by Louis Begley
Hmmmm.
There’s another thing—you see, I’ve really been thinking. You might want to wear Mom’s dress. It would need to be taken in or let out here and there, but basically it should fit, and it’s right here waiting for you.
Oh. Do you think so? I don’t know.
Speaking of apparel, Schmidt had not bothered to put on his bathrobe. It rather amused him to take his ease naked in the warm weather or when the house was nicely heated. It was so cold outside that, luckily, in anticipation of Carrie’s visit, he had set the bedroom thermostat and the one that controlled the downstairs at a toasty seventy-two degrees. Carrie! He wished she had gone on sleeping until this conversation was over. Nevertheless, Schmidt’s spirits lifted when he saw her, so freshly and thoroughly explored, drooping like an orchid, lithe as a foal, tiptoe into the kitchen. The white terry-cloth peignoir was ridiculously long. “Hesperus entreats thy light, /Goddess excellently bright!” To make sure she remained as silent as the moon, he put his index finger to his lips. In reply, she made the face—part Bronx cheer and part other elements unknown to him—that he had already seen her make at his car window. Then pouting, her own finger at her lips, she plunked herself down in his lap, put her arms around him, and began to lick the inside of the ear that was not pressed against the telephone receiver.
There is no special hurry, he told his daughter. If you decide not to wear it, you should be able to find a very elegant white suit or a short white dress. I’ll help you look, if you like. A long dress other than Mom’s is out of the question, since this won’t be a church wedding.
She snickered. It sure won’t be that! By the way, we’re going to have a very nice rabbi.
A rabbi!
Leah and Ronald expect it. That’s what Renata said.
Leah and Ronald?
Jon’s grandparents, Dad! Remember? You know, you’ve met them.
Of course, I’m very sorry.
He can’t actually marry us, because there isn’t time for me to convert, but he’ll say some prayers and bless the marriage.
Schmidt didn’t wince, so exquisite were the sensations procured by what Carrie’s tongue was doing to his ear and her fingers to his right nipple.
Instead, he inquired: Will there be equal time for the true church?
Which one is that, Dad? Do you know any ministers? When was the last time you went to church?
To your mother’s service. David Haskell—that’s the name of the priest. I certainly know him.
And before that?
Charlotte, you know perfectly well that neither your mother nor I were churchgoers. That’s not the point.
Will you explain the point then?
The novocaine was wearing off. He nudged Carrie off his lap.
Not before you explain to me what you meant by your remark about conversion.
Just what I said. There isn’t time between now and June. There will be time later and maybe I’ll convert. There must be more to being a Jew than your kind of Episcopalian. At least it would be genuine!
Genuine! Have they got you on some sort of pills, baby? Otherwise, why not a Hare Krishna? Do you actually plan to light candles and go to the ritual bath? I bet dear Renata doesn’t. Is this what we brought you up for?
Dad, you hit the nail right on the head! That’s exactly right, Mom brought me up to admire the Jewish tradition and to think your Jew baiting is disgusting. Just listen to yourself: one mention of the word rabbi and the real Albert Schmidt Esquire comes out of the closet! Then it’s goodbye caterers and nice short white dress: not for the daughter who’s marrying a Jew and wants to bring a rabbi onto her father’s lawn!
That grace, those simple good manners, must have come to Carrie naturally. Or had they been taught by Mr. Gorchuk, revealed as Muscovite prince or the son of tsarist general? Schmidt observed with grateful admiration that she seemed to have gone stone deaf, and anyway was off at the far side of the kitchen, fixing him what looked like a bourbon on ice. Bare feet, noiseless steps. She had found the round little silver tray and brought the drink on it. Then, squatting on her haunches, she hugged his legs. Like a cat, she rubbed her head against his knees.
You don’t think, Dad, that anyone is fooled? At Wood & King it was a standard joke: Schmidt’s last stand against Zion! That’s why they never let you near the management of the firm. Half the firm would have walked out the door! Ask Mr. DeForrest. Ask some of your other pals over there. They’ll tell you they didn’t want an anti-Semite to be presiding partner.
