment to look.

  Betty, suddenly self-conscious, pulled her sweater around her chest. She said, “Hearing that word ‘diet’ is a mental trigger to order the cheeseburger.”

  He laughed. “I know what you mean. That’s called the rebellion reflex. I’m seeing a nutrionist. I’ve got a thirty-page eating plan. I’m keeping a food journal.”

  “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working,” she said.

  Peter beamed. In the last six weeks, he’d taken off fifteen pounds. Peggy said that the first ten pounds were water weight (whatever that meant), and not fat. But his clothes were looser. Water or not, that counted for something.

  He asked, “Did you know that a pound of fat has the volume of a quart of liquid?”

  She shook her head. “So you’re down what? Ten quarts?”

  “Fifteen,” he said.

  “Impressive,” she said. “I’m down seven.”

  “I can see that,” he said. They were having a fat chat. Dishing about dieting. Peter loved it. He hadn’t been able to talk to anyone abo
ut his weight-loss program. It was a secret from Ilene; Jane hated that he refused to order deli food anymore; Peggy was his guru, not his comrade. Maybe Betty would be his diet buddy. How did one set that up? Was it like proposing, or going steady?

  Peter asked, “What made you decide to diet?”

  Betty said, “Let’s not get too personal.”

  “What does dieting have to do with your personal life?” he asked, perplexed and, frankly, hurt to be shut down when they’d just started to bond.

  Betty said, “Your decision to diet probably has everything to do with your personal life. I bet Ilene goes with you to your appointments.”

  “For your information, my wife has no idea about the nutritionist. It’s a secret,” he said. “I’d appreciate it if you don’t tell her about it.”

  “Scout’s honor,” she said, cocking one eyebrow. How did she do that? It was bewitching. He couldn’t help smiling at her. She added, “I’m still not telling you about my boyfriend.”

  “I know about him already,” he said. “His name is Earl. He works with you. He’s from Chicago. You’ve been on a handful of dates, but you haven’t—”

  “Stop there,” she said, holding up a hand. “Your information is accurate. I’m sure Ilene has done a lot of editorializing about him.”

  Peter said, “Ilene is thrilled for you. She wants you to be happy. That’s all she wants for everyone. The problem, which Ilene and I have discussed, is that her concept of what makes other people happy might not jibe with theirs. You’ve known her longer than I have. Has she always been like this?”

  Betty said, “More or less. Less before.”

  “Before what?” he asked.

  “Before Gregg died, of course,” said Betty.

  Peter got a sudden hit, a flash of understanding. The day after the funeral, the shivah gathering was at Frieda’s house. Ilene had spent hours and hundreds of dollars on deli platters. They were extraneous, considering the volume of food people brought. Ilene took charge of the incoming. Dozens of casseroles and scores of white bakery boxes were piled high like mini-skyscrapers in the kitchen. Peter was an assistant stacker, building their city of food while Frieda and Justin accepted condolences in the bedroom.

  Peter nipped at the pastry. He sampled the cookies. He took bites of the casseroles and did his part to put a dent in the deli platters. His wife had been laboring steadily for hours, and Peter offered to make a sandwich for her. After all she’d done for Frieda that day, he wanted to do something for her. She responded to his offer of kindness by saying, “For one goddamn minute, can you think about something besides food?”

  Their marriage had gone straight downhill from there.

  The waitress, a rail-thin blonde with low-rise jeans that barely concealed her pubic hair, took Betty and Peter’s order. That business concluded, Peter said, “If anything, Gregg’s death made our marriage stronger.”

  “Ilene says you guys are at the pinnacle of connubial bliss,” said Betty. “A shining beacon to single women everywhere.” He thought he heard sarcasm in her voice.

  They were, he told himself. Underneath all the arguments and lack of sex, they had a foundation of love. If he didn’t believe that, he couldn’t possibly handle the rest. “Frieda and Gregg hardly ever fought,” said Peter. “They were the shining example.”

  “And look at Frieda now,” said Betty. “She’s marching straight up Sam Hill.”

  “He was fantastic in Oliver! He got a standing ovation. Frieda jumped up and down for him like she’d been called to be a contestant on The Price Is Right.”

  “Frieda told me,” said Betty. “He’s all she talks about. She hardly ever mentions Gregg anymore. It’s like he got swallowed up by the earth, and Sam Hill sealed the seam.”

  Peter said, “Do you miss him?”

  Betty nodded. “More since we talk about him less,” she said. “Gregg and I used to have lunches once a month. Like this. I really looked forward to them. He was the man in my life for a while there. Platonically, of course. Pathetic that my sister’s husband was the only date I had for years. I know how you’ve stepped in to take Justin to any father-son functions. I thought you were making a similar overture to me.”

  “By asking you to lunch today?” Maybe he had. He couldn’t honestly fathom why it had seemed so important.

  Betty said, “You’re the last man standing in this family.”

