The Not-So-Perfect Man Page 4

  She shook her head and said, “Conversation over?”

  “And then some,” he said. Then, “Take a peek out there.” Bruce’s desk was only ten feet from Peter’s office. He could hear the staff, milling, murmuring. There was a conspiratorial, muffled lowness to their voices.

  Jane cracked Peter’s office door and peered out. She closed it immediately. “They all looked up when they heard the door open.”

  Peter sighed. “Let’s go with Big City Deli. Pastrami on rye. Fries extra crispy, gravy on the side. Lemon meringue pie. And a diet Coke.”

  “I’ll have the same,” said Jane.

  Chapter 7

  Wednesday, October 9

  8:30 A.M.

  “Just coffee, thanks,” said Betty to Frieda. Her sister loved to push a big breakfast on her, but Betty refused every time. She just couldn’t eat in the morning. She’d read a million times that having a solid morning meal would prevent excessive afternoon snacking and/or 10 P.M. pig-outs. Betty once calculated that she consumed 50 percent of her daily calories in the two hours before bedtime: the absolute worst eating pattern. If one cared about that sort of thing.

  Betty had spent the night in Brooklyn Heights to help Frieda with Justin. She spent a night a week at her sister’s. Made her feel useful. Frieda clearly enjoyed the company and the extra pair of hands for cooking and picking up toys. Betty didn’t know how Frieda got through her days as a single working mother. With all the life insurance money, Frieda could afford to hire a regular baby-sitter. She refused, saying that the last thing Justin needed right now was to be foisted off on some stranger who didn’t love him, and that he liked hanging out at the framing studio after school. Betty thought both mother and son needed play dates with like-aged friends. Their family of two was already too small, too isolated.

  Betty would never voice her concerns to Frieda. It was not her business. She downed her coffee and put her mug in the sink. Frieda’s kitchen in the Henry Street brown-stone co-op was full of light, the orange of autumn morning. Out the window, from where she sat at the fifties-diner style green linoleum-topped table, Betty stared at the fiery red leaves of a maple tree. The tree was turning, some leaves hanging on, struggling for another day. In two weeks, they’d all be gone, and Betty would look out that window at bare-naked branches. She turned toward Frieda, who was rinsing cereal bowls and putting them in the dishwasher. Justin was complaining about the content of his lunchbox. Frieda promised him they’d go shopping after school to get the good kind of peanut butter.

  Betty said to her nephew, “Don’t you have therapy after school on Wednesdays?”

  “That’s right,” said Frieda. “I’ll do a food shop during lunch.”

  “Therapy again?” asked Justin. “I went last week.”

  “You go every week,” said Frieda.

  “For how long?” asked Justin.

  “Until the insurance runs out.”

  Betty asked, “Do you like your therapist?”

  Justin shrugged. “She’s okay. I just sit there and draw. She tries to get me to talk about my feelings.” He said the word like it was covered in slimy mucus.

  Betty, marveling how early emotional retardation started in men, asked Justin, “You don’t like to talk about your feelings?”

  “Do you?” asked Justin in return.

  Frieda laughed. “Insightful little beast, isn’t he?” she said.

  The three of them left the apartment, and went to school. After drop-off, Betty accompanied Frieda on the short walk to her shop. Betty noticed that men on the street looked at Frieda. Men had always looked at Frieda.

  Betty said, “You’ve got a birthday coming up.”

  “The big three six,” said Frieda, nodding.

  “Can I take you to dinner?”

  “It’s not for a couple of months,” said Frieda. “You might have a hot date that night.”

  Betty scoffed. “You might, too.”

  “Right,” said Frieda.

  They arrived at the gallery. Frieda fit the key into the lock and said, “Can you come in for a few minutes?”

  Betty checked her watch. She was supposed to be at Burton & Notham in an hour. A guy was coming in from corporate to start working on audio-book-sample machines. It was a new initiative for Burton & Notham. Taking a cue from music retail superstores like Tower and HMV that had freestanding kiosks with earphones to hear sample cuts from CDs, her store, a flagship in Manhattan, was among the dozen nationwide to set up booths so customers could listen to five-minute snippets of books on tape. Betty was irked by the intrusion. She had no idea where these booths were going to go, and annoyed by the invasion of strange personnel.

