About Schmidt (26 page)

I faced the fact that I had become an old man without the assistance of a Katerina, said Schmidt. I found out about it from the mirror, and from the way I feel about myself and other people. It’s not pleasant.

They sat in silence, Schmidt wondering how much time he had before Gil made his next move. The time to tell him was right now. Anyway, he wanted to. Without mentioning Bryan or the man. What difference did that make?

Well, well, how very nice. She’s got real looks. I don’t know that she could model. I wouldn’t mind, though, setting up a screen test for her—since she wants to act.

Thank you. You will keep this just between us? She asked me to be careful.

Who would I tell?

For instance, Elaine. If you can help it, don’t.

Do you know how you are going to play this out?

I have no idea. Perhaps I won’t have any plan at all. I’ve already done an awful lot of planning in my life. Most of it hasn’t turned out very well. The only advantage of my present situation is that I don’t need to have plans.

And how about Charlotte? Are you going to let her find out about Carrie?

Ah, the question of Charlotte. Perhaps that’s also a question that can be deferred. Have you time to hear about Charlotte and her new family? They were on my mind when I called you.

You bet I have time. Don’t forget the mummy I have at home. She teaches you to count in units of eternity.

After Schmidt had finished, he asked Gil: Do you think I have gone off my rocker, or are they all insane, the shrink included?

No, I don’t think you’re nuts. I think you have been abused and all things considered have behaved very well. I would make a couple of observations though. How old is Charlotte? Twenty-six? Twenty-seven? She is a young adult, and you
should hold her responsible as an adult for what she does. That’s different from the way one sometimes tries to hold children to account. The other is that you shouldn’t underestimate how strongly Jews feel about anti-Semitism—even when it’s innocuous, one might almost say irrelevant, like yours. Take me as an example. I have heard myself say lots of times, I may have even said it to you, that I don’t care whether people are anti-Semitic so long as they don’t interfere with my work, or where I can live, and, above all, don’t try to put me in an oven. That’s only half true. Maybe only one-fourth. In reality, it hurts a lot to be disliked or denied some part of the respect you think you should get, without your having done anything to provoke it. It’s like being treated as though you’re ugly, when in fact you are not. You know that Louis Armstrong song—“All my sin is in my skin.” One never forgets those hurts.

I am sorry, said Schmidt. Have I hurt you that way?

Long ago. But at the time practically everybody was like you or much, much worse. You stood out less. Anyway, now that I am who I am, and everybody is busy licking my backside, I really couldn’t care less.

          The kids want to do it their own way, a wedding in the city, he told Carrie late that night. At first it sort of stopped me dead in my tracks. Then I thought, Let them. So long as it’s what they want. And they don’t want to live here. They like some place upstate better; it will be near Jon’s parents’. I think I will buy Charlotte’s part of this house. Afterward I will probably be too poor to keep this house, so I will sell it and move into a much smaller place, but there is no hurry.

That’s cool. You know, Bryan does construction too. If you want to look at some houses he’s worked on he’ll show them to you.

That gave Schmidt something to which he could look forward. One thought led to another. He wondered aloud how the man was doing.

Mr. Wilson? Why do you keep calling him the man? It kind of got heavy for him trying to hang out. I don’t know. Probably he’s in New York. What a mess!

I have a feeling he knows about you and me.

Yeah, he’s smart! She giggled.

But how? Did you tell him?

He would’ve killed me. He figured it out when I walked you to that parking lot. He was somewhere around.

But there was nothing then!

I told you: he’s smart. He could tell I liked you. He sure was pissed.

And Bryan? You told him about Bryan?

That’s different. He doesn’t give a shit about Bryan. Let’s sleep, OK?

The next morning, after Carrie had left for work, he called Dr. Renata. She was with a patient. He asked to leave a message on her answering machine.

Renata, this is Schmidtie. About the house. Will you please tell Charlotte and Jon that I am ready to buy Charlotte out? They should talk to Dick Murphy at W & K. He’s my lawyer.

