About Schmidt (21 page)

You can talk about that some other time, she told him, increasing the pressure. I want to hear how come you like me.

Because of your long neck, your big eyes, and your hair. And because you’re always hoarse. But you’ll have to work on your voice a little if you are really going to be an actress.

You don’t like my voice. It’s Puerto Rican and not fancy.

That’s not true. It’s your secret charm. I’d like to save it on my ears, like on a tape, so I could hear it when you’re not there.

Liar! If you wanted to hear me talk you would come to the restaurant more often. What else do you like?

The pain of controlling himself had become as great as the pleasure, but Schmidt thought that if she took her hand away nothing could stop him. She would laugh at him if he used another word. He must say it. It couldn’t be helped.

Squeeze my dick hard, Carrie, as hard as you can.

A ring of iron. Now he could go on forever. If she would only touch his balls.

You’re not telling me why you like me.

Because you work such long hours, because sometimes you look tired, because of your skin, and your feet, and your mouth. I haven’t seen your breasts. I think they are small and hard.

You’re wrong. I’ve got big tits. And you think I’m uneducated and dumb. And now you think I’m a whore.

No, Carrie, I think you are wonderful and crazy.

I like you because you’re crazy. Are you in love with me?

Not yet. Perhaps. I don’t know.

I’m going to make you. Stop closing your eyes.

Tug and release, tug and release. He stopped trying to speak. When the wet came, he felt it spread as though it were somewhere far away.

That’s something! You’ve been storing it up.

I am sorry.

Don’t be dumb. I know what I’m doing.

And, after a pause, sniffing the air, You smell like a mushroom. Schmidtie, the mushroom soup!

She put her tongue in his mouth. Then she pushed him away, stood up on the sofa, leapt from it onto the armchair, picked up her sneakers and parka and put them on as though she were trying to see how fast it could be done, and said, Got to go. You want to walk on the beach tomorrow? It’s going to be a nice day. I’ll pick you up at eleven.

T
HERE WAS NO REASON
she should be on time; it was, after all, her day off, and he hated to think of how late she had stayed with him. Still, when she hadn’t showed up by eleven-thirty, be began to think he was a fool not to have asked for her telephone number. Without much conviction, he looked in the telephone directory and then tried information. No such listing. It was possible that he had got the spelling of her name wildly wrong. The Poles would be arriving any minute. He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of their seeing Carrie come to the house: they had been Mary’s cleaning women for years, and now, for all practical purposes, except that it was he who wrote their check, they were Charlotte’s. Getting them started on Carrie—he could imagine the questions, sly looks, and perhaps comments—made him uncomfortable. He decided to take his car out and drive just a little way down the road and wait for her there. The only disadvantage was that she might call and not get an answer. Momentarily he wished he had an answering machine on which to compose a message for her. If he waited a bit longer, until the Poles arrived, he could ask Mrs. Nowak, who had no sense
of humor and seemed to be less nosy than the others, to tell Carrie that he was waiting at the beach, but he didn’t like that either, because, while he was making the arrangement, she might arrive, and then the fat would hit the fire. He was going to the beach with a young working girl. He had no doubt about his cleaning ladies’ sense of social categories.

To hell with it. The thermometer read twenty. It would be colder at the beach and windy. He put on his old Abercrombie & Fitch hooded arctic weather garment that could really keep one comfortable in any kind of gale and his fur gloves, got the Saab out of the garage, and crunched his way down the drive and onto the road. The first car bearing Poles passed him, and then the second. They waved cheerily at each other. Then at a respectable distance from the house, he pulled over to the side, lit a cigarillo, and turned on the radio. The Southampton College radio station jazz program he liked was still on. If it hadn’t been for the irritating uncertainty about when she was coming, if, indeed she had not decided to stand him up altogether, he would have been ready to say that he had nothing to complain about. Looked at another way, being stood up didn’t seem like an affair of state. He doubted Carrie took appointments of any sort as seriously as he. Something might have come up. She might not have heard the alarm clock. It couldn’t be because she felt offended or angry. There was no reason. Besides, there was a mysteriously self-contained quality about her visit—like the Raven’s, only after midnight. Perhaps it was better that it should not have an immediate sequel. The memory of Carrie’s visit was so vivid that, without giving it any thought, he began to masturbate discreetly under his coat.