  “I’ve got five minutes,” said Betty. “And, actually, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something.”

  Frieda held open the gallery door. Betty entered, and took her usual seat in front of the counter. She looked around the shop first, admiring the work of a new photographer.

  She said, “You wouldn’t think a fresh perspective of the Brooklyn Bridge was possible,” pointing at a hanging print.

  Frieda said, “It’s for sale. Two hundred bucks. But I’ll give it to you for one ninety-nine.”

  “One-dollar discount for sisters?”

  “I’m not in business to lose money,” she said. They both laughed. The Sol Gallery was usually in the red. But money wasn’t Frieda’s problem.

  “What did you want to talk about?” asked Frieda as she took a seat behind the counter. “I have got to clean this place up. Look at this dust.” She dragged a fingertip along the top of her computer monitor.

  Betty steeled herself for complete honesty. “I haven’t had a boyfriend in three years.”

  Frieda nodded. “We’ve noticed.”

  “Let’s leave Ilene out of this,” said Betty. “I don’t think her full-court-press approach works for someone with my subtle needs.”

  “I’d say your needs are as subtle as a sledgehammer, but I’m happy to keep this conversation between us,” said Frieda.

  Betty paused. “You don’t know how lucky you are,” she said finally. “Okay, not so lucky with the dead husband. But you must realize that you attract men by breathing. You could have your pick, even now in your low-grade depression. After Gregg’s funeral, I jokingly told Gert that you’ll probably remarry before I manage to get a date. And then I realized: That’s no joke. It’s a fucking travesty.”

  “So you want me to stop breathing?” asked Frieda.

  “I want you to breathe some of that good stuff on me,” said Betty. “Teach me your magic ways. Give me the list of ten things I need to do to win the perfect man. I’ve got a pen in my purse. Let me dig it out. Okay. I’m ready. Go.”

  Frieda stared at Betty. She didn’t like the look in her older sister’s eyes. It verged on the weepy. A Gregg-reflection warning. Betty put her pen down, and said, “Go ahead.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Just go,” said Betty.

  “I’m thinking about the first time I met Gregg. At his friend’s cousin’s roommate’s party.”

  “Continue,” said Betty, hurrying her sister along.

  “We were introduced by the cousin’s roommate,” she said. “And didn’t leave each other’s side for nine years. I can’t tell you how to win a perfect man. But I do know what it feels like to meet him.”

  Betty said, “Heat, passion, desire. I feel that all the time when I see hot guys. But nothing ever happens.”

  “Because you do nothing about it,” said Frieda correctly. “When you meet the right guy, you won’t have a choice.”

  “My legs will walk toward him, driven by a power I can’t control, arms raised with hunger, eyes gleaming.”

  “You won’t turn into a zombie,” said Frieda. “But you will be compelled to act.”

  Betty asked, “How will I know I’m compelled?”

  Her older sister shook her head. “You’ve never felt compelled?”

  Not that she could recal
l. “Of course I have,” said Betty. “Just refresh my memory of that unforgettable feeling.”

  “When you meet a man who compels you, you feel a slap across the face,” said Frieda. “Not a real slap. It’s figurative.”

  “The slap of lust?” asked Betty. “That’s what you’re giving me? For that, I expose my vulnerabilities to the light of day and will be twenty minutes late to work?” Betty felt lust all the time, and had never been compelled. “I am sorely disappointed in you, Frieda. I’m not coming to you again for any of this so-called wisdom.”

  “Did you really tell Gert I’d get married before you got a date?” asked Frieda.

  “That makes you feel better, doesn’t it?” asked Betty. She stood, gave Frieda a hug and left.

  The subway was crowded, uncomfortably so. Betty hated being pushed and jabbed by backpacks and briefcases. By the time she got to Burton & Notham, her mood was black. The store was busy, as always, people milling around, messing up the neat stacks of books. She took the elevator to the third floor.

