The Not-So-Perfect Man

by Valerie Frankel

  “Information desk,” he grunted.

  Rude prick. She’d almost let herself get swept up by the grandeur of the setting and the crispness of his uniform. But she was still in New York, and that meant waiting. The information desk had a line. From there, she was directed to another line.

  She got on it, and watched the seconds tick by on her watch. She was fidgeting so much and with such aggression, she bumped into the man ahead of her on line.

  He turned profile to accept her apology. Then, he spun all the way around to look at her.

  “Ilene, hello,” he said.

  “What in the?” she said. “Sam Hill, hello to you.”

  The impoverished actor man stood before her, wearing cargo pants, a down jacket and old sneakers. She realized with a sinking stomach (already a pixel-width from nausea) that she’d have to talk to him for the duration of the wait, or ignore him with such focus and silent volume that she might have to flee the post office. Which she simply could not do. She’d have to stand her ground and talk to him.

  Ilene said, “So. How’ve you been?”

  Sam said, “I’ve been all right. You are pregnant?”

  Did it show? She was only four months. He hadn’t seen her for a while, so her weight gain would seem dramatic. “Yes. But I’m not out with it yet. Waiting for the amnio.” That was the correct response. If she decided to terminate (the window was still open), she would blame it on the bad test results.

  He said, “Congratulations.”

  “Hmmm,” she said, nodding. “I’m surprised to see you.”

  “I bet you never wanted to see me again.”

  “You don’t seem surprised to see me,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Small city.”

  He bore into her eyes. His were bottomless, a dark chocolate sea. She found herself staring, trying to find his pupils.

  He said, “Don’t get lost in there.”

  She blinked and looked over his shoulder. “You can take a step,” she said. The line had moved forward an inch. “We should get to the teller window by some time next week.”

  He stepped ahead and said, “I don’t have much time. I ran out of a rehearsal at City Center to do this, and had no idea it would take so long. We leave for London a week from Friday to do a two-week run of Oliver!”

  “We?” she asked. Had he hooked up with yet another chorus girl?

  “We, the entire company,” he said. “I’m here—on this stagnant line—to renew my passport. I hadn’t realized it had expired. I have to send it certified mail to the Passport Bureau in Washington today, and pay a huge fee, to get a new one in a week.”

  “The fee must hurt,” she said, snarkily. Bad girl. She’d never survive the wait on this creeping line if she couldn’t be civil. “I’m sending legal documents, too.” She flashed the package, not giving him a chance to read the Marriage Bureau address.

  “How’s Peter?” asked Sam.

  “He’s well.”

  “How’s Frieda?”

  Brave of him to ask. “She’s doing great. She’s seeing someone, a fantastic man.”

  “He must be incredibly rich to meet your approval,” said Sam with an even smile.

  “I fixed them up,” she said. “And he is quite comfortable, actually.”

  Ilene thought she saw a ripple in the sea of his eyes, but his expression remained the same. He was a talented actor, she thought.

  He said, “I’m glad she’s happy. If she is.”

  “Oh, she’s happy.”

  “How the hell would you know?” he asked with sudden venom.

  Ilene felt a tap on her shoulder. A large woman, black in a blue dress, said, “The line is moving.”

  Sam took a step backward. Ilene moved the six inches toward him. She said, “Frieda is my sister. I’ve known her for thirty-six years. You lasted, how long? Nine months?”

  He smiled, slow, enjoying this. “You put the doubts in her head. About money. About my commitment.”

  Ilene said, “You have no idea how miserable she was when you left town.”

  “She was miserable to be apart because of how happy we were together,” he said. “She’ll never be that happy again.”

  Ilene scoffed. “You don’t know that.”

  “I do,” he said. “Her feelings matched mine. Frieda and I talked about it all the time. We’d never been as happy before. We won’t be again. You are to blame.”

  “Move along,” said the woman behind Ilene.

  They strode two paces ensemble, right, right, left, left, Sam backward, Ilene forward, as if they were dancing. “Frieda isn’t a puppet,” said Ilene. “She’s got her own mind.”

