The Not-So-Perfect Man (10 page)

Thursday, December 19
2:29
P
.
M
.

Ilene loved the cold. The blast of wind on her face, the softness of the faux-fur collar of her coat, her hair flying around her cheeks. She felt like an arctic princess. Her blood temperature seemed to rise to counter the chill. Lesser mortals hugged their coats closer, fighting the elements that were, for Ilene, friendly and welcoming. With the slightest regret, she walked into the Citibank on the corner of Madison and 42nd, out of the brisk air and into the overheated ATM vestibule.

She had shopping to do. Frieda’s pre-Christmas dinner was coming up, and her gift list was long. Justin would get toys, Betty and Frieda clothes. For Peter, Ilene had ideas but nothing she was completely happy with. She would poke around a few stores and wait for inspiration to strike. She’d decided to buy generic and impersonal accessories from Brooks Brothers for Sam Hill and Earl Long. In short, ties. Not that she was trying to be symbolic. She didn’t believe her sisters’ boyfriends would have lasting ties to the family. She didn’t expect to see either of them at next year’s dinner.

The pre-Christmas dinner was a family tradition going way back. Their parents, not wanting their daughters to feel left out, had done gifts and a turkey on Christmas Day since they were little girls. As adults, getting together for Christmas got complicated with travel plans and spouses. Plus, as their collective consciousness rose in the age of terrorism, gathering on the birthday of the baby Jesus felt like a betrayal of their Jewish heritage. The family began a new tradition: the pre-Christmas dinner, held earlier in December during Hanukah, another in the long line of Jewish holidays commemorating how their ancestors were almost killed by enemies but managed to kill the enemies instead, after which point they noshed for three days. L’chiam.

Frieda wanted to host this year, to arrange the night as a coming-out for Sam. This would be the first party at Frieda’s since the shivah for Gregg. Ilene had offered to help, but Frieda wanted to handle it on her own. Unsatisfied to do nothing, Ilene contented herself with shopping. She’d come bearing gifts, if not food.

Ilene took off her gloves and put her card in the ATM slot. She usually hated paying cash, but she didn’t want Peter to see where she’d gone shopping if he checked the action on their Visa card. The holiday season, combined with his weight loss, was rapidly thawing Ilene’s heart to him. Peter must have dropped close to twenty pounds. She noticed every ounce of the shrinkage, but didn’t say anything to him for fear of jinxing it. She had no idea what had finally inspired him to diet. What it something she’d said? She wished she knew. She was proud of him, and relieved. His risk of heart attack decreased with the numbers on the scale. Her knot of anger was unraveling. His diet was proof of his feelings. She felt loved again, and safe.

Relationships are 90 percent perception. Ilene’s current perspective was sunny and clear, brightening her mind, the day, the season. She checked her face in the mirror above the ATM. She looked good. She felt good—and she’d show Peter just how good in bed tonight. Remarkably, she was looking forward to it.

She punched in her PIN number to access the joint checking account, and hit “Get cash.” She’d take out $1,000, the most she could withdraw from the account on a single day. When she tried to extract the money, the ATM told her that $200 had already been withdrawn from the account that morning, and she could only get an additional $800, until tomorrow. Peter had taken out $200? Or was it a bank error? Ilene went to “Account information.” Scrolling down the transaction summary, she noticed a pattern. Apparently, Peter had been withdrawing $200 each week for the last six weeks.

“Twelve hundred dollars?” she said to herself. Where had the money gone? He hadn’t used it to pay any bills. Ilene wrote the checks in the house. He hadn’t been shop ping for groceries. For budgeting purposes, Ilene used her credit card at the supermarket.

After withdrawing the $800, Ilene tucked the cash in her wallet, crammed the wallet into her purse, slung her purse on her shoulder, and marched out of the ATM. No longer feeling the cold nor enjoying it, Ilene stormed straight up Madison Avenue to 45th street. The shopping would have to wait. Before she could do another single thing, she wanted to know what Peter was up to. They had an agreement, that all large cash transactions would be discussed first. Two hundred at a time wasn’t large, but the six withdrawals added up to a significant amount.

The lobby of Peter’s office building always reminded her of a giant bathroom. The walls and floor were lined with marble tiles, and there were huge corn plants arranged every few yards. She hated the décor. The sight of it made her irrationally angry. She stopped at the security desk and signed in. The guard recognized her, but he informed her that the building had a new security policy. Every visitor had to be announced before going up to any of the offices.

Ilene gave him Peter’s extension. He dialed on the security phone, whispered into the mouthpiece, and then hung up.

