About Schmidt (22 page)

She had scattered his clothes on the floor, on the chest of drawers, stopping him each time he attempted, yielding to habit and feeling foolish about it, to hang them over the back of a chair. When he had finally removed her tights and the pantyhose she wore under them, and she lay quietly on the bed, her arms folded under her head, he realized Carrie had
existed only in his imagination. He knew, of course, her hair, face, and neck, her hands and gestures, and her
voice
. But for the first time he was seeing—and soon would be able to touch as long as he could bear it—the triumphant limbs of Diana the Huntress, between them the tight triangle of hair, a sliver really with red bumps on its sides that told him she shaved it to wear the skimpiest of string bikinis, the pristine valley of her stomach, her belly button, so small and perfect it moved you to tears, and her breasts that were like sacred hillocks. The tabernacle! He would pry open her legs. But she wanted him to be able to see. Before he had touched her, she raised her knees and her pelvis.

She asked very softly, Are you ready, darling?

          There was an interval between unconsciousness and waking during which he was certain only of his disorientation. It was turning dark outside. He must have slept very hard. Then he saw the outline of her body under the covers. She was lying on her stomach, her head almost touching his shoulder, as though she had sought it, her feet in the far corner of the bed. Cautiously, he touched her hair and played with its tangles. Affection, and desire for her proximity—he was astonished by how happy he was to have her less than an arm’s length away and to find her so fantastically available. Here was an aspect of unemployment and nearly total loneliness he had not previously examined, let alone apprehended: they set one free! He need not worry about how long this girl would sleep, or what she might want to do after she awakened. There was Charlotte’s wedding reception to be held in June and the need, which was turning into a wish, to move to another house. Other than that, he had no engagements or
appointments. His quotidian future—whatever its term—stretched before him uncharted.

During their last embrace, she had moaned, Do you like it, darling, it’s only for you. He was buried under the black avalanche of her hair, to detach his mouth from the nape of her neck was inconceivable, so he kept thrusting into her, only harder. She moaned again: Yeah, now I really belong to you.

When it was over, she had asked: Did you like it? Schmidtie, talk to me, you know it’s just you, say you liked it. Tell me why you liked it.

He thought he was returning from a distance that could not be measured. Perhaps he had dozed off. The question would be repeated until he had answered. Therefore, he replied: It’s what you said, you said you belong to me.

My darling.

Nobody had ever called him that. Certainly not his father. Not his mother—until she died he had been Schmidtie or sometimes Bebop, the nickname of his Baltimore godfather, the man to be counted on at Christmas for a postcard of an Eastern Shore oysterman and a check for ten dollars; not Mary, whose terms of endearment, used distractedly on Charlotte, every other child she addressed, her editorial assistant, and himself, had been sweetie and its variants sweetness, sweetie pie, and sweets; not Corinne or any of the women of his one-night stands. But this girl, with her hoarse voice and rough diction, had; she had called him darling three times, and it didn’t seem an automatic pattern of her speech—such as her relentless, Do you like me? It was enough to make one believe in the remission of sin and life eternal.

The telephone rang. He looked at Carrie: no reaction.
That was another miracle: the sleep of a young girl. He took the receiver off the hook, and, not allowing himself to listen to his daughter, said, Just a moment, please, I’d like to talk to you from the kitchen.

Lights on in the kitchen and a glass of cold tap water. He brought the telephone to the table and sat down. Must remember to hang up the bedroom telephone when I finish.

Dad, where have you been? I have tried you twice, and you haven’t answered.

In Brazil until yesterday, and today at home in the morning and, in the early afternoon, at the beach. If you want to know, just now I was taking one of my senior citizen naps!

I’m sorry. You got back yesterday, but you didn’t call?

It’s a long overnight trip, baby; I was tired. At first, while I was puttering around, I thought I might hear from you, then I went out to get a bite to eat, and then it was late.

I lost your postcard with all the dates, so I wasn’t sure when you were coming home. Did you have a good time?

Perfect. I think I wrote to you about it.

You did. I got that postcard too. Dad, we were out at the house with people from the firm a couple of times while you were away—associates working with Jon—so I don’t think we’ll see you this weekend or, probably, the next.

