About Schmidt Read online

  Leah and Ronald Littman, my parents, from Washington. This is a special occasion; we usually spend Thanksgiving there.

  My little sister, Suzie, and Bob Warren, her husband, and their twins, Marilyn and Meg.

  Hello, what is this? No one had told Schmidt. A goy like him, only fat, and was there a secret smile of connivance when they shook hands? The girls were mousy, indistinguishable from each other, and myopic; they took after the father.

  Jon’s little brother, Seth.

  And at last, the happy couple!

  Indeed. Schmidt shook the hand proffered by Riker and kissed his daughter’s cheek. Very nice, I’ve put on my father’s suit and she her mother’s, only Mary wouldn’t have worn navy blue to this lunch. What goes on in that little head, why doesn’t she hug me, hold my hand, stay at my side?

  You’ll have a drink, Albert?

  The male Dr. Riker, a bit smaller than Renata and more in line with Schmidt’s idea of a New York shrink, has stepped out of the photograph. Like Renata, he actually touched Schmidt, on the arm. Charlotte was busy talking to the grandparents. What does she call them? Leah and Ronald? Mrs. and Mrs.? Some funny made-up names?

  Please call me Schmidtie, replied the grateful Schmidt. That goes for everybody here. Only people who try to sell municipal bonds to me over the telephone use Albert or Al. If it’s not too much trouble, I would like a gin martini.

  Clearly it was going to be trouble. Schmidt had observed the two respectable black ladies, one passing glasses of red and white wine and the other something that looked like little quiches. Dr. Myron Riker would have to make the drink himself. But was this a moment for altruism? God helps those who help themselves. Besides, couldn’t Myron have sent Jon or Seth or Wasp Warren to get the martini, instead of meekly trotting off to wherever the makings were kept?

  When Myron returned, he was bearing a shiny little silver tray on which stood a very small and shiny cocktail shaker and a martini glass. He poured the stuff. Little platelets of ice shimmered in the liquid. An olive lolled on the bottom of the glass. What a surprise. Schmidt told Myron it was the coldest and best martini he had ever drunk in someone’s house.

  Then have what’s left in the shaker. There is time before lunch.

  Time: this lunch would take at least two and a half hours, perhaps three. If he took a taxi straight to the bus—and why wouldn’t he; Charlotte had made no suggestion about getting together afterward—he would catch the seven o’clock. Then he might have a hamburger and more martinis at O’Henry’s. Late to bed and late to rise. There was nothing wrong with that in the case of a retired old guy. A bell of the thinnest crystal, like a fine wineglass one can squeeze and release, squeeze and release between one’s fingers, had descended, separating him from the others and keeping them at an indeterminate and comfortable distance. It did not shatter when he sat down at table between Renata and Grandma Leah.

  The latter, he was happy to notice, was absorbed in a conversation with her grandson Seth. His recollection was right; the boy also lived in Washington, and apparently spent a great deal of time at Leah’s house. Did he house-sit when they were away, or was there perhaps an apartment for him in the back where he actually lived? Schmidt did not have the immediate inclination or the time to find an answer to the question. Renata’s eyes were on his face. He smiled back at her across the crystal wall.

  I am a little tipsy, he told her. Myron’s martinis are very strong. I’ll be all right as soon as I have had some of your turkey.

  She smiled back.

  They are deadly. He keeps the gin in the freezer and the vermouth in the fridge. Ice hardly melts in them. Besides, I imagine you are nervous.

  Not anymore, but I was. Very nervous. I can’t remember when I was last to a lunch where I knew no one. Probably never.

  Now she laughed.

  You certainly know Charlotte and Jon. He has spent so much time with you he has become a stranger in this house!

  I wonder. I mean, do I know them in this avatar at all? I certainly don’t know how to behave with them. Perhaps I should ask to be introduced. For instance by you.

  It’s so very sad Charlotte’s mother isn’t here. I do think women instinctively know their way around situations like this. She would have helped. I’m sorry you have had to cope with so much grief and this important change in Charlotte’s life all at once.

  You were kind to write. I remember your letter. It was very good. I suppose in your profession you have learned how to say things that most people can’t say at all. I realize I haven’t answered; I haven’t answered any letters. I am afraid I never will.

