Schmidt Steps Back

by Louis Begley

  Yes, that was very sad too, he said. How old was she? Forty-one, forty-two? She had two sons, didn’t she?

  Dad—the word had edged toward Daad—she was thirty-six! Only four years older than I! It’s so dreadful, so terribly dreadful, to be so unhappy and never get a chance to make up for it!

  Now she was really crying, and not bothering to hide it.

  Sweetie, said Schmidt, I’m so sorry about her, I’m so dreadfully sorry you feel so bad.

  She blew her nose and continued: Can you imagine, yesterday at the office this jerk Olson—Schmidt remembered vaguely that one of the managing directors of the firm went by that name—called her a little slut? Said he couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about? If I didn’t want so badly to go back to work, I would have thrown something at him—I don’t know what, maybe the trash basket. It was full of half-empty coffee cups. Would have served him right.

  Oh my, said Schmidt, people are so unfeeling.

  He realized that he would have been capable of making a similar if probably less harsh remark.

  Jenny has a photograph of Lady Di on her desk and has a candle burning in front of it. Sort of like the people outside Buckingham Palace she saw on TV.

  Schmidt remembered that Jenny was Josh White’s daughter and hoped she wasn’t going to set the apartment on fire.

  How old is she now, he inquired, is she still at Friends?

  Thirteen. She’s a great kid. Yeah, she’s still at Friends. Dad, she continued, the reason I’m calling is that we found this amazing house in Kent. It would be just perfect; it has an artist’s studio that’s now being used as a sort of super guest room and an artificial pond. We’re going to look at it again tomorrow. The money I got for Claverack isn’t quite enough. Will you help me buy it? I don’t want a mortgage if I can help it because I haven’t got enough money coming in to carry one. So if I can, I’d rather buy it free and clear.

  Certainly, replied Schmidt, I’ll help you. Are you going to have to do much by way of repairs? Remodeling?

  Nothing. Just a coat of paint. Josh says he’ll slap it on himself. I guess that’s what you do if you’re a painter!

  She actually laughed.

  Schmidt wondered how much capital would be required to “help” but decided not to ask. Whatever it was, he would find it. To hell with worries about the gift tax and tax efficiency There was enough money to fulfill his promise to Carrie and Jason about the kids’ education and enough for him to live on if he tightened his belt. He wasn’t going to spoil this moment for Charlotte.

  That sounds fine, he said. Let me know how it goes and how much you need. And do get a competent lawyer. If you need a recommendation, I can ask around.

  It’s OK, Josh has someone. A Sunset Hill graduate like me, who practices out there. I guess we Sunset alums got to stick together.

  She laughed again before saying, Got to go—her current sign off, which did not get Schmidt’s goat—and was gone.

  Sy had climbed into his lap during the phone call and was purring vigorously. That meant that he wanted to be fed and found it politic to make himself agreeable, an approach whose obvious merits Schmidt thought he could highly recommend to anyone who wanted his money. Charlotte hadn’t exactly purred, but, given her vast talent for making herself odious, she was doing pretty well at the capture of benevolence. The chief virtue of the house seemed to be that it suited the still-unknown Mr. White! About to shrug, he restrained himself: Sy, who detested sneezes and other loud noises and ill-considered gestures, might have been spooked. It occurred to Schmidt that Sy had taught him a lesson he could apply in his dealings with Charlotte: be patient and let her take the initiative. She would produce her Josh, and his Jenny too, but in her own good time.

