Schmidt Steps Back (34 page)

He looked carefully at Mr. Mansour. For the second time that afternoon he wasn’t smiling. All right, Mike, he said. Here is what’s been happening.

In April of the following year, some months after that conversation, Charlotte telephoned Schmidt at his office. Mrs. Riker on line one, said his secretary. Aha! Mrs. Riker, therefore his daughter, not Renata, not Dr. Riker.

Dearest Charlotte, he started.

Dad, she cut him off, I need to talk to you. Not on the telephone. Can you get over here?

Certainly, he answered, when would you like me to be there.

How about tomorrow? Can you be here in the morning?

I’ll be there by eleven, he answered.
Click
. She had hung up.

He had spoken with Dr. Townsend several times, calling him before he left for Europe, then when he returned, just before Christmas, and twice more, in early January and in February.
Each time the news was: She’s making slow progress. No, at this point he couldn’t predict when she would leave Sunset Hill; it was up to her. When would he be able to see his daughter, he kept asking. Let’s leave the initiative to her was the regular reply. The last time he had insisted. Mr. Schmidt, the doctor said, your last visit was not a success. Do you really want more of the same? She is making progress, and I think that in time she will have things to share. She’ll reach out to you!

“Things to share”! “Reach out to you”! Where had this nice overgrown preppy picked up those expressions? Quiet, Schmidtie, Schmidt said to himself, he got them from his wife, his children, his patients, the preacher at whatever loosey-goosey church he attends.

Dr. Townsend, he said, obviously I don’t want a bad visit, and I don’t want to force anyone’s hand. Even if I did, I don’t think I can. Would you at least tell me something more about her condition? Is she as medicated as before? How does she look? Is she reading the newspaper? Books?

If Townsend was irritated, he didn’t let it be heard in his voice.

Let’s see, he said. Medication: the doses are smaller, considerably smaller. She’s pale, which is normal at this time of the year since she’s mostly indoors. She doesn’t pay much attention to her appearance. A hairdresser is available at Sunset Hill. She hasn’t taken advantage of his services, although urged to. I don’t have the impression that she’s reading books, but she clearly reads the paper or watches news on television in the common room. I can tell you she’s really worked up about Newt Gingrich. Oh yes, she enjoys the arts and crafts shop. That seems to be a new interest.

I see, said Schmidt, I suppose that does sound like progress. Do you think that means I’ll be able to visit soon?

Mr. Schmidt—a note of irritation could now be heard—let’s leave it to your daughter. If there is no movement from her side by the summer, please call me. We’ll discuss what might be done.

As soon as Charlotte had hung up, he called Dr. Townsend. He was with a patient. Schmidt left a message: he was going to see Charlotte the next morning. She had called and asked him to come!

Mrs. Riley, the sympathetic nurse he had met during his first aborted visit to Sunset Hill, greeted him at the reception desk. She’s ready for you, she said, good luck! and led him to the interview parlor. Charlotte in blue jeans, and a man’s shirt, not Schmidt’s, perhaps Jon’s, perhaps no one’s, hair too long but washed, face less puffy than the last time, and perhaps not puffy at all, began to get up from the sofa and quickly sat down, suppressing what must have been an involuntary gesture.

Hello, sweetie, he said, I am so glad to see you.

Definitely, Charlotte had no use for preliminaries or small talk. Dad, she announced, I’m getting out of here. Townsend has me on two drugs, both low doses. I can handle it if I see him in the city. He says he has openings on Tuesday and Friday, and he may be able to squeeze me in on Thursday.

That’s great, replied Schmidt, I couldn’t be happier.

Have you been paying for all this, I mean this dump—she made a vague circular gesture with her right hand—plus Townsend, or is it Jon?

It’s me.

Figures. Well, it’ll be a relief not to make out any more checks to Sunset Hill. What a name!

Paying for it is the least of my worries.

As soon as the words were out, Schmidt regretted them. It was perhaps a mistake to interrupt her. It turned out not to matter.

Don’t worry, you’ll have lots else to pay for. I’m not going back to Jon, she continued. I don’t know whether I’m through with him or not, but I know I don’t want to go back to the apartment. I need a chance to think this through and work with Townsend without having him and that bitch Renata on my back.

