Schmidt Steps Back

by Louis Begley

  He hurried with his purchases, stopped at the florist’s to have white and pink peonies arranged in a vase, and so encumbered arrived at Charlotte’s room. He could see that she had been crying.

  They ate their lunch in almost complete silence. She had looked at the flowers but had not said a word about them. After clearing the plates and throwing away the paper napkins and the rest of the disposable junk that without fail accompanies a takeout order, he asked again what had happened to make her so sad.

  Nothing, she said. Renata told me that the grandparents are really disappointed. When Leah—that was Renata’s mother—heard I could never have children she cried so hard that Ron had to tear her away from the phone.

  Ron, Schmidt recalled, was Jon Riker’s grandfather.

  I’m so sorry, he said. It’s new to them. They’ll adjust. We all will. Don’t take that sort of thing so to heart.

  You know that Seth—that was Renata’s younger brother—is gay.

  I didn’t.

  Well, that’s the fact. He won’t have any children. I have no womb. Renata and Myron won’t have a grandchild from me, Jon won’t have a son, and I can get a dog. A nice standard poodle. Do you recommend honey color or black?

  Darling, I’m so very sorry.

  No, you aren’t. Or maybe you are. It doesn’t matter. But you sure were right. You knew how to call it. You knew not to set up a trust for little Myron. You knew he wouldn’t need it! You put a hex on us!

  Darling, this is crazy talk. Stop thinking and saying such things. How can you!

  I’m telling you the truth, that’s how I can! You hate Jon, you hated the idea of having a Jewish grandson, and you showed your colors! I’ll never forgive you!

  Darling Charlotte, I beg you, stop!

  Don’t darling me. I know what I’m talking about. And I’m not alone to think so. Renata thinks the same! Anyway, it all figures. That Puerto Rican floozy has just had your kid. Right? Jon checked up on it. A little boy called Albert. Isn’t that cute!

  Instead of responding, he murmured good-bye and leaned over to kiss her. She pushed him away so vehemently that the IV tube was wrenched out from the port in her forearm. Schmidt called the nurse and, while she busied herself repairing the damage and scolding her patient, crept away.

  XIV

  THE THOUGHT crossed his mind that he should assure Charlotte once more that he would come back after the weekend and stay with her until she was discharged, but as he was leaving her room he instantaneously decided to say nothing. Whatever he said was almost certain to provoke another salvo of insults, one that might make impossibly difficult all future dealings, as well as, most immediate among them, his return to her bedside. Indeed as he was driven back to Bridgehampton by Mike Mansour’s security man, he asked himself over and over: had so much damage been done already that he couldn’t bring himself to do it, that he wouldn’t be able to return? The answer that came to him uniformly each time was that he had no choice. The blow that Charlotte had suffered was so cruel that he must do everything in his power to help her. He must do nothing to make the hurt worse. Like all the countless other tantrums that had marked her rebellious adolescence, this odious outburst had to be disregarded. Forgiven. Certainly, but the great difference was that then they had been two, Mary and he, to sift through the barrages of wild accusations and demands, to laugh and to commiserate with each other. They were a family. Now he was quite alone. Charlotte had chosen another family, one that, with the possible exception of Myron, was hostile to him. There was no one to whom he could repeat Charlotte’s tirade, no one whose advice he could seek, no one to whom he could turn for reassurance and consolation. About the miscarriage and the hysterectomy, he had already told Alice, and he would tell Gil Blackman as soon as he could see him and Mike Mansour upon his return from Paris. But Charlotte’s tantrum, the horrible accusation, could never be mentioned. They made him feel ashamed; he did not want anyone else’s thoughts about Charlotte to be stained by them.

  But it was essential that, one way or another, Charlotte and the Rikers be told that in spite of her behavior he would return. He ruled out calling her or Jon or Renata, but fortunately he still had Myron’s cell phone number. He called him from the car, thinking he would leave a message detailed enough to obviate the need for a conversation. But no, Myron picked up at the first ring, surely the only member of the New York Psychoanalytic Institute to answer the phone with such alacrity.

