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About Schmidt - Louis Begley [103]

By Root 345 0
shades in his bedroom were all up, letting in the early afternoon sun, and the air smelled of lilacs. They were there, white and night blue, in vases of all sizes, on the double chest of drawers once cluttered with photographs of Mary and Charlotte, on the long Chippendale table centered between the windows, on the tip table in the far corner of the room. He had told Bryan to keep cutting them. Since he wouldn’t be able to walk about in the garden before it was past its glory, he might as well have them in the room to look at and smell. Bryan had brought his lunch and later taken away the tray, leaving only the bottle of Gewürztraminer Schmidt hadn’t finished with his meal and a glass. Schmidt took little sips of the wine. It turned his head very pleasantly. His convalescence was as good an excuse as any for drinking at lunch. As Bryan had put it, he wasn’t going anywhere so he might as well enjoy himself.

Would you like to watch a film, Albert? asked Bryan just at that moment. I’ve got what you wanted. The Lady Vanishes and How to Marry a Millionaire.

Schmidt didn’t want to. And he didn’t want to read or to be read to. He wanted to think his thoughts, drink his wine, and then drift off into a catnap until Carrie got back from the restaurant, took her shower singing and leaving the door open for him to hear, and then came to his bed all cool, slightly wet, like an African Venus risen from the sea foam. His broken ribs and broken left shoulder did not interfere with all forms of pleasure. In the meantime, while he was waiting for her, the painkiller the surgeon had prescribed—he had to keep a hawk’s eye on Bryan to make sure the stuff wasn’t looted—procured for him exquisite dreams. He was sure he would make a fortune if only he could charge admission to them.

Bryan brought him the pipelike contraption with little blue balls enclosed in a plastic globe at its end. He was to breathe into it regularly and hard, and thus keep the balls dancing, for five minutes twice every hour. This country fair activity was supposed to prevent his left lung from collapsing again. It had collapsed twice already, once in the Southampton hospital and once when he was already at home, in Bryan’s care, which was galling to Bryan. It was extraordinary how seriously that boy took everything. Schmidt thought he had never been as clean as he was since Bryan began washing him. Those awful fingers could be very tender. Could it be that he had come to think of Schmidt as a broken piece of furniture? For instance, a Victorian rocking chair that one of the ladies whose houses he watched had bought at a yard sale and asked him to restore? Or was he “detailing” him? It had occurred to Schmidt that he could be underestimating Bryan when he suspected he might filch the Percodan. In normal times, yes, but so long as his patient needed it? That was a different story. When Carrie suggested to him in the hospital that Bryan would be better and more useful than a practical nurse when he came home, Schmidt’s reaction had been to think that he had helped her develop a nice gift for black humor. Bryan? he had replied. Why not the man himself? For you, he will rise from the grave! That crack made her cry, and he took her hand and agreed very quickly to hire Bryan. But Carrie was entirely right. Bryan had a real future in geriatric total care—according to The New York Times, a business with unlimited growth potential. He came to discuss the terms of his employment during Carrie’s working hours. Schmidt was alone.

Albert, he told him, I appreciate this. I know I’m not your favorite person. I promise I’ll do a good job. You’ll see.

Of course.

I think I can learn a lot from you, Albert. It’s like I went back to school!

Heavens!

I’m not kidding. If you let me stay on in your house after you get well, I’ll take care of the house just for the room. I’ll fix anything that needs fixing and take care of anything you want done in the garden that Jim Bogard doesn’t do. If you want, I could go on living in the room off the kitchen.

Aha! Schmidt hadn’t realized he was engaging

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