Schmidt nodded.

You do understand that I have no money? I checked on my accounts at Chase, regular and savings. He’s cleaned them out. I don’t know about my investment account. That was also a joint account. I bet that’s been cleaned out too. I haven’t got a cent.

I see, said Schmidt.

Dad, I’m not asking whether you see or don’t see. I want to know whether you will pay for an apartment as well as the shrink and give me enough money to live on. Can you give me a straight answer? This isn’t going to be forever. I’ll go back to work as soon as I can. That’s if anybody will take me.

Dearie, said Schmidt, of course I’ll give you money to live on, including the rent and the doctor and everything else. How can there be any question about it? Would you like me to help you find a place? I’ll be glad to. Just give me an idea of the neighborhood. Uptown? Downtown? East or west? And of course I’ll help you get out of here. I mean checking you out, getting you from here to the city, to your new place, if we can
find a nice one in time, or to a hotel, and I’ll give you cash and whatever else you need. You could also use my apartment in the city while you look. I can go to a hotel or find some other solution. Oh, and I’d like you to open a checking account in your name only.

OK.

There was a pause before she continued.

Moving into your apartment would be just more than I can take. Dad, get one thing straight: I need you to help, but I don’t want you on my case.

I do understand, Schmidt replied. May I ask a question? You’ve twice referred to Renata Riker as a bitch. The last time I saw you and today. That’s a big change in your feelings. Can you tell me what has happened?

Something like a cloak of lead descended on Charlotte. She scrunched down, hugging her knees. Yeah, I was dumb. I didn’t get it. She’s an evil, manipulative bitch. You know what she’s telling Jon? That not having grandchildren will break her heart. Break her fucking heart. You can see what that means. If you don’t want to break your mommy’s fucking heart get rid of the shiksa, get rid of the damaged goods!

She began to sob but kept talking.

I just know that she put it in his head to take the money. I can hear it: If you don’t take it Schmidt will figure out a way to block those accounts. She really does hate you!

So I’ve noticed. Is there a particular reason? I can’t think of anything I’ve done to her other than saying no to a couple of outrageous requests. Including one that I lobby W & K to take Jon back into the partnership! That was two, three years ago? While you and he were split.

You really don’t know?

He shook his head.

Think hard. You still don’t know? I’ll help you. That time, after the Thanksgiving lunch, you made a pass at her and didn’t follow through. Then when we all came to Bridgehampton, and you got sick, she stayed behind to make sure you weren’t alone when Jon, that asshole Myron, and I went for a walk. What a crock! So you were in bed, and she French-kissed you and grabbed your dick. And you? Still nothing. Not then, and not later. It made her go nuts! She even told you she had some guy screwing her, and Myron knew all about it, so you’d understand the coast was clear. So how dumb can you be?

Good grief! She is nuts. That’s pure nonsense. And why tell you? Why does that make her hate me? Some kind of hell-has-no-fury-like-a-woman-scorned idea?

I guess you could put it that way. She didn’t tell me right away, not when it happened. She saved it for when she wanted me to move back in with Jon and you had gone ballistic about getting Jon out of the apartment and trying to have the place, plus the house in Claverack, transferred into my name. That really burned them both, mother and son. So the idea was to explain to me that you were always trying to stab Jon in the back because he’s Jewish. That, and on top of it your guilt about having come on to her, and how those guilt feelings turned into aggression. I didn’t get it until later, when she started the shit about grandchildren, that she had the stuff about guilt feelings ass backwards. It was her fucking guilt and her aggression.