  Peter and Gregg had always gravitated toward each other at Schast family functions. The two men among the women. Peter had been so focused on Frieda and Justin’s loss, he hadn’t contemplated his own. He was the last man standing. He had a responsibility to his family which, consciously or not, he was gasping to meet.

  He said, “Ilene thinks I’m going to go next. Death by heart attack.”

  Betty said gently, “It’s not inconceivable, considering your family history.”

  The skinny waitress with the sexy stomach brought their food. Peter looked down at his salad, a beautiful creation of field greens, avocado and grilled chicken, and felt not a single spark of hunger. He couldn’t image what power on earth could get him to lift his fork and attempt to eat a single bite.

  He said, “This is the most unappetizing lunch I’ve ever had.”

  Betty laughed. “Maybe we should do this again,” she said. “At the very least, we’ll depress each other too much to eat.”

  Peter said, “Will you be my diet buddy?”

  Betty lifted her eyebrows and said, “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Chapter 18

  Wednesday, December 18

  6:40 P.M.

  “Let’s go shopping,” said Earl to Betty as they walked out of Burton & Notham and into the icy city at night.

  Betty had already decided she would sleep with him after dinner. It was their sixth date. They’d barely kissed. Her fault. It had been so long, and each time he leaned in to plant one on her mouth, she froze. He stopped quickly, not wanting to suck face with a statue, albeit a soft one with a jiggly belly. She knew that if she didn’t relax soon, if they didn’t get physical, he’d lose interest in her.

  Her relaxation strategy was one-pronged. She would drink. Heavily, if necessary. Lower her inhibitions by raising a few glasses. She would suggest dinner at a sushi place near her house, and order copious carafes of sake, then take him home and sake to him.

  But he had another idea. “You always wear clothes that are a size too big and not terribly flattering,” he said. “You can do better than that. I’m taking you shopping.”

  The nightmare of it. He’d hand her a pile of clothes (sweet Jesus, she’d have to tell him her size), she’d model them for him. They’d all look like shit, she’d be mortified, stripped of her camouflage (he’d been right about her buying garments that were too big). He’d see her true shape, the one she’d taken pains to conceal, and he’d make a run for it while she changed in the dressing room. If they were naked and alone in the dark, though, he might overlook certain flaws.

  He said, “Don’t be afraid, Betty. I’m good at this.”

  “You want to play dress-up,” she said. “I’m a life-size doll for you?” Make that plus-size.

  “Daffy’s is just around the corner,” Earl said definitively.

  The store was a huge discount chain that sold designer clothes that (a) were faulty in some minor way, (b) went unsold in finer retail stores, or (c) had fallen off the back of a truck. Betty spent a significant percentage of her clothing budget at Daffy’s because it was close to work and cheap. He took her hand and led her there.

  Despite her familiarity with the store, as soon as she and Earl walked inside the glass doors and stood among the circular racks of clothes, Betty panicked. She turned on her heel and went back outside. Earl followed.

  He grabbed her by the forearm of her puffy down coat. She shook him loose and said, “Every time we’ve gone out, you’ve ordered for me. And now you want to dress me.”

  “That’s right,” he said.

  “Y
ou’re trying to change me,” she said. “If I’m not good enough for you the way I am, fuck off.”

  “I want you to curse less,” he said. “It’s crass.”

  “I’ll fucking curse as much as I fucking want to,” she said.

  He shook his head. “Okay then.”

  “Okay what? I can do what I want, or you’re taking off?” she asked.

  Earl dug his hands into his overcoat pockets and said, “I’m taking off.” Before she could recover from the sock in the gut, he continued. “You think you’ve given me an ultimatum, but the choice is really up to you, Betty. You can indulge me, or resist me. Let me take control of the situation, or continue the way you’ve been.”

  She said, “The situation? Which is?”

  He said, “How you’ve let yourself go.”

  That phrase. The one that cropped up in Gert’s women’s magazines. She loathed it. The implication that she’d willfully surrendered to gravity and the call of Mallomars infuriated her. She’d always felt conflicted about the social demands for thinness, youth, and beauty. She didn’t have time to exercise or sit in front of a mirror for hours at a time, blow-drying her hair or putting on makeup. Nor had she the inclination. Vanity was for bubble-headed, superficial morons. Apparently, that’s what Earl wanted her to become.

  Betty inhaled as a prelude to shouting, “FUCK OFF, BASTARD COCKSUCKER.” That’s when Earl put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her. The surprise didn’t give her time to freeze. In fact, she was so red-hot with anger, she couldn’t have iced over had it been the will of God.

  For a second, Betty wondered if Earl had purposefully distracted her with this fight for the sole purpose of kissing her. But then all thought stopped, and she kissed him back.

  Before it got over-the-top impolite (they were on the street, in a mass of feverish Christmas shoppers), he broke contact. He said, “When’s the last time you gave in?”

  “Gave in?” she asked.

  “Let yourself go—in a completely different way.”