Schmidt Delivered (12 page)

The phone rang again. Could it be Bryan? In that case, he would speak to him calmly and wisely. Irascibility: these uncontrolled fits of ill-timed anger. They were the portents of his ruin. Of course! Carrie, calling to explain. She would make everything all right. Just as when, waking from a nightmare with her right beside him, he was at once able to laugh at how afraid he had been. Only it was Charlotte’s voice, and not his sallow sorceress.

Dad, I’ve been calling and calling.

No message from you though.

I didn’t leave one. It’s so horrible.

Here she began to cry. He hadn’t heard her cry like that since when? Not Mary’s funeral; they hadn’t cried then, either of them: it was the afternoon when he told her it was time to let Mary go. Four medium-size pills, out of eight prescribed by David Kendall, the prescription filled by the pharmacy in East Hampton. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to go to the pharmacy in Bridgehampton, where all these years they had bought nostrums against poison ivy, pinkeye, and the cold sores that regularly afflicted Charlotte. The pharmacist in the mall where he went instead made him wait while he called poor Dr. Kendall to confirm and then took on a consoling look, a look he recognized the next day on the face of the man in the business office of the funeral home.

Honey, what is it?

Oh, Dad, I feel so horrible. It’s Harry Polk.

What’s happened?

He’s left me. Just like that. He went to Egremont for his weekend with the kids, and their mother was supposed to be away as usual, only that bitch hadn’t left, so they all spent the weekend together in the house. Then he took this week off to stay up there, and today, just as I was going to the gym, he called to say the divorce had been a mistake, they were getting back together. The bastard! He told me I should be happy for him. Dad, I love him. I did everything he wanted, and he still made me feel I was some kind of a goddess. And now he tells me he’s happy with her!

I’m so very sorry. Do you think he means it?

Yes, he means it. You know what he said to me? You’ll get over it, and you should be glad for the boys too. You always said you liked them. Now they’ve got their dad back. See you at the office next week.

That’s very hard, sweetie. But you will get over it. I promise.

Dad, I’m all messed up. Really messed up. Everybody in the office knows about us. What do I look like?

Like a lady who has been wronged.

You mean dumped. What do I do about the new business?

I signed the office lease. And all that money!

Isn’t that the last thing to worry about right now? I’ll help you sort it out. You haven’t quit your job yet?

No, we were going to give notice next week.

If I were you I’d stay put. Anyway, for the moment. Do you want to come out here? I’d like to have you. Very much.

I’ll call you. Maybe this weekend. If I can pull myself together.

Come tonight. Or tomorrow. You need to be babied.

I can’t, Dad. I’m still working. Remember? I’ll call you about the weekend.

So much for Mr. Polk of Virginia or wherever in truth he came from. This did not seem to be a very good day for what was left of the Schmidt family, but at least in Charlotte’s case the hateful old saws seemed to apply: It’s better to have it happen now than later, good riddance, and on and on. Dreary mantra of idiot wisdom to recite while the heart breaks. Examined in the light of that consummated wrong, Carrie’s unexplained trip to New York could be said to call for a stay
of judgment; one might assert that nothing had happened. Except that wasn’t true. She had planned to go long enough in advance to have made a date with Michael Mansour. That would have been at least two nights ago, when they dined at his house with the cellist—unless, of course, Carrie and Michael were in telephone contact. And she made that date. Whose idea had it been? His—When you will be in New York,
chérie
, there are some things I could show you. Hers—Hey, I’m thinking of seeing my parents, I don’t know, gee, maybe this week. Could I see you too? Wow! Mike, you’re putting me on, you mean we could really do that? What manner of sights would Mr. Mansour be showing to Miss Gorchuck in the big city? What entertainments? Why, the usual, perhaps with an Egyptian flavor. It was Jim Morgan, a veteran still hanging around Harvard Square when Schmidt was a freshman, having served on some staff in Algeria, who told him how Arabs like to sew up their women’s labia to make them tighter, or, anyway, used alum to pucker up the inside. Ah, Schmidt can see it, all the way from Bridgehampton. There they are in the Fifth Avenue penthouse. One security man has scurried off to get the lox and bagels that the housekeeper forgot to stock in the fridge. His partner lurks downstairs, perhaps in the kitchen that’s somewhere off the marble foyer. He looks up from the newspaper to chuckle at the louder noises (Mansour the swine will have left the bedroom door open, and Jesus God she does shriek). Before Carrie and the boss finally descend, he will have clued in the bearer of postcoital delicacies, and they will each let just enough of a smirk
float over their dutiful straight face to make sure she’ll know they’ve heard more than enough. Welcome to the team!

