Schmidt Delivered Page 5

  No, Carrie hadn’t learned manners watching old movies. Mrs. Gorchuck had taught them to her, as well as recipes and skills that Brillat-Savarin would have found worthy of note, on her days off from that restaurant located on a street corner somewhere in the mythic Hispanic and black slum, once full of Jews, that stretches to infinity past Brooklyn Heights, the only part of Carrie’s native borough Schmidt had visited, or late in the evenings, after the trip home on the graffiti-covered subway, dead tired though she was from the heat of the stove, her forearms covered by burns all the way to the elbows. Also true modesty and tact of a princess, precious matters of heart, more valuable than deportment, if indeed they could be taught. Or had these been the contribution Mr. Gorchuck, the retired board of education employee, whose former functions there were a mystery, had made to his only daughter’s remarkable upbringing? Schmidt had on occasion imagined, during higher flights of his idiosyncratic humor, that Mr. Gorchuck, descended from Muscovite princes and czarist generals, had been guilty of his own misalliance, so that in the veins delicately lining Carrie’s dusky skin the bluest blood of the steppes mixed with the cocktail of Puerto Rico. Less fanciful but appealing was the notion that Carrie might be a foster child, if not a foundling, whose native grace this pair had tenderly allowed to flower. Views as to the relative importance of nurture and genes were shifting anyway; the meaning of nurture was itself in question. Carrie’s case, it seemed to Schmidt, called out loud for scientific study. His personal research had not progressed far. Occasional suggestions, both veiled and explicit, that he should really meet the parents and that he would enjoy going to their house (that is how he put it, from persistent habit of speech, although he realized that home might be a walk-up apartment) or receiving them in his own house—the latter prospect being, of course, one that filled him with dread—had been pushed off with a vague, Jesus, Schmidtie, they’re doing OK, which he took to be another way of saying, Lay off. All right. That was her business. He supposed she had let Mr. and Mrs. Gorchuck know she was living with a man in the Hamptons and no longer working at O’Henry’s, but not necessarily that he was a rich fellow, older than her own father. That had to be the simple explanation for her refusal. He couldn’t believe that she, his brave and passionate Carrie, was ashamed of them. But he didn’t know much, not even the father’s age or whether he was, in fact, retired. Retired! Of course, he was. New York City employees could retire with full pay practically the day they started work. This was a subject better to avoid with Schmidt unless one wanted to get an earful.

  Sweetie, I’ve told you, you really can’t be sure with Charlotte. I haven’t had a meal with her in so long I don’t know what’s on her approved list these days. Fish and pasta used to be right up there. Don’t worry about it. I’ll finish anything she doesn’t eat.

  Jeez, Schmidtie, you don’t need to do that. I’m a big girl. I can take it.

  He pulled her over to him, put his hands on her breasts, waited till the nipples hardened, and squeezed. Holy God. The stirrings of an erection. He rubbed it against her hip.

  Later, Schmidtie. Keep the little guy in your pants until tonight, when we’re in bed. Hey, let me put the mousse in the refrigerator. The pasta I’ll let cool on the counter and then reheat real slow so you can eat anytime you want. Unless you want the food at room temperature? Mom likes that, like when she cooks for a party or whatever.

  That evening, waiting for Charlotte at the bus stop, Schmidt tried to keep his mind on that conversation and the way Carrie had set the table for dinner in the kitchen, because that would be cozy with just the three of them. Lurking nearby were taxi drivers ordered in advance or hoping for a passenger no one was picking up, a man with hairy legs in shorts and dirty running shoes, two oversize secretaries with New York voices and fluffed-up hair, and other indistinguishable summer-rental types he preferred not to examine. His nerve had failed him. He hadn’t agreed with Charlotte that she should call when she arrived so he wouldn’t have to wait at the stop until the jitney pulled in. Since there was no telling whether the bus would be on time, that was what local residents did—except, perhaps, the most ardent lovers and anyone expecting a child or a passenger too infirm to get to the phone and wait for a ride. But suppose she had forgotten the custom and took amiss his not standing there at attention to welcome the returning prodigal daughter. It was not a risk worth taking.

