About Schmidt

by Louis Begley

  I have some more tea and rum, and begin to feel hungry. Not a fruit or vegetable in the house. Only my dear sardines and Swiss cheese.

  The telephone again. This time, Renata Riker. How sweet of me. Next weekend is perfect. Perhaps the children will drive them.

  Ciao!

  I put on my blue blazer, because it’s Saturday and I am tired of puttering about in a sweater, and drive to O’Henry’s. The place is crowded. I have a bourbon and then another at the bar, standing behind a barrier of unidentified locals two rows thick. Finally, the owner decides to seat me. I follow, my eyes fixed on the back of his jacket, so as to avoid greetings and the like. The table is one of Carrie’s, but it’s a big boy who brings the menu. He has brown and yellow hair smoothed down with some sort of goo and a large ring in his earlobe. Two smaller rings pierce the top of the auricle cruelly They are so thick light must show through the holes when he takes them off. Carrie’s off, he observes, she worked all day on Thanksgiving.

  I must be a subject of discussions, more probably jokes, among the help in this place. Why else would he assume that I am interested, or that I know her name?

  Wednesday, 12/4/91

  Two more meals out. With Carrie. First time the owner, and yesterday, the second time, the waitress who seats guests when he isn’t there or doesn’t feel like taking the trouble, leads me to one of Carrie’s tables, without being asked. Is that normal, if one comes relatively often and always alone?

  I feel a bit foolish about the seat assignment and my response, which is this mixture of embarrassment and satisfaction. Embarrassment, because I seem to have become a habitué, like the Weird Sisters who take on an amused air when I appear but make no move to invite me to their table. According to my way of seeing others, I am a figure of fun: an old fellow with nothing better to do than to converse at a bar and grill with a beautiful waitress almost too young to be his daughter! Satisfaction—bordering on pride—because the waitress acts as though she were glad to see me, almost as glad as I am to see her. Of course, I take into account her professional obligations. Being a good girl, she takes them seriously, I suppose. Waitresses are supposed to make customers feel welcome.

  There is something to it, all the same, that goes beyond the professional aspect. For instance, she seems genuinely fond of chatting with me. Probably, she likes my paying attention to what she says—I have always had the reputation of being a good listener, but usually it’s just an appearance of listening while my mind is a thousand miles away. More important, yesterday evening, when I was in such distress, she came to my aid. I suppose it was nothing for a street-smart kid raised in Brooklyn or the Bronx, it’s shameful that I have forgotten which it is, but she did protect and comfort me like a true friend.

  Here is what happened: I looked up from the table, because she had just brought coffee, and there, on the sidewalk, pressed against the plate glass, not more than fifteen feet away, staring at me, stood the man. He wore the same suit, perhaps with one more layer of sweater under the jacket, so that the buttons were pulling and the seams were ready to split, and a little knitted beet-red ski cap pulled over his ears. As soon as he saw that I had seen him, he smiled—a wide, entirely toothless grin—and winked. Mean, small eyes. My face must have remained immobile. The grin disappeared immediately. He puckered his lips, instead, and nodded, to show disappointment at the lack of a friendly response. Then, quite laboriously, he lifted his right arm and gave me the finger. In place of the equitation gloves, he was wearing mittens made of navy-blue wool, of a kind I have seen only in films, worn by nineteenth-century beggars or grave diggers, that cover the hands and fingers, but only to the middle joint, leaving exposed the nails, long, caked with dirt, and broken. Terror? Revulsion? When I managed to speak to Carrie, my voice was a croak as hoarse as hers. Look, I uttered, look at him, look!

  It’s him again, she replied. Don’t pay any attention. Attention is what they’re after.

  Then she made an angry gesture with her fist, shooing him away.

  Incredible to relate, the man let his arm drop and moved off, with apparent reluctance but defeated, looking back over his shoulder at me, or perhaps really at Carrie, mumbling something. Then his step quickened. Thrusting his cane at an invisible opponent, he crossed the street and disappeared into the darkness of the parking lot opposite the restaurant. My hands lay flat on the table. I had no feeling in them except extreme cold. It may be that Carrie saw that I was shivering. She put her hands over mine and whispered, You need warming up. I’ll get you some fresh hot coffee.

