About Schmidt - Louis Begley [68]
Immediately, he was furious at himself: What right had he to put Carrie in that context? She had always thanked him nicely for her tip. Those silly extraneous attentions must have been quite simply unwelcome, perceived by her as the hesitant, almost leering advances of an old bore sick with loneliness. He skipped the second and third espresso and the after-dinner drink. When she brought the check, he found that in his wallet he had the twenties and tens he needed to pay and leave a gratuity, correct as the figures worked out, although somewhat less generous than usual, without asking for change. He waved goodbye and stalked out.
The overnight flight from Rio de Janeiro to New York had left him tired—he had rejected, as too complicated, the solution of avoiding it by using the Salvador—Miami connection—and he had intended to go directly to bed. But he felt dissatisfied and agitated. His skin itched. The accumulated mail was on the kitchen table. He hesitated between brandy and whiskey, poured a large whiskey and soda because he was thirsty, brought over a wastebasket for the junk mail, and sat down to sort it.
Mostly it was junk. He put aside the New Yorkers and the New York Review of Books and the bills—electricity, gas and heating oil, his two credit cards, the club, and the yardman; really, it was nothing, when compared to the time when he had a real household. Was he spending less money than he had expected? Mrs. Cooney could have told him right away; she had liked reconciling his bank statements, a task that required the use of felt-tip pens of various colors for doodling and underlining and offered her the opportunity to volunteer acerbic comments about Mary’s and his expenses. Actually, the balance that appeared in his checkbook was substantial; he hoped it was correct. He had not continued Mrs. Cooney’s labors of verification after leaving Wood & King and her providential care. This was no time to begin, especially as he would have to go back to where she had left off. There were also several communications from W & K. All but two went directly the way of the junk mail; Schmidt was not interested in the firm’s monthly news bulletin, the memoranda to all lawyers in the office and selected clients on the more striking developments affecting executive compensation, or the questionnaire about partners’ preferences as to the date on which the dinner for most recently retired partners (Schmidt among them) might be held at the Metropolitan Museum. His current intention was not to attend. He put on top of the reports from his investment adviser a notification from the accounting department that his retirement benefit for January 1992 had been duly deposited. The other letter, signed by Jack DeForrest, he read over twice: It told him that the firm had amended, by a unanimous vote of active partners (so Riker had voted yes), the pension plan to continue his pay-merits at the current level, but, in the interest of fairness to younger partners and taking into account the welfare of the firm, only until the January 1 nearest his sixty-seventh, rather than seventieth, birthday He would, of course, appreciate the favorable contrast with the normal payment period of only five years following retirement.
Nice, thought Schmidt. That’s when they think I can stop eating. It’s OK with me; perhaps I won’t even be around to notice.
This news called for another large drink. Schmidt had bought in Manaus some moist,