About Schmidt - Louis Begley [21]
That made him mad.
Yes, I got that message as well. Don’t you think it might have been nice—I don’t want to say polite—for you or Jon to tell me?
Dad, I would like a small present, how about ten dollars, for each time your Mrs. Cooney called me with messages from you or Mom! But mostly from my loving father! It was like a joke at college! These pieces of paper from my roommates or at the Crimson: Miss Schmidt, your father’s office has called again to inform you that the car will meet you at Islip, Mr. Schmidt’s secretary hopes Miss Schmidt will be pleased to learn she has two tickets for the Grateful Dead, Mrs. Cooney has Miss Schmidt’s blood test results if Miss Schmidt would like to call! The best was the one about how Mrs. Cooney wishes Miss Schmidt to know that Mr. Schmidt will be available this afternoon after four to talk to her about her mother. That was right after we had the first scare! Give Jon a break!
I was and I am your loving father, and I was doing my best. It wasn’t easy just then, between my work and Mary, and trying to make sure you and I stayed in touch, and running this house and the apartment.
Well, I am your loving daughter and I am very busy, and Jon is going to be your son-in-law, and he is busier than you ever were!
Has Jon told you so?
He doesn’t need to. I live with him, remember?
This conversation makes me wonder whether there is any point in asking to see you or going to visit those Riker parents who are so thrilled at the prospect of my visit!
Dad, we can see each other and talk, if you feel like talking, after Thanksgiving when I have time. I’m not sure though that there is any point unless you make Jon and me feel you are happy about our marriage and want us to be happy together. It isn’t just the way you were last Sunday You’ve been carrying on like this since the day of Mom’s funeral. You never speak to Jon except to say something nasty, and the rest of the time you put on your looking-right-through-him act.
My goodness! I hadn’t suspected you had so many grievances—old and new! We had better hang up now, while we’re still on speaking terms.
The storm had blown out to sea at last, and the kitchen was yellow with sunlight. Schmidt found it hurt his eyes. He sat down in his chair at the table, turned his back to the window, and lit a cigar. He had a deal with a discounter who mailed cigars to him in a private-brand box. The advertising hinted they were in fact Cuban. It didn’t make much difference; for the price, the taste wasn’t half bad. Tobacco campaign indeed! Didn’t she remember he never touched the garbage her client sold? Who would have thought a summa in comparative literature, faultless French, summer internships Mary found for her with those famous small newspapers—all that enthusiasm, all those gifts—would lead straight to the sewer. Sure, Wood & King defended asbestos cases! There was no need to remind him; he had never been proud of it. They also tried to get serial murderers off death row—pro bono! But they didn’t try to sell the public on the idea that asbestos was a great product. Besides, what did his work, or his firm’s need to cover the overhead, have to do with how she had decided to live? Nobody had tried to open the doors to a better or wider world for Schmidt—certainly not his old man!
He felt tired, hardly able to move; his bones ached. How many more years of this? He was sixty and in good health: Ten? Fifteen? Twenty-three, like his father? Each day like this or worse, probably much worse? Old heartaches, stale disappointments, arguments lost long ago—why did they come back to stick their tongues out at him over and over? A career in public relations! His daughter choosing an occupation both mercenary and parasitic. Necessarily, it had hardened her, given her a tolerance for vulgarity and meanness. The marriage to Riker would finish the job. This piece of blackmail was conclusive proof. Riker, not Charlotte, had invented it. Had he brought the parents into it, consulted them?