About Schmidt - Louis Begley [57]
I can hardly think of a more irritating way she could have described the situation. In one or two sentences, she managed to make much of what the Rikers were doing—less than five hundred thousand, I suppose, but how is one to know since the apartment in question hasn’t been found—and deprecate my gift. Worse, the business about being able to afford to take over this place “after all” sounded as though they were doing me a favor, relieving me of an onerous obligation!
I didn’t respond, and I am glad I didn’t, not just because I want to keep peace but because, if one looks at the thing from a certain angle, there is an ugly grain of truth in what her remarks suggested—a grain of truth the existence of which nevertheless did not, in my opinion, justify her speaking to me as she did. It is this: I have a selfish motive in this transaction—to avoid the duty I would feel to treat my married daughter and her husband as co-owners with me of this house. The Rikers have no such motive. They are very simply helping their son, who is on his way to becoming rich but hasn’t got there yet. When I think of how much money he will be making if the firm doesn’t fall apart, I am tempted to advise the Rikers to make Jon a loan, not a gift, but that would be against Charlotte’s interest. But maybe it is a loan. It is also true that I have no legal duty, in case I were not to give Charlotte my life estate in this place, to treat her as a co-owner. She isn’t, not while I am alive. I could, if only I knew how, act more naturally, and say that while I am alive I am the owner, with the rights and obligations of such, and you and Jon, my dears, will have to wait your turn.
I did, on the other hand, ask why I hadn’t been told, by letter or a phone call, that they had decided to accept my offer. Charlotte seemed disconcerted by the question. I guess we thought we’d tell you when we got here, was her answer. Then Myron spoke up before we ever got a chance.
So be it.
Christmas festivities were next on her agenda.
Did I know where I would be going?
No, not yet.
Probably they would be unable to squeeze in another weekend in the country. Could I come to the city, have dinner, and exchange Christmas presents? Is the day before I leave on my vacation convenient?
In order to be cooperative, I said yes. The truth is that I hadn’t given any thought to presents, and still don’t know where I might go.
So much for that.
Renata’s bedside manner needs work. She is too heavy to be throwing herself on top of me. Might have injured one of my vital organs. I didn’t like those massive breasts or the stiffness of the undergarments.
She likes connivance laced with tension. That’s what the conversation after Thanksgiving lunch must have been about. When I was sick, there was a new element: something like a bid for domination. The kiss, the revelation that she is available and is being used outside the marriage. She is counting on the delayed aphrodisiac effect. I think she wants to be the Sphinx in the Sahara of my affections.
I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror after writing these words and noted that I need a haircut. It’s been at least five weeks. There is a barber in Sag Harbor; perhaps I should try him instead of commuting to New York for the dubious pleasure of hearing Carlo plan his next vacation while he snips away. To think that in all the years I have been going to him that man still hasn’t learned to keep my shirt collar dry when he washes my hair! The advantage is that the result of his work is totally predictable.
How many more of these cycles of maintenance?
Monthly haircut, weekly clipping of the fingernails and toenails, daily shave and hair wash, daily or twice daily bath, depending on whether I have been out of the house; shirts, underwear, socks, and handkerchiefs thrown into the hamper and returned in disorder to my chest of drawers every Friday; each week, a visit to the cleaner in