Schmidt Steps Back

by Louis Begley

  Charlotte called two weeks or so later. Schmidt was at his office.

  Dad, Joe Black says the papers are ready to give me back the apartment and Claverack. The separation agreement is ready too, but Jon won’t sign unless he gets reimbursed for what he had put in. Why should that asshole get anything? He lived in the apartment and in Claverack, didn’t he?

  The reason to pay him is to get this done, to get Jon to go away. Isn’t that what you and Mr. White want? asked Schmidt.

  Yeah, but he should be paying me. Are you going to give me the money for this?

  Yes.

  She said, I guess then it’s OK, I guess I’m grateful to you, and hung up.

  That the separation agreement had been signed Schmidt inferred in the course of a telephone call from Charlotte, in which she asked for the name of a broker to handle the sale of her apartment. He gave her the name of the young woman who had handled the sale of his Fifth Avenue apartment after he retired. She had obtained what seemed at the time to be a spectacular price. When he asked Charlotte whether she needed a broker for Claverack, she said she already knew someone in Hudson. Schmidt had not yet met Josh White, the response to a couple of requests that all three of them get together having been a particularly elongated rendition of the word “Dad.” Translation according to Schmidt: Get off my back. He was in the meantime dutifully paying Dr. Townsend’s bills, which now came to him directly, as well as Charlotte’s allowance, rent for her apartment, and the extortionate premiums on her individual health insurance policy. That she had not bothered to thank her father beyond her one grudging “I guess I’m grateful to you” was a sort of harshness he had come to expect. Her failure to thank Mike Mansour, without whose help the stalemate in the war of the Rikers would have doubtless continued, was another matter. Each time he remembered it, he felt the sting of shame.

  The letters he had written to Charlotte since Mary died, typically at times when his exasperation needle had entered the red zone, had not been a success if improvement in her behavior was the right measure. They did, however, make him feel better. It was with eyes wide open that he wrote:

  Dear Charlotte,

  I am very happy that you have been able to recover your property and are on your way to becoming a single woman. You wouldn’t have gotten there without Mike Mansour. I have told you what he did. It was entirely his idea. He deserves your gratitude and a letter from you expressing it. Incidentally, the reason I am certain that you haven’t written is that, given the interest he takes in your welfare, he would have told me if you had.

  As you can imagine, I continue to wish to make Josh White’s acquaintance. Please think about how this might be arranged. Anything, going from a cup of coffee down in the Village, to dinner in any restaurant you and he like, all the way to a short or long weekend in Bridgehampton, would be fine with me.

  Your loving father

  It was not one of his finer efforts. Nevertheless he mailed it. Some six months later the broker he had recommended to Charlotte called him and announced that she had a buyer with good credit, who would have no difficulty passing the co-op board and was willing to pay Charlotte’s asking price. She had also referred Charlotte to a lawyer who would handle the closing. Incorrigible, knowing that his advice wasn’t wanted, Schmidt nonetheless asked whether his daughter knew that she could perhaps avoid paying a capital gains tax on the sale if she bought another apartment within a year. The broker told him that both she and the lawyer had discussed that possibility with Charlotte, but it appeared that Charlotte preferred to keep the cash and stay in her present apartment or move in with a man she was seeing. That was interesting. Schmidt wondered whether there would be a wedding and, if so, whether he would be invited or left to learn about it from the announcement in the Times or some printed card sent after the fact. Some weeks later, during the weekend, the telephone rang in his kitchen, and a conversation commenced preceded by a Daad of medium duration.

  I bet Gwen told you I’ve sold the apartment.

  Schmidt acquiesced.

  So I’ve got all this cash I need to invest. Will the man who looks after your money take me as a client? I mean it’s chicken shit compared with what you have.

  He’ll be happy to take you, and I think he’ll give you a break on his fees. He’ll calculate them on the basis that you and I are members of a family group.

  That’s good.

  Have you got his number?

  Somewhere. You think you can send it to me?

  Certainly.

  I’m starting again at my old firm. Three days a week.

  Schmidt remained silent longer than usual to see whether anything more would be said on this subject. Nothing was.