“I’m sorry. Mr. Vermillion is out of the office.”

“Give me that phone,” she said.

The guard saw the look in her eye and gave her the phone. She dialed Peter’s extension. Jane answered.

“Hello, Jane. It’s Ilene. Would you happen to know where Peter is? I need to speak with him. It’s urgent,” she said.

“Ilene, hi,” said Jane. “He stepped out. He should be back in about an hour.”

“Stepped out. For an hour. At three o’clock on a Thursday?”

“Can you hold, please?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Ilene.

Jane paused. “The other phone is ringing.”

“Let it ring.”

“Is there something wrong, Ilene?” asked Jane in an exaggeratedly solicitous tone. Ilene laughed when she heard Jane disarm Peter that way. She wasn’t laughing now.

Ilene said, “I’m waiting.”

Jane said, “He had an appointment. I’m not sure where or with whom. If you want more information, you’ll have to ask Peter yourself. But, frankly, I don’t think he’ll want to talk to you when you’re in this kind of mood.”

The lip! “How dare you… Why are you protecting him?” asked Ilene. The security guard seemed anxious to get his phone back. A line of people had formed behind her. She closed her eyes, ignoring them all.

“Have you tried his cell?” asked Jane.

“Miss? I’ll have to ask you to hang up,” said the guard.

“No,” said Ilene to Jane and the guard. She dug into her purse and found her cell. She dialed Peter’s number. Voice-mail. Ilene said into the landline, “It’s turned off.”

Jane was silent. The guard stood and walked around the security desk to take the phone from her by force. Ilene could hear other phone lines ringing in Peter’s office.

“What is he up to?” demanded Ilene, dodging the security guard.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Jane.

“Please, miss,” said the guard.

“Is he buying me jewelry?” asked Ilene with holiday hope.

The guard said, “I’m going to have to call security.”

Ilene said, “You
are
security!”

“Jewelry?” said Jane. “Don’t bet on it.”

Ilene pulled the phone away from her ear to look at it. Had Jane been possessed by demons? Ilene said, “Just tell Peter to call me.” She threw the receiver at the security guard. The line of people behind her applauded.

Ilene hoofed it back to
Cash,
only a few blocks up Madison Avenue from
Bucks.
She ignored her assistant, slammed into her office and slid the door closed tight. Sitting down in her desk chair, Ilene tried to get a grip on herself, to think rationally. Approach this like an article. She took out a pad of paper and wrote at the top: “What costs $1,200?”

She proceeded to make a list of what Peter could be buying with that amount. Ilene could make an infinite list of items she’d buy with $1,200, including the entire lamp department at ABC Carpet and Home. She crossed out her first question, and tried a new one: “What would Peter need to keep secret from me?” And then, she wrote out a list, including only scary, bad things.

1. Drugs
   
2. Pornography
   
3. Botox (other beauty treatment? liposuction not that cheap)
   
4. Gambling
   
5. Debt to Mafia
   
6. Blackmail
   
7. Hookers
   
8. An affair
   

He had lost a lot of weight, possibly aided by chemicals. But she knew from her own college experiences that Peter hadn’t been exhibiting the signs of cocaine use (fidgeting, nonstop talking, smoking cigarettes and frequent trips to the bathroom). If he’d started smoking pot, he’d have gained weight. Heroin? She didn’t know much about the drug personally. But, as she understood it, that would cost more than $200 a week. And he seemed energetic lately, not in a morphine-induced stupor. Could be pharmaceuticals. She added “Prozac?” to the list, and moved on.

Porn. Hard to imagine he’d spend that much on magazines and videos. She scratched that off. Okay, beauty treatments. Men were senselessly embarrassed to admit to getting help from trained Russian facialists. His skin seemed the same. No sign of UVB exposure from tanning booths. No injection marks from Botox. He couldn’t very well hide the crackling red burns of a fruit-acid peel. Cellulite suction treatment? He couldn’t stand the pain.

Gambling, Mafia debt, blackmail. Unlikely, she thought. But who really knew about such things? Had Peter hit a kid in the Bronx while driving drunk—like in
Bonfire of the Vanities—
been seen, and had to pay off some wise guy? Wouldn’t the blackmailer ask for a larger sum, probably lump?

Debt? On what? Not drugs. Gambling? He’d never shown any interest. The one time they’d tried roulette on a vacation in the Bahamas, Peter nearly wept when they lost $50. Hookers? Peter would be terrified of catching a disease.

