Schmidt Delivered

by Louis Begley

  I consider this is a special occasion, Charlotte, he told her, and the wine is a great Chianti, not just an OK wine. We can cook some lamb on the grill tomorrow evening and break out a burgundy.

  If I’m still here.

  It was time for Carrie’s foot to visit Schmidt’s leg again. It remained there, gentle but busy, until she got up to clear the dishes.

  I’m going to make coffee. You guys want to talk in the library while I clean up? I’ll serve the coffee to you.

  Thanks, Carrie, I’m beat. No coffee and no talk with my father tonight. Can’t do that unless I’m rested. Tomorrow morning, if that’s convenient.

  You’re sure, Charlotte? Won’t you sleep better if we have a chat before you go to bed?

  Dad, it can wait.

  He came down early, careful not to interrupt Carrie’s sleep. The sheet on his side of the bed confirmed his recollection, entwined with dreams, of how the evening ended. The most exposed, vulnerable flank of his position was for the moment secure; he thought he could face anything. Charlotte must have gotten up even earlier. He had run his morning errands and was starting to read the Times when she walked into the kitchen in her running clothes. Sweat stains, hair tied back, tall and fit. That was how he remembered her when he thought of the morning, in his distant earlier life, when she told him she was going to marry Jon Riker.

  I’ve been running.

  I see that. I’ve made orange juice for you. It’s still in the juicer. Tea or coffee? The tea is right here on the table. If you want coffee, the machine is all set to go. Just flip the switch.

  I’ll take the tea.

  A croissant?

  Is there any yogurt?

  In the icebox. Do try the croissants. They’re quite good. I don’t eat them.

  Ah. Try lying low. Listen without making a noise. Back to the article he was reading in the paper. It was pure rot to pick on him and claim he was an anti-Semite. There were some Jews he liked and others, including selected members of the Riker family, he didn’t. Mostly, he didn’t notice them, one way or another. He certainly wished Jews in general and the state of Israel the best of luck. Right now, his hat went off to Rabin—maybe that wasn’t the right metaphor—for being willing to get physically close to Arafat, an unshaved, probably ill-smelling, loudmouth with bad teeth. It must be hard to tolerate being in the same room with him, never mind performing those Levantine embraces. Even when it came to Arabs, his dislikes were individualized; they weren’t racial prejudice. He had absolutely nothing against King Hussein. Arabs should be looked at one by one, just like Jews and everybody else. That didn’t mean one had to ignore group characteristics, such as Arabs’—and Jews’—odious rhetoric. Always exaggerating. Unable to stop themselves.

  Dad, can we talk?

  Of course.

  When is she going to come down?

  Carrie? I don’t know. When I last saw her she was sound asleep.

  Sure. I mean could we talk somewhere else?

  As you wish. In fact Carrie is very discreet. She’ll probably stay out of the kitchen if she sees that we’re having a conversation. Anyway, she won’t mind. Let’s move to the back porch.

  The old rosebush at the edge of the lawn had never looked better. Schmidt decided he would keep his eyes fixed on it, to stay grounded.

  So look, I want to talk about some business matters. I suppose your investments are doing well in this market. Is that right?

  I think so.

  She fell silent, so he babbled on: The Romberg people still look after them, and they do a good job. I try to see Herb Stein over there once every few months, just to make sure he hasn’t lost his marbles or hit the bottle. Other than that, I don’t pay much attention. In fact, I’ve sold those two little funds I’d invested in on my own. Remember? I was always looking them up in the business section. They appreciated nicely, and that’s how I paid for the little convertible I gave Carrie.

  Nice for her. Then you haven’t lost all your money—or the money you got from your stepmother.

  Bonnie’s money? Oh, no. Not at all. Though I have given a good chunk of what she left to me to the hospital in Palm Beach. Including the house.