  Look, Myron, he said, I was about to have lunch with Charlotte when Renata called. I went out of the room to give them privacy. Before that conversation, Charlotte and I had been having a good time together. From the moment she hung up, she was a changed woman. I can only suppose that the conversation did it. Charlotte then said to me some extraordinarily unpleasant things. I’m telling you this by way of background, not to complain about Renata. The reason for my call is this: Prior to her outburst, Charlotte and I agreed that I would come back to Hudson on Monday and stay until she’s discharged. I said I’d take her back to the house and help Yolanda to settle her in. Of course, if one of you is there that won’t be necessary. I am also planning to engage a night nurse to be with her for the first few nights. What I am asking of you is that you find a way to assure Charlotte that so far as I am concerned that deal stands, and I intend to show up on Monday and do exactly what I said I’d do.

  Years of practice had not been lost on Myron either. He thought before he spoke. At last, after a weighty silence, he said: Mmmm. I see. In Charlotte’s situation such feelings and expressions of hostility might be expected. I will deliver your message. Personally I am grateful for it.

  That was done. Unless Myron or some other Riker made a move to stop him, he would go to Hudson. He had established the routine of being at the foundation’s New York office from Tuesday through Thursday. There was really no other efficient way to get the work done, and the arrangement brought with it a huge benefit he had not enjoyed since retiring from W & K: the undivided attention of a first-rate secretary. Since he had planned to be in Paris, he was not expected in the New York office. All the same, out of a lawyer’s long-ingrained habit of keeping in touch with his secretary, he called Shirley, told her about Charlotte’s condition, and said that during the day he would be at the hospital, where there was no cell phone reception, but he would check his messages, and if there was anything urgent, he would call her back. She said she was sorry with such apparent sincerity that momentarily his mood lifted.

  When Mary and he built the pool house in their garden, their intention had been to make sure that they wouldn’t be disturbed by Charlotte’s noisy young friends lodged there or by her even noisier parties. That had proved to be the case, but neither the soundproof walls nor the wall hangings installed as additional protection were equal to the force of young Albert’s lungs. His heart beating hard, Schmidt caressed Sy, who had been waiting for him on the front steps, and, accompanied by the cat, he crossed the lawn. He was about to see the baby again, but this time, alas, through the prism of Charlotte’s catastrophe. The door leading to the pool-house apartment was open. He knocked on the frame and went in. Carrie was in the kitchen nursing the baby and called for Schmidt to sit down. Isn’t he something? she asked. He sure likes his milk, and he sure likes where it comes from! You don’t need to turn your head, Schmidtie, don’t be a dope, you’ve seen my tits often enough before! Indeed he had. She had taken off her top and her bra so that they were on full view. A longing came over Schmidt, not for her body, of the sort to make him harden, but instead a sweeter longing for the time they had together, a happy time that now irrationally seemed so simple and innocent.

  What a good boy, he said, and what a good mommy! I think he’s grown since the time I saw him at the hospital.

  Of course, he’s grown, dopey! He’s eating his head off. Have you taken a good look at him?

  Shifting the baby from one breast to the other she held him up, his face close to Schmidt’s.

  Who do you think he loo
ks like?

  Winston Churchill.

  Try again!

  George Washington.

  Wrong! Think of a distinguished New York jurist!

  Carrie, what are you saying?

  Just what you think!

  I think I’m not going to think. Sometimes too much thinking leads to mischief.

  Schmidtie, it’s just you, me, and Albert Jr. who are here. We can talk.

  I think I’ll sit down, he said. I’ve just been on a long drive from upstate. Is there some whiskey or gin anywhere?

  She pointed him to the liquor cabinet. Mistrustful of a bourbon he didn’t know, he made a gin and tonic and looked around until he found some crackers.

  Do you love Jason? he asked.

  She smiled at him and whispered: He’s my god.

  That’s what I hoped to hear. And, Carrie, do you remember the lunch at my club when you told me you were pregnant?