Which left an affair. Ilene put down the pad. Two hundred, once a week. The price of a two-star hotel room in Manhattan, plus a bottle of cheap champagne. He’d paid cash for the same reason she didn’t want to use her credit card for holiday gifts. The money was always withdrawn on Thursdays, she realized. Was he, at that very moment, humping some slut at the Waldorf? The weight loss. Wasn’t it a predictable cliché that a man got in shape before dissolving his marriage, or when he took up with a younger woman?

Relationships are 90 percent perception. Her marriage, bright as the sun an hour ago, had plunged into a swamp of black gook. Should she feel upset, defensive, belligerent, or hopeless? Or all of the above? Until she sorted out her feelings and gathered information, Ilene had to present a calm exterior. “Pretend everything is normal,” she instructed herself.

She picked up the phone and dialed Peter’s office again. Jane answered. Ilene said, “Jane, it’s Ilene. I’m so sorry I was rude to you before. Don’t bother telling Peter I called.”

Jane said, “The message was urgent.”

“This Christmas, you deserve a full day of beauty at Georgette Klinger,” said Ilene. “For all your hard work and dedication.”

Jane, who usually received a half day of beauty at Georgette Klinger from Ilene, said, “I’m ripping up the message right now.”

“And you won’t mention my little episode?” said Ilene.

“What episode?” asked Jane.

Monday, December 23
Midnight

“I thought you did well,” said Frieda to Sam as they lay in bed.

“Just now?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, “but I was referring to the party.”

The pre-Christmas dinner had been a success. Her guests left a couple of hours ago. Frieda went to work on the dishes and Sam put Justin to bed, as if they were a normal family. Once Justin was sound asleep, Frieda and Sam made love on her four-poster bed, Christmas lights wound around the posts and canopy like a starry ship. They’d never had sex on her bed before, or had a whole night sleepover. He’d been introduced to her family. As evenings go, this was a significant one for their relationship.

They’d decided that Sam should leave before Justin woke up. Frieda thought it might upset Justin to wake up and find Sam sleeping in his father’s place. Sam was amenable, as always. He’d leave at 5
A
.
M
. That gave them five more hours, of which they’d make good use. Frieda would have another day on minimal sleep. She was getting used to the REM-deprived buzzing in her brain. The physical demands of her relationship with Sam were like having a newborn baby. She felt exhausted, with sore breasts and a well-traveled vagina.

She said to him, “Party postmortem?”

“Okay,” said Sam. “I like Justin.”

Justin had appeared to like Sam.

Showing up twenty minutes late (a high drama entrance), Sam had seemed wary at first. Who could blame him, walking into an apartment full of strangers? Frieda rushed to Sam’s side immediately, eager to introduce him around. Justin, who’d seen Sam’s head shot in the
Playbill
for
Oliver!,
approached him before her sisters had the chance. He said, “You’re Sam?”

And Sam said, “And you must be Peter. No? Then you’re Betty. Ilene? Wait a minute. I’ve got it. You’re the butler!”

Justin giggled appreciatively, and that was that.

Sam’s arrival had drawn Frieda’s sisters, Peter, and Earl into the living room from the kitchen. Frieda made the introductions. Sam shook hands around the semicircle of gawking people. Betty invited Sam to sit on the couch. He asked for a Scotch, which Peter supplied. Frieda said she had a turkey to baste. She headed back toward the kitchen. On the walk down the hall, she’d heard Justin say, “In your picture, you look a lot older.”

Naturally, her sisters followed Frieda, leaving the men in the living room.

Once safely in the kitchen, Betty said, “He is so fucking hot!”

Frieda said, “I know!”

Ilene said, “He is, truly, a knockout.”

Frieda said, “I know!”

“Very young,” added Ilene. “He looks like a kid.”

Frieda snuggled closer to Sam, remembering her sisters’ praise. She said, “You and Justin played nicely together.” Sam had given Justin a piggyback ride and let him jump from his shoulders to the couch (not allowed ordinarily).

He said simply, “Justin’s a good kid.” It was a benign statement, noncommittal. Frieda hadn’t expected Sam to say, “He’s exactly what I’ve been looking for in a stepson.” But something more than “good kid” would have been appreciated. She reminded herself that marriage wasn’t the goal. There was no goal. Only game.

Sam said, “Justin showed me his room. The cats were sleeping on his bed. They’re named Black and White?”

“They’re both Gray in the dark,” said Frieda.

“And the turtles,” said Sam. The tank was in Justin’s room.

Frieda said, “What about them?”

