Schmidt Delivered (11 page)

Lots of luck to you! That girl will go nuts, she’s so bored! It is no problem. I can see it from beginning to end. All right, so right now I’m here pretty much all the time. You come over. She gets to see people I work with. They’re doing important things. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve had some young people over. Just for her. What do you do for her? I’ll give you the answer: nothing. Zero. You don’t even take her to the movies or to a restaurant. I’ve talked to her about the best restaurants out here. She doesn’t know them, she hasn’t been anywhere. And in September you expect her to go on with the college routine. Classes in the morning, homework in the afternoon, to bed with Schmidtie after an early dinner. The question is, Are you kidding yourself or her? Maybe you think you’re some sort of Michael Jordan in the sack?

Schmidt hoped he wasn’t really changing color. This oaf and his sensitivity! To paraphrase Mr. Mansour, the problem was the proportion, in his prodigious rudeness, of sadism to well-intentioned meddling. No, it was not well intentioned; the
force behind it was vanity, the need to show off. Of course, he was saying nothing Schmidt had not said to himself over and over. But Schmidt wanted to keep those dirty little secrets hidden under the layers of his habitual self-deprecation and scoffing. Thanks to Mr. Mansour it turned out that they weren’t secrets at all. Obvious to Mr. Mansour. Therefore to his herd of clients as well. To the Polish brigade. To Gil and Elaine Blackman. Of one thing he could be sure: Carrie had not been disloyal. Because she would never, never have complained to Mansour. It might be that she did not look inside herself skeptically enough—although what was her refusal to marry him but proof of self-knowledge. Nonetheless, he thought he could be sure that for the time being—even if possibly not for very long—the life they led, whatever Mansour might think of it, was the life she wanted. His Carrie among jocund derivatives traders and with cocained-faced models they brought out for weekend partying at the new clubs in Southampton? Never! Were those the entertainments Mansour had in mind? Schmidt’s vision of such establishments derived from local press accounts mixing in his mind with memories of brothel scenes by Degas. Consequently, he was convinced he could imagine the requisite little black dresses cut in back so low as to invite the most obscene of caresses, unbearably long legs intertwining with the legs of hirsute men, their hairy hands and thick fingers. Never! Really, Schmidtie, never? Why not?

You insist on talking about things I would rather not discuss, he told Mansour. This has been a delicious but very long lunch. I think I’ll go now.

Somewhere on his person Mr. Mansour surely wore an electronic device that enabled him to summon a security man or, indeed, Manuel without pressing any visible call button. Faster than one would have thought possible—but perhaps he had been waiting all the while in the passage leading to Mr. Mansour’s study, the door to which was open—Jason was behind Schmidt’s chair, kneading his shoulders.

Schmidtie, said Mr. Mansour, I’m trying to give you advice, like a brother. Stop wiggling. You can’t get away from Jason until he lets you, so don’t try. And don’t be like that, all tense. That’s right, relax, or he will hurt you. You should take an apartment in New York and let the kid have a life. She should meet people. I’m willing to arrange it.

Like claws, the fingers were getting right at the pain.

Michael, please tell Jason to stop. Jason, stop it. I know it’s very effective but please stop.

A movement of Mr. Mansour’s eyelids. Jason gave Schmidt’s neck a parting squeeze and was gone.

Thank you, Michael. Jason’s a good masseur, but I don’t want a massage just now. Look, Carrie doesn’t want us to have an apartment. I’ve already offered it and she said no.

You’re kidding yourself. Here is the problem: Does she want some dark two-bedroom apartment on Park Avenue, with you and your former law partners and their wives for company, or does she want a life? A life where things happen? You want to bet?

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.

T
HE 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!