  A world gone mad. With scary consistency, Charlotte’s calls were intertwined with news of disasters and disgrace. Before the end of the year, in a Manhattan federal court, a jury convicted the terrorists who had exploded a truck bomb in the public garage under the World Trade Center in 1993, while in Egypt other terrorists killed more than sixty tourists who had hoped to visit Luxor. The White House reeked of trailer trash sexual scandals, the tempo of repugnant revelations accelerating until a year later no one in the nation—perhaps no one on earth in reach of a television signal—could be ignorant of the nice chubby Jewish girl who had spat the presidential ejaculate out on her blue dress, the liquid that dozens upon dozens of porn queens and princesses would have lapped to the last drop, and threw the dress into her closet instead of sending it out to be cleaned. In the closing days of the year, the president was impeached, but not before he had ordered air strikes against Iraq to enforce the no-fly zones. Other events, pregnant with menace and resonant, had preceded that premonitory act: India and Pakistan each conducted tests to show the other that it had the bomb; other murderous terrorists attacked U.S. embassies in Dar es Salaam and Nairobi, leaving hundreds dead and thousands injured; U.S. missiles rained on terrorist bases in Sudan and Afghanistan. Outside of Laramie, Wyoming, a gentle, waiflike gay student was tortured and beaten to death. Frequently Charlotte called to commiserate with Schmidt about these and other catastrophes. He took those conversations, her knowledge of current events, and her eagerness to discuss them with him as nothing short of miraculous. He still hadn’t met Josh—and she had given no sign that she thought an introduction was in order. But she had sent Schmidt photographs of the house in Kent and actually thanked him for the hefty contribution he had made to paying for it. He hoped that she’d had the sense to keep the title to the house in her name, but he didn’t dare to ask. In the old days one could have presumed as much, since to the best of Schmidt’s knowledge Charlotte and Josh weren’t married, but times had changed. Even stranger than not knowing Josh was the fact that he had seen Charlotte only three or four times since his second visit to Sunset Hill, briefly over coffee or a sandwich. He risked her ire by making a crack: now that he had pictures of the house, wouldn’t it be a good idea to send him one of her?

  Relax, Dad, she said, I look all right. Better than when you last saw me. I’ve even got a nice haircut.

  Well, that’s good, thought Schmidt, I’ll keep my fingers crossed. Aren’t her words and general liveliness sufficient reassurance? If seeing her father and being fussed over by him, perhaps even being hugged by the old man, were on her wish list she’d meet him in the city or Bridgehampton, returning to the house and beach that had been her childhood vacation universe. That she knew how to get what she wanted he was certain without reciting all the recent examples. Recent examples? Don’t bother to count them. Be modest and grateful that your daughter is a functioning young woman again, that she has found a man she likes and managed to stay with him for two years. As for you, Schmidtie, get on with your life—such as it is.

  He did his best. Leaving for Europe, he swept through the Life Centers, which were now nine in number. Afterward, he visited archeological sites in Anatolia with a group organized by the Fogg Museum, returning home in time to see the president admit to the nation on television that he had lied about his relationship with the obliging White House intern. He had called Charlotte’s numbers in the city and in Kent to tell her that he had returned and was on his back porch, reading about the imminent economic collapse of Russia, when his own telephone rang. It was Charlotte.

  Dad, she said, I guess you’re home. Josh has been talking about how he’d like to meet you. I guess he’s like you. Is anyone living in the pool house?

  No, no one, replied Schmidt, reminding himself to let her lead.

  In that case, do you think Josh and Jenny and I could come and stay there over Labor Day weekend? That’s in two weeks. Jenny’s fifteen now. You won’t mind her.

  Nothing could give me greater pleasure, you know that. I only wish it could be sooner. How will you get here, by train or the Jitney or by car?

  By car. We’ll be coming from Kent. We’re all on vacation here.

  That’s great, said Schmidt, that’s the best coming-ho
me present I could have hoped for. Just let me know whether to expect you for lunch or for dinner.

  Lunch. So we don’t get stuck in the Friday before Labor Day rush hour traffic.

  Very wise. Oh yes, he added, I’m just looking at the calendar and I see that on that Sunday Mike Mansour is giving his annual Labor Day lunch. I know he’d very much like to meet you and Josh, and of course Jenny. It would be nice if you came. As you may remember, he was very helpful.

  Daaad, please don’t start organizing me so far in advance. I’ll talk to Josh and send you an e-mail. Got to go now. Good-bye.

  She hung up before he had a chance to say another word, but Schmidt thought that her adding good-bye to the usual “got to go” sign off was something of a breakthrough. It was enough to take the sting out of Daaad at almost full bore. In truth, he could imagine nothing she might have said that would have diminished by an iota his joy. She was coming for a long weekend, it was her idea, and she was bringing the man he was beginning to think of as her husband and the girl who would be her stepdaughter. He had intended to call Gil, but had not gotten around to it. The receiver still in his hand, he dialed his number. Gil was there and saw no reason he and Schmidtie couldn’t have one of their soul-baring lunches at O’Henry’s. When he returned he found an e-mail from Charlotte on his computer screen:

  Thanks, Dad! Josh says we’d all three like to go to Mr. Mansour’s lunch. C.