  Just then a bus from New York arrived, the vision causing great disturbance in Schmidt’s feelings. Ceiling lights turned on by the driver revealed indistinct figures, standing up, gathering their belongings, reaching for overhead racks. Avidly, he scrutinized them one by one. Such a long time ago—could it really be twenty years?—waiting in a group of Brearley School parents for the bus that brought the whole class back from a field trip, and, as the girls filed out, he realized that he could not summon Charlotte’s face before his eyes. It was as though he had forgotten it. At that very moment she appeared at his side and threw her arms around him. He knew that not being able to make her out in the dim light, through tinted windows of the jitney, with the summer people milling around, was different, perfectly understandable, but the anxiety that he had disastrously lost the memory of her silhouette, possibly even of her face, was the same. The last passenger got off. No Charlotte.

  Is this the six o’clock bus? he asked the driver.

  Nah, five-thirty. The traffic’s real bad.

  When do you think the six o’clock will get in?

  You tell me. Could be fifteen minutes, could be more.

  This was the worst of all worlds. If he went home, intending to return in half an hour, assuming the man’s estimate was realistic, he’d be wasting fifteen to twenty minutes on the round-trip. Besides, the bus might have traveled fast, so that it would arrive in Bridgehampton before he returned, in which case Charlotte would be waiting on the sidewalk, fuming. Unless she called the house. Then she and Carrie were bound to have the first of what was apt to be a series of testy conversations. The advantage of going home, though, was that he could hug Carrie and be hugged by her and drink a large bourbon. The image of Carrie’s embrace was in itself so immediately comforting that he found himself able to postpone, for a brief while, its physical realization. A bourbon could be had at O’Henry’s. He would get his drinks at the end of the bar and every few minutes take a step or two toward the sidewalk to keep an eye on the bus stop and the road beyond it. But he had better call Carrie and tell her the jitney was late.

  The hoarse voice responded: That’s cool. Say hi to Pete. I’m going to wash my hair. Don’t worry, silly, I’ll be ready. I won’t bother drying it, that’s all.

  Pete the bartender winks at Schmidt. The old-timers at O’Henry’s are given to winking at him—when he walks into the restaurant, when they run into him on the street. Why not? He is the old geezer who walked off with the big prize. Does Schmidt want the usual? Yes, a double sour mash, with lots of ice. The liquor relieves his tension, like diving into a wave. Forgiveness and absolution. Knot after knot dissolves. The place is packed and unbearably noisy; a chorus gone mad, singing crescendo. The roar invades the sidewalk outside. Pete has another question for Schmidt, but there is no way he can be heard. Schmidt smiles back and shrugs his shoulders. Gestures do work. Pete pours him a single. It has just made it down the hatch when Schmidt registers the huge shape of the jitney slowing down, then drawing up at the curb.

  There was no mistaking his daughter; how could he have thought otherwise even for a moment. Her strong and open face, a little tired but so beautiful, rich blond hair gathered in a knot at the back of her head, an Amazon’s gait, even though she is carrying a duffel bag and a heavy briefcase, both of which he takes from her hands in the prolongation of a gesture that began with kissing her. A quick, surreptitious look at her clothes. Deplorable: a parody, possibly self-conscious, of a man’s charcoal-gray pinstriped double-breasted suit, the jacket ridiculously long, aggravating the disgrace of the skirt that ends a good five inches below the knee, the
shoulders heavily padded and too wide. Clunky black shoes with thick high heels. Why would one dress like that, and especially on the most beautiful summer day, at the end of which one was leaving town for the beach? Mysteries of fashion and unfulfilled aspirations. Her business and none of yours, Schmidtie.

  I am so very happy to see you, sweetie. Welcome. The car is across the street.

  It’s good to get out of the city. You know, you didn’t have to come to get me yourself. A taxi would have been just fine.

  The thought didn’t cross my mind.

  It certainly hadn’t, and, if it had, Schmidt would have rejected it indignantly. Is she giving signs of a new considerateness that borders queerly on humility? Or firing a first salvo intended to rattle the old guy, put him in his place? If so, for what purpose? Most likely it’s nothing of the sort: she just doesn’t give a damn. She took the bus because she has something she wants to talk to him about in person, that’s all there is to it, nothing to make her heart go pitter-patter. Irritated by the silence, but unwilling to be the first to speak, he turns on the car radio. Rigoletto comes on, his favorite moment, when the old clown begs Marullo and his accomplices to say what they have done with the kidnapped Gilda.

