by Louis Begley
How could one, he would ask, referring to one or another of their friends, how could one want to have sex with her, especially for the first time? Can you imagine the terror of finding out what’s under her clothes as one fumbles with hooks and buttons, the terror of what one’s fingers will touch once the crotch has been reached?
Schmidt was the first to agree that there wasn’t much to recommend in his own face, mouth, torso, or extremities. As a younger man he used to preen in every mirror; that was one bad habit he had finally broken. The consequence appeared to be that often, at the end of the day, he did not remember whether he had shaved and would have to raise his hand to his cheek to feel the stubble. He thought that if he were a woman he would not want to find a body like his in bed. If that wasn’t the inevitable reaction of all women, nature had somehow steeled them against ugliness—a blessing as great as the ability to make complaisance pass for desire. Why had nature not made life as easy for men?
Cheered by these thoughts, Schmidt brushed his teeth, put money and a credit card in the pocket of his trousers, and set out for O’Henry’s. At times like this, he knew he moved like a puma. He removed his dripping oilskin at the door, held it aloft in his right hand, concealing his face as he passed the restaurant bar. Then, at once, he began a smooth, unbearably long reach for the coat rack, making it last until he had crossed the stage, away from danger, to the far end of the room. There Carrie, rising on her toes, relieved him of his burden. Schmidt wished it were a heavy Venetian cloak, reeking of wet wool, the corner of which he could lift until there was only a slit left, through which his eyes could fix and hold hers. She led him to a table. The view of the Weird Sisters and of the small cloud of smoke that hovered above them was unobstructed. But the continuing serenity of their repast reassured Schmidt: they hadn’t penetrated his camouflage.
By the time she had served him the chopped steak, which was his main course, the crowd at the bar was thicker and very noisy, but a sleepy, negligent, late-evening calm had possessed the dining area. The two Oriental busboys were setting up with paper tablecloths and paper napkins for the next day’s lunch. Carrie lingered at Schmidt’s table, her hand on the back of the empty chair. He observed her attentively, as had become his custom each time she served him: skin almost green in that light, black hair with tiny curls that she wore in a long, tight pigtail, large dark eyes, under them circles that deepened with fatigue, and someday, if her features retained their absolute purity, would perfect her resemblance to Picasso’s Woman Ironing. She is younger than Charlotte, he thought, not more than twenty, and yet so very tired. She was some sort of Hispanic. Or it could be Negro blood. Her voice told Schmidt nothing of her origin: raucous as though she had worn it out wailing, it was also completely flat, neither educated nor vulgar. Waitresses at O’Henry’s wore black pants under their long, white aprons. He wondered about her legs.
You’ve had a long day, he told her.
Yeah. She tossed her head as though to rouse herself from sleep. Big crowd at lunch for such a lousy day, and a big crowd at dinner.
Her neck also was admirable, like the neck of a tired swan.
Is there someplace you can rest between the two meals?
He imagined her asleep in the seat of her car, that long neck thrown back, mouth open, droplets of sweat on her upper lip.
If I don’t have to shop, sometimes I go home. I live in Sag Harbor.
There were houses in Sag Harbor with peeling motorboats on trailers parked to the side, where electrified Santa Clauses went up early and kept on blinking until the spring. He supposed one could rent a room in some of them. But perhaps she was someone’s daughter, or lived in such a house with a peanut-butter-skinned husband who delivered bottled gas? Or did he work with his hands and service garden irrigation systems? No, in that case she would live in Hampton Bays. That was a place he passed on the highway, where he imagined blue-collar locals necessarily had their dwellings. He never had stopped there.
That’s very convenient—and pretty!
I like it. My girlfriend helped me find an apartment.
So she was single and did not live with her parents. Would Charlotte have said, My girlfriend? Possibly; come to think of it, he had heard young women lawyers in his office say about their vacation, I am going to walk in Bhutan with my girlfriend. So the usage had to be widespread.
Well, I used to live in New York. Now I live here.
I know that. She laughed. You are popular in Bridgehampton. I guess everybody knows about you.
I see.
