About Schmidt Page 3

  He went up the cellar steps and entered the kitchen. Now Riker was at the table, a plate of unfinished poached eggs before him. Steel-rimmed, slightly tinted glasses on his nose, attaché case at his feet, he stopped correcting a thick draft.

  Charlotte’s in the shower. Has she told you? She thought I should speak to you first, but I knew you would want it to be her. I hope you approve my making her an honest woman!

  He stood up and held out his hand, which Schmidt shook. The long fingers that explored Charlotte were hairy between the first and second joints. Where does the ring go, on the right or left hand? No doubt, Jon would wear a ring. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that this large, very handsome young man’s hairline wasn’t what it used to be. Probably he worried about it; a small pocket mirror might be lurking in one of the pockets of that attaché case.

  Nicely put! Thanks for the old-fashioned sentiment. Congratulations!

  You are the first to know, Al. I haven’t even told my parents.

  Schmidt disliked being called Al, slightly preferring Albert, which was his given name and, therefore, couldn’t be helped. He wondered why Riker wasn’t handling him better. A tiff with Charlotte over breakfast, while the paternal heart was breaking in the cellar? Getting even, because of the bizarre flashback to the days when, as a young associate, he had been afraid of Schmidt? Second thoughts?

  Then pick up the telephone. It’s past ten. And don’t use your credit card.

  Thanks, Al. I’ll do it from the room. That way I’ll catch Charlotte before she comes downstairs and will get her to speak to them too.

  Do that. Since when do you call me Al?

  Just testing. I want to see how much a son-in-law can get away with. Don’t be such a sourpuss!

  Schmidt took the breakfast dishes off the table, scraped the egg yolk from Riker’s plate, and rinsed them. He genuinely liked cleaning up after meals. From the start, in the early division of chores between him and Mary—it was important to her that Schmidt share equally in the housework and looking after Charlotte—he had asked that doing dishes be included in his assignment. The activity soothed him, as did washing off the kitchen floor and counters and sweeping anyplace at all. They were simple, uncontroversial tasks, in which it was possible, provided there was enough time, to achieve, when one stood back squinting at the clean surfaces, a feeling of perfection, an illusion that order had been reestablished. He referred to them as his occupational therapy.

  Of course, during the week there had never been much housework or looking after young Charlotte of the sort that weighed down many of their friends. They had had a cleaning woman from the time they got married, every weekday, since Mary was working at her first junior editorial job and brought manuscripts home, and he kept the usual New York lawyer’s late office hours. When Charlotte arrived so did a nurse, a grim but very gentle fat Texan lady once married to an air force warrant officer, who stayed with them until Charlotte went into the second grade at Brearley—the only southern nanny known to Schmidt who was certifiably white—and a succession of housekeepers, periodically upgraded to keep up with Schmidt’s income. Neither the housekeepers nor the nurse worked on weekends, and the housekeepers prepared dinner but didn’t serve it, Mary and Schmidt ate so late. The result was that Schmidt’s dishwashing was the principal domestic task performed during the week, Mary being in charge of putting away leftovers, mustard, and chutney when they ate curry. She did that well; Schmidt had always been a dismal failure at filing, and organizing little dishes covered with aluminum foil reminded him of that. Weekends were more complex. They went to the country unless there was a party or a concert they really couldn’t miss. If Schmidt had to work in the office on Saturday or Sunday, which happened dismayingly often until he no longer felt he was a young partner and began to have papers brought out to him by messenger, Mary would take Charlotte alone, with the baby-sitter. There was a succession of those, as well: Hunter College students working for lodging and pocket money and later, when they decided Charlotte should learn French, au pairs. Corinne had been one of them.

  If he was stuck working on a Saturday morning, he would try to catch an afternoon train and join them, and, when it was too late for that, he would go out sometimes early on Sunday to get in a set of tennis or a long walk on the beach, and help Mary with the drive to the city. While Martha was alive, work-sharing rules did not apply in her house. She thought Charlotte should be in women’s hands—her own, Mary’s, and the baby-sitter’s—unless the child was going to the beach or to her pony lesson, or to the afternoon movie show in East Hampton, each of which was a proper occasion for a father to appear. And there wasn’t any question of sticking one’s nose into the kitchen and doing the work of Martha’s cook and the cook’s assistant, each as adamantly Irish as their cigarette-smoking, hard-drinking employer.