  How could I forget? That was right after we went to your office and you gave me one million American dollars because I didn’t let Mike Mansour lay me.

  Exactly so. And do you remember how you told me that a kid is a kid, and Jason didn’t care about this sort of stuff. You said something like: “Jason knows about you and me and it’s no big deal. If the kid isn’t his it’s still mine, I’m the mother, and he’s the stepfather.”

  Boy, you have a good memory!

  I do! I thank the Lord for it every day! The last thing I want is to start losing my marbles. Let’s go back to being serious. How has Jason been with young Albert so far?

  He’s crazy about him.

  I hope that never changes. You know, of course, that there are ways of finding out with certainty who is who.

  She nodded.

  Tell me if you think I’m wrong. I believe we shouldn’t try to find out. If you love Jason, the best thing for you and Albert and Jason is for Albert to be Jason’s son. You mustn’t allow any talk that puts that in doubt. How do you feel about that?

  I think you’re right, and I think I’m right to love you.

  Shush, said Schmidt. I love you too, but I love you now like a father.

  Then take the baby, Pops, and let me get dressed.

  It had been so long since he had held a baby that he was sure he had forgotten how, and then he remembered about putting a diaper over his shoulder and burping him. It was a long while before Carrie returned from the bathroom, but Albert didn’t seem to mind.

  It’s time for his nap, she said.

  The crib was in the bedroom. She rocked it and very quickly Albert was asleep.

  He’s a good baby, she said.

  I can see that. Now look. A kid is a kid so far as I’m concerned as well. Just like Jason, I’m going to love him because he’s yours, and I’m going to act accordingly. I’m thinking of such things as kindergarten, schools, summer camps, college, and so forth. But I want to be discreet about it, for his sake and yours. Understood?

  She nodded.

  When will Jason be home?

  It’s Friday, so the marina’s busy. Not before eight. Bryan’s coming with him to eat. You want to eat with us?

  I’m bushed, Schmidt told her, so please feed me another time. But if I may I’ll come over for a drink. Give me a ring or send Bryan to tell me when it’s a good time.

  The lapis lazuli butterfly lay in his bedroom wall safe. He knew he would never be able to give it to Charlotte. The dealer from whom he bought it was likely to take it back or allow him to exchange it. What would he give as a reason? The truth? He didn’t think he could do that. That the lady for whom it had been intended didn’t like it? The dealer would know he was lying. Alice. He could give it to Alice. That too felt wrong. A crazy symmetry required that the butterfly go to Carrie. He took it out of the safe to have it ready when he went over to the pool house later.

  He figured it would take a good three hours to get to Hudson in Monday morning traffic. Full of foreboding he set out before nine. He had said he’d be at the hospital around twelve; he might as well be on time. The dreaded call from Renata came, as he had supposed it might, on Sunday evening. He resisted the urge to hang up.

  Schmidtie, she told him, it’s very constructive on your part to have offered to go to Hudson.

  She paused here, and Schmidt wondered whether she would tell him not to bother coming, that she or Myron or Jon would be there or—why not?—the grandparents or the gay brother. Schmidt remembered something about his being a photographer. If so, his schedule should be flexible; he could undertake to look after his niece-in-law. But no, such was not Dr. Riker’s intention. She might have been simply waiting for him to say something.

  I hope you will be careful not to challenge Charlotte’s view of your actions and your intentions. You may have found listening to her analysis of them painful, and it’s possible that Charlotte in her fragile condition did not articulate her insights as precisely as she should have, but you must face the truth. The insights are valid. Your own emotional equilibrium will benefit from that kind of introspection—really a serious self-examination.

  Why was she on the telephone, why wasn’t she right there in the room with Schmidtie? His emotional equilibrium! Nothing would enhance it as much as punching Renata in the face very hard, hard enough to break her nose and knock out a few of those big white front teeth. He would go for the nearest equivalent that the circumstances allowed.

  Very slowly, very distinctly, enunciating perfectly, he said: Fuck you, Renata! Fuck you!