That was, indeed, how he had always imagined it: the synod of local thieves gloating about how much money they made off him! Merely paying bills on time wouldn’t buy good service in Bridgehampton, certainly not popularity. Schmidt, the winner of the respectable summer crowd’s spending contest! He was tempted to suggest she tell the boys that the party was now over; it had been nice while it lasted, and he was glad they had enjoyed it.
What’s the matter? Have I said something wrong?
A large man stopped waving his credit card in the air. Instead, he snapped his fingers. She began to make a face and then immediately smiled, only the curve of that truly admirable neck—she had inclined her head slightly to the side—giving a hint of her discouragement. As she left Schmidt’s table, she let her hand brush his shoulder and whispered, I’ll be back!
During slow moments, which grew longer as he finished his meal, and then smoked and drank many cups of espresso, she came back to stand beside the empty chair at Schmidt’s table and talk about herself as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He learned that Carrie was short for Caridad, that her mother was Puerto Rican but her father wasn’t, that the father’s name—she giggled before she pronounced it—was Gorchuk (Schmidt concluded he couldn’t be colored, more probably some sort of Russian, which conclusion led him to wonder whether he was a Jew) and that he had worked for the school system in Brooklyn, that her mother always spoke to her in Spanish. Also, that after one year at Brooklyn College she had stopped—temporarily—taking her present job to earn some money, as her parents couldn’t give her any. Later, she would study to become a social worker, and get a job with the city, but she really wanted to be an actress.
A banal story, thought Schmidt, but better that than discovering she was the dropout daughter of a Mexican investment banker! Probably half the kids in his old firm’s mailroom had a story just like that, but her job, on her feet ten hours each day, six days a week, that was quite different from goofing off at Wood & King. It seemed to him that she had a lovely way of not being downtrodden. Quite the contrary, there was a sort of personal elegance, something spunky, almost proud, about her that he had noticed right away, the first time he saw her taking orders and rushing about with plates spilling over with French fries.
She began to yawn each time she stopped at the table. The party was over, but not quite yet: Schmidt left a large tip, shamelessly larger than usual. What was he to do? She was working for tips, wasn’t she? Some puma! He allowed himself to speed home on the wet back road.
III
No, there wasn’t a single day before Thanksgiving she could have lunch with him. Her team was working on the tobacco campaign, night and day.
Then I’ll see you and Jon on the weekend, Schmidt volunteered. He will probably have work from the office as usual, and, while he slaves away, you and I can go for a walk on the beach. It’s been a long time since you and I have had a talk. I’ve missed that.
Dad, have you given up reading the Times? Everybody’s joined the crusade against smoking. We are working to stop them before they cart you off to a concentration camp for reeducation.
Schmidt made a point of laughing.
Seriously, you’ve got a personal interest in what I’m doing! Dad, I’m almost sure I’ll be in the office both weekends. Jon will probably have to be at the office too—unless he’s down in Texas. If I don’t have to go in, I think I’ll just crash.
Then you should really
find time to see me in the city. It doesn’t have to be lunch. I said lunch because I wanted to take you out for sushi, but if you’ve given up raw fish it can be anything else you like. Charlotte, I need to talk to you. The meal doesn’t matter.
It won’t work, Dad. I’ve no time to relax or think about anything except tobacco right now. What’s the use of talking when I’m like that? If you want to discuss Jon and me, it would be better to wait until you’ve been to the Rikers’ home. By the way, has Jon’s secretary told you how thrilled they are that you’re coming to Thanksgiving?
That made him mad.
Yes, I got that message as well. Don’t you think it might have been nice—I don’t want to say polite—for you or Jon to tell me?
Dad, I would like a small present, how about ten dollars, for each time your Mrs. Cooney called me with messages from you or Mom! But mostly from my loving father! It was like a joke at college! These pieces of paper from my roommates or at the Crimson: Miss Schmidt, your father’s office has called again to inform you that the car will meet you at Islip, Mr. Schmidt’s secretary hopes Miss Schmidt will be pleased to learn she has two tickets for the Grateful Dead, Mrs. Cooney has Miss Schmidt’s blood test results if Miss Schmidt would like to call! The best was the one about how Mrs. Cooney wishes Miss Schmidt to know that Mr. Schmidt will be available this afternoon after four to talk to her about her mother. That was right after we had the first scare! Give Jon a break!