  We did not speak afterward because she was running back and forth to the kitchen and the cash register, filling orders, bringing checks, taking away dishes. When I paid, some fifteen minutes later, she asked whether my car was in the parking lot, and when I said yes, she told me she would take me to it.

  We went out of the restaurant into the night air like a father and daughter, my loden coat over her shoulder. She saw in the dark like a cat, and led me straight to my Saab. I asked when she had seen the man before. Sometimes these crazies and winos come from the city on the bus and wander around here, was the answer. She sounded uneasy and evasive. Why?

  When I was in the car, before I closed the door, she punched me in the arm and said, Hey come back soon, will you?

  Friday, 12/6/91

  Bad dreams all night. After breakfast, I called the police, told the operator I have been supporting their benevolent association for the past thirty years, and asked to speak to someone in charge. A Sergeant Smith came to the telephone—once I pointed it out to him, he seemed to appreciate the affinity of our names. I told him about the man and the interest he was taking in me, and said I was worried, because I live alone in a large house outside the village and because, in fact, the man might seek me out anywhere. Smith asked me to describe him in detail and having written it all down said it sounds like one of those loonies released by mental hospitals because of a shortage of funds or space.

  I suppose that is the case.

  Then he told me that with a description like that the guy was bound to be picked up by one of the cruisers. They could charge him, but with the courts being the way they are, they would, more likely, just make sure he “departs the area” and doesn’t ever feel like coming back again.

  He added that he would make it one of his personal projects, and gave me a telephone number at which I could reach him directly. I thanked him quite effusively.

  Later, when I went for a walk on the beach—as usual not a soul there, brilliant sunlight, high waves ending in bursts of foam, sand reduced to a narrow strip, bizarre forms buried there, back in the twenties and thirties, I think, to serve as a barrier against the winter ocean waves, cement cylinders with rusty loops of cable embedded in them, segments of pipe, and piles of compacted metal, protruding dangerously from the surf, all of it completely futile and perhaps aggravating the erosion—I realized that the conversation with Sergeant Smith had not left me pleased with myself. These nice-looking local cops, so polite and understanding with the likes of me, must be totally brutal with the likes of the man. Here I was, with my waterproof shoes, wool socks, corduroy trousers, pigskin gloves lined with cashmere, and an old but expensive parka designed to be light as a feather and yet keep one warm in the bitterest gale, freshly washed and shaved, and so healthy and fit despite my old codger face and the number of years I have lived. The man had disgusted and embarrassed me, and frightened me as well, but there had been no other harm. What right had I to let loose on him Sergeant Smith and his men, with their clubs and boots, and long black flashlights?

  Reread yesterday’s entry in this book.

  Voice 1: What if Carrie gets it into her head that she is the object of “unwanted attentions” and lets me—and all her colleagues at the restaurant as well—know it? Gives me the back of her hand; I have seen, with the man, that she knows how. Disgrace. End of those pointless, melancholy, but not unpleasant evenings. And if she welcomes my attentions, what then? She won�
��t. She isn’t a dissatisfied housewife filled with booze looking for furtive sex with a traveling salesman. There are enough good-looking boys here, of her age and her kind, to satisfy her needs.

  Voice 2: It may be that she is drawn to me more than I think. I make her laugh. That’s always important. With a respectable old guy like me, she doesn’t need to ask herself whether I have AIDS or whatever else she can catch from some character like the one with goo on his head and rings in his ear; I am unlikely to be violent. To her generation, sex is no big deal. So why not fuck me in my nice clean bed? Under that T-shirt with “O’Henry’s” written on it, probably a lavender bra. Breasts neat and hard like burial mounds. Tiny waist. Stomach. A narrow stretch of black fur. She’s ready, soaking through her tights. When those are peeled off, legs of an antelope. No polish on her toenails; feet sore, perhaps a little swollen, she stands on them all day. That’s where I start, kissing the soles of her feet and then the toes, working my way to the thighs, which she keeps closed at first, and then, as I reach the furry place, she opens, pushing at my face. Insistent, raucous cooing: Wait for me, take me, now!

