About Schmidt - Louis Begley [63]
He stooped to be embraced by two arms in black angora and kissed her. One would not have thought it looking at her across the dinner table: the cheek felt rough. Rigorous diet, too much sun all year-round, not enough face cream under the powder and the rouge, or just the ordinary death march of the cells? For the third time that evening, a fist busied itself with Schmidt’s heart. Until the end, he had marveled at the softness of Mary’s skin, even when she had lost so much weight that it had become puckered around her mouth and on the neck, like a child making a monkey face.
Wait, said Gil. I am coming with you. I don’t feel sleepy at all and I can tell you want a drink. We’ll have it at your house.
The Ottoman moon was hidden. Schmidt drove west faster than was usual for him on country roads, keeping Gil’s Jaguar in his rearview mirror. It had gotten even colder. Puddles he hadn’t noticed on his way to the Blackmans’ had turned into shiny mirrors of ice. Whenever Route 27 was visible at a crossing, he would see the headlights of a car hurtling this way or that. Nothing else; along the polite, clean roads south of the highway, the houses had been deserted, the thermostats turned down, the alarm systems set. Why shouldn’t he spend the ten thousand dollars or more and give the Amazon a try? He would be lonely but warm, and perhaps not that lonely. It might be a nice change to doze over a drink in his room, or in the salon if there was one, knowing that well-meaning brown persons with eyes like worlds of sadness were but a few feet away, busy with his dinner. There would be candles or some sort of lamp on the table. He could read while he was eating: Almayer’s Folly, or some other suitable Conrad in paperback. Probably, the humidity there made books curl; no need to expose his good edition to it. Long Island air was bad enough.
He slowed down for the sharp left turn into the driveway to his house and crept along on the gravel. When the front of the house came into view, he braked so suddenly that Gil’s bumper touched the rear of his car. As always when he went out in the evening, Schmidt had turned on the lamps on both sides of the front door and the reflectors on the front porch. In the harsh light he saw a large figure, like a melting snowman, squatting on top of the steps. Its exposed buttocks were fat and exceedingly white. One arm was raised, perhaps to shade the face against the glare. Very slowly, tugging at its clothes, the figure straightened itself. Then, as though to signal satisfaction with the result, it made a little bow in the direction of Schmidt’s car, dashed like a startled pig to the end of the porch, vaulted over the balustrade, became a shadow jogging toward the back lawn, and disappeared behind the honeysuckle hedge. There could be no mistake: it was the man.
Gun the motor, make a U-turn around Gil’s car, and to hell with the grass, spend the night at the Blackmans’ or at a motel?
Gil was already striding toward the house, flashlight in one hand and some sort of stick in the other. All right, let it be. Schmidt turned off the ignition, and got out, holding on to the door to steady himself. He caught up with Gil.
Gil, that’s a lunatic. I’ve seen him before. I don’t want to deal with it. Let’s get away. We’ll call the police on your car phone or from your house.
We can’t just leave your house because we’ve seen a marauder. How do you know he hasn’t broken in?
I told you: he’s a nut, not a burglar. A big, unpleasant nut.
That’s all right. I can take care of him.
Gil held up the object that looked like a stick.
A crowbar! Are you mad too?
I keep one under the car seat, just in case. It steadies the nerves. Come on, Schmidtie, we’ll check the doors and windows and, if nothing is broken, we’ll have our drink. I don’t feel like chasing that guy around the pond either.
The moon had reappeared, so bright one could have read the newspaper. A house well put away for the winter: not a dead leaf or broken branch to be seen, garden hoses and wheelbarrows stored, storm