  It’s quite unnecessary. Have some more of Myron’s wine before they serve the champagne. I think he intends to make lots of toasts. And please stay after lunch to talk to me. Everybody else has plans; they are all going somewhere. We will be alone.

  The turkey had been carved in the kitchen. One of the black ladies carried it around the table, and the other followed with a platter on which mashed potatoes speckled with what looked like fried onions predominated. Lucky Dr. Myron. Schmidt had never liked standing up at the head of the table, searching for the joint at which to sever the drumstick, waiting, filling individual orders, only dark, no only white, yes dark and skin, or probing with the long spoon for the last bits of stuffing, like an unsanitary curettage, or having to recommence before he had eaten what was on his own plate. A lifelong plot to rob him of the chance to taste the bird before it turned into cold leftovers, that’s what it was. He noted the absence of the dreaded yams. Mary had considered them indispensable but never touched them herself. Wouldn’t this amuse Renata? Schmidt told her about it in detail.

  His enthusiasm for the lunch grew, even as the crystal wall was changing his voice so that it too seemed distant, heard from a place where he actually wasn’t. He looked at Charlotte helping herself and called out, The pope’s nose, sweetie, don’t let the pope’s nose get away.

  It had always been necessary to save it for her; he rebuffed anyone else who dared to ask for it, and repressed the ogre inside who wanted it for himself. It was his favorite part of the turkey too. He had taught Charlotte to like it. For years, it was all she ate at the Thanksgiving meal until it was time for the sweets.

  That’s all right, Dad, you have it. Tastes change. All that fat is disgusting.

  She turned to Jon for approval. Schmidt imagined that in reply he squeezed her thigh under the table. That was all right; he would take the despised pope’s nose if it was still there when the platter reached him, and a double portion of the potatoes. In the meantime, he tasted the wine again, emptying his glass. It was better than what he was used to.

  Afterward, he waited for Renata in the library, wondering whether that was where she received patients, the desk was so neat and somehow official looking, with only one photograph on it, probably taken at camp, of her sons in white shorts carrying a red canoe. Mary and he had never sent Charlotte to a real camp; they had felt it would spoil their own vacation. Besides, the best tennis, riding, and swimming were available right at home. Mary would have liked Charlotte to sail, and for several summers in a row he had duly offered to buy a day sailer they might keep in Sag Harbor. But nothing came of it in the end. Possibly, Mary sensed he was dragging his feet about adding yet another activity to Charlotte’s already busy days of picnics and watersports. When is the child supposed to have her inner life, when will she get to read a book? he would ask when they discussed Charlotte’s program. In the end he had his way; the child read quite enough all through those sunny vacations, school, and college.

  Now she was making up for lost time: Jon and she had been the first to rise from the table, before coffee was served, in order to go for a run. That had to be the truth, why would anyone tell such a stupid lie? First eat turkey, but thank you no gravy, and puree of broccoli, then gallop around the Reservoir or perhaps some more ambitious course! Did Dr. & Dr. Riker also consider this an improbable, really intolerable breach of manners, or was it
for them an example of freedom to lead one’s life as one wishes that other young people attained only after years on the couch? He looked around the room for the couch and, sure enough, there was one to the left of the desk, disguised as a sofa with a back and arms, but one could lie down on it, perhaps comfortably, if the mountain of pillows was shifted around.

  I think this lunch went pretty well, but I’m glad it’s over!

  He hadn’t heard her come in. She headed for the sofa, rearranged the pillows just the way he had imagined they should be, kicked off her shoes, and lay down, motioning him to an armchair.

  Is this role reversal?

  Aching feet and bad veins. You just can’t see them, through the wool tights. I get tired standing up.

  Me too, but it’s my back rather than my legs.

  My back is not so great either. How would you like to go into the dining room and make a scotch and soda with lots of ice for me and whatever suits you for yourself?

  Don’t you think I’ve drunk rather enough?

  You seem quite sober, but do as you like. I need a drink.

  He saw only scotch on the sideboard, but there was no other liquor he particularly wanted, certainly not more of the champagne Dr. Myron had so properly made to appear for the toasts. On reflection, what was wrong with having a drink with this lady on a Thanksgiving afternoon? He handed her the glass and sat down in his armchair, watching her massage her feet.