  Voice of Experience: You are too serious or too stuffy (you choose) for a one-night stand with Carrie, and what else could it be? If she likes you, it’s because you seem gallant. Don’t step out of that role and play the fool. Give her a little Christmas present—a pin or a nice scarf—and have fun at the restaurant when you want to get away from canned tuna.

  Monday, 12/9/91

  The weekend is over; therefore, just as one might expect, I am back in perfect health.

  Since they were arriving on Friday in time for dinner, I got Mrs. Wolff to wait on table and wash the dishes. What will happen when she retires? No one else here will serve a meal that starts after nine. The idea of Charlotte and Renata making a fuss about how I must move to the living room with Jon and Myron while they clean up was intolerable. Mrs. W. agreed to help with Saturday night dinner and Sunday lunch as well. Saturday lunch was a meal I thought we could have in the kitchen, with a free-for-all at the sink afterward. In the same spirit of keeping cooperative efforts to a minimum, I did the shopping for the entire weekend. I made a beef stew for the first evening, so I could feed them as soon as they were ready. Champagne and oysters on the half shell, which I picked up just as the fish shop was closing, to start. For Saturday and Sunday, I got stuff I was sure Charlotte could cook; she might think that was what she ought to be doing. Flowers in the corner guest room, flowers in Charlotte and Jon’s bedroom, French soap in all bathrooms, linen hand towels in profusion unmatched since the end of Martha’s reign, lights ablaze throughout the house. It looked quite grand; I could imagine Renata deciding I can put on a show even if I have lived an emotionally deprived life. What the hell, it’s only time and money.

  Queasy moment, when I recognized that sort of excitement that goes with being ready and waiting for guests who matter—how else can I characterize the Riker visit?—and thought of Mary. I was doing all the things that she taught me or that we had learned together. We had been a good couple. People would tell us that, and also, with tiresome frequency, that we looked so well together, as though someone had entered us in a dog show they were judging—but it really was true.

  Thanks to Mrs. W. I could stay out of the kitchen and concentrate on making martinis for Myron in the silver shaker I hardly ever use because it leaks. Never mind: I wrapped yet another starched hand towel around it. When I offered Myron an olive, he commented on my having rinsed and dried them, thereby rising once again in my esteem. For my part, I noticed that Charlotte was drinking soda water and was pale as a sheet, with tiny lines beginning to show at the corners of her eyes, and that Jon got himself a Diet Coke from the fridge and had put on weight. In the corner of the Chesterfield sofa, wrapped in a gray jersey dress and a russet shawl, her Indian warrior profile turned toward the fire, Dr. Renata looked like a million dollars. I put the stool on which I like to sit next to Charlotte’s armchair and listened to them talk: traffic leaving the city, new construction out here (it turns out the Dr. & Dr. occasionally visit a fellow shrink in Springs whom I vaguely know, so this is not terra incognita), program for the weekend (they have been told I haven’t invited anyone to meet them and I think suddenly I should have, lest one of the four feels slighted; if I am lucky, perhaps the shrink from Springs and his wife are free and will come on a few hours’ notice), and other agreeable nonsense.

  Dinner is served. I had the beautiful Renata on my right and Charlotte on my left, which meant that the two Riker males sat next to each other. Riker the father could have been on my left, which would have put Charlotte and Jon next to each other, but that solution hadn’t occurred to me, and, anyway, with its leaves out, the table is round, so that the conversation could be general. I began to pay attention when it turned to the house. It’s even more beautiful than Jon had led Father Riker to suppose. Renata agreed. Father Riker continued: It’s the most magnificent wedding present. I can’t imagine how Schmidtie can bear to leave it for another place.

