About Schmidt - Louis Begley [78]
I guess so, sure, if you’re up to it, that’s what Renata really meant.
Let’s leave the beautiful Renata out of this for a moment. The question is what Miss Charlotte would like.
I’m just worried it will be a lot of work for you. And our friends are mostly in New York. Have you thought where we could put them up?
In fact, I have. I presume that almost all of them are grown-ups. That makes it quite easy to put them in hotels and motels. I thought I’d reserve in advance, starting now, blocks of rooms at different prices—some for the weekend, and some just for Saturday night. We can have a few people here and maybe have one or two couples stay at the Blackmans’. Your mom would have asked the Bernsteins or the Howards, but I haven’t been seeing them. Maybe I’ll ask anyway.
Here Schmidt’s voice broke.
You see, Dad, that’s the problem! You get all worked up.
No, it’s just when I think how Mom might have done things. I’m all right now, really. There is another idea I had that might work for some guests: a nice, comfortable bus leaving from Manhattan around three and returning after the party. That assumes you would get married at six.
That is clever! And you could handle the food, and all that stuff?
No parents can “handle” such a big party. I’ll find the name of the caterer who did the Parsons’ wedding. Weren’t you there? Mom and I thought it was lovely. He’ll do it all, except the orchestra. That’s something I’d rather leave up to you, unless you are willing to dance to Peter Duchin or Lester Lanin. What I really need is the number—more or less how many guests you’d like to have. I know that two hundred fifty is no problem. That’s how many Martha had when Mom and I got married.
Hmmmm.
There’s another thing—you see, I’ve really been thinking. You might want to wear Mom’s dress. It would need to be taken in or let out here and there, but basically it should fit, and it’s right here waiting for you.
Oh. Do you think so? I don’t know.
Speaking of apparel, Schmidt had not bothered to put on his bathrobe. It rather amused him to take his ease naked in the warm weather or when the house was nicely heated. It was so cold outside that, luckily, in anticipation of Carrie’s visit, he had set the bedroom thermostat and the one that controlled the downstairs at a toasty seventy-two degrees. Carrie! He wished she had gone on sleeping until this conversation was over. Nevertheless, Schmidt’s spirits lifted when he saw her, so freshly and thoroughly explored, drooping like an orchid, lithe as a foal, tiptoe into the kitchen. The white terry-cloth peignoir was ridiculously long. “Hesperus entreats thy light, /Goddess excellently bright!” To make sure she remained as silent as the moon, he put his index finger to his lips. In reply, she made the face—part Bronx cheer and part other elements unknown to him—that he had already seen her make at his car window. Then pouting, her own finger at her lips, she plunked herself down in his lap, put her arms around him, and began to lick the inside of the ear that was not pressed against the telephone receiver.
There is no special hurry, he told his daughter. If you decide not to wear it, you should be able to find a very elegant white suit or a short white dress. I’ll help you look, if you like. A long dress other than Mom’s is out of the question, since this won’t be a church wedding.
She snickered. It sure won’t be that! By the way, we’re going to have a very nice rabbi.
A rabbi!
Leah and Ronald expect it. That’s what Renata said.
Leah and Ronald?
Jon’s grandparents, Dad! Remember? You know, you’ve met them.
Of course, I’m very sorry.
He can’t actually marry us, because there isn’t time for me to convert, but he’ll say some prayers and bless the marriage.
Schmidt didn’t wince, so exquisite were the sensations procured by what Carrie’s tongue was doing to his ear and her fingers to his right nipple.
Instead, he inquired: Will there be equal time for the true church?
Which one is that, Dad? Do you know any ministers? When was the last time you went to church?
To your mother