The Not-So-Perfect Man (21 page)

Friday, September 26
2:33
P
.
M
.

The holding pen was crowded, but, thankfully, the city had supplied enough chairs. Frieda counted ten wedding parties in the room. A few of the brides-to-be wore all-out, white sequined and beaded gowns, veils, trains. The matching grooms were in tuxes (one black, one green and one purple). Some of the groups were large (ceremonies were limited to ten witnesses), but the majority were parties of two, the husband and wife, husband and “wife,” or “husband” and wife (the latter two categories were having same-sex commitment ceremonies, recognized by the State of New York as legally binding). At present, Frieda’s wedding party consisted of herself in a lavender dress, David in a gray suit, and Justin in chocolate smudges and lollipop smears.

“The candy was a mistake,” said David.

Frieda knew there’d be a wait, so she’d brought a bag of sweets to occupy Justin. He’d consumed the goodies in the first ten minutes, and was now running up and down the length of the room, jumping and smacking the walls to leave ever-higher chocolate marks on the beige paint.

She said, “Maybe we should come back another time.”

David said, “This isn’t a crowded restaurant. We’re here to get married. It shouldn’t be much longer.”

The clerk opened the door and yelled into the crowd, “Now serving couple number seventy-eight.” Frieda and David were number 80.

Justin ran by. David and Frieda watched him, their heads swiveling. “I’ve never told you ‘I love you’ back,” she said.

“That’s okay,” he said, “When you’re ready.”

David said he’d fallen in love with her in days. Nights, actually, the ones spent out to dinner, talking about their lives. She found this assertion unbelievable, but then reminded herself that she’d fallen in love with Gregg, and then Sam, in minutes.

She said, “If I asked you to walk across the room and touch the wall with your left foot to prove your love, would you do it?”

He didn’t answer. He stood up, walked across the room, kicked the wall with his left foot and returned. He said, “I’ll do it again if you want me to. I’ll do anything within reason. I do draw the line at murder and robbery.”

“What about vandalism?” she asked. “Public nudity?”

“I have been naked in public, and liked it. So I can’t reasonably object to that,” he said, and started telling her a story about a summer at Martha’s Vineyard.

She half listened. The other half of her mind replayed the night she and Sam broke up. She had tried to corral Sam, to leash him to her side. And now that she had a man who would bark like a dog if she asked, she wished she’d stuck with the one who trusted her enough to leave her on her own.

Frieda smiled and nodded at her fiancé, seeing his mouth move but not hearing the words. Whenever he kissed her, she thought of pencil erasers. When he felt her up, she imagined a baker kneading dough. When they fucked, she saw Gregg. His ghost. She watched him hover near the ceiling, looking down at them, nodding in approval, his phantasmal mind-meld sending her the message that he could rest in peace knowing that she and Justin would be taken care of by a reliable man like David.

She’d never seen the ghost of Gregg when she was with Sam. With Sam, she never saw or thought about anything except what they were doing to each other.

“Where the hell are Ilene and Betty?” she asked suddenly. “Oh, I’m sorry for interrupting.”

“Don’t apologize,” said David, taking her hand and placing it on his heart. Sam used to take her hand and press it against his hard-on.

David looked over her shoulder. “Here’s Ilene now,” he said.

Frieda turned to look. There was her pregnant sister, elbowing her way through the crowd. Justin was with her, leading her by the hand to Frieda and David.

Frieda jumped up and grabbed her sister. “You’re late!” she said.

“I had to pick something up,” she said.

Out of the corner of her eye, Frieda saw sugar-high Justin slapping a man’s leg. She looked up toward his face, and her breath caught. Sam Hill. She rubbed her eyes. Had to be hallucinating.

“Hello, Frieda,” Sam said, smiling. “You look good.”

Ilene put her arm around Sam’s shoulder. “Look who I found!” she announced.

David stood up and pecked Ilene on the cheek. He reached out to shake Sam’s hand. Frieda didn’t move. She just stared. He looked glorious, of course. His hair, a madscientistish riot. His eyes, fixed on her, were shimmering. His skin, clear and vibrant. She’d forgotten how beautiful he was, the intensity of their molecular attraction, the chemical lure to press herself against him.