He waited until almost eight o’clock, hoping the phone would ring. There were ways of forwarding telephone calls from your home to whatever number you were going to be at. He wished he subscribed to such a service or owned a cell phone she could try if there was no answer at home and she really wanted to reach him. Another solution was to stay at home. He could call Gil and break the date, or get him to come to his house. Never mind Blue Felt Slippers and whatever Gil had prepared. Let him bring the food over. They could eat and drink right here. Then Gil would be driving home dead drunk instead of Schmidt. But he didn’t want to tell Gil the reason for changing their plan and didn’t want to lie to him either. He rushed out of the house and into the car the way you plunge a needle into your foot to dig out a stubborn splinter, not slowly but with a sudden, quick thrust before your nerve fails.

Forget the champagne, Gil told him. Elaine pushes that stuff. I am against it. A lot of volume and calories and what do you get out of it? Gas. That’s all. So far as the central nervous system and the higher spheres of your brain are concerned it’s a washout.

Majestic and soigné in a black silk shirt, black trousers that could be silk or one of those new fabrics, soft to touch as a mole—assuming you can bring yourself to touch the mole your dog has just killed—and black sandals, Mr. Blackman was mixing martinis. Schmidt has been drinking his martinis,
composed, stirred, and then shaken with unchanged attention, since their first meeting, almost half a century ago, in the living room of the suite they were to share in a Harvard freshman dormitory. A day as brilliant as the one that had just ended and, for mid-September, very warm. Their suite was on the ground floor, the living room facing the Memorial Chapel. They stood at the open window giving the once-over to Radcliffe girls, of whom there were so many you’d think the Yard had been invaded by Amazons in kilts and Shetland-wool cardigans. A Jew from one of the better parts of Brooklyn and a public high school that was the incubator of little Jewish geniuses, mixing drinks, in principle a WASP specialty, for an Episcopal chump educated on the cheap by Park Avenue Jesuit fathers. This was the first Jew Schmidt had ever met. There hadn’t been any at school or at summer camp. When they hear the news in their small but historic house in the West Village, the parents will have a fit. What better reason to be friends with this garrulous roommate the university housing office had bestowed upon him!

When Mr. Blackman and Mr. Schmidt meet, it is not unusual that inquiries about the children are the first order of business. Thus Schmidt rapidly learns that Lisa has left her latest small-magazine job to write copy for a mail-order catalogue, and Nina and the Greek Orthodox priest’s son with whom she has lived longer than Gil wishes to remember plan to be married. The time has come because, at last, the erstwhile baritone’s voice has been repositioned; he’s now a forty-year-old tenor without discernible prospects of displaying his gift to the public. Except at the wedding itself:
the girls’ mother has taken charge of the ceremony and, after the Orthodox priest has pronounced his son and Nina man and wife, the newly minted tenor will sing Schubert lieder in the large barn on her property.

I don’t suppose she will invite me, Schmidt ventured. You know, after the divorce she never said one word to Mary or to me. The last time we saw her, at the ballet, she didn’t even pretend not to recognize us. A cut, pure and simple.

You may be right. She’ll have to have me, I suppose, since I’ll pay for the wedding, but my lawyer! The snake who handled my divorce! Unforgiven and unforgivable. You’re paying for loyalty, Schmidtie. Wait. I’ll tell her no Schmidtie, no champagne. As an opening move. We’ll see where it gets us.

Nowhere. I’ll look at the wedding pictures. And the beautiful and much maligned Lilly?

Gil chuckled. That’s right, you are my stepdaughter’s fan. Getting fitted for a bridesmaid’s dress. Her father’s getting married to a chick who’s actually a full ten years older than Lilly. That’s progress. Her predecessor was Carrie’s age, for Chrissake. I can tell you Elaine is relieved. I think she’s going to give them a wedding present!

Ah, yes.

Speaking of which, how is Carrie?

This was not a subject Schmidt wished to take up. To tell Gil what he thought was to burn her bridges. Gil would not keep the secret, he would talk to Elaine, then Carrie would never again be on the same footing with the Blackmans. And Charlotte, he realized, was in the same situation. He would not betray Carrie, and he would not betray his daughter, not
to Gil. Gil would recognize a betrayal. In self-defense, he pointed to his empty glass and kept silent while Mr. Blackman concentrated on the preparation of a second round of martinis.

Splendid!

Not too bad.

This was said frowning, after a pause, possibly a sign that Gil’s thoughts were running in a different direction.