  Gert was in her office, answering the phone. Betty closed the door, put her purse in the bottom drawer of her desk and locked it. “Thanks for opening,” Betty said. “Did the audio-books-booth guy show up?”

  Gert, radioactive in pink angora, said, “Not yet. Your brother-in-law called.”

  For a split second, Betty thought she meant Gregg. He used to call her regularly to order books and CDs. Betty got a 30 percent discount on all titles, and for Gregg, she was always glad to exercise her perk. Every month, when he came in to pick up his order, he’d take her to lunch or out for a drink to thank her. They’d talk about Justin, or mock Frieda’s fastidiousness (her love affair with Ajax, her obsession with nesting bowls). They complained about their jobs (Gregg had been a vice president at a direct-marketing firm; he proudly referred to himself a “purveyor of high-quality junk”). The hour would fly, and then he’d have to go, always pressed for time between work and family. Betty would leave the restaurant or bar with him, and watch him jog toward the subway on his long, bowed legs.

  Betty said, “Peter called? What does he want?”

  “He left his cell.”

  “I have it somewhere.”

  A knock on the door. Betty said, “Come in.”

  In he came. The air in the small room ionized on contact with his body, as if all the microscopic floating particles of dust stood still, and then sank paralyzed to the carpet. He put on a friendly salesman smile, clearly accustomed to introducing himself to strangers. And he spoke. “I’m Earl Long. Are you Betty Schast?”

  She nodded silently.

  He waited for a reply, but not too long, before he said, “You knew I was coming today, right?”

  She said, “Audio-book booths.”

  “I’m the man.”

  Gert introduced herself. He held out his hand to give her a shake. Earl Long’s fingers were long; his hands square and clean. Gert asked him if he needed coffee. He reached into his wallet, took out two dollars and said to Betty, “You look like you have some loose ends. I’ll get coffee and give you few minutes before we talk, all right?”

  Betty nodded, as helplessly paralyzed as the dust on the floor. Gert gave her a mystified look and offered to usher Mr. Long to the store’s café. They left together, blessedly closing the door behind them.

  Alone now, Betty shook herself loose of the spell. So that was the sting of a compelling slap. Now she knew. Betty could hear the sound of it reverberating in her ears. And she would have to work with Earl Long every day for a couple of months. She’d have to talk to him. Get to know him. Spend time in his compelling presence.

  It would be agony.

  Chapter 8

  Wednesday, October 9

  10:19 A.M.

  Betty had left a half hour ago, and Frieda hadn’t moved. She couldn’t get her mind off that night, when she had met Gregg for the first time. The unfairness of his death never let up. Her happiest memories had become her most painful ones. She had to admit, the sadness had lightened as the months passed. These days, she could think back on his illness and not feel completely devastated. She believed that, one day in the future, she might be able to reflect on that time without feeling any pain at all. Although it would probably be a relief to block it all, she was duty-bound to remember. Justin would want to know every detail. Perhaps the worst of it for Frieda was that Justin wouldn’t have a father. It put him at a terrible disadvantage. Maybe she would remarry, and Justin would have a stepdad. But she couldn’t imagine that happening for years.

  The gallery door opened. A welcome distraction from her thoughts. She looked up and smiled at the man who’d entered. He smiled at her. Friendly enough. He walked among the racks and bins of photos and posters, casually looking, but without the intention of buying. She didn’t want to make him feel self-conscious, so Frieda turned on her computer and checked e-mail, headlines, movement in the Dow.

  After about three minutes, she looked up. The man continued to browse. She let herself examine him, slyly, out of the corner of her eye. Medium height, slim build. He was young. Not yet 30, she guessed. Chocolate-brown hair with eyes to match, dark brows, and sideburns were a striking contrast to his fair skin.

  He caught her looking and smiled again. Flustered, she immediately looked back at her computer screen. Thinking the better of it—he was a customer and she needed business—she said, “May I help you?”