  That’s great, he said, that will give you a chance to get your sea legs before you start working full-time.

  Oh yeah? I think they’re jerking me around. They’ll never take me back full-time. Anyway, I won’t need my allowance once my money is invested. But can you go on paying the doctor and the rent? The rent, that’s just for the time being.

  She couldn’t see him, so Schmidt shrugged and made a face.

  Certainly, he replied. Let me know when you want me to stop the allowance.

  Yeah, I will. Oh, and can you pay the health insurance?

  I already have. I’ve paid the first year’s premium in advance.

  OK. That’s good. See you!

  Before she managed to hang up, he said—cried out might be closer to the truth—Charlotte, don’t you think I could meet your friend Josh?

  Daad, she replied, will you lay off? I don’t want to spoil it with him. He’ll think it’s pressure or something.

  With that she got off the phone.

  Little Albert’s third birthday came and went without Schmidt’s having met Josh White. Fortunately, there was a different treat in store for him: Carrie asked him to take the kid for his first haircut. They went to the barber in Sag Harbor whom Schmidt used when it was inconvenient to get his hair cut in the city. The old fellow was ready for his new customer and went to work in accordance with Schmidt’s instructions: just a trim and completely natural. We want to give his hair shape, but we don’t want him looking as though he’d just been to the barber. Through it all, Albert maintained perfect poise, sucking on one of the big green lollipops reserved for good little boys. As the locks of hair fell—Albert’s hair was now the color of Carrie’s and promised to become as heavy and lustrous—Schmidt felt a pang of regret. He took one of the locks from the white apron with which the kid was covered, asked for a tissue, wrapped the hair in it, and tucked it into the watch pocket of his trousers. If he had kept his father’s huge gold watch, which the old man had worn on a chain, he could perhaps have had some ingenious jeweler alter the cover so that it would hold the hair like a locket, and he could see it whenever he opened it to expose the face. The other solution might be to put the hair in a frame, something like those boxes used to display butterfly specimens. He would ask Carrie for advice.

  That’s a fine grandson you have, Mr. Schmidt, said the barber when Schmidt pressed the tip at last into his hand. I hope he will be a regular customer.

  Thanks! He really is a good boy, Schmidt replied.

  He took Albert back to East Hampton, watched him blow out three candles on his cake, and for about an hour looked on while the boy and his friends from the nursery school played some of the games that Schmidt found he remembered from Charlotte’s birthdays.

  Then he went home, put the lock of hair in his desk drawer, and forgot about it until a lunch with Gil Blackman at O’Henry’s a couple of weeks later. So far as he was concerned The Serpent was ready, Gil told Schmidt. It had been a long haul, much too long. Working with Canning hadn’t been a picnic, and they had been forced to wait until Sigourney’s schedule opened up. But now that it was done, he was pleased. There would be a screening of the director’s cut for Mike, Joe and Caroline Canning, the indispensable Holbein, top studio executives, and, to Schmidt’s delight, Schmidt.


  I’m inviting DT too, said Gil, though I can’t figure out where I will seat her at the dinner afterward. If she isn’t at my table, she’ll be unhappy. But if she is, I had better have a good story ready for Elaine. I haven’t worked all that out yet. The good news is that, as you’ll see, the film is great. Even better news is that I’ve got Canning out of my life! That really rates this joint’s best bottle. It’s my treat. We’ll drink to my liberation.

  Are you serious about having DT at the dinner with Elaine?

  I can’t help it. She’d scratch my eyes out if I didn’t. She’s got a terrible temper. I’ll explain that she’s been working on the project since the start, but behind the scenes, as it were—that’s pretty funny, you’ve got to admit—and just couldn’t be excluded. Besides, you’ve just given me a great idea. I have to have her at my table because both you and Mike will come alone. That way there will be only one extra man.

  Gil, you’re playing with fire.

  What’s new about that? Mr. Blackman said, his face darkening. But let’s talk about something else. For example you. How are you, old pal?

