by Louis Begley
Michael, Carrie is living with me, not you. I am me, not someone else, not you. I can only offer things I have.
It’s no problem, I hear you. But I’m telling you she needs something more. That’s why I said to her, Look, I’d like to take you to a couple of places, introduce you to some friends. She’s no dummy. She understood what I meant right away. By the way, you know she’s gone to New York, don’t you?
To Brooklyn, to see her parents.
That too. But I said she should call me in the city anytime. I wouldn’t be surprised if she called me. No problem. I’m going in for meetings where I’m the only person who can make the deal. It’s nothing Eric can do in my place, but I won’t be busy all the time. Come on, don’t make that face. We’re friends, all three of us. If you like, come with me.
Mansour stopped to wet his fingers in the finger bowl and pass a finger over his lips, before carefully drying lips and fingers. Satisfied, he began to play with his worry beads. Click click. And he continued: Anytime you’re in the city when I’m there, I expect you to call me too. Get serious, Schmidtie. Wouldn’t you call me? Hey, come to New York with me. I’ll send Fred or Manuel over to your house. They’ll pick up anything you need and drive it in.
I couldn’t possibly. Carrie will be back tonight.
He didn’t necessarily believe what he said and saw that he had made a gigantic blunder he should at once repair. He should get on that helicopter in his pajamas, if necessary. But he had missed his chance. Mansour spoke first.
Suit yourself. I’ll see you here on Sunday night.
Beyond the garage, where cars parked, the less blond security man, a giant, a mountain in human image, stepped out into the sunlight and opened the door of Schmidt’s Volvo. Schmidt noted that the car had been moved so that it would be in the shade. Apparently, he had almost overstayed his welcome. Jason, the massage giver and message taker, could be seen placing Mr. Mansour’s paraphernalia in the trunk of the Rolls-Royce. The scheduled moment for the fifteen-minute drive to the airport and the flight to the city was at hand. To the rendezvous with Carrie. Just as well to admit what it was, since Michael had felt the need to announce it. Meanwhile, he, Schmidt, had fallen into a trap so large he could not see its confines, although he heard the door snap. He drove out of the concealed driveway onto the road and then very slowly toward Route 27, not sure which direction to take. Surely not toward Southampton. Eastward, home, that was the idea. Surely nowhere else, unless he was to break a lifelong habit and stop by at Gil Blackman’s without having first telephoned. He went to parties and meals at the Blackmans’ when asked, he met Gil for lunch by prearrangement, but there were no spur-of-the-moment visits in the middle of gorgeous, golden afternoons. Home then, to his azaleas and roses and apple trees, to the pond shimmering beyond the now overgrown hedge, to his and Carrie’s bedroom.
A pickup truck in his own driveway. One of Jim Bogard’s men was deadheading the flower beds. That and pruning the smaller trees and planting annuals had been things Schmidt had once liked to do himself. Did Carrie like better the touch of his hands on her skin, and inside her, now that he kept them so smooth? There were three messages for him on the answering machine. One from her. Hey Schmidtie, everything’s OK, I’m spending the night. He wondered whether the Gorchucks’ number was written down someplace he could find it, but why would it be, since she knew it by heart. If he really wanted to call he would get it from information—it’s not as though there could be that many Gorchucks in Brooklyn. Another from Gil Blackman, Please call. And a simple one from Bryan: I’ll get you later. Schmidt dialed the Blackmans’ number.
How are you doing?
Could be worse.
No better than that? Got any time for lunch, drink, or dinner? How about tonight? Can you and Carrie come over this evening? Elaine’s in the city with darling Lilly, spending the night.
So is Carrie. With her folks.
Then come over at eight. Don’t worry, no chow mein and flied noodles tonight.
Mr. Blackman never tired of imitating the accent of his Chinese cook, or making fun of the blue slippers she wore when waiting on table. I’ll get a roast duck, he continued. Felt Slippers will serve it. We’ll get drunk.
