by Louis Begley
Only then did he check the telephone messages. The red light was blinking. He pressed the play button. Jason’s instantly recognizable Boy Scout troop–leader voice told him that Carrie’s water had broken early that morning while she was still in bed; contractions began a couple of hours later; he had taken her to the Southampton hospital. The message had been left at twelve-twenty, while he was in Charlotte’s kitchen, drinking his gin and tonic. He’s probably still at the hospital, thought Schmidt. Jason’s cell phone number was posted on the kitchen bulletin board. No answer. Schmidt tried Bryan next. Carrie’s in the room where they keep them while they’re in labor, Bryan told him. She’s been there since noon. Jason is mostly with her. She’s doing real well. He had to go back to the marina to help out the two other guys but was now going to keep Jason company.
Schmidt reflected. Have you and Jason eaten?
The answer was yes; he had brought a pizza and some beers, and they ate on the back of the truck.
I wonder whether I should head over, he said. Jason will want to stay until the baby is born, but you should call me, at any hour, if there is something new to report, or you have to go back to the marina. A first child can take very long to come out. So be sure you call me. I’m not going anywhere, and I don’t mind—I really don’t mind—if you wake me up. So, anything new, or if you or Jason need to be relieved, you call me. All right?
It had slowly become clear to Schmidt that he must not step out of his present role. And what was that? Carrie’s former lover—but so was Bryan—and her and Jason’s friend and benefactor. That was all. The fact that he had given Carrie a handsome dowry changed nothing. No, most certainly he wasn’t her father. The paradox was that he now had a father’s love for her. The memory of the sex between them—the ecstasy that had lifted him so high that he felt he had been transformed by it—was as vivid as ever, and he thought it would never wane. At the same time, he was convinced, he knew, that if he were alone with her, and she signaled, in one of the numberless ways that were her secret, that she wanted him, he would recoil from violating the taboo. It came down to this: he would now no more sleep with her than with Charlotte. His love for his Hecate had become paternal. The heartbreaking other side of the paradox: he foresaw that this sallow-skinned enchantress, whose body he had so passionately and lovingly explored, would be a better daughter to him than Charlotte, just as he might be a better father to her. Yes, there was a place for Bryan at the hospital as Jason’s best friend and business partner, and none at all for Schmidt. It was time for him to step back. Unless something terrible came up: some change in Carrie’s condition or a problem with the baby. Later, when he called Bryan again, there had been no developments; Jason was still with Carrie. I might go out, Schmidt told him. If I don’t answer at home, would you please call me on my cell.
He made himself a martini and drank it slowly. The New York Times lay on the kitchen table. It didn’t interest him. There might or might not be enough food in the fridge for his supper. He didn’t look and he didn’t care. The waves of emotion washing over him were too strong for the solitude of his kitchen. He whistled for Sy. The kitten, dignified and unhurried, came in through the screen door that Schmidt held open and received his award. Half a slice of Oscar Mayer ham, cut in little pieces. That transaction concluded, Schmidt shut the kitty door for the night, shaved, took a bath, put on fresh clothes, and drove to O’Henry’s. It had crossed his mind that he could call Gil Blackman and see whether he was in Wainscott and happened to be free. If Elaine had made good on her threat to install the Mummy in the house, there would probably be nothing in the world he’d like better. It was also possible that Elaine or Gil might think of asking him to have dinner with them. No, calling Gil was a bad idea. He didn’t want to relate his visit to Claverack: not yet, anyway. And he didn’t see how he could share with Gil his feelings about Carrie. They were too tender, too important. And how to keep them from becoming conflated with Gil’s Sturm und Drang over DT?
He hesitated about ordering a martini—what if he had to rush to the hospital?—but with a shrug he ordered one anyway and drank it too fast, waiting for his steak. A compromise was called for. One glass of wine with his meal would have to do.