  “You…” he laughed in wonderment, it seemed. “You have no idea how persistently manipulative you are. I know how you operate. Asking the leading question, making the casual observation. And if you can’t control the situation, you pretend it doesn’t exist. You barely acknowledged me—or Betty’s boyfriend—at that Christmas party, except to check me out and then dismiss me. You made me feel like a speck. This is how you treat the man your sister’s in love with?” He paused and watched her reel at the affront. “From the look you’re giving me right now, I’m guessing that no one has ever treated you as rudely as you treated me,” he said. “I consider it an honor to do so.” He bowed. A grand low dip with the swing of an imaginary hat. He straightened up and stepped backward into the empty spot behind him without looking.

  Agile, showy bastard, she thought. “If I had any guilt about influencing Frieda about you, it is gone. Thank God she’s with David.”

  “David?” asked Sam. “Not that Ken doll you brought to Oliver!? He’s not right for her.”

  “He’s stable, reliable, and treats her like a queen.”

  “She’s not excited about him,” he said. “She couldn’t be.”

  Ilene said, “After what Frieda’s been through, she needs stability.”

  “Wrong!” he said definitively. “Frieda needs excitement. Desperately. Especially after what she’s been through.”

  “She was with Gregg for nine years. He was stable and reliable.”

  “Exactly!” he said. “You’re only making my point.”

  “You are making his point,” said the woman in the blue dress.

  Ilene turned behind her to glare, and the package slipped out of her grasp and hit the stone floor with a splat. Sam picked it up before she had a chance.

  He read the address on the envelope and his eyes shot wide open. He handed the package back. Now he’d feel sorry for her and stop his tirade. For the first time, she welcomed the pity.

  He said, “If you’d been paying attention to your own relationship instead of interfering with mine, neither one of us would have been dumped. I’m glad Peter’s divorcing you. He deserves better.”

  Sam turned around, just in time to step to the front of the line and up to the open clerk’s window on the right. Blue Dress said, “You should mind your own business.”

  Ilene turned around, face pinched with frustration and indignation. She spit, “You’re one to talk.”

  Seconds later, Ilene moved to the available window on the left. She turned over her package. In the corner of her eye, she saw Sam leave. She concluded her mailing and left.

  That was the first time Ilene and Sam had exchanged thoughts and ideas. Swiftly, he’d deflated and insulted her. She was impressed. He was right, of course. She’d barely thought of him as anything but an inappropriate boy to be dismissed. But Sam was more of a man than Ilene had previously assumed—more intelligent, observant, articulate, handsome (couldn’t deny those eyes), and pissed off. Quite a conversation, she thought.

  It would not be their last.

  Chapter 37

  Thursday, September 18

  3:13 P.M.

  Betty held the bomb in her hands. She was still undecided about whether to drop it, or to put it in a drawer and let it collect dust.

  Her office door was closed. She needed the precious privacy, as i
f she didn’t get enough of that on her own time. Peter was around, of course, but he’d been spending a lot of evenings at the bar on the corner. Drinking himself into the courage to send the separation agreement to Ilene, which he’d messengered yesterday. Betty was against it, but Peter muttered something about wanting to move on with his life before he became a hard-up geezer.

  Inspired by Peter’s initiative, Betty had brought the plastic binder to work. She put it in a large Jiffy bag. She used the company scale and postal meter. She addressed the envelope to the human resources department at headquarters. But for some reason, Betty couldn’t walk down the hall and drop it in the outgoing mailbag.

  The phone rang. The ring was long, meaning the call came from inside the building. She picked up.

  “Be strong, girl,” said Gert.

  “Huh?” asked Betty, puzzled.

  “Fluff your hair,” said Gert.

  Betty did it reflexively. Then there was a knock at the door. Gert said, “Good luck,” and hung up.

  Betty put the phone down and said, “Come in.”

  She should have known. He said, “Is this a good time?”