It was a long time until eight. A Maker’s Mark and then another, drunk more slowly, on the back porch. Bogard’s man finished and waved good-bye. Schmidt waved back. No, he shouldn’t offer him a drink. A nap was out of the question. His skin was ice cold and itched. Walking on the beach was out of the question too. He might miss Bryan. In the pantry there was a cordless phone Charlotte had given him for Father’s Day, when Mary was dying. He had hardly used it since, but it seemed to work; the dial tone was there. Information, which he called not to find the Gorchucks but to make doubly sure one could still use this antique, answered. Immediately, he hung up. It didn’t matter; the lady on the other end of the line was no lady, just a nice, forgiving computer.
No one was going to drop in on him. He undressed in the kitchen, leaving his clothes in a pile on a counter, and, the bottle of bourbon and glass in one hand, the telephone in the other, went to the pool. The deck chair burned his skin when he lay down on it. So much the better, he had to get warm somehow.
V
THE PHONE finally rang while he was still doing laps, trying to shake off the last of the sleep that had overcome him. Six-thirty! He pulled himself out of the water. The burnt skin really hurt. It would be worse when he put clothes on. A collect call. It was Bryan, all right, the simpering voice, the diction of a horrible twelve-year-old who hadn’t managed to grow up, all quite unchanged.
Jeez, Albert, thanks a lot for taking the call.
Schmidt remains silent.
Albert, you still there? You got a minute?
Just about.
Albert, you’re mad at me or something? What have I done? Hey, I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. Come on, tell me you’re not mad.
Silence.
Albert, I’m calling from the Miami airport. I got this real cheap flight. I’ll be in New York tonight. I think I can get over there to see you tomorrow.
What for?
Jeez, you are mad. I’m sorry. I really want to see you. I want to see Carrie too. Will you let me stay at the house until I work things out? Just a couple of nights?
As a general matter, I want to remind you that except in an emergency I have asked you to write when there is something you want to tell me. Work out what?
He was beginning to shiver and got the towel from the changing cabin to put over his shoulders.
Man, that was when I was fixing the house and wanted you to give me an OK on what I was doing. This is different. I got to have someplace to live until I get settled. You know how I want to come back. This hospital is heavy, Albert, real heavy. You wouldn’t believe it. It’s oppressive.
You mean you got fired from the job I got for you?
Albert, I knew you’d be mad. I had to leave. I’m sorry. It was unreal. I got to tell you about it. You won’t believe the shit.
So you did get yourself fired. That wasn’t very smart. Anyway, get it into your head that you can’t stay in this house. Don’t even try to argue with me. It’s out of the question.
Schmidt says that last sentence very slowly, as though he were trying to put Bryan to sleep. Then he continues: I can’t talk now. You may call once you’re here.
Can you get Carrie to the phone?
Good-bye.
Click. Immediately Schmidt was sorry. Why not hear this punk out? Once Bryan got to Bridgehampton, making him leave wouldn’t be all that simple. There might have been a way to stop him from coming. What way? He shrugged his smarting shoulders. Offer money right off the bat? Something along the line of Listen, you had a good job out there, you were doing well, I don’t want you to give up so fast, I’m sending you a thousand dollars care of the hospital, so if you want the money you just go right to Palm Beach. I’ll help you get that job back. Or maybe he hadn’t been canned. Then the speech should
be, Give it a real try, kid, make an effort, exactly, make a real big effort the way you know how. Nonsense, it wouldn’t have worked, and if by some miracle it had worked it wouldn’t have worked for long. There would be another collect call soon. Therefore, Schmidtie, we might as well face the music. How could he possibly have guessed that Carrie’s absence would seem providential, a real miracle. A miracle he was now obliged to hope would continue for the time he needed, just a few days, to make sure the old triangle would never form again.
He went into the house and in the folder in his desk drawer, where he had filed the correspondence with the hospital, found the personal telephone number of the director. Office closed. Of course, why would anyone work after six? But you can’t get rid of Albert Schmidt, Esq., that easily. He had the home number too. Gotcha. Ah, what a pleasure to hear from Mr. Schmidt! The charitable Mr. Schmidt forbore from saying, I’m about to spoil your pleasure, there isn’t a single peso or dollar more coming your way. Instead, in dulcet tones, he inquired about the young man he had recommended for the handyman job at the new conference center. Was he fitting in well? Audible consternation. How should the deeply embarrassed director put it? There had been a distinct problem, perhaps Mr. Schmidt could call again in the morning and speak to human resources, the director not being sure he had details at his fingertips or was allowed to disclose them. No, not even to Mr. Schmidt. Ah, Schmidt could tell the poor man wished he had let the phone ring off the wall, never touched the goddamn thing. The police department? Yes, there had been some involvement. He wasn’t sure how the problem was resolved.