He was thus engaged, eyes concentrated on the dashboard radio dial, when he heard a tapping on the car window. There she was, making a funny face at him, dressed like the night before except for one unpleasant detail. She was wearing a red ski hat just like the man’s. It was a good idea to cover her head, but why with that horrid object?

She kissed Schmidt on the cheek and then on the mouth. He wondered at how natural that seemed.

You’re not mad because I’m late? There was a line at the laundromat. This is the only day I can do my washing. Can I drive your car? You go and put mine into your driveway.

Sure.

And then, because it had suddenly occurred to him that, when it came to things she was likely to do, it would be better not to let her know what annoyed him and what didn’t, he added, I’m not mad at all. I rather enjoy waiting. It’s like finding time you didn’t think you had.

I hate it. Don’t ever try to be late for me.

When they were finally together in the Saab heading for the beach, she asked, What were these two other cars in your driveway? They don’t look like cars you would own.

They are the Polish cleaning ladies’. There are so many of them, and they are so fat, they can’t fit in one car. Not like you.

What were the ground rules? He forced himself to take a grotesque liberty—feeling the inside of her thighs, as though to check whether they were really there. To his surprise, she didn’t tell him to stop being fresh—those were the words he had expected to hear—or take her hand off the wheel to slap his hand or brush it away. Instead, she pulled on his wrist until
his hand was high between her legs, higher than he had dared to go, and then brought her thighs together very tight.

She looked at him nicely. It belongs to me, she said, and they can belong to you. You want to keep them? Do you like them?

They’re marvelous.

She began to rock and wiggle a little in her seat, so that his hand rubbed against her.

Hey, Schmidtie, that feels good. You’re making me wet. And me, do you like me?

What kind of question is that?

I don’t know. Are you in love with me? Come on, tell me.

Her hand made a foray under his parka, between his legs.

Your little guy sure is in love with me, he doesn’t get tired. How about you? You’re not in love with me at all, not even a little bit?

I don’t know. Probably, I won’t be able to help it.

A huge north wind that carried grains of sand as sharp on the face as needles was forcing the surf back on itself, transforming the ocean into a luminous, blue-green, wrinkled, and silent plain. During the winter storms the beach had shrunk some more. The only flat place to walk was at the very edge of the water. There the sand was very hard, almost frozen. Patches of wet, where the tide had pushed farther, were covered by frozen brown foam. They were following Schmidt’s routine, heading east. She put her left hand in his pocket. He took his glove off, and held her hand, his thumb inserted into her glove so he could feel her palm.

Do you come here often? he asked.

Yeah, last summer, if I had time before the dinner service.
Or on my day off, when there was a party I don’t have a sticker for this beach, so I’d go over there. She gestured over her shoulder toward Peter’s Pond.

He thought he knew the half trucks, the coolers of beer, the charcoal fire, the rough voices, and handymen in tank shirts with wispy beards and tattoos on their biceps. A truck stereo would be turned on full blast, or they would have set up black boxes containing an elaborate sound system. Furtive, disapproving stares cast by all the proper Schmidts finishing their evening walk, ready for the first white wine and soda of the evening, noses wrinkled at the thought of the townies’ debris. After the last of the hot dogs and corn had been eaten—maybe they no longer bothered, just brought pizza—did they screw by the side of the trucks or in the dune? Did they swap? Was that a part of the deal? Had he passed by during that summer of Mary’s agony, Charlotte’s arm resting on his, when Carrie was on a party?

Now that I’m retired, I walk here every day, he told her. In the summer, I like the swimming.

Are you kidding? In these waves? You wouldn’t get me near them. Anyway, I never learned to swim in college. I took dancing instead.

Pity painted over the ugly pictures before Schmidt’s eyes.