  He wished he hadn’t thought of the house. It was his lawyer Murphy who had urged him to transfer it to a charity, and as a business matter the advice was good. Disliking Palm Beach, he’d never use it, and the cost of upkeep, if you included the salary he paid as tribute to Bryan, was ridiculous. As part of the deal, he did get the president of the hospital to agree that Bryan would go on the payroll as a handyman at the conference center into which Bonnie’s house would be transformed. But when he announced the news to Bryan on the telephone, the little creep didn’t seem pleased. Working for the hospital wasn’t what he had in mind. What was he thinking and what could he be up to? If Schmidt only had one of his yellow pads at hand, he would make a note to himself to check into the situation.

  Oh yeah? How much did you give away?

  Basically I kept what my father had left to her, which was everything he had when he died, plus the average return she had on her investments. It seemed to me I was entitled to that. But the money that came to her from Sozon—her first husband—that was another matter. I didn’t feel right about keeping it, so I gave it to the hospital.

  That’s pretty grand, Dad. I didn’t know you had become a philanthropist.

  Not at all. It just seemed the right thing to do, to honor her for what she had done for me, which she wasn’t under any obligation to do.

  I sure hope you didn’t give away too much, because I have to ask you for money.

  You mean to tide you and Jon over until he sorts things out?

  This has nothing to do with Jon. I guess if we have to we can talk about him later. Gee, you really have Jon on your mind or something. Dad, the thing is that I’m plain tired of working for other people. Marden Bush is OK, I’m still on the learning curve, and, believe me, representing tobacco clients isn’t a dead end, like representing some other kinds of institutions.

  Were these gratuitous digs ever going to stop? This one, Schmidt tended to think, had been prepared in advance. On the other hand, it might have just popped out. Having lived five—or was it six?—years with Jon Riker, she must have heard plenty about how Schmidt’s clientele, insurance companies acting as lenders to corporations, had melted away until he became, in Riker’s estimation and that of his cohorts, one of those older partners who burden the firm, siphoning off income from others who are more deserving, especially the Young Turks. Considering that she was apparently about to ask him for something—something big, he was willing to bet—she might see the wisdom of holding her tongue just once. But then she knew him well enough to realize that in the end it wouldn’t matter how much she hurt his feelings. It was possible that she felt she was striking out as an independent, real grown-up by getting what was due to her without being nice or grateful.

  I see.

  She continued, There is this great guy at the firm I work with a lot on a bunch of campaigns. He’s very good, they just made him managing director. We’ve been talking how we could go out on our own. You know, set up our own shop. Start small and grow the business or whatever. You never did that, but lots of people do. It’s no longer standard to stay in the same firm all your life.

  She paused, as though to give Schmidt equal time. A grunt, somewhere between “oh” and “right,” seemed to him a sufficient and prudent response.

  You don’t seem very interested.

  Oh, I am. And what would you hope to do? Provide the same services you are providing now to the same clients? Is that possible? I would imagine Marden Bush has some sort of noncompete rules that would apply to a managing director, if not to you.

  Harry’s looked into this. That’s the name of my future partner, Harry Polk. We want to go into organizing special events, like fund-raisers and seminars and that sort of stuff, and we’re allowed to do it. That’s what the lawyers have told him. We’d get a consent anyway, to
cover all the bases and make the firm feel they’re participating. That’s good strategy if we want them to refer work to us. They might. Marden Bush doesn’t have an events capability.

  He smiled at her. Polk, Polk. Interesting, but let’s not jump to conclusions about family and background. The name could be a short version of Polski or Pohlstein. Or whatever, if he might borrow Charlotte’s and Carrie’s entrancing locution. It was amusing how belonging to the same generation seemed to transcend differences of upbringing and class. Why not call a spade a spade? Schmidt knew that the expression could no longer be used in polite conversation, but he wasn’t talking. Just thinking.

  So we need some start-up money. For the new office and as working capital. Are you willing to help?

  Hold on. I am always there to help you, but there are things I have to know. First, how much do you want from me; second, how much money you have from your savings and what your mom left you; and, third, what about your partner, Mr. Polk? Does he have the money to invest in this venture? And where does Jon fit into this? I assume you realize that he’s in very serious trouble. Financial trouble, as well.