The effect of one hundred proof bourbon on an empty stomach was fabulous.
Jack DeForrest? he asked. That notorious defender of Israel? Nick Browning? Or maybe Lew Brenner, our honorary Wasp? Are they casting the first stone? No, it’s Jon Riker. I guess I must have thought the Riker family arrived on the Mayflower when I pushed him for partnership.
Dad, it’s everybody. Sure, you helped Jon make it, but you held your nose doing it. Remember your clients? Was there a single Jew among them? Or your friends? And don’t tell me about Gil Blackman!
If you want to do Jew counting, sweetie pie, you are welcome. It’s not my habit. You might even start by all the Jews your mother and I have had to dinner and lunch, both here and at Fifth Avenue, for the weekend, and out at parties. Really!
Those were Mom’s friends, not yours!
There you are right, Charlotte. I have no friends.
Except the fancy Gil Blackman!
Yes, my old college roommate, who wasn’t all that fancy when he and I first met. All right, baby. I think you have told me quite enough. Please say to Renata I’m quite able to manage, and say hello to Jon and the rest of his family. I’d like you to write within the week, with the number of guests, if you want me to give the wedding here. If you have something else in mind, you work it out, and I’ll pay for it.
There was a beginning of a reply—he didn’t want to hear it and raised his voice: Don’t dare to apologize. Ever. We will simply get on with our lives.
After the click, the face at his knee looked up. Man, that was wild!
Yes. I am sorry you heard it.
That’s OK.
The face began an upward journey toward his center, paused while Carrie opened her peignoir, lingered until it was satisfied.
I want it. What are you waiting for?
She pushed his hands away from her breasts, let the peignoir fall to the floor, and, arms stretched out, leaned over the kitchen table.
Hold me hard.
Later, panting: Do you like that? You can come, Schmidtie.
I don’t want to. I like it too much.
She too was hungry, but she didn’t want to go out to dinner. Give me your car keys, I’ll get us some pizza real quick. You like it with everything?
She had found a shabby blue Brooks Brothers shirt in his chest of drawers and was wearing it and his old tennis sweater over her leotard top. As she was leaving, she pulled out of the pocket of her parka the red gloves that were his Christmas present and put them on. He said he hadn’t noticed them before.
I didn’t want to spoil them in sand, she replied. I wore my old ones. These are so fancy!
He listened to her gun the Saab’s motor, producing a rich growl, like the recordings of the Daytona track the pre-med across the hall from Gil and him used to play in their freshman year, and put on a pair of pants and a sweater. A candlelit dinner for two in the kitchen! The lightness of being was swell. Before setting the table, Schmidt inspected its edge, hoping for a smudge of Carrie. No dice. He got the Georgian candlesticks—thank God, no tarnish—a starched white tablecloth, and napkins. Were salt and pepper required? Perhaps pepper, in the silver grinder. He supposed he might as well give the silver pieces to Charlotte. The new house wouldn’t have a butler’s pantry or a deep drawer to hold the Shreve Crump and Low silver chest and the other dignified doodads at rest in their flannel shrouds. He’d take his wine with him. Meanwhile, to celebrate, he would drink quite a lot of it, beginning with the bur
gundies he had laid down the year of Charlotte’s birth. A bottle of that quality with pizza! Nothing like it could have happened before.
Yes, I do like it, he told Carrie, and took a big bite. I like it a lot.
In fact, it was good—with a thick, chewy crust, cheese and tomato sauce an inch deep, and lots of pepperoni, olives, anchovies, and little canned mushrooms—reminding Schmidt of the pizzas he used to eat years ago in the restaurant on 72nd Street that, according to the bartender, belonged outright to the Mafia, not just a question of protection money. The owner, who looked like Vittorio Gassman, was just a front. The Mafia also owned the house in Babylon with the round pool, a photo of which was Scotch-taped to the mirror over the bar; only the wife in Bermuda shorts and the little boy were really his. Schmidt had reset the table, because she wanted to sit next to him; across the table, facing him, was too far away.
