About Schmidt - Louis Begley [64]
We should kill the bastard, whispered Gil.
Getting him back to the loony bin would do it for me. I’ll tell you something shameful: I’m glad you are here. Go on into the house, and light the fire in the living room. The liquor is on the sideboard. I’ll get rid of this.
He flushed it down the toilet off the kitchen and put the snow shovel back in the garage. Then he washed his hands. His face was green, as though he had just vomited. Perhaps the light in that bathroom was also too harsh. He could change it for a soft, pink bulb. The other solution was to do nothing. Why not leave it for Jon Riker to worry about?
That’s taken care of, he told Gil. Really, no worse than dog shit. You might have thought it would bring back fond memories—like picking up your dog’s mess from the middle of the front lawn, while everybody else is eating lunch on the porch, but somehow the effect on me was different.
That’s because malice is so uniquely human.
Debasement, too.
Look, I really want to hear what you know about this guy, because what happened isn’t funny, but not right this minute. In fact, I asked to come here to talk about me.
That was pretty clear.
I am in a strange situation. I’m involved with this girl—she is all of twenty-four, in fact her birthday was last week—and I don’t know what to do about it. It’s not the usual thing. First of all, it wasn’t my idea. She engineered it all by herself, from the unexpected pass she made to the daily sex when I am in New York. Second, she is really beautiful. Third, she isn’t after anything—you know, getting to have a part in some television show, presents, whatever. I can’t even take her out to lunch or dinner! Where would we go without being noticed? Fourth, she may even be intelligent; anyway, she doesn’t bore me. And fifth, the sex is irresistible. It isn’t so much what she does—though she does plenty—it’s her unbelievable enthusiasm. She makes me feel I am some kind of god of love, capable of magical feats. This would be very nice if it weren’t for Elaine. You saw me give her a hard time at dinner. But that’s an act. I love her. She loves me. We have a good marriage.
I know.
A marriage with good sex. We haven’t stopped. It’s not one of those once-a-month arrangements you read about in women’s magazines—if such things do in fact exist. I’ve always wondered. Unless we are tired or I am drunk, we make love. Another curious fact is that the thing with the girl hasn’t had a bad effect on the thing with Elaine.
Perhaps you think about the girl when you do it.
You’re wrong. That breaks your concentration and stops you dead in your tracks! I believe it’s something very healthy: the girl has made me more interested in the activity. I feel better about my old carcass. That must be the reason.
Then what’s wrong? It sounds quite ideal. Or does she want you to divorce Elaine?
She says she knows I’m too old for her. Of course, I’ve told her that I will never leave Elaine. I don’t just love Elaine—I like our life together. The girl is certainly smart enough to understand that.
She may not believe you. Anyway, there seems to be a category of women who don’t mind living with men who are old enough to be their fathers. Particularly when they are glamorous and rich, like you. There are lots of examples.
Sure, but usually they’re older than my girl or a little crazy.
Is she the latter?
I don’t think so. I think she is just a nice, oversexed kid.
Then I ask again, what’s wrong?
The duplicity. I don’t have an unmixed reputation as far as fidelity is concerned, but I don’t deserve it. You might say that I’ve only been unfaithful to Elaine in moments of distraction. Never in a way that made me shut her off from what I do and think about every day. If only I could bring the girl to the house to be the number-two