  Earl. The shock of seeing him made her drop the bomb in her lap. “A good time for what?” she asked, recovering enough to put the package in her bottom desk drawer before he could see it.

  He pushed back his long hair. It was a bit shorter, but the gesture was all him. She couldn’t deny that he looked great. Butterflies flew around in her throat and chest. They felt heavy, though, sticky. “I just flew in from Chicago,” he said.

  “And boy are your arms tired.”

  “There’s a problem with the audio-book booths?” he asked.

  “Not that I’m aware of,” she said. They were doing fine. Sales of audio books had increased tenfold, as projected. The uber bosses were happy, the customers were happy. Everything was keen.

  He said, “I got a call to come here and fix the booths.”

  Betty hadn’t made the call. Was it the night manager? Or, Betty wondered, had it been someone else? Someone with teased blonde hair who quoted articles in Psychology Today about lowering dangerously high levels of the stress hormone cortisol by articulating feelings of regret, hurt, and anger?

  Betty said, “You got a call to fix the booths, then go do it.”

  Earl sat down instead. He smiled shyly. She looked across the table at him, the man who’d opened her up with his hands. She could not speak. Those sticky butterflies were clogging her throat. Betty’s cortisol levels weren’t going anywhere but up. Earl said, “I have a confession to make.”

  She didn’t want to hear it. “An apology?”

  He said, “I think about you every day.”

  “Me, too.” She did. Why lie?

  He said, “This is a first for me.”

  “Missing someone?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You’ve never missed your son?” she asked.

  That got him. She thoroughly enjoyed his stricken expression. He said, “I have an arrangement with his mother that prevents me from spending a lot of time with him. Honestly, I don’t know him well enough to miss him.”

  Betty said, “How disassociative of you.”

  Earl said, “Whatever you’ve found out about that situation, you can’t possibly understand the nuances. I’d like to tell you the whole story, but that’ll take a while. And we have other things to discuss.”

  “The weather?” she asked.

  “I want to start over with you,” he said.

  Betty said, “But your work here is done.” When she said “here,” she pointed at her chest.

  “I want to start over as equals.”

  “You don’t want to control me anymore?” she asked. “I’m no longer your project? You’ve stopped wanting to improve me, to shepherd me into the world as a slimmer, better dressed and therefore more valuable member of society?”

  He said, “You have every right to be angry.”

  “I don’t think I can handle equality, Earl,” she said. “It’s too much pressure for me to have to think for myself. I might wear the wrong shirt, or eat the wrong food. I might watch a bad movie and like it. I might even have friends or family who annoy you.”

  He waved his hands, encouraging her to keep it coming. “Go ahead,” he said. “Get it all out.”

  “You see?” she said. “You’re already telling me what to do.”

  Earl leaned forward, elbows on her desk. She leaned back. As far back as she could. She reminded herself of all the lies he’d told her, all the cheats on his expenses. That cheap brooch.

  He said, “As I recall, you liked it when I told you what to do in my hotel room.”

  Her heart flopped a tiny bit. He was right. It had been thrilling to be controlled sexually. Submission stripped away (as it were) her self-consciousness about her body and inexperience. He was masterful; he made her feel safe. One would think being dominated would inspire the opposite reaction—unsafe, vulnerable. But not for Betty. Once she sank into the role (it took a while), she dissolved in the palm of his hand.

  She said, “I faked every orgasm.”

  Earl sighed wearily. “I’ve had enough,” he said, standing. “If the audio-book booths aren’t broken, I’m going to my hotel. Union Square, same place. I’ll be there all night. If you want me back, or want me at all, even for one night, I’m available.”

  Earl moved from sitting to standing, his body revealed to her inch by inch. The sight made her waver. One more night of him wouldn’t hurt her psyche, would it? She was about to say, “Wait,” when the phone rang.

  She picked up. “Yes?”

  “It’s me.” Peter. “Will you be home tonight?”

  “Maybe not,” she said, looking at Earl.

  “Why not?” asked Peter.