I was and I am your loving father, and I was doing my best. It wasn’t easy just then, between my work and Mary, and trying to make sure you and I stayed in touch, and running this house and the apartment.
Well, I am your loving daughter and I am very busy, and Jon is going to be your son-in-law, and he is busier than you ever were!
Has Jon told you so?
He doesn’t need to. I live with him, remember?
This conversation makes me wonder whether there is any point in asking to see you or going to visit those Riker parents who are so thrilled at the prospect of my visit!
Dad, we can see each other and talk, if you feel like talking, after Thanksgiving when I have time. I’m not sure though that there is any point unless you make Jon and me feel you are happy about our marriage and want us to be happy together. It isn’t just the way you were last Sunday You’ve been carrying on like this since the day of Mom’s funeral. You never speak to Jon except to say something nasty, and the rest of the time you put on your looking-right-through-him act.
My goodness! I hadn’t suspected you had so many grievances—old and new! We had better hang up now, while we’re still on speaking terms.
The storm had blown out to sea at last, and the kitchen was yellow with sunlight. Schmidt found it hurt his eyes. He sat down in his chair at the table, turned his back to the window, and lit a cigar. He had a deal with a discounter who mailed cigars to him in a private-brand box. The advertising hinted they were in fact Cuban. It didn’t make much difference; for the price, the taste wasn’t half bad. Tobacco campaign indeed! Didn’t she remember he never touched the garbage her client sold? Who would have thought a summa in comparative literature, faultless French, summer internships Mary found for her with those famous small newspapers—all that enthusiasm, all those gifts—would lead straight to the sewer. Sure, Wood & King defended asbestos cases! There was no need to remind him; he had never been proud of it. They also tried to get serial murderers off death row—pro bono! But they didn’t try to sell the public on the idea that asbestos was a great product. Besides, what did his work, or his firm’s need to cover the overhead, have to do with how she had decided to live? Nobody had tried to open the doors to a better or wider world for Schmidt—certainly not his old man!
He felt tired, hardly able to move; his bones ached. How many more years of this? He was sixty and in good health: Ten? Fifteen? Twenty-three, like his father? Each day like this or worse, probably much worse? Old heartaches, stale disappointments, arguments lost long ago—why did they come back to stick their tongues out at him over and over? A career in public relations! His daughter choosing an occupation both mercenary and parasitic. Necessarily, it had hardened her, given her a tolerance for vulgarity and meanness. The marriage to Riker would finish the job. This piece of blackmail was conclusive proof. Riker, not Charlotte, had invented it. Had he brought the parents into it, consulted them? He must have told her it was time to break her father. Tell the old boy he has to toe the line or he won’t see you! These were steely negotiating skills, the killer instincts he had himself babbled about at firm meetings when that circumcised prick was up for partnership.
He heard car doors slam. Wednesday—it must be the Polish cleaning brigade. He was too nervous to shave, too nervous to remain in the house with them. The forward observers, Mrs. Zielnik and Mrs. Nowak, poured into the kitchen and caught him by the arms. Kissed, he fled upstairs, wiping his cheeks on his sleeve. The bed in Charlotte’s room was unmade. That was good; they would know it was time to change the nuptial sheets. In the corner, he saw Riker’s running shoes, on top of them thick socks—unwashed, he supposed. At arm’s length, holding them with the tips of his fingers, he carried these articles to the bathroom, dropped them on the floor, lowered the toilet seat and cover, and without looking, flushed, just in case. A contraption for cleaning gums, familiar to Schmidt from drugstore window displays, but new in this place, stood on the shelf. Fearful of electrical fires, he unplugged it. Beside it, in a glass, two plastic attachments for use in the mouth, one with a blue and the other with a pink base. Conjugal hygiene! No doubt one sat straining on the crapper while the other performed advanced oral ablutions. Back in the bedroom, he stripped the blankets and threw them on the floor. There they were, the weekend stains—like a kid’s wet dreams in camp.