  I stole a glance at the beneficiaries of my largesse. They looked uncharacteristically demure, one might say, sitting there with downcast eyes. Communication about my plan had taken place, and the financial problem had found its solution. Of course! Dr. & Dr. must have said they would help with the apartment, or some variation on that theme. It might have been nice to tell me in advance that my offer had been accepted, but never mind. No greater proof of a child’s love, Mary used to say, than when the little snake takes you for granted. Therefore, I raise my glass to their happiness under this roof and to the grandchildren who will be wrecking the place, perhaps even enjoying the colonial fort with its palisade Mary had installed for Charlotte in the shade of the red beeches that Charlotte had never much used. (Immediately I wished I had omitted that piece of family history, but it rankled in Mary’s heart and it rankles in mine.)

  In all, I had had one martini, one glass of champagne, and less than a whole glass of burgundy, so it couldn’t have been the liquor. My eyes began to burn, even though I didn’t feel hot; in fact, I felt rather cold. I could tell that I had turned red, red enough for Charlotte to ask whether I was well. I told her not to worry, but that I wasn’t quite sure. Of course, from that point on, they were watching me: my eyes, my color (from red I had, according to Charlotte, turned light green), became the subject of intensive commentary. By the time Mrs. Wolff had served the cheese, I was quite weak and sweating, which is something that happens to me only rarely. Myron got up, put his hand on my forehead, and then took my pulse—I wouldn’t have thought that shrinks knew how—and said, You are running a high fever. Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll come up to listen to your lungs when we have finished dinner

  He did. It was rather odd to have him in my bedroom, pressing his ear to my chest and back, as the poor man hadn’t brought a stethoscope, going knock-knock, but it was also, in equal measure, sweet to abandon myself to these ministrations. There was nothing he could hear. He told me to stay in bed and take lots of aspirin; the flu would pass, perhaps overnight.

  Strange night, full of obsessive dreams, cut by hours of sleeplessness, trips to the bathroom, and indecent thoughts that may have been dreams floating just below the level of consciousness about those two couples, one across the hall (my daughter in bed with Jon), the other to the right, down the corridor (Renata in bed with Myron). Meanwhile, perhaps because I had been working so hard, my fingers and also my toes had been worn down, perhaps atrophied, until they were like little knobs. Quite impossible to take hold of any object, and I didn’t dare try to walk. I woke, definitively I thought, around eight, heard the rest of the house still asleep, dragged myself once more to the bathroom, stared at my wild face in the mirror, shaved, took a bath, and found a thermometer. 104! Remembering that baths raise one’s temperature, I lay down and let ten minutes pass. 103.

  Another sleep. No dreams. I found my body was covered with a secretion more like oil than sweat. 103.5. It’s nice to
know the earlier reading wasn’t a fluke. Another bath and extensive cleaning of teeth. Then I put on fresh pajamas, sprayed myself with toilet water, remade my bed, got back into it, and thought about bad luck, and also how death and, one hopes, the flu dissolve all obligations. But I had really wanted to do well, and it seemed that this was the last effort I would make in this house, except to give the wedding and clear out my personal possessions.

  The house was full of noises, but I could identify only a few. The growl of the orange juice squeezer, car wheels on the gravel, which meant Charlotte or Jon was going to get the paper. Still full of good intentions, I got up and opened the door to make clear that it was all right to come in.

  I must have fallen asleep again. Back to the bathroom, and new pajamas out of my inexhaustible stock. Because my teeth were chattering, which told me something was going on, I didn’t bother with the thermometer. Three pillows propping me up, I sat there glaring, until I dozed off, like another Gregor Samsa. Sound of steps on the floorboards, a presence in the room? I opened my eyes. It was Dr. Renata; the noise was that of the rocker. In the place of wilted vegetables, she had brought me orange juice and a pot of tea.

  I can’t imagine you want to eat, she told me, but perhaps you do, something like a yogurt. We’ve all had lunch. The children and Myron have gone to walk in some woods near Sag Harbor. Let me feel your head.

  Big hand with a turquoise ring on my forehead, which was once again greasy.

  You need more aspirin, she decided, and, when that was done, she said, Let’s talk if you are up to it.

  Why did you stay in the house, I asked her.

  To take care of you! was the reply Charlotte was going to stay, but I wanted her to go on the walk. She needs the fresh air, and it’s no fun for a big boy like Jon to go hiking with his mother and father while his fiancée …