By jumping bail, that’s how, whispered Mr. Schmidt to Mr. Schmidt. Yes, he might call human resources. He might call the cops too, but that the director didn’t need to know. The cops! The bulwark of the civil society! The law-and-order jurist inside Schmidt rejoiced. But was there enough in it for them to travel all the way to Bridgehampton to get their little old Bryan back? That’s all right. He’d offer to pay their airfare. And if they came to get him, how long would they keep him? Just long enough for that very handy fellow to figure out how to get even with his pal Schmidtie the moment he was sprung. Work him over, real good. He might even get some of his Bonaker chums to assist!
The phone rang again. Could it be Bryan? In that case, he would speak to him calmly and wisely. Irascibility: these uncontrolled fits of illtimed anger. They were the portents of his ruin. Of course! Carrie, calling to explain. She would make everything all right. Just as when, waking from a nightmare with her right beside him, he was at once able to laugh at how afraid he had been. Only it was Charlotte’s voice, and not his sallow sorceress.
Dad, I’ve been calling and calling.
No message from you though.
I didn’t leave one. It’s so horrible.
Here she began to cry. He hadn’t heard her cry like that since when? Not Mary’s funeral; they hadn’t cried then, either of them: it was the afternoon when he told her it was time to let Mary go. Four medium-size pills, out of eight prescribed by David Kendall, the prescription filled by the pharmacy in East Hampton. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to go to the pharmacy in Bridgehampton, where all these years they had bought nostrums against poison ivy, pinkeye, and the cold sores that regularly afflicted Charlotte. The pharmacist in the mall where he went instead made him wait while he called poor Dr. Kendall to confirm and then took on a consoling look, a look he recognized the next day on the face of the man in the business office of the funeral home.
Honey, what is it?
Oh, Dad, I feel so horrible. It’s Harry Polk.
What’s happened?
He’s left me. Just like that. He went to Egremont for his weekend with the kids, and their mother was supposed to be away as usual, only that bitch hadn’t left, so they all spent the weekend together in the house. Then he took this week off to stay up there, and today, just as I was going to the gym, he called to say the divorce had been a mistake, they were getting back together. The bastard! He told me I should be happy for him. Dad, I love him. I did everything he wanted, and he still made me feel I was some kind of a goddess. And now he tells me he’s happy with her!
I’m so very sorry. Do you think he means it?
Yes, he means it. You know what he said to me? You’ll get over it, and you should be glad for the boys too. You always said you liked them. Now they’ve got their dad back. See you at the office next week.
That’s very hard, sweetie. But you will get over it. I promise.
Dad, I’m all messed up. Really messed up. Everybody in the office knows about us. What do I look like?
Like a lady who has been wronged.
You mean dumped. What do I do about the new business?
I signed the office lease. And all that money!
Isn’t that the last thing to worry about right now? I’ll help you sort it out. You haven’t quit your job yet?
No, we were going to give notice next week.
If I were you I’d stay put. Anyway, for the moment. Do you want to come out here? I’d like to have you. Very much.
I’ll call you. Maybe this weekend. If I can pull myself together.
Come tonight. Or tomorrow. You need to be babied.
I can’t, Dad. I’m still working. Remember? I’ll call you about the weekend.