  Mary and Schmidt kept the cook until her retirement; it was unthinkable that she be let go. Would she return from Florida to look after Schmidt, now that he had been put out to pasture? The question had teased him. Afterward, they kept the house going as best they could, with the help of a squadron of Polish women who arrived once a week in battered Chevys, Diet Cokes in hand, hair in curlers, their outsize rear ends and bosoms restrained by resort wear in which lime, shocking pink, and orange predominated—women who whizzed through the place and departed three hours later planting moist kisses on Mary, Charlotte, and even Schmidt.

  It astonished him, how he had come to believe in the absolute necessity of Charlotte’s being taken to the country each weekend, and to feel uneasy himself, at loose ends, uncomfortable with city smells and the Sunday look of streets, if he happened not to go away. And yet, this was a habit acquired only upon marriage. Schmidt’s parents had not owned a place in the country. Unless one counted attendance at law school reunions and out-of-town Bar Association meetings as vacations, his parents took none. They didn’t agree with Schmidt’s father, and his mother didn’t like the expense. Saturdays and Sundays were spent in the city; Schmidt learned about grass and trees in Central Park and about swimming in a large reedy pond to which an establishment upstate called Camp Round Lake had a right-of-way. He had been a camper there from the age of eight, and later, until his second year at Harvard College, a counselor.

  The champagne flute snapped in his fingers as he was rubbing it under hot water to get Charlotte’s lipstick off. He scooped the broken glass from the drain with a paper towel and saw that it was rapidly turning dark red. The cut in the palm was clean but deep, apparently not the sort that could be taken care of by pressing a wad of paper toweling against it. He looked for the Band-Aids he thought he had last seen on the shelf above the sink. They weren’t there. Meanwhile, unmanageable fat blood drops kept reappearing on the floor, on the counter, and on the open cabinet door, faster than he could wipe them with the sponge he held in his good hand. It was a ridiculous situation, fit for a sorcerer’s apprentice. He was beginning to feel shaky.

  Dad, what have you done to yourself? Sit down right away, make a fist, and hold it up high. I’ll bandage the cut.

  Just a broken Pottery Barn champagne glass. Four dollars and seventy-five cents. Don’t they crush glasses at Jewish weddings for good luck? I guess I’m getting in practice.

  He looked at Jon.

  You’ve got a long way to go, Al! It’s the groom who crushes the glass with his foot, not the disappointed father with his hand, and the bride and the groom first drink wine out of it. Remember, wine not blood. Jews aren’t big on drinking human blood, but they’re very big on guilt. So they drink the wine to show that they are about to experience the greatest possible joy, and right away the man has to break the glass, as a reminder of the destruction of the temple. That makes them guilty about being happy and brings them back to reality.

  Charlotte had finished wrapping his hand with gauze and adhesive tape. She kissed him on the top of the head, which was a caress that always made him melt.

  Let me finish the dishes, she said, an
d please keep that hand out of the water until the cut closes. You should probably take it to a doctor and have it stitched.

  Never! Can’t break my lifetime record of no cutting and sewing my skin for such a trifle. Thank you, sweetie, for being so good to the old grouch. And thank you, Jon, for setting me straight. By the way, how do your parents feel about your marrying a shiksa? Have you spoken to them? Will they allow it?

  Not as broken up as you about her marrying me! Albert, will you come off it? Charlotte and I have been together for almost four years. We love each other. We live in the same apartment! And you’ve known me for ten years!

  Yes, of course, Jon. I am very glad. I just need time to get used to the concept.

  Dad, Jon’s parents would like you and us to have Thanksgiving with them.

  This was a development Schmidt recognized immediately as natural, but he hadn’t foreseen it. Mary had reigned over Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. Of course, they had spent those holidays with Martha, while she was alive, and they continued spending them in her house afterward, except for one Thanksgiving when Charlotte had the chicken pox. During their good years, they usually had invited young people from Schmidt’s office. There never had been any question of Charlotte’s being elsewhere; therefore, if Riker was right about the length of his tenure, he must have had each of those holidays with them at least four times.

  That’s very kind. I don’t blame the Doctors Riker for wanting Jon for once to spend a holiday with them, but it may be a bit soon for me to go visiting over Thanksgiving. That doesn’t affect you, sweetie; of course, you and Jon must be together.

  And then he added, because the thought had suddenly occurred to him, Unless you want to invite the Rikers here, Charlotte. Between the two of us, I bet we can roast a turkey.

  You’ll hurt their feelings. They said my grandparents are even coming to New York instead of the usual family gathering in Washington. My brother will be there too.