  Can you turn that off, Dad?

  Sure.

  Her name is Carrie. Right? Will she be there?

  Carrie Gorchuck. Yes, she’s at home. In point of fact, she has prepared a rather nice dinner for us.

  I’m not sure I want to eat.

  Suit yourself. If I were you I’d have a dip in the pool, get out of this Al Capone outfit, and come to dinner—whether you eat or not. Otherwise you will make me very annoyed. And, above all, please don’t talk back.

  Sure, Dad. Thanks for the nice compliment about my clothes.

  They’re fine, baby. I was just trying to be funny. You know me and my sense of humor.

  Don’t bother.

  That was to stop him from carrying her bags. He nodded, although she did not turn back to look, and waited beside the car. Such a beautiful night! With the moon lost somewhere in a sky that had finally turned black, the stars had no competition. Every constellation known to Schmidt was on parade. Not a mosquito, and yet the breeze off the ocean was so light that he hardly felt it. A screen door slammed. That would be the pool house. Such wretched waste—why hadn’t he for once resisted making a crack? It was no use following her to plead for peace; she wouldn’t listen. He had better be patient. Unless she had gorged on peanuts and pretzels aboard the jitney—which would be unlike her—he could count on hunger after that ride. It would bring her to the table. Luckily, he hadn’t stocked the pool-house refrigerator. And if she proved malevolent enough to hold out anyway, he would send her packing to New York first thing in the morning. Would Carrie tell him he’d gone crazy in the head or congratulate him on his strength of character?

  I’m here.

  By the time Charlotte thus announced her presence in the kitchen they had started dinner. Her place was still set, Carrie having stopped Schmidt when he had made a move to clear it. Why do you want to spook her, she said. So what if she’s taking a bath or feeling upset or whatever. The food’s cold anyway.

  That’s nice. Now sit down and help yourself. I’ll pour you some wine. You know Carrie, I believe.

  Hi, Charlotte.

  Oh, yes.

  She put her hand over the wineglass, reached for the water pitcher, and reconsidered.

  You have any Perrier or other bottled water?

  In the icebox. You know the water is still from our own well.

  OK, I’ll drink the tap water. Since when do you eat dinner in the kitchen?

  Since whenever we aren’t numerous and no one’s waiting on table. Do you mind? I thought you liked this kitchen.

  Sure, sure. What’s this in the ovenware dish? Some kind of pasta?

  Fish lasagna, Charlotte.

  Is that rice over there? I’ll just have the rice. Pasta and rice together. Isn’t that rather odd? Another innovation?

  Unusual, but it tastes good.

  Oh, I believe you.

  What was he to do? Hit her? Leave the table? First call a taxi to take her to New York, and then slug her? Carrie’s expression was one he knew well from the restaurant: a dreamy, disconnected smile that illuminated her face when she took orders from a party of boors or when an impatient diner snapped his fingers for the check. When she was like that, nothing short of an irresistible fit of the giggles could break down her composure. He thought the giggles were about to start, when, instead, she addressed Charlotte: Gee, that’s one of my mom’s ideas. They serve lasagna with rice on the side in the restaurant where she cooked. It’s like an Italian specialty.

  Really? Is your mother a chef?

  Chef? No. She cooked for a neighborhood restaurant in Brooklyn. A lot of Italians eat there. Nothing fancy, not like O’Henry’s. Yeah, she worked until the veins in her legs got real bad. Also her blood pressure. That’s why I quit college. When she stopped working, Mom and Dad couldn’t afford it.

  He needn’t have worried. Carrie could take care of herself. That was how she had told him her short life story too, in flat, matter-of-fact statements, leaning on the backrest of an empty chair while he ate the hamburger and French fries she put before him. Not a hint of self-pity or desire to appear other than she was. She knew what she considered her place and, without fuss, calculated the position of others in relation to it. Only she was worth far more than her modesty allowed her to take into account.