T
HAT
C
HARLOTTE
’
S PROGRESS
remained steady and then accelerated over the balance of the year, Schmidt could judge not so much from face-to-face meetings, of which there were but few, Charlotte having continued to insist that he “stay off her case,” as from telephone conversations in which she expressed her wishes, really demands, for money and assistance in the war against Jon Riker. It didn’t take long—perhaps two or three weeks after he had installed her in a sunlit one-bedroom apartment on a chic block in the West Village—for her to decide that she wasn’t going to go back to him this time. Some days later she called to announce she wanted a divorce. No she wouldn’t sit still for any chitchat with that bastard or that bitch, no bullshit about reconciliation. She’d heard that song before. Divorce, and the return of her property, were her unconditional demands: suddenly, the proposition Schmidt had in the past tried without success to have her accept, that property bought with funds from her father was rightfully hers, had acquired the dazzling force of revealed truth. Yes, she was willing to take sole responsibility for the mortgage she and John had put on the Claverack
property, as well as for the unpaid balance of the loan they had taken out jointly to finance the shortfall of the purchase price of the apartment—especially if Schmidt gave her the money to pay off the mortgage and the loan—but apart from that no quarter was to be given. Schmidt advised her to seek once again the help of Joe Black, the divorce lawyer he had recommended when she and Jon had split the first time. Black knew her, and he knew the Rikers. It wouldn’t take long to bring him up to speed. The trouble was, as both Black and Schmidt separately explained to her, that New York was still the last state in the Union without a no-fault divorce law; proof of adultery, abandonment, or cruel and inhuman treatment was still required. The last time around, it was clear that Jon had committed adultery and she had not condoned his misconduct. She did not have such proof this time. One could perhaps obtain it; there were discreet investigators specializing in such matters. Otherwise, the standard way to proceed would be for her and Jon to enter into a separation agreement and file it with the court. One year later, a decree of divorce would be granted at either party’s request. Unfortunately, Jon was not likely to accept a separation agreement unless he thought it was financially advantageous for him. That pointed to the need to consider various ways of making his life difficult. For instance, Charlotte could move back into the apartment and start using the Claverack property, hoping to provoke some form of behavior that might give Black grounds to seek a court order that would, in effect, evict Jon. No way, was Charlotte’s response. Black had checked up on the status of the mortgage and cooperative apartment loans. Jon had been making payments on both, but not on time. It
was an interesting question whether he would continue to make them now that Charlotte was no longer at Sunset Hill. That other shoe dropped almost immediately in the form of a letter from Jon to Charlotte demanding that she reimburse him for one-half of the payments he had made entirely from his own funds during her hospitalization and that she start contributing to subsequent payments as they came due. The letter also asserted a claim that Black said must be taken seriously, that Charlotte, by having originally put the apartment and Claverack in both their names, had made to Jon under New York law a completed gift of a spouse’s “moiety,” meaning a conjugal one-half stake in both those properties. Nothing in the law compelled the return of such gifts. A call by Black to Jon, asking whether he was represented by counsel, elicited the answer Black had expected. It was once again Cacciatore, well-known in the divorce bar for his scorched-earth tactics. Firmness and patience, firmness and patience, Black counseled Charlotte, they’ll be your best friends.

Joe Black isn’t getting anywhere with Jon’s lawyer. Do you think he’s tough enough to deal with that shyster? Charlotte asked Schmidt in October of that year. She had said she wanted to see him, and they were having lunch near her apartment. Can’t you find me a real shark? Joe says they won’t deal unless Jon gets some part of what I’m paid for the apartment and Claverack. He’s figured out that I’d be putting them on the market. I guess that was a no-brainer.

I’m told that Joe Black is plenty tough, Schmidt replied, but I can certainly look for someone else. I’ll ask Mike Mansour who handled his last divorce.

OK, do that. Dad, I’m tired of being on an allowance. My
boss says they’ll take me back, but not before they start a new campaign, and that’s six or seven months away. I need to get my life back together before that. It would sure help to have that money.

Schmidt nodded. He was learning that it was better not to interrupt. Just let her talk, so he didn’t state the obvious, that even if Jon suddenly became reasonable and agreed to a separation agreement that gave her title to her property it would probably take longer than six or seven months to sell the real estate.

There’s this guy I met in Sunset Hill, she continued. It would help to have the divorce.

Schmidt nodded again.

Don’t worry. He wasn’t one of the inmates; he taught art. He’s a good painter. He sculpts too. He’s widowed. His wife died a year and a half ago. Anyway, I like him.

That’s wonderful! said Schmidt, unable to restrain himself.