Right.

By the way, Renata thinks we should start planning for the wedding. She was asking whether you have done anything, whether you feel up to it, you know, or want her to help, or just have her do it for us.

Which way to the air-raid shelter? Schmidt asked himself. The next thing I know, the grandparents will also want to get into the act.

He answered by a question of his own: Do you still want to be married in June, at the house, and have the reception here?

I guess so, sure, if you’re up to it, that’s what Renata really meant.

Let’s leave the beautiful Renata out of this for a moment. The question is what Miss Charlotte would like.

I’m just worried it will be a lot of work for you. And our friends are mostly in New York. Have you thought where we could put them up?

In fact, I have. I presume that almost all of them are grown-ups. That makes it quite easy to put them in hotels and motels. I thought I’d reserve in advance, starting now, blocks of rooms at different prices—some for the weekend, and some just for Saturday night. We can have a few people here and maybe have one or two couples stay at the Blackmans’. Your mom would have asked the Bernsteins or the Howards, but I haven’t been seeing them. Maybe I’ll ask anyway.

Here Schmidt’s voice broke.

You see, Dad, that’s the problem! You get all worked up.

No, it’s just when I think how Mom might have done things. I’m all right now, really. There is another idea I had that might work for some guests: a nice, comfortable bus leaving from Manhattan around three and returning after the party. That assumes you would get married at six.

That is clever! And you could handle the food, and all that stuff?

No parents can “handle” such a big party. I’ll find the name of the caterer who did the Parsons’ wedding. Weren’t you there? Mom and I thought it was lovely. He’ll do it all, except the orchestra. That’s something I’d rather leave up to
you, unless you are willing to dance to Peter Duchin or Lester Lanin. What I really need is the number—more or less how many guests you’d like to have. I know that two hundred fifty is no problem. That’s how many Martha had when Mom and I got married.

Hmmmm.

There’s another thing—you see, I’ve really been thinking. You might want to wear Mom’s dress. It would need to be taken in or let out here and there, but basically it should fit, and it’s right here waiting for you.

Oh. Do you think so? I don’t know.

Speaking of apparel, Schmidt had not bothered to put on his bathrobe. It rather amused him to take his ease naked in the warm weather or when the house was nicely heated. It was so cold outside that, luckily, in anticipation of Carrie’s visit, he had set the bedroom thermostat and the one that controlled the downstairs at a toasty seventy-two degrees. Carrie! He wished she had gone on sleeping until this conversation was over. Nevertheless, Schmidt’s spirits lifted when he saw her, so freshly and thoroughly explored, drooping like an orchid, lithe as a foal, tiptoe into the kitchen. The white terry-cloth peignoir was ridiculously long. “Hesperus entreats thy light, /Goddess excellently bright!” To make sure she remained as silent as the moon, he put his index finger to his lips. In reply, she made the face—part Bronx cheer and part other elements unknown to him—that he had already seen her make at his car window. Then pouting, her own finger at her lips, she plunked herself down in his lap, put her arms around him, and began to lick the inside of the ear that was not pressed against the telephone receiver.

There is no special hurry, he told his daughter. If you decide not to wear it, you should be able to find a very elegant white suit or a short white dress. I’ll help you look, if you like. A long dress other than Mom’s is out of the question, since this won’t be a church wedding.

She snickered. It sure won’t be that! By the way, we’re going to have a very nice rabbi.

A rabbi!

Leah and Ronald expect it. That’s what Renata said.

Leah and Ronald?

Jon’s grandparents, Dad! Remember? You know, you’ve met them.

Of course, I’m very sorry.

He can’t actually marry us, because there isn’t time for me to convert, but he’ll say some prayers and bless the marriage.

Schmidt didn’t wince, so exquisite were the sensations procured by what Carrie’s tongue was doing to his ear and her fingers to his right nipple.

Instead, he inquired: Will there be equal time for the true church?

Which one is that, Dad? Do you know any ministers? When was the last time you went to church?

To your mother’s service. David Haskell—that’s the name of the priest. I certainly know him.