Mary had been in labor for almost thirty hours with Charlotte. He couldn’t understand how she bore it, and he had pleaded with the obstetrician for a cesarean. The brute—Schmidt still remembered his name, Dr. Bubis—refused. Finally Bubis got the baby out with forceps. No injury to the baby or to Mary, thank God. It was pure luck. Schmidt couldn’t bring himself to believe that any skill had entered into it. There were many explanations for Mary’s not wanting another child, but that long agony must have been a major one. Who could blame her, especially as Bubis had talked her into the Lamaze technique and administered an epidural only a couple of hours before the forceps? Schmidt hadn’t asked who was delivering little Albert. Now he wished he had. He might have had him or her checked out. Too late for that. But probably it was just as well not to rock the boat. She was young, and in the best of health.
The call came just after three in the morning. It was Jason. Do you want to speak to Carrie? he asked. She’s right here.
Schmidtie, she whispered, he’s an ugly big bruiser with red hair. I think you’ll like him. I love him already.
XIII
DIES IRAE.
Mike Mansour’s plane touched down at Le Bourget, the airport north of Paris where almost all private aircraft bound for Paris land, on Wednesday evening, a few minutes after seven. Alice was expecting Schmidt at her apartment at nine-thirty. Passport and customs control at Le Bourget was almost nonexistent, and Mr. Mansour’s Paris Rolls was waiting on the tarmac. Even if they hit heavy traffic going into Paris there would be plenty of time to shower and change before going to Alice’s; he might even call and ask to come early. Having slept through most of the eight-hour trip, he felt rested. He would see her in two hours! His body tingled from excitement.
The question is, are you inviting me to dinner tonight with your nice lady, or do I have to eat alone? Mike Mansour had asked.
Oh Mike, Schmidt had replied, I wish I could, but I’m having dinner at her house. Another time, let’s do it another time.
Pas de problème, was the great financier’s answer, and, benevolence personified, he announced that he was taking Schmidt and Alice out on Saturday evening. It would be his treat. He might even have a surprise guest.
The ground crew had already put their suitcases in the trunk of the car; Mr. Mansour and Schmidt had finished shaking hands with the captain, the copilot, and the stewards; the chauffeur, cap in hand, stood at the open passenger door of the Rolls, when a small white car approached at breakneck speed. A man wearing some sort of uniform got out, greeted Mr. Mansour, and asked to speak to Mr. Albert Schmidt. This gentleman here, Mike said pointing, whereupon the airport official handed Schmidt an envelope.
Go ahead and open it, said Mike.
Schmidt nodded. It was a fax from Myron Riker. He read it aloud, his knees about to buckle: Charlotte was injured in an accident. She’s at the hospital in Hudson. Please call me, and meet us there.
The cell phone number appeared at the bottom of the page.
I’ve got to call him, Schmidt said to no one in particular, and I’ve got to get there. It surprised him that he was able to speak.
Hold it, said Mr. Mansour. The question is how you can get there, and if you call before you know that, you’re nowhere. Pas question!
Archie, he continued speaking to the captain. Please get on the phone—he handed him the cell phone—and find out how quickly your people can have a crew here to take the plane back to New York—no, not New York, to Albany.
You mustn’t, said Schmidt.
Let me put it to you this way, replied Mr. Mansour, the last commercial flight from Paris to the U.S.—he looked at his watch—will leave in a few minutes. You can’t catch it. I want to get you where you need to go, and the plane needs to go back anyway. I don’
t want it sitting here while these guys—his wagging index pointed at the crew—live it up at the Lido! Pas question!
Mr. Mansour, said Archie, you’re in luck. There’s a crew at the Sofitel in Roissy waiting to fly commercial that can get here in less than an hour. Shall I tell them to come?
Yes. Prestissimo! And tell your people to get a landing slot in Albany, whatever it takes. Schmidtie, now you can make your call. Was that Riker’s father writing to you? You can tell him you’ll be in Albany around eleven this evening his time and will get to that hospital from there. No need for him to worry how. One of the security boys will meet the plane and drive you there.