David said, “What are you doing here?”

Ilene said, “I was invited!”

“I was talking about him.”

“I ran into Sam and thought he might want to congratulate the bride,” said Ilene.

Justin ran off again, smacking chocolate fingerprints on the walls. “Where did you run into him?” asked David.

Ilene smiled. “The airport. JFK. I pulled him off a flight to London.”

Frieda and Sam listened to this exchange, not breaking eye contact the entire time. “Is that true?” asked Frieda.

Sam kept staring. He didn’t speak right away. After a beat of ten, he said, “Yes.”

“And you want to congratulate me?” she asked.

He opened his mouth, but didn’t talk. He looked at Ilene, then back at Frieda. Up at David, down at his feet. Finally, he said, “No.”

Ilene said, “Sam, you might be overplaying the terse Mainer.”

The clerk opened the door and called for number 79. David said, “We’re next.”

Justin bounced back, this time, pulling Betty toward their group. Betty gripped the arm of a confused-looking thin man in a beautifully tailored blue suit. It took a moment for Frieda to realize it was Peter.

“What is Justin doing at the mayor’s press conference…?” Peter muttered until he spotted Frieda. Then David. Then Sam. When his eyes lit on Ilene, he reeled backward, clutching his heart, colliding with a groom.

The groom, green tux, said, “Watch it, jerk-off.”

“I’m sorry,” said Peter.

The bride said, “You promised. No one gets whacked on my wedding day.”

“You just got lucky, asshole,” said the groom.

Lucky Peter turned back to the Schast party. He exclaimed, “I’ve been deceived.”

“In a nice way,” said Betty, steadying Peter.

Peter massaged his chest and sized up the situation. “Was this a conspiracy, or did you act alone?” he asked Betty.

“I did it on my own,” she said proudly.

Peter said to her, “What did you hope to achieve? That Ilene and I would take one look at each other and see what complete fools we’ve been? That we’re made for each other? That my heart aches to look at her because she’s so beautiful? That she would realize she loves me and needs me, too? Is that what you expected?”

Before Betty could speak, Ilene said to her, “Peter couldn’t possibly think I’m beautiful. I’ve gained twenty pounds.”

Peter said to Betty, “I don’t care about that. Her weight gain is due to emotional eating anyway. I’m glad, actually. It’s proof that she’s been upset about the separation.”

“Can you two please talk to each other?” said Betty. “And Ilene’s weight gain isn’t about emotional eating. She’s…”

Ilene held up her hand. “I’ll thank you to stop there,” she said to her youngest sister.

Justin, meanwhile, took Frieda’s hand and squeezed hard. He looked droopy, about to crash from his sugar frenzy. She said, “Are you okay?”

Her son said, “I don’t feel good.”

Sam said, “He’s turning green. I’ll take him to the men’s room.”

David said, “I’ll take him. He’s my stepson.”

Justin said, “Rock, paper, scissors.”

David and Sam agreed. Together, they said, “One, two, three, shoot!”

Sam said, “Shit. Best of three?”

“I won,” said David. “
I’ll
take Justin to the bathroom.
I’ll
marry Frieda.
I’ll
be friends with Ilene. And you will disappear from our lives forever.”

Sam asked Frieda, “Is that what you want?”

Frieda was too stunned by the turn of events to answer. She groped for coherency, but failed to come up with anything. Sam said, “Okay then,” and walked away, maneuvering around brides and grooms. He stopped a few feet from the exit, waiting for something. Frieda thought,
Look back. Look back.
He didn’t look back.

He did turn around and run toward her, leaping over white tulle trains and satin-shod feet. He grabbed Frieda in his arms and kissed her hard on the mouth. He gripped her ass with one hand, and snagged her hair with the other. Frieda swooned against him, holding him as tightly as she could. As soon as her hand touched the skin of his neck, she was gone. It was heaven, bliss, walking on air, a passion of fire and majesty. How could she have considered marrying David for one second, when a kiss from Sam made her feel like this?

“Get a room,” said the green-tux groom.

Coming up for air, Sam said, “I think we should get back together.”

She said, “Excellent idea.”

“But if you marry David, we’ll have to break up for good.”