  Schmidt had been having lunch with Gil, or dinner with him and Elaine, so regularly that there was nothing, literally nothing, he could think of that he was doing or not doing that might amuse Gil. It was like the good old days—or bad, depending on your point of view—when Schmidt kept his nose to the financing grindstone at W & K. What exciting happenings did he then have stored up to relate to his glamorous friend? That the loan to Podunk Cement Company had closed, and he had another one in the works, with Dumboville Power Company as the borrower? That he had felt left out of the conversations and overwhelmed by the company at the National Book Awards dinner, at which Mary had naturally taken a table, and had been ready to dance on it because her author won? But yes, there was one anecdote, and, even if somewhat sentimental, it was pleasant.

  You’ll laugh at me, he said. Ten days ago, I took little Albert for his first haircut, on his third birthday. I wish Norman Rockwell had been there to paint us. I got so broken up that I picked up a lock of his hair, wrapped it in a Kleenex, and took it home.

  And you still have it? asked Mr. Blackman.

  Of course.

  Schmidtie, this is your chance. Your chance to get the answer to the big question. One that has to be answered or your life will become more and more difficult. Are you that boy’s father or not? I think you need to know. Not so that you can tell Carrie, or God forbid Jason, or even me. But for your own stability. I happen to know of a lab that does DNA testing. It’s a reliable outfit. Do it, old pal! You mustn’t go through the rest of your life not knowing where you stand.

  I don’t know, said Schmidt. I’m not at all sure I want to know. Suppose I’m not his father, am I supposed to love him less? I don’t want that. Suppose I am his father, what would I do beyond what I’m doing now? Carrie’s pregnant. When that baby comes, do I care for it less or more depending on the result in little Albert’s case? I think I know the answer. Whatever I learn, I will always love Albert best. For a crazy reason: he came so soon after Carrie left me. He’s swathed in my love for her. And that won’t change even if it turns out I’m not his father. So what would be the point?

  Putting your house in order.

  That was something Schmidt understood instinctively—perhaps craved, even though it went against the advice he had given Carrie soon after the kid was born.

  I’ll do it, he said. I hope I won’t live to regret it.

  XXII

  YCHROMOSOMES DON’T LIE, Mr. Schmidt, the technician at the SureDNA laboratory told him. Normally I don’t touch cut hair, there just isn’t enough DNA there, but this sample was productive. Here, look at the slides. You can see for yourself. There is no way this individual and you are related.

  Schmidt thanked the man, got into his car, found the Long Island Expressway entrance, and headed west back to the city. Well, now he knew. The oracle had spoken. Was that the answer he had wanted? Not entirely: in some part of his besotted brain had dwelled a half-formulated, timid, guilty wish to be told that the beautiful little boy was his child. It had coexisted with the certitude that, lest he unhinge Carrie’s marriage and thereby visit untold harm upon little Albert, any knowledge he thus gained must go with him to the grave, and that, indeed, he must do everything in his power to affirm Jason’s paternity. Carrie’s adorable Age of Aquarius notion that it didn’t matter who was the boy’s father, to think that Jason, even if he knew that it wasn’t he, would be a good stepfather and love the kid because Carrie was its mother, was great, so far as it went. It might work just fine for Jason and would certainly be the best result possible if the real father were dead. And the effect of such knowledge on Albert Schmidt, Esq., still very much alive and residing a few miles up the road? Unspeakable torment: forced to stand by and watch stoically while Jason reaps the best of the boy’s love and Jason, or Jason and Carrie, take decisions concerning the boy with which he, Schmidt, disagrees, and to accept being excluded—as by the force of circumstances would inevitably happen—in many moments of crisis or joy. None of this vision implied suspicions of future bad faith or ill will. Far from it. It was just the way it would happen, and unlike divorced fathers who haven’t custody of their children, he would not be able to assert any right to be heard. Of course, he would continue in his role of honorary uncle or grandfather, his wallet always open, melting from happiness each time the kid smiled at him. But at some point, when the little boy notices that Albo’s or Uncle Schmidtie’s largesse somehow diminishes his dad, won’t he turn against Uncle Checkbook?