“Named Sink and Swim?”

“There used to be a goldfish in the tank, too.”

“Justin told me. The turtles ate it,” said Sam. “What was the goldfish’s name?”

“Lunch,” said Frieda.

The couple lay side-by-side, bodies touching, holding hands, looking at each other and the red, yellow, and pink lights around the bed. She asked, “What do you think of my apartment?”

“Big. Bright. Lots of pictures. Boxes for everything. A box for the remote controls. A box for pens, coasters, onions. Even this bed is a box, with the posts and canopy.”

Frieda said, “I like things to be contained.”

“I’ll bet you’d like to contain me,” said Sam.

She laughed. “I don’t think they make boyfriend caddies at Pottery Barn.”

“At some point, I’d like you to tell me about your stuff.”

“Where I found my end tables? How I picked my china?”

He said, “You’ve accumulated a lot.”

“I have.”

“I haven’t,” he said.

Frieda said, “The night table on your side of the bed. Notice how the surface of the wood is pockmarked?” Sam nodded. “Every night when Gregg came home from work, he’d toss his keys on the night table, leaving the little marks. You’re on his side of the bed, by the way.”

“Great, so now every time I look at this night table, I’ll see Gregg’s indelible mark,” Sam said. “You don’t have to worry, Frieda. I won’t forget what you’ve been through.”

“That’s not why I told you about it.”

Sam said, “Sure it is.”

They were silent for a minute. He said, “Are we still doing a postmortem?”

She nodded. “Start with Ilene.”

Sam leaned up on one elbow and then kissed Frieda before saying, “She’s not as beautiful as you are.”

Ilene had long been recognized as the most beautiful sister, certainly possessing the lioness’s share of style. Frieda said, “Thank you for lying.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “She was quiet, actually. Not what I’d been expecting. She gave good gifts. Can’t think of the last time I wore a tie. We might be able to think of a use for it, though.” Sam grabbed her wrist, and made eyes at the posts of her bed.

Frieda got up on one elbow, in the same position as Sam, and said, “Did you talk to her?”

He said, “Not really. She asked me a little bit about
Oliver!
”

“Did you talk to Betty?”

“Not really. She said she was sorry to have missed
Oliver!
”

“Both of them came into the kitchen and told me how intelligent and sophisticated you are,” she said.

“Now who’s lying?”

“What did you think of Earl?” she asked.

“Drunk.”

“Besides that.”

“He likes Betty,” he said. “She likes him. When he made that toast, I thought she’d pass out with happiness.”

After the turkey and stuffing, before the coffee and pie, Earl had held up his (sixth? seventh?) glass of wine and said, “And now, I’d like to discuss my traveling plans.” He’d explained that his original schedule called for him to return to Chicago at the end of December, but he’d launched a campaign to remain in New York for an additional six months. He’d said, “I called my boss and told him, ‘My work here is not done.’ And he’s given me permission to stay.” Betty had jumped out of her chair and hugged Earl with abandon, in love or close to it.

Sam said, “I saw Peter and Betty talking conspiratorially in the kitchen.”

“They’re diet buddies. They were sneaking pie.”

“Sneaking?” he asked.

Frieda waved it off. “What else did you see?”

“Ilene talked to everyone but her own husband. Peter had four Scotches. Justin gravitated toward Betty, but she didn’t want to be crawled on in her new outfit. Earl called Justin ‘kiddo.’ ”

“Did you talk to Peter?” she asked.

“Not really. He bought the soundtrack to
Oliver!
”

“So you’re saying all anyone could think to ask you about was
Oliver!
” she said.

“That’s the size of it.”

“No one asked about your Norman Rockwell childhood in Maine?”

“They must be saving that for the next forced social encounter.”

Frieda nodded. Her hand roamed the length of Sam’s torso.

“I should have facilitated,” she said.

“You were busy with the food and Justin,” he said. “Be-sides, your sisters just wanted to get a look at me, not sit down and have a meaningful conversation. I got the vibe, especially from Ilene, that getting to know me would be a waste of time.”

“She’s just being protective.”

“How is that protective?”

Frieda shrugged. “She’s the oldest sister. She thinks my happiness is her responsibility.”

“And she doesn’t think you’ll be happy with me.”

“Don’t get defensive,” said Frieda. “She hardly talked to Earl either.”

“Did you talk to him?” asked Sam.

“Not really,” she said. “He told me he liked the apartment. That I had good taste in wine. He also said he was sorry to have missed your performance in
Oliver!
”

Sam said, “You should have told him the pockmarked-night-table story. I’ve sure he would have been deeply moved.”