  I’m sorry to hear it. And is that why you came to Bridgehampton?

  That’s right. I left Brooklyn College after a year and got the job at O’Henry’s to make enough money to go back to school. Maybe in a couple of years. But now Schmidtie’s helping me so I’m going to Southampton College. I’m majoring in social work, but someday I want to study film.

  Having said that, she blushed. In a moment, Schmidt felt her naked foot, which had traveled under the table, insert itself into his trouser leg and rub against his calf. Cautiously, he reciprocated the caress.

  Maybe I should have studied film too. Sometimes it seems that half my college class is in Hollywood, doing something or other. Mostly writing scripts. I think it’s too late for me. Dad’s friend Gil Blackman should be able to help you. If they’re still friends.

  Yeah, he’s talked about it. I think I should finish school first. That way, maybe I can get a job on my own. Wouldn’t that be something!

  Never happens in my father’s circles. Remember, Dad? When you sent me to meet Mr. Ogglethorpe—the man who would help me enter the workforce. It seems it was impossible to believe that any PR firm would even dream of hiring me unless my father, the great Mr. Schmidt of Wood & King, pulled the right strings! God, I hated it. The same way Mom would never leave me alone. Every summer job I took had to be something she cooked up. Basically another intern slot at some la-di-da country newspaper.

  She looked drearily sad but also triumphant.

  You loved those jobs, Charlotte.

  Sure, tagged from the word “go” as the kid of the publisher’s friend. Someone you better not mess with, if you know which side your bread is buttered on. Like living at the publisher’s house, with one of Mom’s pre-Alzheimer authors.

  Hah! An unkind cut, one that Schmidt hadn’t expected. That was the job in Pittsfield, at a first-rate paper, liberal then, owned by Jay Kane. Jay became known when he threw himself into Ed Brooke’s Senate campaign and antiwar protests. The little snake had stayed with Jay and his wife, Sue, who had been Mary’s roommate at Milton. Mary published Jay’s Dangerous Games a couple of years before Charlotte’s summer at the newspaper, when it was still on the best-seller list, making Jay even richer. Coals to Newcastle. He remembered Charlotte’s telephone calls—a little too breathless, he had worried—commenting on the glamorous doings in the Kane household. He would have sworn then that she was having the time of her life.

  Carrie spoke. Man, I wish I’d had those problems. So this gu
y Oggle-something handed you a job.

  No way. I could just see myself stuck forever as his assistant in charge of sending birthday cards to members of Congress and their wives. What else would Miss Schmidt, who couldn’t get a job on her own, be good for? Thanks a lot! I got my job all by myself, through the college placement office, just like everybody else. Only Dad thinks it’s shit, because I do public relations for tobacco! Lobbying for tax breaks, like Dick Ogglethorpe, that’s OK.

  Oh, I’ve pulled in my horns, believe me. Anyway, now that all your clients’ chairmen have told Congress they don’t believe cigarettes are addictive, you may be out of work. Everybody will recognize they’re just lovable businessmen. They won’t need public relations help at all!

  Very funny. You think all I can do is tobacco. Well, you’ve always been supportive.

  Not at all. I can see you just as easily fighting for the cause of snack foods—or the Sierra Club. It’s all the same. Just working on a case, representing a client.

  That’s what you thought too about your clients, when you still had them. Hey, this lasagna is great. You really made it from scratch?

  Just the filling, not the pasta itself. I got that from the Italian guy at the mall. But I could have made the pasta if I’d had more time. Mom showed me.

  That’s cool.

  She helped herself to another serving, without bothering to pass the dish to Carrie or to Schmidt, and held up her glass.

  Carrie filled it. You like it? Your dad got it. He said we should have Italian wine.

  He would. Always saving his good wine for a special occasion. Actually, it’s OK.

  That too was a low blow. Since French red wine in the year of her birth was not up to the mark, he had laid down cases of the next great vintage to drink the night before her wedding, at the rehearsal dinner, and when she had her first child. The former occasion he had missed. Either the Rikers, who had taken over all the arrangements, had not given such a dinner, or he hadn’t been invited. One could hope the wine would hold up until time came for the latter event.