  She named her figure. It was even larger than what Schmidt had expected.

  This has nothing to do with Jon, she continued, you won’t be giving comfort to the enemy. It turned out that the price you paid when you bought my share of this house wasn’t enough to pay for the house in Claverack and the renovations there and the apartment in the city, so I spent Mom’s money too and most of my savings. I have all the records and statements with me, if you want to take a look. Harry has some cash. The rest has gone into a loft he bought a couple of years ago, and fixing it up. He thinks he can borrow against it, but not very much. For the time being, I’ll have to be the money partner!

  I see. You realize, I hope, that when I bought your remainder interest—what you call your share in this house—I simply paid the market price. Quite frankly, it never occurred to me that what I paid was supposed to be enough to let you buy and restore that place in the country so you could be next to the Riker parents and also to pay for an apartment in the city. Weren’t the Rikers going to give you and Jon the money for the apartment? I recall your telling me that was the plan.

  Yeah, but he decided he didn’t want to take so much money from them. You don’t have to make that face. Renata thought he was right. She said if he took the money from his mother—it would have to be her money because Myron doesn’t have much—it would increase his sense of dependency. So we borrowed as much as we could from the bank, and I put in Mom’s money.

  There were endless advantages to be found in the exercise of a psychoanalyst’s profession. How it served to torment the father of the woman your son was going to marry, Schmidt had already seen. This was a new vista: you could back out of a financial commitment you made to that son and his wife and end up with them convinced you were doing them a favor. Empowering them! That was probably the fashionable expression.

  I see, he told her.

  Immediately, Schmidt was sorry he had repeated himself. It was time to break the habit of those automatic rejoinders. They steadied the nerves, but so would keeping his eye on the rosebush. There was no way out. However much he hated it, he had better go on with his questions.

  And what did you and Jon do about title to these properties—I mean who owns what? I assume the house in Claverack is in your name, but what about the apartment? Are you both liable for the money you borrowed from the bank?

  We thought we should take title in both our names, in Claverack and in the city. I think I signed on the loan. Jesus, Dad, give me a break. Isn’t that what married couples do?

  Not always, not when there is such a financial imbalance. That’s something you will have to sort out, since I gather there is trouble between you. Is there trouble? What about you and Jon? What is Jon going to do? I don’t understand your ducking a subject that really seems very urgent.

  Dad, can’t that wait? I’m trying to talk to you about my work and my life.

  From within the house, Schmidt picked up welcome, happy noises. The whir of the juicer. The kitchen radio tuned to the Southampton University station. Carrie was up. His rosy-fingered dawn with the instincts of a grande dame. She would have understood that they were having that father-and-daughter talk on the porch and wouldn’t venture near them unless it went on so long those same instincts told her it was time to come to his rescue. Impossible to count on that anytime soon, but he might just sneak out on the pretext he was getting a glass of water, and hug her, plunge his hand into the dark cleavage still warm from the bed.

  I am just trying to get a full picture, and I think what has happened to you and Jon as a couple is very much at the center of it. I had a talk with Jack DeForrest a couple of days ago. What he told me wasn’t just unattractive. It rocked me. Jon is in bad trouble. So I think we will have to talk about that sooner or later, and frankly I don’t quite see how you can think about quitting your job and starting a new business of your own without taking him into consideration.

  Later, Dad. Can I get you to understand that?

  Yes, you can. I have already understood that much. What is it then that you want? A loan, or do you want me to invest in this operation? In either case, I think I should first get to meet your partner, Mr. Polk, and take a look at your business plan. I suppose you’ve prepared one. Certainly Mr. Polk will need one if he wants to borrow from a bank. I guess I am quite ready to go either way, if your project makes sense.

  He couldn’t immediately remember when she had given him a look like that. Ah yes, when he told her that Mary and he couldn’t afford to buy a hunter with serious show potential, and certainly couldn’t afford to keep such a horse in the city. And after that? Perhaps never; he may have shattered her illusions forever with that refusal. But this time, he wasn’t saying no; he thought he was saying yes. What could be the matter?