So much for Mr. Polk of Virginia or wherever in truth he came from. This did not seem to be a very good day for what was left of the Schmidt family, but at least in Charlotte’s case the hateful old saws seemed to apply: It’s better to have it happen now than later, good riddance, and on and on. Dreary mantra of idiot wisdom to recite while the heart breaks. Examined in the light of that consummated wrong, Carrie’s unexplained trip to New York could be said to call for a stay of judgment; one might assert that nothing had happened. Except that wasn’t true. She had planned to go long enough in advance to have made a date with Michael Mansour. That would have been at least two nights ago, when they dined at his house with the cellist—unless, of course, Carrie and Michael were in telephone contact. And she made that date. Whose idea had it been? His—When you will be in New York, chérie, there are some things I could show you. Hers—Hey, I’m thinking of seeing my parents, I don’t know, gee, maybe this week. Could I see you too? Wow! Mike, you’re putting me on, you mean we could really do that? What manner of sights would Mr. Mansour be showing to Miss Gorchuck in the big city? What entertainments? Why, the usual, perhaps with an Egyptian flavor. It was Jim Morgan, a veteran still hanging around Harvard Square when Schmidt was a freshman, having served on some staff in Algeria, who told him how Arabs like to sew up their women’s labia to make them tighter, or, anyway, used alum to pucker up the inside. Ah, Schmidt can see it, all the way from Bridgehampton. There they are in the Fifth Avenue penthouse. One security man has scurried off to get the lox and bagels that the housekeeper forgot to stock in the fridge. His partner lurks downstairs, perhaps in the kitchen that’s somewhere off the marble foyer. He looks up from the newspaper to chuckle at the louder noises (Mansour the swine will have left the bedroom door open, and Jesus God she does shriek). Before Carrie and the boss finally descend, he will have clued in the bearer of postcoital delicacies, and they will each let just enough of a smirk float over their dutiful straight face to make sure she’ll know they’ve heard more than enough. Welcome to the team!
He waited until almost eight o’clock, hoping the phone would ring. There were ways of forwarding telephone calls from your home to whatever number you were going to be at. He wished he subscribed to such a service or owned a cell phone she could try if there was no answer at home and she really wanted to reach him. Another solution was to stay at home. He could call Gil and break the date, or get him to come to his house. Never mind Blue Felt Slippers and whatever Gil had prepared. Let him bring the food over. They could eat and drink right here. Then Gil would be driving home dead drunk instead of Schmidt. But he didn’t want to tell Gil the reason for changing their plan and didn’t want to lie to him either. H
e rushed out of the house and into the car the way you plunge a needle into your foot to dig out a stubborn splinter, not slowly but with a sudden, quick thrust before your nerve fails.
Forget the champagne, Gil told him. Elaine pushes that stuff. I am against it. A lot of volume and calories and what do you get out of it? Gas. That’s all. So far as the central nervous system and the higher spheres of your brain are concerned it’s a washout.
Majestic and soigné in a black silk shirt, black trousers that could be silk or one of those new fabrics, soft to touch as a mole—assuming you can bring yourself to touch the mole your dog has just killed—and black sandals, Mr. Blackman was mixing martinis. Schmidt has been drinking his martinis, composed, stirred, and then shaken with unchanged attention, since their first meeting, almost half a century ago, in the living room of the suite they were to share in a Harvard freshman dormitory. A day as brilliant as the one that had just ended and, for mid-September, very warm. Their suite was on the ground floor, the living room facing the Memorial Chapel. They stood at the open window giving the onceover to Radcliffe girls, of whom there were so many you’d think the Yard had been invaded by Amazons in kilts and Shetland-wool cardigans. A Jew from one of the better parts of Brooklyn and a public high school that was the incubator of little Jewish geniuses, mixing drinks, in principle a WASP specialty, for an Episcopal chump educated on the cheap by Park Avenue Jesuit fathers. This was the first Jew Schmidt had ever met. There hadn’t been any at school or at summer camp. When they hear the news in their small but historic house in the West Village, the parents will have a fit. What better reason to be friends with this garrulous roommate the university housing office had bestowed upon him!
When Mr. Blackman and Mr. Schmidt meet, it is not unusual that inquiries about the children are the first order of business. Thus Schmidt rapidly learns that Lisa has left her latest small-magazine job to write copy for a mail-order catalogue, and Nina and the Greek Orthodox priest’s son with whom she has lived longer than Gil wishes to remember plan to be married. The time has come because, at last, the erstwhile baritone’s voice has been repositioned; he’s now a forty-year-old tenor without discernible prospects of displaying his gift to the public. Except at the wedding itself: the girls’ mother has taken charge of the ceremony and, after the Orthodox priest has pronounced his son and Nina man and wife, the newly minted tenor will sing Schubert lieder in the large barn on her property.