  Are you of the view that I have sent everybody away by prearrangement?

  Why would I think that? Anyway, I can’t imagine that you arranged Charlotte and Jon’s exit. You must have been just as surprised as I.

  No, that wasn’t my idea, but I knew they were going to do it. If Charlotte hadn’t told me that they were going, I would have suggested that they find a pretext to leave you with me for a while.

  And Myron and the others?

  Let’s see. In fact, I didn’t arrange for us to be alone, but I did take advantage of how things were turning out. For instance, Myron thought he should go to see his mother. That’s not a fair way to put it; he really wanted to go. She lives in a home for the elderly in Riverdale. Normally I would have gone with him. As for my parents, Seth invited them out; just imagine, they are going to see Terminator 2.

  Really?

  That’s right; if I hadn’t wanted to see you, I might have gone with them and let Myron make his visit by himself.

  And the Warrens? The Warrens have only one wish: to get back to Philadelphia. But they would have stayed for an hour to keep me company if I had asked.

  She had finished working on her feet, rearranged the pillows once again, and was sitting cross-legged facing him.

  Well, I feel very flattered.

  You see, something important is going on, and how it turns out, what effect it will have on Charlotte and Jon, depends to some degree on us.

  On you and me? Why not Myron? Why not Jon and Charlotte?

  Myron isn’t having this conversation with you, that’s why not Myron. He’s off the hook. I thought it would be better if it was me. The kids—naturally, in the end, they will have to manage. I have in mind a particular moment, which is now, and a very particular responsibility you have for what is otherwise their business. You see, I am very fond of Charlotte. Jon has brought her to see us quite often. We have no daughters. She and I sometimes have late lunch on Thursdays. I don’t see patients that afternoon.

  I am very glad to hear it. She is my only child. I tried to have lunch with her myself, two weeks ago, but she was too busy.

  She has been working hard. I think, though, that she might have been nervous about seeing you. I wonder whether you realize the full extent of your authority.

  Really!

  He hadn’t smoked since he had arrived at the Rikers’ and now felt for his box of cigarillos. Would she mind? No she wouldn’t. She got up, brought him an ashtray, and over his protest went to get more scotch.

  My feet are all right now, she told him.

  I am worried not so much about your feet as about the clarity of our minds. What are you trying to tell me?

  Something that you already know, but prefer not to acknowledge, which is that Charlotte and Jon are terrified of you and of the weight of your disapproval.

  How pleasant for a retired body like me to inspire dread in young grown-ups!

  You think that you are being funny, but that’s the precise truth. Why do you think Jewish mothers and witches are in business? To be scary and to punish. They say, or only think: You’ve neglected me, taken me for granted, invited those other people to your party but not me, or you have invited me too but only at the last minute. Just wait. I have the right spell for the occasion. Because it’s always a spell. A pinprick puts the princess and the whole kingdom to sleep. Or they put on a face that’s like Jesus Christ on the cross and the Mater Dolorosa rolled in one, fix you with a baleful stare, and say, See what you have done! And suddenly there is no more sunshine, nothing is fun. Schmidtie, you are toying with the thought of casting an evil spell.

  She recrossed her legs. Whatever their condition might be inside the tights, they were well formed. He had finished his cigarillo. Should he now find a safe place for his sweating glass, bow, and thank her for the lunch and the chat? Was his dignity threatened if he stayed and, if so, was it worth saving? What would she say about him if he left, what would she say if he stayed? He lit another cigarillo, drew on it, and decided he might let Dr. Renata have some of her own medicine.

  Not so long ago, he told her, while I was still a practicing lawyer, whenever I went out to dinner or lunch or when company called, I would make a point of leaving my small legal learning, and my lawyer’s mannerisms and habits of speech, in some safe space. Let’s say the umbrella stand or the coat closet. Not all lawyers make that effort, and I’m not sure I always succeeded, although I really tried. I know very little about the social habits of psychiatrists, but you have just talked to me the way I imagine you talk to your patients, not the way one speaks to a guest. I am a relatively patient man, but I am not your patient. I have not come here to consult you.