  Gee, Dad, this isn’t real, I can’t believe it. I didn’t think I was going to see a banker. I thought I was talking to my father who’s rich enough to give people BMWs as presents. Yeah, I was stupid enough to think that since my father has only one child—that’s me, remember—he might just give me the money, as a present, without buying anything like my interest in a house, or making me a loan, or investing in my business. I can’t figure you out. You think Harry and I want you to own our business? We’d be working for you. I don’t know about Harry, but I’d rather work for Marden Bush.

  Ah.

  Her eyes filled with tears.

  Now, now, Charlotte. Can’t we discuss this calmly? It is, after all, a business matter.

  Forget it. It’s like Renata said. You need to control my life. If I let you, everything’s peaches and cream. The moment I don’t, it’s Schmidtie the Hun.

  Yes, Dr. Renata Riker. Why hadn’t he strangled her, in plain sight of the afternoon crowd on Fifth Avenue, after their first and only lunch tête-à-tête? Help, help! Voices have told me I had better waste that shrink before she wastes me. No American jury would have taken more than five minutes to acquit him: self-defense or in the worst case not guilty by reason of insanity. He might not even have had to stand trial. Now it was too late.

  Look, he said. You are asking for a lot of money. Nevertheless, you are quite right to think I am able to give it to you and go on living as I do.

  She snickered.

  Easy does it, Schmidt counseled Schmidtie the Hun. Don’t pay attention.

  The point is that the gift tax has not yet been abolished, he told her. If I make a gift, I will have to pay the federal government and New York State a tax of more than seventy percent on top of what you want me to give you. That, too, isn’t the end of the world, although when you put the two together, the gift and the tax on the gift, it means parting, all of a sudden, with a large sum I hadn’t counted on spending. On the other hand, you are my only child, and I suppose no one can fault you if you expect to inherit from me. But that’s when I die, not right now. There will be an estate tax
too when I do kick the bucket. That’s why some tax planners would say that it’s smart to make gifts and pay the gift tax because then the money I’ve used to pay the tax will not be in my estate and won’t be taxed on my death.

  Wow, Dad!

  No need to be sarcastic. It’s good tax advice, although I am not sure it fits my case. I am in good health and seem to take after my father, who lived to be very old. I might need every cent of my money to pay for a nursing home!

  There was no telling whether she was listening. The hurt in her face had turned into bored gloom. What the hell, he might as well finish his speech. Trying not to hear his own words—the speech, he admitted to himself, was tiresome—he continued: Especially if the business you and Mr. Polk start doesn’t take off. If that was the case, if I made you a loan or invested, I wouldn’t have paid the gift tax and might be able to write off the loss on my loan or investment. That’s how sensible people plan their financial affairs.

  I get it. Let’s just skip the whole thing. I’ll talk to Harry. Maybe we’ll just stay where we are.

  Do talk to him. And think over what I have said. Look, sweetie, please get it into your head that if you decide you don’t want a loan and don’t want me to invest in your business, but you do want me to make you a gift, the money is yours for the asking, tax or no tax. But I want to meet Harry Polk first, and I don’t think it’s unreasonable that I ask to see a business plan. That’s for your protection. People used to pay a lot of money to get my judgment on that sort of thing. For you, it’s free.

  Very funny. I guess I should say thank you.

  You might, and you are welcome. When is all this supposed to happen?

  We thought of giving notice like next week and then going on vacation. I’m beat.

  Would you come here? I’d love it.

  Dad!

  It was just an idea.

  He had really better stop the automatic speech and automatic ideas. This was a lousy one. How could he imagine that Charlotte would want to spend a couple of weeks with him and Carrie, and how could he make the offer without first asking Carrie? Probably she’d say, That’s cool, but suppose she didn’t, suppose she said, instead, You’ve got to be shitting me. What then? How does one back out without making a real mess? He had to hand it to Charlotte, she had saved the day.