  Schmidt had forgotten to put the brother in the family album. This would be the boy who jumped ship from Wharton and was working for a trade association—also in Washington. Was he married? Might he be gay; was that what Mary had told him?

  Let’s not decide today. This is only the third week of October. We have lots of time before us.

  That’s all right, but please, Albert, please don’t spoil this for us, and for yourself too.

  II

  THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY, Schmidt received a telephone call from Jon Riker’s secretary. Jon had asked her to give Mr. Schmidt a message: Neither he nor Charlotte would be coming out for the weekend, they were staying in town, and Jon wondered whether his parents should expect Mr. Schmidt for the Thanksgiving meal, lunch being at two-thirty.

  I’ve got the message, Schmidt told her, making his voice sound light and cheerful—almost elated, as if the best thing in the world had just happened to him. It was a tone he thought he had perfected in the fallow period of his practice and used to thank potential clients when they called to say that Schmidt’s presentation had been excellent, really most impressive, but other counsel had been chosen for the project Schmidt had hoped to get for Wood & King.

  And do tell me, does Jon now get you to make all his personal calls? he continued, but no sooner had he spoken these words than he was ashamed, because Riker’s secretary was a nice woman, who was already working at W & K when Riker got there and understood the insult as well as Schmidt himself. Of course, she couldn’t know—so he hoped—that a warning shot had just been fired across his bow. Therefore he added, It’s perfectly all right. I was trying to tease you. We sunset people will do anything to keep amused!

  Oh, Mr. Schmidt, you really must forgive us! You know how Jon is. He came in this morning very early and left typed instructions for the whole day, and ever since he has been in a meeting with clients that will run late. It’s been like that since last week! That’s why I thought it was better to call you myself, instead of reminding him to do it. He will be very sorry when he learns that you were annoyed.

  That’s what he mustn’t learn. Remember, we are covered by secretary—former partner privilege! Your lips are sealed. Now could you switch me to Mr. DeForrest?

  It had occurred to Schmidt that, since W & K was probably paying for this call—he was willing to make a small bet that Riker had instructed his secretary to charge to the firm as a business expense telephone calls and faxes to this retired partner, even though he was his father-in-law-to-be—he might as well make it a long one. The profitability of the firm was no longer his problem.

  Dealing with Mr. DeForrest was a pleasure, if the purpose wasn’t to defend one’s usefulness to W & K, which that potentate measured in terms of hours billed to clients, or to negotiate the terms on which, having understood that the defense had failed, one would be prepared to leave the firm. For one thing, he still adhered, as had Mr. Wood and Mr. King, to the custom of answering the telephone himself, unless there was someone in his office, or he was working on a problem so complex that he could brook no interruptions. The great mind must have been momentarily in repose, for the first ring had not run its course before the receiver emitted a familiar, preventively jovial roar, followed by: Schmidtie, you rascal, don’t keep me in suspense one second longer. Tell me right now that you’re coming to us for Thanksgiving. Dorothy will be so pleased! We could never get you to join forces with us before!

  I was calling to say that the prospects aren’t good. Jon Riker has invited me to his parents’, and I am not sure I am up to that. If I were to go to your party instead he’d be really put out.

  Aha, Jon has finally popped the question!

  Something like it, but please don’t put it in the office bulletin!

  That’s for him to do. Can’t Dorothy and I pull rank? Perhaps we could ask him and Charlotte too, since it’s a special occasion. You know, I’ve been trying to limit these gatherings to the management group and some of the seniors. I’ll want to think about that one, perhaps talk it over with Harry.

  Don’t. I am sure Jon would be flattered, but this is not the right time. Why don’t you and Dorothy give me a rain check?

  Schmidtie, you don’t need one. Just pack your toothbrush and pajamas and come for a sleepover anytime you like. Have you got a minute?

  Without waiting for an answer, the voice continued, increasingly friendly. I suppose Jon has told you that the management has been looking at the firm retirement plan? There is a strong feeling here, and not just among the younger partners, that we should make sure the burden falls fairly. We have a committee studying the problem, and they’ve got a consultant to do some actuarial studies and advise us on what the peer firms are doing. You understand this is a continuing process, and we haven’t made any decisions on what we will be recommending to the firm, but as a first step we would like each retired partner to get on board.

  Get on board what?

  The process, and the underlying principle—that there is no objection to changes we may want to make to achieve greater fairness.

  I think you had better write to me, Jack. I don’t think I can discuss changes before I know what they are. Anyway, I don’t see what this has to do with me. My arrangement with the firm is a contract, one that I negotiated with you.