  Jenny turned out to be a somewhat smaller than life-size portrait of her father: lanky, slightly stooped, big hands and big feet, plain but pleasant and cheerful face framed by blond hair that both the daughter and the father wore in a ponytail. Blue eyes behind round glasses looked at the world and its inhabitants with what seemed like constant surprise. She wore a short denim skirt, a white Mostly Mozart T-shirt, and running shoes. Josh was dressed in neatly pressed khaki trousers, a blue work shirt familiar to Schmidt from the L.L. Bean catalog, and a loose white cotton jacket. The father and the daughter were each carrying a small L.L. Bean duffel bag. In addition, Josh carried what Schmidt thought had to be Charlotte’s overnight suitcase. And his daughter? Schmidt thought she hadn’t looked so well since before she had married Riker: erect, lithe, and radiant. And turned out in linen and khaki, as though she had been shopping with Mary. He stepped toward her, remembering to let her make the first move. Miraculously, she kissed him! Dizzy from happiness and gratitude, he shook Josh’s hand, kissed Jenny on both cheeks, saying to himself how perfectly fine they were these two Whites, it’s as though I had known them forever, as though they had always been coming here. I have nothing to worry about.

  Charlotte, he said, Please take Josh and Jenny to the pool house. I strongly advise a dip. Whenever you’re ready, come on over to lunch. I have some lobsters in the kitchen that are very eager to make your acquaintance.

  When he recalled later the events of that weekend, poring again and again over each scene as though he were viewing a home movie in slow motion, he would savor the images of Charlotte—he had been so proud of her!—and of their Monday morning at the beach. Under a cloudless sky, the beach was almost deserted, most renters too busy vacating their houses and loading their possessions into station wagons for the long drive home to take advantage of the sand that the receding tide had washed clean of footprints and left so brilliantly white and packed hard, or the long and regular September waves. It was warm, in the mideighties, but a gentle onshore breeze made the air feel light and fresh. They had all jumped in, and while Charlotte, Jenny, and Josh remained close to shore, bobbing up and down in the surf, Schmidt set out for a swim along the shore, allowing himself to be carried east by the current, repeating to himself an incantation that buoyed him, gave him strength, he thought, to swim as far as Montauk: I am happy, I am grateful, everything is as it should be. But he wasn’t going to Montauk, his little family—why shouldn’t he call them that?—had probably climbed out of the water and was wondering what to do about the errant old codger. To test his new strength, he swam against the current, battling it with huge strokes, caught a wave that like a conveyor belt carried him to the shore. Here I am, he cried!

  It turned out that the girls—that’s how he had started to refer to Charlotte and Jenny—wanted to lie on their towels right up near the dune and read. He glanced at the covers of their books. Charlotte was reading The Hours, and Jenny Ethan Frome, a summer assignment, she told him, that included writing a report. That too filled Schmidt with pride. His daughter, the ace literature student, was reading a first-rate book, and so was this kid whom he was eager to welcome officially into his family and home. He had warmed up from the swim and suggested to Josh that they take a walk together. Schmidt’s future son-in-law turned out to be a fast walker, just as fast as he, and they congratulated each other on the excellence of the sand. Josh had been telling Schmidt about his parents—the father a professor of American history at the University of Virginia, the mother a pediatrician—and his only sibling, a younger brother who was also a doctor, still unmarried, when he stopped in midsentence and came to a halt.

  Schmidtie, he said, I’ve been beating about the bush. I want to tell you something much more personal. But we can keep walking. First, my late wife. It was a long agony. She had ovarian cancer, which was removed together with her uterus but nevertheless metastasized, altogether it took her six years to die. Jenny was by then nine. She was expecting a little brother. The cancer wasn’t discovered until Pam—that was my wife’s name—began to hemorrhage. She was in her sixth month, but the baby couldn’t be saved. Considering what followed, the years of chemo, radiation, and surgery, it was surely just as well. You can imagine that having lived through this I was immediately sympathetic to Charlotte’s case.

  Yes, said Schmidt, of course. He would have said more, but it was clear that Josh wanted to go on talking.