Frieda laughed. “You’re an asshole.”

“But I’m your asshole,” he said. “I am undeniably, utterly, smittenly, your personal property. And you can tell Ilene that I’m not going anywhere. That she’ll have to deal with me one of these days. And then she’ll realize that a broke twenty-eight-year-old actor is exactly what you need.”

“I’ll pass that along,” said Frieda, smiling at him, staring at his marvelous face.

He said, “As long as you look at me that way, I’ll always love you.”

“You love me,” she said.

“I was holding off on saying it until I met your son,” he said.

This confused her. “If my son had turned out to be awful, you wouldn’t love me?” she asked.

He said, “I probably would’ve been able to pull back.”

An honest response. Sam had been consistently truthful. She couldn’t fault him for it. “I’m not sure I like that,” she said.

“I said ‘probably.’ My love might have been an unstoppable force despite a monster child. But we won’t know now because Justin is a good kid.”

Sam pushed Frieda onto her back and started the rubbing and touching business that made her brain shut off and her body liquefy. In seconds, she would lose all reason. She stopped him and said, “Just tell me if you liked my family. Generally speaking.”

He said, “You’re all very close. It’s intimidating to come up against that. Especially when I get the feeling you’re the only one rooting for me.” His hand was well under the comforter now, and she couldn’t concentrate. Sam whispered in her ear: “And now, I’d like to discuss my travel plans.”

Frieda said, “You’ll be staying in New York another six months?”

“I’m leaving tomorrow for six weeks,” he said.

She tried to sit upright, but Sam held her down. He said, “I have to go to Maine for Christmas. And then we’re doing a Midwestern tour. It’s decent money, and I’m contracted to do it.”

Panicky, Frieda said, “Six weeks?”

“I told you when we met that I travel a lot.”

“That was before I got addicted to you,” she said.

He said, “You’re not addicted to me.”

“I am! Being with you is everything to me.”

“Besides Justin,” he said.

“Justin is beside the point,” she said.

Sam said, “It’s just six weeks. I’ll be back and it’ll be better for being apart. Think how great it’ll be to see each other again. We’ll talk every day while I’m gone.”

“Tonight is our last night. We’ll miss New Year’s,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

He said, “I knew you’d be upset.”

She was upset. Terribly upset. She found herself anticipating the aloneness, knowing it well, the muted color and thorny texture.

Sam said, “You’ll get back into work at the gallery. You’ll spend time with friends. Justin has winter break. The weeks will pass. You’ll hardly miss me.”

“Are all your ex-girlfriends going, too?” she asked.

“Some,” he said. “Look at me. You never have to worry about that. I am faithful like a dog. I’ve never cheated in my life. And I won’t dare do anything to fuck this up.”

She took a few deep breaths. He was leaving her. She thought of Dr. Bother, of her warning to be careful. That she was susceptible to emotional swings. Suddenly, she was in the midst of one.

He held her close. She said, “Where in the Midwest?”

Sam said, “Iowa, Illinois, Michigan. They love musical theater in Michigan. They give us a cheese platter in the green room in Wisconsin.”

“They do not.”

“It’s true. They cheese us up.”

“I haven’t told you I love you back,” she said.

“I noticed.”

She said, “I can’t say it yet.” She was too rocked by his news. The idea of losing him had brought up some Gregg stuff. She tried to push it back down, but couldn’t.

Sam moved toward her and licked her lips. She could kiss him for hours, had kissed him for hours. She’d nearly come from just hugging. She found herself slipping into his kiss again. And the Gregg stuff did go away. For now.

She pulled back. “Oh, fuck it,” she said. “I love you. You know I do. I’ve loved you since that first time we kissed at the gallery. You have me. I am at your mercy.”

“I am on my honor,” he promised, speaking against her cheek.

“You’d better be,” she said.

In the morning, hours after Sam left, Justin plodded into her room. She’d had two hours of sleep. With Sam gone, knowing she wouldn’t see him again for weeks, fatigue settled into her bones. She wouldn’t open the store today. She’d put the original
Star Wars
trilogy on for Justin, and try to sleep over the sound of light sabers.

But first, the morning routine. Frieda got up, made Justin’s breakfast, fed the cats, the turtles, watered the plants. Washed the dishes. Made Justin’s bed, folded the laundry.

While he ate his Frosted Flakes, Justin said, “Mom. About Sam.”

“Yes?” she said.

“He’s a good guy.”