  It still comes under the retirement plan, Schmidtie. You know that. There are mechanisms in the plan to permit the firm to make changes at its discretion, but we don’t want the process to be divisive. That’s why we are asking you fellows to sign on. I’ve got to say I am a little surprised that you of all people are getting excited. You’ve been able to salt away quite a bundle, and really you have no expenses or capital needs!

  I haven’t gotten excited yet, and maybe I won’t, after I see what you propose. As I said, I don’t understand how it can or should apply to me.

  All right. I just hope you won’t screw it up with the firm, Schmidtie. You’ve had a good cruise here, and people like you. Don’t spoil it! Do you want to be switched to anybody else? The invitat
ion to Thanksgiving still stands; do you want to reconsider?

  No to both questions, but thanks again for the invitation!

  The universality of the advice to watch his step was impressive. Schmidt went into the kitchen and poured himself a large drink of bourbon and sat down with it at the kitchen table. The rain, which had begun as a lackadaisical drizzle in the morning, had turned into a torrent. It pounded on the windowpanes. Schmidt didn’t own a cat or a dog; no need to worry about a pet being outside in foul weather. The roof on the main house had been redone again at the end of the summer. The technologically advanced pool-house roof was still under guaranty. There were no known leaks anywhere, certainly not in the cellar, not in the garage, where the Toyota Schmidt had given to Mary and the VW Golf he had given to Charlotte slumbered alongside his own Saab. No, there was decidedly nothing to worry about. In fact, this savage rain was a fine thing, giving the trees, the bushes, and the more serious perennials one more chance to drink up before the ground froze. Yet everything was badly wrong.

  Schmidt knew that lurid confrontations, browbeating of adversaries followed by buttering them up, ambushes miraculously avoided, dramas played out in conference rooms against a backdrop of piles of unfinished sandwiches, during tête-à-tête chats among principals that one lawyer only has been invited to join, games dangerous like a hand grenade from which the pin has been pulled or, on the contrary, banal and tepid, because their issue has been determined in advance, held no starring role for him. They had all been scripted with Jack DeForrest in mind or, even more likely, the ubiquitous Lew Brenner, W & K’s own Jewish Al Pacino, stiletto or charm ready for whomever it might concern, and other imperturbably self-assured and yet esurient men just like them, partners in a posse of firms, each of which claimed primacy in the profession, the right to be the first to go through every door. Schmidt too had been at the top of the profession, but the peak he had scaled—representing two of the largest American insurance companies in their most complex private loans—had been eroded over the course of twenty years until it took on the gentle look of an ancient hillock comfortably lost in a verdant landscape. To retain his standing as an alpinist, Schmidt would have needed to find another range and an ascent of such difficulty that there was no room left for another climber. It was no one’s fault. The same change in capital markets and the practice of law was humbling other grand New York lawyers: insurance company money was a river that had abandoned its old bed and was flowing away from the transactions in which Schmidt had excelled. Many lesser lawyers, in New York and other cities, some of them cities where these insurance companies had their head offices, were pleading to do on the cheap those deals that remained to be done. Schmidt’s clients were loyal and grateful, but they had been sending him less and less work and, red-faced, sometimes had bargained over fees. No one denied that his work was faultless, but, except in the most unusual and progressively rarer cases, were the higher quality, and the margin of added safety it brought, worth the price? Schmidt’s watchful partners were taking note. He was a proud man. If certain dealings with Jack DeForrest had not miscarried, if it hadn’t been for Mary, if shoring up his position at Wood & King had seemed a matter of life or death—it couldn’t have, given what Schmidt was learning about dying—he might have had another go at the Himalayas. But he also knew that the qualities that had made clients seek him out were going out of style, just like the transactions on which he had honed them: legal and textual analysis rigorously applied to each sentence another lawyer had written until all mistakes and ambiguities had been caught and corrected, eerie precision of draftsmanship capable of shrinking arcane provisions to one-third of what they would be in anyone else’s document and making them inescapably comprehensible, and total fidelity to the fuddy-duddy institutions he served. Schmidt had not had to cajole or threaten to win in negotiations: it had sufficed that he was always demonstrably and impeccably right. Thus, he had been moved, beyond anything he had ever experienced in his career, when, at a dinner at the “21” Club celebrating the completion of one of his transactions, the legal department of the insurance company that was his client presented him with a plaque showing a knight-at-arms, with his name at the top and underneath it the words “Dieu et mon droit.” A tribute, the general counsel explained, to the power of Schmidtie’s right reason and, he added laughing, his crushing rectitude.