About Schmidt - Louis Begley [74]
To hell with it. The thermometer read twenty. It would be colder at the beach and windy. He put on his old Abercrombie & Fitch hooded arctic weather garment that could really keep one comfortable in any kind of gale and his fur gloves, got the Saab out of the garage, and crunched his way down the drive and onto the road. The first car bearing Poles passed him, and then the second. They waved cheerily at each other. Then at a respectable distance from the house, he pulled over to the side, lit a cigarillo, and turned on the radio. The Southampton College radio station jazz program he liked was still on. If it hadn’t been for the irritating uncertainty about when she was coming, if, indeed she had not decided to stand him up altogether, he would have been ready to say that he had nothing to complain about. Looked at another way, being stood up didn’t seem like an affair of state. He doubted Carrie took appointments of any sort as seriously as he. Something might have come up. She might not have heard the alarm clock. It couldn’t be because she felt offended or angry. There was no reason. Besides, there was a mysteriously self-contained quality about her visit—like the Raven’s, only after midnight. Perhaps it was better that it should not have an immediate sequel. The memory of Carrie’s visit was so vivid that, without giving it any thought, he began to masturbate discreetly under his coat.
He was thus engaged, eyes concentrated on the dashboard radio dial, when he heard a tapping on the car window. There she was, making a funny face at him, dressed like the night before except for one unpleasant detail. She was wearing a red ski hat just like the man’s. It was a good idea to cover her head, but why with that horrid object?
She kissed Schmidt on the cheek and then on the mouth. He wondered at how natural that seemed.
You’re not mad because I’m late? There was a line at the laundromat. This is the only day I can do my washing. Can I drive your car? You go and put mine into your driveway.
Sure.
And then, because it had suddenly occurred to him that, when it came to things she was likely to do, it would be better not to let her know what annoyed him and what didn’t, he added, I’m not mad at all. I rather enjoy waiting. It’s like finding time you didn’t think you had.
I hate it. Don’t ever try to be late for me.
When they were finally together in the Saab heading for the beach, she asked, What were these two other cars in your driveway? They don’t look like cars you would own.
They are the Polish cleaning ladies’. There are so many of them, and they are so fat, they can’t fit in one car. Not like you.
What were the ground rules? He forced himself to take a grotesque liberty—feeling the inside of her thighs, as though to check whether they were really there. To his surprise, she didn’t tell him to stop being fresh—those were the words he had expected to hear—or take her hand off the wheel to slap his hand or brush it away. Instead, she pulled on his wrist until his hand was high between her legs, higher than he had dared to go, and then brought her thighs together very tight.
She looked at him nicely. It belongs to me, she said, and they can belong to you. You want to keep them? Do you like them?
They’re marvelous.
She began to rock and wiggle a little in her seat, so that his hand rubbed against her.
Hey, Schmidtie, that feels good. You’re making me wet. And me, do you like me?
What kind of question is that?
I don’t know. Are you in love with me? Come on, tell me.
Her hand made a foray under his parka, between his legs.
Your little guy sure is in love with me, he doesn’t get tired. How about you? You’re not in love with me at all, not even a