I don’t know how to thank you. He realized he had tears in his eyes.
You’re a fucking idiot. Let me tell you this: if you’re like me, and have a lot of money, really a lot of money, you have the right to spend a little of it on your friends. You may not know it, but you’re my best friend. Pas de problème. Even if your best friend is Gil Blackman! Ha! Ha! Ha!
Schmidt shook the proffered hand and stepped out of Mr. Mansour’s embrace to make the call he dreaded.
Schmidtie, Myron answered on the first ring, she fell; she’d climbed on the windowsill to fix a blind that had gotten stuck. She was holding on to it to steady herself, it slipped out of the socket, and she fell backward. Probably she passed out. Yolanda—that’s the baby nurse she hired—found her. She was bleeding heavily, so Yolanda called the ambulance. They’re still working on her in the operating room. There is the problem of the concussion too, but it doesn’t seem serious. It’s good that you’re coming.
Will she be all right?
I’m sure of it. Of course, she’s lost the baby.
Oh, so long as she’s all right they’ll make another one, replied Schmidt, instantly realizing that for some reason his remark was grossly stupid.
Myron made no direct response. Instead he said that probably Schmidt wouldn’t get to Hudson before midnight, and by that time it was likely they—Renata, Jon, and he—would have been obliged to leave the hospital, and he certainly wouldn’t be allowed to see Charlotte. The best thing for Schmidt would be to call Myron after he landed in Albany. He would give him the news.
That conversation ended, he called Alice. Her voice: hearing it he began to wish shamefully that Mike Mansour had not taken matters in hand. Without his plane, he would have been obliged to spend the night in Paris, and he would have spent it with Alice. Miscarriages happen all the time, he thought, the Rikers have overreacted. Once they have dragged me there, that awful trio will do everything to shove me aside. These were thoughts he kept to himself. To Alice he said that he could return to Paris in ten days’ or two weeks’ time. Would she like that?
Hush, Schmidtie, she replied. Don’t make plans to visit me now. First see Charlotte and make sure she’s all right. Be with her. Help her. Let me know how she is.
The plane made better time than the captain first estimated, landing in Albany shortly after ten. Once again, Myron answered at once.
It was a huge hemorrhage, he said, and it went on too long. The time that passed before Yolanda found Charlotte, the wait for the ambulance, the ride to Hudson. They transfused her right away and tried a D & C. It didn’t work, Schmidtie, it didn’t work! So they did a hysterectomy to save her life. It’s all right now. She’ll be in the recovery room until tomorrow morning. Schmidtie, listen to me. She’s out of danger. Let’s meet at the hospital at ten. No visitors are allowed earlier.
Stony faces of the mother and son Riker. Only Myron held out his hand for Schmidt to shake. We’ll be able to see her starting in about a half hour, but only two by two. Why don’t we let Jon and Renata go first. You and I will take the second shift.
Schmidt had in the meantime talked to his new doctor, Dr. Tang. Hysterectomy after a miscarriage? she asked, sounding nonplussed. Well, that is late in the term. Every case is different, but usually the hemorrhage can be stopped with a D & C. You say they tried it? Perhaps the uterus ruptured. I am truly sorry for you and your daughter and for your entire family.
While they sat in the waiting room, he repeated the conversation to Myron. Yes, said Myron, that’s what I would have thought too. I’ve asked to see Charlotte’s obstetrician, but he’s at a medical meeting in New Orleans. The other obstetrician is also away; they didn’t tell me where. The emergency room physician—a reasonable and calm man—did try the D & C and was getting nowhere, so they got in the general surgeon who was on call. You can’t second-guess people in these situations. Even with the transfusions they were afraid of losing her.
After what had seemed like a long time, mother and son Riker returned.
Charlotte wants to see Myron first and then her father, said Renata. She’s exhausted. These should be short visits.
