About Schmidt - Louis Begley [30]
The light outside was still very strong. Schmidt stooped more than usual, because Gil had draped his arm over his shoulder. This was a notable gesture of solidarity, not to be interfered with.
Hi, Mr. Schmidt.
This was Carrie, on the sidewalk, out of uniform, in black wool tights and a red ski parka. The legs were good: long neck and long thin legs. Thin but differentiated—harmonious calves, knees that didn’t draw attention to themselves, and strong, bold thighs rising toward the zone of mystery under the aforesaid unseasonable garment. Surely, the poor child yearned for a warmer climate, but then, why not wear trousers? Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Schmidt! Hasn’t your wish been granted? At last, you’ve seen her legs.
She did not have the look of someone about to cross the street. Did that mean she was waiting for a ride?
I saw you were paying so I waited to say hi.
This is Gil Blackman, Carrie. Carrie kindly stops to chat with this old man as he eats his lonely hamburger and has one drink too many.
Just make sure you come back soon!
That hoarseness—then it wasn’t just her evening voice. Schmidt wished she would say something more; any words would do. Late night, barroom scales. A muddy Honda Civic with a dented rear fender and a scratch along the door on the driver’s side was parked at the curb. She unlocked it, eased herself into it with the grace of a swan on point, arms tremulously lifted in a gesture of farewell, and started the motor. The wheels turned. As the car was pulling away she lowered the window and called, Have a nice evening! For the second time in the space of five minutes, Schmidt had got his wish.
Not half bad!
A sweet child.
Arm in arm they reached the parking lot.
Well, here I am.
Here was a long Jaguar. Gil sighed, raised his eyebrows, and hugged Schmidt. Onset of atavistic sentimentality? Effect of Schmidt’s impending admission to the tribe via Charlotte, though presumably only as a corresponding member? The priest of Midian was blessed with seven daughters. What became of him after the connection with Moses? Did his herds multiply? These were questions to be researched.
Be of good cheer, Schmidtie. Think grandchildren, ocean and pool, and baby-sitting. And that doesn’t mean you should look right away for a second Corinne, you old goat!
Schmidt ambled over to his car, wishing Gil hadn’t said that. The memory was distant; he thought it still had the power to move him because he had been so careful not to summon it too frequently, guarding it like a bottle of old brandy, not to be often uncorked. The summer in question had begun badly, with rainy weekends and mosquitoes. Far too early, a hurricane struck. They lost the landing on the pond that Foster had given Martha permission to build and maintain, the sailing dinghy, and a copper beech as old as the house itself. Falling, it blocked the garage, and if it hadn’t been for Schmidt’s car, which he left during the week at the station, they would have had to rent a car or make do with bicycles until Foster’s handyman sawed the huge tree into a supply of logs that lasted two winters or more. It was the first time Mary had obtained the right to work at home during July and August, so they could dispense with day camp and give Charlotte a real season at the beach. But Mary had just settled down with Charlotte and the new au pair, Corinne (Schmidt’s vacation was scheduled for August), when she began to suffer from migraines of a severity she had never experienced before, which left her staggering from nausea and fatigue. The first attack was enough to make her withdraw from the club tennis tournament and stay away from the beach. The glare, the beating of the waves, and the wind all seemed unbearable. The west porch was screened; that’s where she tried to read manuscripts a few hours each day. When she met Schmidt at the station she asked him whether he thought she had a tumor. He was able to reach David