About Schmidt - Louis Begley [20]
What’s the matter? Have I said something wrong?
A large man stopped waving his credit card in the air. Instead, he snapped his fingers. She began to make a face and then immediately smiled, only the curve of that truly admirable neck—she had inclined her head slightly to the side—giving a hint of her discouragement. As she left Schmidt’s table, she let her hand brush his shoulder and whispered, I’ll be back!
During slow moments, which grew longer as he finished his meal, and then smoked and drank many cups of espresso, she came back to stand beside the empty chair at Schmidt’s table and talk about herself as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He learned that Carrie was short for Caridad, that her mother was Puerto Rican but her father wasn’t, that the father’s name—she giggled before she pronounced it—was Gorchuk (Schmidt concluded he couldn’t be colored, more probably some sort of Russian, which conclusion led him to wonder whether he was a Jew) and that he had worked for the school system in Brooklyn, that her mother always spoke to her in Spanish. Also, that after one year at Brooklyn College she had stopped—temporarily—taking her present job to earn some money, as her parents couldn’t give her any. Later, she would study to become a social worker, and get a job with the city, but she really wanted to be an actress.
A banal story, thought Schmidt, but better that than discovering she was the dropout daughter of a Mexican investment banker! Probably half the kids in his old firm’s mailroom had a story just like that, but her job, on her feet ten hours each day, six days a week, that was quite different from goofing off at Wood & King. It seemed to him that she had a lovely way of not being downtrodden. Quite the contrary, there was a sort of personal elegance, something spunky, almost proud, about her that he had noticed right away, the first time he saw her taking orders and rushing about with plates spilling over with French fries.
She began to yawn each time she stopped at the table. The party was over, but not quite yet: Schmidt left a large tip, shamelessly larger than usual. What was he to do? She was working for tips, wasn’t she? Some puma! He allowed himself to speed home on the wet back road.
III
No, there wasn’t a single day before Thanksgiving she could have lunch with him. Her team was working on the tobacco campaign, night and day.
Then I’ll see you and Jon on the weekend, Schmidt volunteered. He will probably have work from the office as usual, and, while he slaves away, you and I can go for a walk on the beach. It’s been a long time since you and I have had a talk. I’ve missed that.
Dad, have you given up reading the Times? Everybody’s joined the crusade against smoking. We are working to stop them before they cart you off to a concentration camp for reeducation.
Schmidt made a point of laughing.
Seriously, you’ve got a personal interest in what I’m doing! Dad, I’m almost sure I’ll be in the office both weekends. Jon will probably have to be at the office too—unless he’s down in Texas. If I don’t have to go in, I think I’ll just crash.
Then you should really find time to see me in the city. It doesn’t have to be lunch. I said lunch because I wanted to take you out for sushi, but if you’ve given up raw fish it can be anything else you like. Charlotte, I need to talk to you. The meal doesn’t matter.
It won’t work, Dad. I’ve no time to relax or think about anything except tobacco right now. What’s the use of talking when I’m like that? If you want to discuss Jon and me, it would be better to wait until you’ve been to the Rikers’ home. By the way, has Jon