By the time he had put on his heavy sweater and descended the front stairs, the vacuum cleaners were in action. Waving with one hand, pointing to his ears with the other, to make sure they understood there was too much noise for conversation, he passed through the front hall. He had avoided the weekly update on Mrs. Zielnik’s eczema and the pesky bladder of Mrs. Nowak’s husband. That was something to be grateful for.
He heard the sea from the road, before he got to the residents’ parking lot. Mauled to the bone by the storm, the beach had become a narrow, abrupt strip. Neat clumps of seaweed, like little brown nosegays laid out in parallel arches, marked the successive limits of the ocean’s heaving advance. Schmidt left his loafers in the dune and walked east, along the edge of the surf, where the sand was hardest. There was no pause between the breakers, no rest from the sucking that followed every crash. He could not imagine making it through that water, heavy with sand, rushing in confused circles while it gathered its force for the next strike. Why hadn’t he done it, right after Mary died, the way he had imagined it? The scene was out of the Woody Allen movie that looked like Bergman, only the figure on the screen would be he: A thin, fairly tall man, to judge by his posture no longer young, in cotton trousers and a large parka, stares from this beach at just such a sea, but the light is less strong. One senses that it’s daybreak. He stands at the edge of the water. A disorderly wave far ahead of the others swamps his Top-Siders, wets him to the knees. The man doesn’t retreat; with his sleeve, he wipes the mist of tears from his face. Then he does take a few steps back, looks to the left and to the right and at the sky, runs heavily, but that’s the best he can do on the wet sand in shoes that are already like weights, and plunges into the surf. Even in these ridiculous clothes, one can tell he is an experienced swimmer. He makes it over the top of the first wave, and then the second, as though he were romping with grandchildren; the third is too high, so he dives through it, recovering in time to take on each newcomer until he is free, at last able to start swimming. He does an improbable sort of crawl, arms in those baggy sleeves lifting in a laborious wobble, the head bobbing up irregularly, quite out of control. At a certain point—the strangeness of the scene subverts the absent spectator’s and per
haps the man’s own sense of time—he seems to have had enough. He goes for the shore, and he is intelligent about it. On his back, keeping an eye on those breakers, he does a tired swimmer’s float. A huge one comes. The man repeats his diving act until he catches a wave badly: a frantic arm is out of line. Still, he comes up, for a moment that’s brief like a shriek, in great disarray, no longer swimming. Then there is absolutely nothing.
Why hadn’t he?
Some seagulls flew overhead, in full cry. Such a very clear day! Already, he could see the house at the edge of Georgica. Too bad only he was taking advantage of the sunshine to walk on the beach, but what could one expect? The locals were busy unplugging toilets or filling oil tanks and sending bills for the same, writers were writing or getting a cup of coffee at the candy store, the Weird Sisters were on the telephone, retirees with apartments in New York or Paris were in those apartments getting dressed for lunch, and the other old farts had lost the ability to move or the habit. They might be playing canasta at the Seagull Motel! Mary had liked walking on this endless beach even more than he. A place of no abiding footprints: Why hadn’t the ocean saved him from trudging here alone, his thoughts dispersed and black? Had he lost his nerve? That might be the truth, disguised as pity for his own body, still undamaged, still eager, like a dog that won’t come to heel, eager to gallop about, a soggy tennis ball in his teeth, so unprepared for the rolling and scraping against the ocean floor, for the swelling and the evisceration. Pace Woody Allen, it was possible to be less brutal. There were pills: all those leftover pills in paper cups. It turned out that Mary didn’t need everything the surgeon had provided. He had told himself he should bury her, that it was wrong—cruel, really—to leave it to Charlotte to clean up after both mother and father, to muck out their private, unspeakable debris. But it hadn’t taken long before he recognized the true shape of his disgrace: curiosity, and longing for solitude, both obscene as an itch. For so many years, in effect, his entire adult life, he had lived at Mary’s side. Could he not sail alone beyond the pillars of Hercules and taste the apples of the western garden before the waves closed over his head?