You should eat at home more. You wouldn’t believe it. What you get at O’Henry’s isn’t worth a third of what you pay. Especially the liquor. The way you drink that’s important.
I know. But when I go there I get to see you.
Now you don’t need to. I’ll come to see you.
She took his hand and kissed it.
You’ll give me a key, and if you’re in bed I’ll sneak in and wake you up. No—I’ll just wake up your little guy. I guess I know how to do that!
If you aren’t careful, you’ll wear me out. Don’t forget I’m an old man.
I’m kidding you. We’ll just sleep holding hands. Hey, I want to ask you a question. You think it’s OK to get in bed with a guy and not do anything—I mean maybe just kiss? Not even fool around?
Of course. That’s how married couples are—much of the time.
I don’t mean when people stop fucking. I mean with you right now I feel like I want you to put it in all the time. There are other times I’m closed down, like I’m tired. Then I just want to be quiet.
He nodded his head.
You want chocolate-chip ice cream? I got a quart. Hey, I’ve still got your change in my pocket. I’ll put it on the counter by the toaster.
Then when they were eating the ice cream, she asked, You’re not going to be mad if we don’t do anything tonight? Maybe just watch the TV in bed and neck? Promise?
Of course. If we’re friends, we can’t just make love all the time. We have to do other things together—read, listen to music, do nothing. That way there is a chance you won’t get tired of me and bored!
Oh shut up! You’re nuts. Schmidtie, look at me. I need to know. Are you asking me to be faithful to you?
What a strange question! Why do you ask?
It was a strange question, but all at once it occurred to Schmidt that it wasn’t unprecedented. Hadn’t Gil’s Greek-American put something like that to Gil? Was it a part of the mating ritual among the ethnics?
I need to know. I want to know if you’ll go crazy when you find out I fuck someone else.
I don’t think I’ll like it, Schmidt answered. How could I?
Oh, Schmidtie, you are asking me to be faithful.
He had no Elaine to worry about. But he also didn’t have Gil’s high opinion of his own person. It was all eerily just as he had foreseen, just as uncomfortable and troubling. How could he allow such a rule to be established—what would he give her in return. His sexual ministrations? Enlightened conversation? Evenings out with a gent who would be naturally mistaken for her father if she didn’t have that olive skin and kinky hair? Little presents? Big presents—cash, college tuition? Of course, his love! But what was the new language of love? If being in love was the same as having a crush, no problem! He could tell Carrie that during their nap he had fallen in love. Maybe that was all the assurance she needed, a sign that they were at some level above casual sex, and being faithful meant nothing but the opposite of promiscuity. But he thought that her feelings were much more delicate and complex. It wasn’t right to play with words. Therefore, he told her, as tenderly as was within his power, that she had become very dear to him and that he wanted her, but only for as long as she really wanted to have him, as long as she wanted it to last.
Carrie, he concluded, you’ve got to understand, I want to be fair. If I want your good, your happiness, and I do want them very much, I can’t ask for something that could stop you from finding the right guy—someone very nice and of the right age, not a broken-down senior citizen!
Well-intentioned pomposity. Schmidt didn’t like it. It didn’t play well with Carrie either.
Yeah, I got it. You like the way I do sex, but you’re not in love with me. That’s what I understand.
She looked sad. Then her face brightened. She moved to sit in his lap. You’re not going to get mad at me? she asked.
How could I?
I don’t know. There’s a guy in Sag Harbor—Bryan—I’ve kind of been with him since I got this job. If I tell him about you, he’ll go nuts. I don’t know. Run around the room, beat his head on the wall, break things. It’s crazy.
She laughed and put her tongue in Schmidt’s ear.
The news went through Schmidt like an icicle.
This way, I won’t tell him, OK?
He put his hand under her turtleneck, into the cup of her bra. The nipple stiffened immediately. He began alternately to squeeze it quite hard and then reward it by a gentler caress. Nothing mattered. He had to keep her body. She had said she belonged to him.
And this Bryan doesn’t mind if you stay out all day and spend the night with me? You are going to stay?