An age ago, when Charlotte was still a schoolgirl, he had waited with other parents on the sidewalk for the bus bringing the Brearley girls back from a school excursion. Suddenly, when they were getting off, he experienced a moment of panic. He wasn’t sure that he would recognize his daughter. The panic returned, twisted into a new shape as he stood in the door of the hospital room looking at the woman lying in the bed. Yes, this was his poor daughter, there could be no doubt; the nurse had opened the door for him, indicating that this was the room. Face lifeless and white, eyes closed, perhaps she was asleep. He went in on tiptoe. She opened her eyes, and her expression changed. Charlotte was trying to smile.
My darling, he said, you’re all right. You’re going to be all right.
He took her hand and kissed it.
Hi, Dad, she said. I’m glad you made it here. I thought you were in Paris.
Someone very intelligent—so far he hadn’t asked who it had been—called the house or the foundation, figured out that a fax could be gotten to me, and I rushed back. I had just landed, and I was able to turn right around.
Myron sent you the fax. He told me before the operation.
I see. He is very intelligent.
There was a chair next to the bed. He sat down and kissed her hand again.
I don’t want to tire you, he said. It’s such a happiness to see you. I was so scared on the plane. I thought we’d never get across the Atlantic and, once we were over the St. Lawrence Seaway, that we’d never make it to Albany.
Dad, I’m not going to be able to have children. They took my womb out. I so wanted to have that little boy! Now Jon’s going to leave me. What’s the use of a wife who can’t have children? What’s the use of marriage?
No, he won’t, sweetie, there are lots of happy childless marriages. You’ll see.
Sure. We can have a dog. Or two dogs. Or a dog and a cat. We can adopt!
Many people do adopt and love their adopted children so much it doesn’t make any difference. This is not the time to start thinking about it. This is the time to get well enough to leave the hospital and get all your strength back.
Sure, Dad.
She began to cry. He quieted her as best he could, calling her all the childhood names.
Dad, she said after a while, do you think you could stay until Friday afternoon? Jon has to go back to the city—he’s on trial and it’s a big case—and Renata and Myron have to get back to their patients.
Nothing could make me happier. I’ll be back in the afternoon. You get some good rest. The nurse is making all sorts of signs to get me out of here.
That day, and the morning of the day that followed, which was Friday, were the happiest time he had known with Charlotte since Mary died. He read aloud news from the Times. They started The Warden, which he had put into his suitcase. They talked about incidents from the old days, which she remembered more accurately than he, all involving Mary, that testified to the harmony of their household; she told him Radcliffe dormitory gossip that made him laugh although he had long forgotten the names of the girls who had figured most prominently in her stories. In that mood of easy intimacy they agreed that he would go back to Bridgehampton for the weekend, leaving before
the Rikers arrived so as to escape the worst of the Friday afternoon and evening traffic, and would return on Monday and stay until she was discharged. The surgeon thought that if she kept making good progress a Wednesday release was likely. At that point, either he and Yolanda or one or more of the Rikers would take her home.
They were close to finishing a game of Scrabble around noon on Friday when Renata called. Although Charlotte had said nothing and had made no sign to suggest it, he went out into the corridor so that she could speak more freely. It was a long talk. Finally, he heard her put down the receiver and went back into the room to ask what she would like to have for their farewell lunch. She was allowed to eat soups brought in from the outside and plain meats such as roast chicken. There was a nearby grocery-cum-delicatessen Schmidt had found that sold precisely that kind of fare.
She stared at him blankly and announced: They will be here by three, that is, Renata and Myron. Jon can’t get away until late. He may not even get here this evening.
That’s too bad, Schmidt replied. Have you thought what you might like for lunch? Chicken soup and cold chicken? It’s twice the same thing, but they’re both good. Vanilla ice cream for dessert?
It doesn’t make any difference. Whatever you like.
There was a dark look about her, so he asked, Darling what is the matter?
Oh, not much. I’m just facing what I have become.