And before that?

Charlotte, you know perfectly well that neither your mother nor I were churchgoers. That’s not the point.

Will you explain the point then?

The novocaine was wearing off. He nudged Carrie off his lap.

Not before you explain to me what you meant by your remark about conversion.

Just what I said. There isn’t time between now and June. There will be time later and maybe I’ll convert. There must be more to being a Jew than your kind of Episcopalian. At least it would be genuine!

Genuine! Have they got you on some sort of pills, baby? Otherwise, why not a Hare Krishna? Do you actually plan to light candles and go to the ritual bath? I bet dear Renata doesn’t. Is this what we brought you up for?

Dad, you hit the nail right on the head! That’s exactly right, Mom brought me up to admire the Jewish tradition and to think your Jew baiting is disgusting. Just listen to yourself: one mention of the word rabbi and the real Albert Schmidt Esquire comes out of the closet! Then it’s goodbye caterers and nice short white dress: not for the daughter who’s marrying a Jew and wants to bring a rabbi onto her father’s lawn!

That grace, those simple good manners, must have come to Carrie naturally. Or had they been taught by Mr. Gorchuk, revealed as Muscovite prince or the son of tsarist general? Schmidt observed with grateful admiration that she seemed to have gone stone deaf, and anyway was off at the far side of the kitchen, fixing him what looked like a bourbon on ice. Bare feet, noiseless steps. She had found the round little silver tray and brought the drink on it. Then, squatting on her haunches, she hugged his legs. Like a cat, she rubbed her head against his knees.

You don’t think, Dad, that anyone is fooled? At Wood & King it was a standard joke: Schmidt’s last stand against Zion! That’s why they never let you near the management of
the firm. Half the firm would have walked out the door! Ask Mr. DeForrest. Ask some of your other pals over there. They’ll tell you they didn’t want an anti-Semite to be presiding partner.

The effect of one hundred proof bourbon on an empty stomach was fabulous.

Jack DeForrest? he asked. That notorious defender of Israel? Nick Browning? Or maybe Lew Brenner, our honorary Wasp? Are they casting the first stone? No, it’s Jon Riker. I guess I must have thought the Riker family arrived on the
Mayflower
when I pushed him for partnership.

Dad, it’s
everybody
. Sure, you helped Jon make it, but you held your nose doing it. Remember your clients? Was there a single Jew among them? Or your friends? And don’t tell me about Gil Blackman!

If you want to do Jew counting, sweetie pie, you are welcome. It’s not my habit. You might even start by all the Jews your mother and I have had to dinner and lunch, both here and at Fifth Avenue, for the weekend, and out at parties. Really!

Those were Mom’s friends, not yours!

There you are right, Charlotte. I have no friends.

Except the fancy Gil Blackman!

Yes, my old college roommate, who wasn’t all that fancy when he and I first met. All right, baby. I think you have told me quite enough. Please say to Renata I’m quite able to manage, and say hello to Jon and the rest of his family. I’d like you to write within the week, with the number of guests, if you want me to give the wedding here. If you have something else in mind, you work it out, and I’ll pay for it.

There was a beginning of a reply—he didn’t want to hear it and raised his voice: Don’t dare to apologize. Ever. We will simply get on with our lives.

After the click, the face at his knee looked up. Man, that was wild!

Yes. I am sorry you heard it.

That’s OK.

The face began an upward journey toward his center, paused while Carrie opened her peignoir, lingered until it was satisfied.

I want it. What are you waiting for?

She pushed his hands away from her breasts, let the peignoir fall to the floor, and, arms stretched out, leaned over the kitchen table.

Hold me hard.

Later, panting: Do you like that? You can come, Schmidtie.

I don’t want to. I like it too much.

          She too was hungry, but she didn’t want to go out to dinner. Give me your car keys, I’ll get us some pizza real quick. You like it with everything?

She had found a shabby blue Brooks Brothers shirt in his chest of drawers and was wearing it and his old tennis sweater over her leotard top. As she was leaving, she pulled out of the pocket of her parka the red gloves that were his Christmas present and put them on. He said he hadn’t noticed them before.