  It would have been much worse if I hadn’t had Jenny. You’ve had a chance to observe her. She’s a good girl, really intelligent, and brave. I can talk to her like an adult. She’s better than most adults, actually.

  Schmidt nodded in the brief pause. He was beginning to worry about the direction of Josh’s story.

  I should tell you that I fell in love with Charlotte very soon after we met. Perhaps two weeks later. She was the most gifted of her group. I was glad to stay after class and talk to her. It took her much longer, naturally, since she wasn’t well. But as she began to feel better she began to like me too. Schmidtie, she has made me incredibly happy.

  Why, Josh, I am so happy to hear that!

  But you must wonder why we aren’t married, why we are still living apart—I mean in the city. Of course, we are all staying at Charlotte’s house in Kent. Let me explain. I don’t believe that Charlotte has kept you as informed as you’d probably want to be.

  The words That’s an understatement! were on the tip of his tongue. He did not say them, contenting himself with a nod.

  I realize that, and I realize that this has been hard on you, but somehow it’s been a part of her getting better. Let me explain. Jenny means everything to me. She is my great treasure. Very frankly I was afraid of proposing marriage to Charlotte, or even asking her to move in with us, until I became very sure that Charlotte has really become solid. You know what I mean. I could not risk Charlotte’s having another incident—becoming very depressed—after Jenny had become dependent on her. As she would, because Charlotte is irresistible. But now it’s all right.

  So you think Charlotte has become solid? I don’t need to tell you how important that is to me.

  Yes, Josh replied, I do. I also think that Jenny has become mature enough to handle any difficulty that may come. But it won’t. I won’t let it. The long and the short of it, Schmidtie, is that I have come to ask for your daughter’s hand.

  Schmidt felt his knees buckle. Hell, at his age, after the swim and the walk, why shouldn’t he do it? He sat down on the sand and motioned for Josh to sit down beside him. It was Charlotte who had told him that she and Jon Riker had dec
ided to get married. He thought then that announcement spelled the end of a bearable existence slowly reconstituted after the loss of Mary that he might be able to sustain, so strong was his resentment of that man. Then Riker, in his own kitchen—they were staying with Schmidt in Bridgehampton—had had the gall to say that he hoped Schmidt approved of his making Charlotte an honest woman! How different, how unexpected, and how fitting seemed to him Josh White’s proposal.

  I am more deeply moved, Josh, he replied, than I know how to tell. Has Charlotte said yes? Because, if she has, I give you my consent with the greatest joy.

  She has, she has! They stood up and embraced.

  As they walked back toward the girls, Schmidt remembering what it is to walk on air, Josh explained that between his teaching jobs and sales of his work he made ends meet. Jenny had a scholarship at Friends, he owned his studio and the apartment, left to him by his late wife who had owned it, and there was a trust for Jenny set up under his wife’s will that would pay for Jenny’s college and give her a small income. A good new development was that his gallery dealer had proposed a contract under which he would be paid a monthly advance against future sales.

  So as you see, Charlotte won’t be coming into opulence, but our situation could be a great deal worse.

  The children—that was his new term for them—wanted to leave for Kent directly after lunch, Josh having to teach at Sunset Hill the next day. Schmidt felt it was providential that first thing in the morning he had assembled a meal intended to be festive. He had a moment alone with Charlotte later, while Josh was putting their things in the car.

  You are doing a very good thing, he told her, you will be a happy family.

  I know, she answered, I plan to do my best.

  The news came some three and a half hours later. Schmidt had done laps for precisely thirty minutes, the daily goal he had set; he had taken a shower and dressed and, aiming to continue the festivities, had made himself a gin martini. The Blackmans had invited him for dinner at eight, Gil saying it would be the usual suspects: Mike Mansour and Joe and Caroline Canning. When the telephone rang, Schmidt picked up the receiver eagerly, thinking that it was surely Charlotte or Josh calling to say that they had arrived and to thank him. But it was the police. There had been an accident. Would Schmidt be able to get to Patchogue? Yes, Patchogue, Brookhaven Memorial Hospital? Could the officer tell Schmidt what happened? It would all be explained when he arrived. Did he need directions? Schmidt wrote them down, his hand trembling, obliged to have them repeated twice before he was sure he had them straight. Then he called the Blackmans, told them where he was going, and got into his car.