He squeezed, with all his strength.
God, Schmidtie, keep doing that, you’re making me wet, now rub. Rub hard!
And then she shrieked.
The videocassettes he had didn’t interest her. Ice hockey was all right. She used his toothbrush and said they should both wear pajamas to bed. When they lay down, she made him lie on his side of the bed. He had told her one didn’t have to be always doing it; now he could prove it. They were going to watch the game. Carpe diem. Schmidt stretched his leg toward her so that his toes touched hers. That was apparently all right.
And Bryan? he asked her. He really doesn’t mind if you disappear for a whole night?
He was from Quogue; his parents had moved away to Florida. His sister, who still lived there, was married to a doctor. She had made it through college. Bryan hadn’t. He was doing carpentry and house watching for summer people with a buddy. The buddy had a house in Springs, where he lived with his girlfriend, the red-haired waitress at O’Henry’s. Bryan lodged with them. That was how Carrie met him. She hadn’t moved in with them because the buddy was rough and had tried some funny stuff with her on the beach.
Bryan needs me, she told Schmidt. Like he’ll be in my room, waiting, when I get back from work. Sometimes he wants to play around, but mostly we have beers and smoke. That’s why I asked you about going with a guy and not having sex.
But you do have sex!
Yeah, when he wants to. It’s like I told you. We hang out. He’s not the love of my life. I just don’t want him to go crazy.
She slid over and whispered: Don’t look like that, darling. You can do anything you want with me, always. I told you I belong to you. And I’ll be faithful to you. I want to be. Just be very careful at the restaurant, promise? And, please, don’t get mad about Bryan!
He wanted to have her full attention. When the hockey game was over, very cautiously, as though he were stepping out of a car barefoot onto the surface of a parking lot that was baking hot and covered with shards of glass, he put the question: The love of your life, who is he?
She laughed and with her toes tickled the foot he had left touching her.
It’s you, you dummy.
Then, seriously: I was kidding. It was a long time ago. I wasn’t even fifteen. An old guy, like you. He broke me in. Man, I really loved him.
How did it happen?
It was real weird. I had this boyfriend, a Jewish kid. Was he cute! We used to go to the chemistry lab aft
er school. He had the key, because he was like the best student and was always working on special projects. So after he locked the door we’d lay on the floor and fool around. It was pretty wild, but I wouldn’t let him fuck me. I was real scared of getting pregnant. My father would have killed me.
Schmidt noted her hand working under the covers. The memory was exciting her.
One day we’re in the lab and Frank has me on the floor with my legs spread as far as they can go and my T-shirt off when the door opens and the lights turn on. Guess what: Mr. Wilson walks in right on top of us. He was the chemistry teacher. So he had a key too. Was I scared! He could have got us both thrown out of the school. Instead, he’s very polite, says he is sorry, and leaves, locking the door. Frank was afraid he’d bother me and ask me to do stuff, but nothing happens. He just says, Hello, Carrie, when he sees me in the corridor and smiles and then the school year is over. I told you my father worked for the Board of Education? One day during the vacation I’m on Livingston Street, so I go to see him, and when I’m leaving Mr. Wilson gets into the elevator with me. I almost died!
Meanwhile he looks at me real cool like he’s taking my clothes off and says, Let’s have a cup of coffee or a Coke. We sit down in this booth in the luncheonette and he tells me what a good student Frank is, and what a nice guy, and asks if I’m serious about him. I say I don’t know. Then he tells me how girls should be careful and how it’s too bad to learn about love on a dirty floor. Believe me, it was unreal!
I believe you.
You can’t believe it! This old man, maybe even a couple of years older than you, but nice looking—he looked a lot like you but bigger, not fat just big—he’s talking to me about birth control, and how a guy doesn’t need to come inside the girl if he’s careful and crazy stuff like that; only, the way he talks about it it’s real beautiful, and he tells me he used to be a professor at some university. Then something happened and he had to be away for a couple of years. When he got back, his job was gone, and that’s why he’s teaching high school.
