About Schmidt - Louis Begley [71]
Come in quick, he told her. You must be freezing.
I am.
She wanted to keep her parka on until she warmed up. This is quite a place, she said. You weren’t asleep? I was going to drive off if you didn’t come to the door right away.
And then, seeing the ax handle, she made a hoarse giggling sound that was like a flashback to the nights he had spent listening to jazz on 52nd Street, and added, You were going to whack me!
Not you. The intruder. I will give you a drink.
She refused his offer of whiskey or coffee. She wanted a glass of milk. He told her he hadn’t any; having returned that very day, he hadn’t done his shopping. They settled for tea. She followed him into the kitchen and watched while he fussed with the kettle and teapot, her head, always somehow too heavy for that delicate long neck, pressed against her shoulder and fist as though she were going to snuggle it under a huge wing, her whole body leaning against the arm of the rocking chair. Schmidt thought that was what she must look like when she went home after those long hours of work to that apartment in Sag Harbor—he wondered whether in reality it could be more than a furnished room—and that he mustn’t allow himself anything like those feelings of excessive and proprietary compassion that regularly overcame him each time a dog, without an owner in sight, followed him from the beach to the car and yelped, wagging his tail and rubbing his face against his knee, as though an adoption deal had just been consummated. This was a complicated young person, apparently quite able to take care of herself, who happened to work as a waitress. The advice he had given himself to be cautious remained valid.
Would you like to have your tea here? he asked her. I think I will have a cup too, and a whiskey as well, although I have already had several.
Can we go to the living room? I’d like to see this house. This is quite a place, she repeated.
My wife inherited it years ago, from an old aunt.
He thought that might make living in such a house more acceptable, much less a symbol of incalculable riches. On both sides of O’Henry’s there were store windows of real estate brokers with photographs of properties for sale, usually with the asking price. This child would have a fairly accurate idea of how much the house was worth on the market.
And then he added, In fact this place doesn’t really belong to me. I am just entitled to live here. When I die it will automatically become my daughter’s. But, as she is getting married quite soon, I plan to give up my squatter’s rights and move to a much smaller place. Then she and her husband will have this house without an old fellow getting in their way.
That’s too bad!
Not really. It may be a nice change.
The Polish brigade had been hard at work. The living room had a disorderly but unlived-in appearance.
Now that you have seen the salon, he said to Carrie, let’s try the library. It should be more cozy. There may even be wood in the fireplace.
After he had put down the tray and lit the fire, while they were still standing, she gave him a little punch on the shoulder, the same as in the parking lot.
You haven’t asked me why I’m here. Aren’t you surprised?
I hadn’t even thought. I guess that’s because I’m glad to see you. Of course, I was surprised. That’s why I was carrying that stick.
Oh, yeah. I’m not even dressed up, or anything. I came over from work.
Of course.
When he asked her to sit down, she remarked that the fire was so warm she might as well take off her parka, and threw it into a corner of the room. The garment she was wearing over her tights turned out to be a man’s shirt. She lowered herself carefully into the middle of the sofa that faced the fire, pulled off her sneakers, and massaged and wiggled her toes.