I’ll teach you, he said squeezing the hand in his pocket. It’s not hard at all.

You think you’ll get me to go into these waves?

You can’t teach people to swim in the ocean. We’ll do it in my pool, on your days off, or any day if you have a little time.

I heard you say you were giving your house to your daughter and moving out.

That plan had gone out of Schmidt’s head. It seemed possible that he was forgetting everything except the warmth of that hand, which responded to every pressure and invented games of its own.

Let’s turn back, he said, you’ll start getting cold. You’re right about my giving up the house, but I think I’ll move to another house with a pool. It will just be a much smaller place. There should be lots of them on the market. I’ll have to start looking pretty soon. Perhaps you’ll help me.

How will your daughter feel about that, I mean having me visit houses with you? You haven’t told me her name. What’s she like?

Charlotte. It was the name of my wife’s mother. She died when my wife was a child, and my wife was brought up by the aunt who I told you left her this house. Charlotte: she is tall, a bit taller than you, very blond, and I think quite beautiful. She looks like—Joan of Arc! Have you seen Joan of Arc in a picture? She was the virgin warrior who saved France from the English in the fifteenth century. Then the English burned her on the stake, and she became a saint. Of course, Charlotte isn’t a virgin; she’s been living for years with the guy she is going to marry, and she’s not very warlike, although I believe she plays a mean game of squash.

You love her a lot, Carrie said glumly. Is she older than me? Her fingers disentangled themselves from Schmidt’s.

He reclaimed the territory gently, the way he used to take Charlotte’s hand when she was a child.

Of course, I do. She’s my only daughter, my only child, my entire family. She must be older than you. She’ll be twenty-seven this August.

I’m twenty. Then she laughed: I bet she has a good job. Did you get it for her?

No, she did it on her own. Lots of people would say it’s a good job, but I’m not sure I think so. She is in public relations. Her kind of public relations means explaining to the public why tobacco companies are really a misunderstood group of good guys manufacturing a fine, useful product, or how Citibank never sleeps. It’s fun and games.

You smoke.

Sure. I’ve got nothing against fun and games, but they aren’t very useful—except to people who play them. You don’t like your job very much, and it’s hard, but you get something done. You bring real food and drink to people, you collect real money, and you take away real dirty dishes. The other stuff is expensive make-believe. Charlotte wouldn’t agree, but, in my opinion, her education is wasted on it.

I’m not going to wait on tables all my life either, I can promise you that, and I’ll finish my education. I bet she went to a good school.

Schmidt nodded his head.

It’ll blow her mind. You with a Puerto Rican waitress seven years younger than her!

Any woman would be hard for her to take. Her mother died last April. Charlotte has never known me to be with anyone else. But we can see each other just as much as you will like, without rubbing her nose in it, and if you are my friend I’ll want you to look at any house where I might want to live.

Don’t worry, I’m your friend.

In the car, after she had finished checking out the Saab’s dashboard and the full range of adjustments that could be
made electronically to its seats and climate, she punched him in the arm and said, If you really want to buy a house, you’d better take me when the real estate agent isn’t there. You wouldn’t want them to turn you down!

Then when he asked whether she wanted to go out to lunch—he had in mind the hotel in Sag Harbor that in the winter served lunch until late and where, because it was expensive, she was unlikely to be known and would, therefore, avoid any embarrassment—she told him he had to be crazy. She didn’t want to eat.

Let’s go to your house, Schmidtie. Quick, while you still live in it.

She began to undress as soon as they were in the door, throwing her clothes left and right, so that except for her tights she was naked when she ran ahead of him up the stairs. Frantic, catching her by the shoulders, trying to kiss her shoulder, he pushed her in the direction of the bedroom.

The bed astonished her: Hey, that’s really something! Two queens put together? We can have a party! Then to test it, she jumped on it, up and down, as if on a trampoline.

Just king-size.

OK King, don’t you want to pull off my tights? I’m all clean for you. No, wait, I’ll undress you first. Look at that, your little man isn’t here. What’s the matter? He must be shy.