O
N THE FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY
, Carrie’s day off—she had mumbled, No, no, no, and burrowed deeper under the covers when, after nine o’clock, he kissed her ear, asking in a whisper whether she wanted breakfast—Schmidt went to the post office as usual, at nine-thirty sharp, to pick up his mail. The daily expedition was a ritual; since he expected only junk and bills, he might just as well have gone only once a week, perhaps on Monday. It wouldn’t have made any difference. He certainly didn’t pay bills every day. This time, however, the assiduity was rewarded: waiting for him was a letter from Charlotte. He didn’t think he wanted to read it while Carrie looked on, and she might be awake or walk into the kitchen before he had finished. Also, he might need a moment to collect himself. He decided he would open the letter at the candy store and read it over a cup of coffee.

Did the turtle doves have a laser printer at home? Had she written the letter at the office? He hadn’t a doubt that, in either case, Jon would have reviewed it. That made it like a legal communication—you never know whether Mr. White or Mr. Brown who signed is the real author.

Here is what the letter said:

Schmidt was one of those people who answer every business letter the day it is received and try to answer personal letters not more than one day later. Therefore, very little suspense, if any, will be sacrificed if the text of his reply is set out now, even as he ponders what he should say to his daughter.

Shouldn’t I send a copy of Charlotte’s letter to Renata? Schmidt asked himself. She has the tape. If she gets the letter, she’ll be starting a real collection. In the end, he didn’t do it: he felt too ashamed.

O
NCE AGAIN
, it’s Carrie’s Wednesday off: two days short of the beginning of spring. Huge clumps of forsythia are in bloom across the lawn from Schmidt’s back porch. They seem to be a stronger color with each passing year. The crocuses and narcissi are out too. Geese honk on the pond beyond Foster’s field. Every half hour or so, the great wings begin to clap, and a helter-skelter squadron takes flight toward the ocean, on the way sorting itself into an inverted
V
. It’s only an oafish joke, like the fat girls with chilblains who marched in the St. Patrick’s Day parade yesterday. These birds aren’t about to migrate anywhere. They’ll wheel in the sky and return to the pond, where they were born and will die. Drunks on their way home after the last pub has closed, lurching up Third Avenue toward the 86th Street subway entrance, pissing on grilles of closed storefronts.

It’s so pleasant on the porch. Only one day in the week when she can close her eyes like this and let her face absorb the weak sun. Schmidt asks himself whether she must really work so hard; suppose he offered to supplement her income. Would that upset the balance, should he risk any change? She
is in the chaise longue. By now, she must have tried on all his clothes. The heavy white cardigan is very becoming. It makes her look even more exotic than usual. Is she dozing? They made love hard when they woke this morning; she drove him to his limit. The night before it was too late and she was too tired. She had to swing by Sag Harbor to drop off some package for Bryan. When Schmidt came down to the kitchen this morning, to make his and Carrie’s breakfast, the fellow was already sitting there. He could have picked up the package himself and not have made her drive back and forth in the middle of the night. Unless. If Schmidt asks Carrie, she will tell him—more than he wants to know. Bryan and Carrie performing those gestures that are as monotonous as the antics of the geese. I belong to you, Schmidtie, like that, take me like that, she had whispered into the crook of his elbow just two hours ago. What more can he need?

It’s just as well Carrie didn’t come into the kitchen together with Schmidt, teasing him, her hands under his bathrobe, inside his pajamas. The official line is that Bryan doesn’t know. Schmidt needed someone with more brains and less velocity than the Poles, not to replace them but to make sure the shopping gets done, the plants are watered, and so forth, and offered in return a private room and bath and a little money for extra work. She would say to Bryan, This old guy eats at O’Henry’s. It’s a good deal. His house is real near the restaurant. In the summer he’ll let me use the pool when he’s not swimming. Nobody wants Bryan to go crazy. In order to ease into the situation and, Schmidt is quite sure, to provide Bryan with a place to screw her that isn’t under Schmidt’s roof, or in the back of Bryan’s half truck or his
buddy’s house in Springs, where she just won’t go, she doesn’t want to be gang-raped, Carrie is also holding on to the apartment in Sag Harbor for now. She wants to see how things will work out. And maybe that’s the truth.