  “Can’t say.”

  “Please cancel your plans,” he begged. “Ilene sent in the countersigned separation agreement already. It’s over. She didn’t ask me to tear it up.”

  “Shit,” she said. Earl scowled. He hated it when she cursed. “If you didn’t want her to sign it, you shouldn’t have sent it to her.”

  “You can tell me how stupid I am all you want. Even that would be better than being alone tonight,” Peter said. “I’ll get a movie. Anything you want. And booze. Just name it.”

  Earl’s hair hung against his cheeks in the way that used to make her swoon. He drummed his belt buckle with his fingertips impatiently at the insult of being kept waiting by the woman who’d once jumped at his word.

  The belt buckle drumming did it. Broke the spell. For the first time, Betty saw him as just a guy. Not a magician with flying fingers. Not a heartless villain. He was just some guy she knew once. No one of consequence. Not anymore.

  Betty said into the phone, “Braveheart. White Russians. And get pot, too.”

  “Great!” said Peter. “Thanks, Betty.”

  She hung up. The phone rang again.

  “Do you need to be rescued?” said Gert.

  Betty said, “No.”

  She hung up. To Earl, she said, “I’ve got plans tonight with a man who might not be as exciting as you, but he’s kind and sweet and desperately in love.” She didn’t explain that Peter was desperately in love with her sister, of course.

  Earl raised his eyebrows. “A video date? Alcohol and pot? You’ll get the munchies and eat the wallpaper.”

  She said, “If you’d ever condescended to visit my apartment, you’d know that I don’t have wallpaper. And Brave-heart is a brilliant film. A much higher caliber that, say, Anal Intruder, which is probably what you’ll watch tonight.” She paused. “And, by the way, fuck you, piece of shit, asshole, for saying anything about my eating habits. Dick. Head.”

  Her former lover, the man she once wanted to marry, shook his head and grimaced at her like he’d been force-fed rotten meat.

  He said, “One day, you’ll see that our past is just the first chapter of our story.”

  She said, “Having list
ened to the first chapter, I’ll pass on buying the book.”

  Betty would not contact him. She wouldn’t waver again. She’d given him the power in the relationship, and now Betty wanted to grab it back. Every time she’d worn uncomfortable clothes for him, ordered a salad when she wanted pasta, stopped herself from cursing, waited hours for him to call her on a weekend, abstained from alcohol, put on makeup, or prayed he’d come back, Betty had screwed herself. And if screwing Earl meant screwing herself, well, she could do that on her own anyway.

  Betty said, “Before you go—and do let the door hit you on the ass on the way out—I have something for you.”

  She reached into her bottom desk drawer and pulled out the hefty envelope with the proof of his misdoings. She handed it to him, and said, “This was my project. I was excited about it because it kept me connected to you. I’m not excited anymore.”

  Chapter 38

  Thursday, September 18

  11:15 P.M.

  Drunk, stoned, in a dimly lit room, with a pretty woman’s head on his lap. Peter reviewed the situation and was pleased to find himself in it. He was especially impressed by one thing, though: His dick was not in the least bit hard. Not a single blood cell was within stiffening distance.

  Peter and Betty were on the couch of her living room. The movie was nearly over. The bottle of Kahlua empty. A resin-stained roach in the ashtray. He looked around the room. The tapestry hanging on the wall, the cheap Indian print sarong used as a slipcover. The distressed (not on purpose) furniture. The scene was a flashback to college. If he were to act like he had back then, he’d be all over Betty, feeling her up, trying to revive her from her alcohol-and pot-induced slumber.

  He touched her hair. It was thick and black, like Ilene’s, but not as shiny and well tended. Ilene kept herself immaculately groomed. He’d always appreciated that, the care she put into herself, the courtesy to him that her legs were always smooth, moisturized and exfoliated to petal softness. He’d told her early on that he wasn’t offended by body hair. He assured her that he would love her furry. She said she would never insult him by coming to bed with stubble. Of course, Peter enjoyed the smoothness.