I am concerned about you, he said when they sat down to eat the beef stew of a provenance entirely familiar to Schmidt, which was actually preferable to the promised duck. I have been concerned for some time. You are leading the most bizarre life. Really, you see no one except Carrie. Brother Mansour, of course, and that’s something I want to talk to you about too. The girl goes to her classes, that’s all well and good, and then she comes home to do her homework. I bet half the time you help her!

No, no.

It doesn’t matter. You haven’t lost your marbles—not yet—but your horizon is shrinking. Every day. Just when you should be making every effort to widen it.

I do read, you know.

That’s lovely. The newspaper, every morning, I suppose, and you watch the news and the Yankees. Oh yes, and the Giants when the season starts. But what do you and Carrie talk about? What can you talk about?

She’s very intelligent, you know.

Please, Schmidtie. She’s also gorgeous and you’re an old goat. And you know I like her a lot—sometimes maybe too
much for your comfort? Right? That’s not the point. How long were you and Mary married? Just short of thirty years, by my count. Don’t you feel the difference, don’t you understand it?

Schmidt blew his nose.

Really, Gil. My life with Mary was just that. Life with her. It ended when she died. It can’t be reproduced. I am happy with Carrie. It so happens that we don’t miss seeing people. Anyway, what do you suggest we do about it? Join the seniors’ bridge club at the community house? Or should I take up Rollerblading? I think there’s a group that Rollerblades in some parking lot in Southampton. Perhaps they even do field trips.

Schmidtie, you’re full of shit. Instead of facing where you’re at, you fence with me. That’s all right—for the time being—but sooner or later it will all come to a head. Let’s talk about Mike Mansour. You do realize that I have known him for years. He’s backed all of my movies—since
The Raven
—mostly making good money. How many years is that? At least twenty. That’s how long I’ve known Judith too—the alimony queen. I’ve never met the first Mrs. Mansour, but she belongs to prehistory, before the triumph of the House of Mansour. A nice Sephardic girl from Brooklyn he just pushed aside. Repudiated by Mansour Pasha. She got married again pretty fast—a skin doctor in Israel! That was a smart move. As Mike will tell anyone who’ll listen, the alimony he was paying her was like the minimum wage.

Really!

Oh, yes. Judith is a different story. For one thing, she was rich and she let Mike invest her money. That’s something he
doesn’t talk about, although he did very well with her money and in the end gave it back, with a nice slice of the profits. The guy is not a crook. He’s something else!

For instance, what?

I’m about to explain. I introduced you, and I take responsibility for it, and I don’t mind your having fun and games in Water Mill. But you should know more about him than I think you do. Carrie, too.

It was a windless night without a moon. They went out on the back lawn sloping down to Georgica Pond and, following an old, shared habit, urinated ponderously, aiming at the mulch under the rhododendron, away from the grass.

One of the great underrated pleasures available to man, observed Mr. Blackman.

Schmidt did not disagree. Although the hour of mosquitoes might well have passed, he proposed they sit on the screened porch. To hell with taking chances. He had always been sensitive to bites; of late they turned into small infected sores. The golden, sunset years, and the underrated humiliations they hold in store. There was clearly more to be learned about them.

I’ve gotten greater insight into Mike Mansour, said Mr. Blackman, since he developed artistic ambitions. That goes with re-creating the family’s Egyptian past. This cotton-merchant stuff is bullshit. They were poor. Besides, ever since that guy read
The Alexandria Quartet
, you know, he resents it being known that he’s from Cairo. Can you imagine the past he could have invented in Alexandria? Holy Moses! Anyway, it used to be, when he backed a film, he’d put up
x
hundred thousand toward development costs and, say,
y
million more when we went into production. The lawyers worked out his take—I should say that this guy Holbein who does numbers for him would regularly butt in with new ideas about the split and how we should realign the backers’ interests—and the deals were tough but fair. I had no complaints, and Mike didn’t give me any grief when we struck out. Take
Beauty of the Hemlocks.
That was one huge mistake. I was just getting over Katerina—my version of Carrie,
n’est-ce pas
, Schmidtie—and her having dumped me, otherwise I wouldn’t have filmed that monstrosity for all the tea in China. From the start, it creaked like a cheap bed, and dealing with Martin Quine was a disaster. All right, he wrote the book, but let me tell you every time he touched the script I could have murdered him. I wasn’t myself—that’s the only reason I agreed to let him consult on the movie. By the way, can you believe it, Katerina and that imbecile Papachristou have divorced. She called me about it last week. Only one kid. A boy.