  You consult oracles at your own risk and almost always to your harm, the knowledge they impart being laced with poison. It had been a narrow escape, but he had indeed set his house in order. He would love little Albert as Carrie’s son, a child who could have been his but wasn’t, and he would be able to look Jason straight in the eye. He had not been a party to slipping a stranger’s egg into his nest. The blond giant was raising his own son and working for his own son’s future. A virtuous example for Schmidt to follow, a reminder to concentrate his efforts on the well-being of his only issue, his own Charlotte.

  Opportunities to do so had begun to present themselves, at first hesitantly. Almost exactly a year earlier, the day after Timothy McVeigh was sentenced to die for the Oklahoma City bombing, Charlotte telephoned. It being mid-August, Schmidt was in Bridgehampton, on vacation, reading the account in the Times, remembering how the news of the carnage at the Federal Building had intersected the board of directors’ meeting to which he had rushed from the arms of Alice. Dad, said Charlotte, for once pronouncing the word normally, I thought you’d like to know I’ve finally sold the house in Claverack. You can stop making the mortgage payments.

  Congratulations, Schmidt replied, were you able to get a good price?

  Pretty good. I’m going to look for a house in Connecticut, somewhere near Sunset Hill. It would be convenient for Josh. He teaches there Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays. I hope what I got for Claverack will be sufficient.

  Now this is good news, thought Schmidt. She’s talking to me as though I were a human being, she’s still with this guy White, and she’s actually made a plan, a sensible plan.

  He replied: What a good idea.

  Oh yeah, and I’m going to be full-time at the agency, starting in September.

  That is simply wonderful. Congratulations!

  And one other thing: Alan Townsend and I agreed that it’s enough if I see him twice a month starting when he gets back from vacation. He’s also going to take me off medications, but he wants to be there when he does it.

  I’m thrilled.

  Got to go, said Charlotte. See you!

  Schmidt felt his jaw drop. Was this Charlotte or a particularly able impersonator? On the supposition that he had in fact been talking to his daughter, he called the florist in the city and sent her a large white orchid plant with a card reading Congratulations and love from your dad. As he was pla
cing the order, he remembered his failed attempt to apologize to Alice, a memory that still burned like a hot wire and could have sufficed to keep him from ever saying anything with flowers again. In fact, he came close to canceling this order but didn’t, deciding—in his opinion reasonably—that the fault then had lain not with the orchid but with his own behavior. His astonishment grew when Charlotte thanked him, sending a Hallmark card with a kitten in a basket on the outside, and inside it the words Thank you in red script. It was a first, and he wished he could have chuckled over it with her mother. She had, however, signed it. Until then, the only ready-made thank-you notes he had received had been from elevator men, garage attendants, delivery boys at various establishments, and mailmen to whom he gave cash presents at Christmas, and retired cleaning ladies to whom he sent annual checks. But then it occurred to him that Charlotte must know—but how? had he told her?—of his love affair with Sy and was very gently teasing him. That seemed to him a clear sign of returning health.

  The next call came on Friday after the Labor Day weekend. Mother Teresa had died that day, and after reminding Schmidt that she was going back to work “like a real person”—a statement that wrung his heart—she expressed her admiration for the saintly nun. Schmidt was momentarily at a loss for words, remembering vaguely that she had received the Nobel Peace Prize many years back, as had such worthies as de Klerk and Arafat (each being paired with his better to share the distinction). He had had no prior inkling of Charlotte’s interest in India’s poorest.

  Still, he recovered in time to say: Yes, it’s sad. She did have a very long life, and I suppose she was very tired.

  Eighty-seven is not so old, replied Charlotte. She could have gone on with her work. And poor Diana! It’s so sad, so tragic!

  It seemed to Schmidt that she was crying very softly. The accident in which the Princess of Wales died had been five days earlier, the previous Sunday, and while Schmidt was aware of the outpouring of national grief in England, the depth of Charlotte’s feeling once again surprised him. He hadn’t known her to be an Anglophile, and he had certainly never seen her display any interest in the follies of the British royals. But sensing again that he stood at the edge of a minefield, he remained perfectly still.