  Grateful for the invitation, he stepped toward her at the counter. She could appraise him openly now. He wore a black fleece pullover, loose khakis and engineer boots. His dark hair was a bit wild. He needed a haircut, but she liked the way it stuck out wildly as if he were a mad scientist. His hands were in his pockets, fists, she could tell by the way the khaki material protruded. His eyes were so dark, she couldn’t see his pupils. They looked almost fake, like doll’s eyes, until he smiled, and then they came fully to life. His skin, tight and springy, pulled snuggly over the bump of cheekbone and sharp slice of jaw. Not a sign of wrinkles. His nose was prominent, aquiline, distinctive, a centerpiece. His mouth was red with a faint line running vertically on the bottom lip. She gazed at it, following that line from the top to the bottom and back up again.

  He said, “Do I have something stuck in my teeth?” He smiled, showing her his incisors. “You were staring at my mouth.”

  She was? “What can I do for you?” she asked, slightly embarrassed.

  Reaching into his backpack, he removed a newspaper page and laid it on the counter.

  Frieda read, “New York Times, October eighth. Yesterday. The theater review?”

  He nodded. “I’d like it framed. Something simple. And when I say simple, I mean inexpensive.”

  She picked up the paper and quickly read the review. It was of a production of the musical Oliver!, playing at City Center, a medium-size theater/concert hall in the East mid-50s. According to the review, the show’s run would end in three weeks. The notice was positive. Just the facts (who plays who, when, and where). Only about four hundred words—several column inches—written by a man named Boris Graves.

  “Are you Boris Graves? The writer?” she asked. “Your first piece in the Times?”

  He said, “I’m in the show.”

  Frieda glanced again at the short review. The critic had made special mention of the actor playing Billy Sykes. Betty read aloud, “ ‘Lester Showfield as Bill Sykes is a bastion of masculine aggression: enthralling, captivating and animalistically sexy.”

  The man said, “Lester Showfield is a bastion of queenly gayness. I’m not him.”

  Frieda looked again. The only other actor to get particular notice played the part of Fagin. A guy named Sam Hill (poor bastard). She read aloud, “Sam Hill uses his considerable talents to accentuate the thieving Fagin’s grubby, sniveling wretchedness. He gives a stand-out performance, the most despicable and filthy portrayal since Ron Moody’s Academy Award-winning turn in 1968.”

  The man said, “ ‘Despicable and filthy.
’ It’s like music to my ears.”

  “You are Sam Hill?” she said. She couldn’t imagine this handsome, immaculate young man playing the part of a sniveling, grubby wretch.

  Sam bowed slightly. “Now tell me what you recommend. In the decidedly simple range.”

  Frieda showed him a modest black wood frame, a half inch thick. She recommended a gray mat, a shade darker than the newspaper. He seemed to think it looked good. She gave him a quote.

  “Fifty bucks?” he asked.

  “You can’t get a custom frame for less, I’m afraid,” said Frieda. He bristled at $50? Off-Broadway acting must not be terribly lucrative, she thought.

  Sam said, “Okay. I’ll do it. Can I pay later?”

  “I’ll need half now,” she said.

  He frowned and said, “I can give you twenty.”

  “That’s fine. Should take a week or so. I’ll get in touch with you when it’s ready. If you’ll please give me your address, phone number and birth date.”

  He asked, “Why do you need my birth date?”

  “So I know how old you are,” she said. She’d felt compelled to ask.

  Sam Hill smiled broadly. He squinted at the same time, obviously wondering if he’d walked into more than just a frame store. She blinked a few times, giving him the eyelash treatment. The old reflexes were kicking in.

  “I’m at a loss,” he said.

  “Frieda Schast,” she said, introducing herself.

  “And your birth date?” he asked.

  “You first.”

  “I’m twenty-eight. Nearly twenty-nine,” he said.

  “Thirty-five. Nearly thirty-six.”

  “We’re one year apart,” he said.

  “One dog year,” she said.

  He grinned at her for getting it. She loved his mouth. She could suck the line off that lip.

  “You’re flirting with me,” he said, “I’m flattered. From the waist up, you are an extremely attractive woman.”