  She smiled at him quite gaily, with her whole mouth and, for a change, curled her legs up under her. He wondered whether at her age such perfect white teeth could be real. If a new technique had been invented and it wasn’t painful, he might want to try it.

  Is that the longest nonlegal statement you have ever made? she inquired. I think I have got a real rise out of you.

  As a matter of fact, I haven’t quite finished; you interrupted, and I don’t like that. If you are going to practice on me whatever therapy you think this is, I am going to practice a little bit of law. We’ll break down the problem into smaller segments. First, the segment called Charlotte. Let’s assume for the sake of the argument that I actually know something about her—perhaps even as much as you. After all, her mother and I did bring her up. So let’s put her aside, or leave her for the very last, and deal with the segment called Jon Riker. You have just made the claim that I terrorize him. I put it to you that the claim is preposterous. He has always been one of my favorite associates. I don’t mind telling you, in the privacy of this room, something he knows perfectly well even if you don’t: he worked for me so much that he couldn’t possibly have become a partner if he hadn’t had my full support. I did support him. That was done out of deep respect for his value—and selflessly, too. It had already been agreed that he would veer off toward litigation. Nobody could accuse me of backing a candidate in order to have him stay in the firm and go on doing my work. If analogies amuse you, think of me rather as Jon’s good fairy godmother: I gave your son what he wanted most!

  Have you finished now?

  No, but I’ve talked for so long that it’s all right to break in.

  That’s exactly what Jon has told Myron and me: you made it happen. He was very grateful about it, and so were we—his entire family. We knew that Jon was bright and worked hard, but we also knew, because he said it over and over, that
at Wood & King deserving to be made a partner is only the beginning. He was especially grateful that you treated him just the same, and supported him, after he began to go out with Charlotte.

  As a matter of fact, I introduced them!

  But that was unintentional; anyway, he didn’t think you intended it to work out quite the way it did—Charlotte becoming his girlfriend. You see, all during those years when he worked for you he had the feeling that you relied on him and had confidence in his work but didn’t especially like him. I mean, as a person. He thought that would begin to get in the way once he began to see a lot of Charlotte, even if you hadn’t allowed it to matter before.

  I see, said Schmidt. You mean that by going with Charlotte—if I may use their euphemism—he was doubling the stakes. The heart as well as chances of partnership put at risk! But why complain now? He’s got the girl and the job. Isn’t that enough? What else can he want?

  To feel that you accept him, like him! You made no comment when I mentioned that, his feeling that you have no affection for him.

  I liked him well enough to want him to be my partner, and I haven’t refused him my daughter’s hand—though I might add, entre nous, that he dispensed with the formality of asking for it. I repeat, isn’t that enough? How voracious—after all, he doesn’t want to marry me!

  Was there something dreary about what he had just said? It had left him uncomfortable and dissatisfied.

  You’re an odd stickler for the truth. You know you have no affection for Jon, and so you are unwilling to bend even a tiny bit, not enough to hint for instance at the possibility that at bottom you do. Even though you are sitting here talking to his mother, and that’s what she clearly wants to hear. And yet you seem to want Charlotte to act like a sweet, loving daughter! What was the second segment of the problem you were willing to examine?

  Terror. Schmidtie as the totemic, terror-inspiring figure. That is also preposterous. Perhaps my classmates and I were scared of Dexter King when we were Jon’s age. In fact, I didn’t get around to calling him by his first name until I had been a partner for a year—maybe longer—even though he had told me, I don’t know how many times, that it was the right thing to do. And to the day he died I wouldn’t have sat down in his office without being asked. But today! The kids in the mail room occasionally called me Schmidtie to my face. And you should hear the accents! By the way, I have never pretended to enjoy it! And the way Jon and the other young partners talk back to Jack DeForrest and the couple of other relics of ancient times still left in the firm! I don’t mean that there is anything wrong with giving a senior partner a hard time about the law, you are supposed to do that as soon as you arrive, or with expressing your opinion about whether one should tell a client this or that. I am talking about challenging seniors on matters of judgment that have to do with fairness within the firm, and expecting to prevail—for no reason except that you are young and will inherit! Actually, that’s something I managed to get used to. Provided people are reasonably polite, having them challenge you all across the board is more stimulating than the old prep school cult of your elders.