The clerk opened the door and yelled, “Now serving couple number eighty.”

“That’s us,” said David. “Sam, I thought this about you when I saw you onstage: You’ve got great timing.”

The clerk called back. “Number eighty. Does anyone with ticket number eighty want to get married?”

Frieda looked at Sam. She said, “Should we?”

Sam said, “Should we
what?
”

Ilene said, “Actors are supposed to take risks.”

“Show some nuts, man,” said Betty.

“Sam has nuts?” Justin asked.

Peter said, “We’re about to find out.”

Friday, September 26
3:33
P
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M
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“By the powers vested in me by the City of New York, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss,” said the judge.

He leaned in to kiss his bride. The touch of her lips was sweet and satisfying, like returning home after years in forced exile. She seemed to like it, too. She sighed, the sound rippling through his memory, setting off a physical chain reaction that he couldn’t derail.

His bride, feeling the intrusion on her thigh, whispered in his ear, “Save that for later.”

The family gathered around them, laughing, backslapping. Betty whistled through her teeth. He had no idea she could do that. It was an ability he’d long admired, and this raised Betty in his already sky-high esteem. Justin gave him a high five with such velocity that it caused genuine pain. He didn’t mind. Nothing could bother him now.

David stayed for the ceremony, which was brave of him. He was a decent guy. No wonder Ilene had made him her friend, why Frieda had agreed to marry him. Betty and David stood next to each other during the vows exchange. As the group filed out of the judge’s chambers, he heard Betty say to David, “You’re on the rebound, so it’s perfect. I’m looking for casual. The relationship equivalent of cutoffs and a tank top.”

David said, “I need some time.”

“Oh,” said Betty. “I understand.”

“Will a week from Saturday work for you?” he asked.

Justin seemed unfazed by the turn of events. “What happened to the nuts?” he kept asking, and then he’d laugh hysterically (Betty had explained to him what
nuts
meant, in this case). Frieda told Justin he could have a Snickers bar from the vending machine if he shut up. The kid complied.

News of Sam’s 6-
A
.
M
. flight to London didn’t please Frieda. She said, “You’re leaving
tomorrow
morning? For two weeks? How am I going to get through it?”

“You’ll make it,” promised Sam. “You know I’m coming back.”

That seemed to satisfy her. For the moment. The wedding party exited City Hall onto Centre Street, a half block from the entrance of the Brooklyn Bridge. Sam, Frieda, and Justin decided to walk over it, back to Brooklyn. David and Betty shared a cab uptown.

“Alone at last,” said Ilene. The woman of Peter’s dreams. His new bride as of eleven minutes ago. His old wife as of eleven years ago. The judge had agreed to marry them, even though they hadn’t filled out the paperwork, after they explained the special circumstances. They’d done enough paperwork already.

“What can I do for you?” asked Peter. “Want me to marry you a third time? I’ll do it. Let’s get back on line.”

Ilene laughed. He hadn’t heard her laugh in what felt like years. He wanted to make love to her until they were both as raw as hamburger meat.

“The time we’ve been apart,” she said. “It was useful.”

He agreed. If he hadn’t been away, he wouldn’t have known that he could function without her, which, counterintuitively, made him want her even more.

“It really was an arrow to the heart, seeing you standing there, next to Sam Hill of all people,” said Peter.

Ilene’s face had filled out. The sharp edges had a pretty curve to them now. Her skin was pinker from the effort of carrying the extra weight. Her hair seemed thicker, shinier. He had to touch it. The only thing that could possibly make her more beautiful? Peter said, “Brides should have flowers. I want to get some for you. What kind do you want?”

She took his hand and placed it on her rounded belly. “Daisy,” she said.

“Just one? Can’t I buy a bunch? Many bunches?”

She shook her head. “This is Daisy,” said Ilene, pressing his palm into her stomach. “We’ll meet her in January. Or February.”

It took a minute to register. But when he understood what his wife was telling him, Peter felt instantly blessed, closer to God, flawless and ideal. He was a perfect man. Not because of who he was, what he did, his successes, accomplishments. None of that mattered. Peter felt like a perfect man for one reason only: The perfect woman was smiling at him.

He smiled back.