  Thereupon he hung up, not slamming down the receiver but putting it down with the utmost delicacy.

  There was no question in his mind that this exchange with her mother-in-law had been reported to Charlotte. She looked at him stonily when he arrived, gave a monosyllabic answer to his question about what she would like for lunch, and went back to reading a book. He stole a look at the cover: Stephen King, Insomnia. He shrugged, ate his lunch in her silent company, took away the debris, and checked with the head nurse on Charlotte’s progress. She’s doing just beautifully, he was informed. The doctor would decide on when she will go home during his morning rounds. Could be tomorrow, could be Wednesday. And what time were the daily rounds? Eight o’clock, he was told. If he was there at eight-thirty, he should be able to catch him. Next he went to the business office and inquired about night nurses. Yes, such persons were available for hire. It would suffice to request one the morning of his daughter’s release.

  All that was good. But there was still the matter of what to do with himself for the time being. He returned to Charlotte’s room and found she was sleeping. He had his own book with him, The Way We Live Now. It was guaranteed to absorb him.

  Later that afternoon it was time for Charlotte’s walk up and down the corridor. The nurse asked Schmidt whether he would like to accompany his daughter, but before he could answer Charlotte told the nurse, I’d rather go with you. When they returned, he left the room while the nurse was busy with Charlotte behind the closed door and came back in after the nurse had left.

  I don’t know why you’re here, she said to him.

  You said that you would like it, that you didn’t want to be alone.

  That was before, she interrupted.

  Before what? Before you insulted me?

  That’s right, she replied, before I told you the truth you didn’t want to hear.

  I see, said Schmidt.

  He said that not because any truth had suddenly been revealed to him but to give himself time to draw a deep breath.

  If you would rather not have me around I will, if you like, get a private day nurse to be with you until you go home. I can come to see to your discharge from here and to take you home. I intended, by the way, unless you object, to get a night nurse to be with you at home, at least until the weekend, when I assume Jon will join you, or longer, if you prefer. By the way, you needn’t worry about the expense. I’ll pay for all of it.

  You can pay for as many nurses as you like, she said with a sneer, it’s still chea
per than doing the right thing by little Myron. Yolanda can check me out of this place. Perhaps you can just take care of any payment not covered by insurance. I really want you out of here.

  Being spoken to in this manner was without precedent in his experience; he wasn’t sure he had heard of any father having been addressed by a child with such bile. Goneril? Regan? What would be next?

  I will see whether that can be done, he answered.

  Fortunately, the business office hadn’t closed. Yes, Charlotte Riker’s housekeeper could take her home when she was discharged; yes, the day nurse and the night nurse could be arranged; he could pay by credit card for the private room and hospital extras; the nurses, however, had to be paid by check. With some difficulty, a blank check made payable to the nurses’ agency was accepted. He walked heavily up the stairs to the third floor.

  Good-bye, Charlotte, I have arranged it all and paid for it all, and now I’ll yield to your wishes and leave. At one point, not so long ago—a little more than three months—you suggested a truce. It makes me unhappy to see it broken.

  She made no answer.

  There was one more thing that had to be done before the return drive to Bridgehampton. He called Myron Riker. This time he reached only a recording. The message he left was dispassionate and detailed. If there was any question or complication concerning the arrangements he had made, Myron could reach him on his cell phone while he was en route and later in Bridgehampton.

  He got home too late to call Alice, and perhaps he would not have called her even if he had arrived much earlier. He felt soiled. Bryan was in the kitchen, feeding Sy. Schmidt explained that the situation had changed and that he wouldn’t be going to New York. He’d take care of Sy himself. Really, the humiliation had been extreme. He felt unable even to cross the lawn to visit little Albert and his parents. He had a drink and let its calming effect penetrate his body before dialing Gil Blackman’s number. Miracles never cease. Gil himself answered, not Elaine or the Chinese cook. Another miracle: Gil hadn’t had dinner and had no dinner plans. He would like nothing better than to have dinner with Schmidt at O’Henry’s.