About Schmidt - Louis Begley [80]
I don’t want to. I like it too much.
She too was hungry, but she didn’t want to go out to dinner. Give me your car keys, I’ll get us some pizza real quick. You like it with everything?
She had found a shabby blue Brooks Brothers shirt in his chest of drawers and was wearing it and his old tennis sweater over her leotard top. As she was leaving, she pulled out of the pocket of her parka the red gloves that were his Christmas present and put them on. He said he hadn’t noticed them before.
I didn’t want to spoil them in sand, she replied. I wore my old ones. These are so fancy!
He listened to her gun the Saab’s motor, producing a rich growl, like the recordings of the Daytona track the pre-med across the hall from Gil and him used to play in their freshman year, and put on a pair of pants and a sweater. A candlelit dinner for two in the kitchen! The lightness of being was swell. Before setting the table, Schmidt inspected its edge, hoping for a smudge of Carrie. No dice. He got the Georgian candlesticks—thank God, no tarnish—a starched white tablecloth, and napkins. Were salt and pepper required? Perhaps pepper, in the silver grinder. He supposed he might as well give the silver pieces to Charlotte. The new house wouldn’t have a butler’s pantry or a deep drawer to hold the Shreve Crump and Low silver chest and the other dignified doodads at rest in their flannel shrouds. He’d take his wine with him. Meanwhile, to celebrate, he would drink quite a lot of it, beginning with the burgundies he had laid down the year of Charlotte’s birth. A bottle of that quality with pizza! Nothing like it could have happened before.
Yes, I do like it, he told Carrie, and took a big bite. I like it a lot.
In fact, it was good—with a thick, chewy crust, cheese and tomato sauce an inch deep, and lots of pepperoni, olives, anchovies, and little canned mushrooms—reminding Schmidt of the pizzas he used to eat years ago in the restaurant on 72nd Street that, according to the bartender, belonged outright to the Mafia, not just a question of protection money. The owner, who looked like Vittorio Gassman, was just a front. The Mafia also owned the house in Babylon with the round pool, a photo of which was Scotch-taped to the mirror over the bar; only the wife in Bermuda shorts and the little boy were really his. Schmidt had reset the table, because she wanted to sit next to him; across the table, facing him, was too far away.
You should eat at home more. You wouldn’t believe it. What you get at O’Henry’s isn’t worth a third of what you pay. Especially the liquor. The way you drink that’s important.
I know. But when I go there I get to see you.
Now you don’t need to. I’ll come to see you.
She took his hand and kissed it.
You’ll give me a key, and if you’re in bed I’ll sneak in and wake you up. No—I’ll just wake up your little guy. I guess I know how to do that!
If you aren’t careful, you’ll wear me out. Don’t forget I’m an old man.
I’m kidding you. We’ll just sleep holding hands. Hey, I want to ask you a question. You think it’s OK to get in bed with a guy and not do anything—I mean maybe just kiss? Not even fool around?
Of course. That’s how married couples are—much of the time.
I don’t mean when people stop fucking. I mean with you right now I feel like I want you to put it in all the time. There are other times I’m closed down, like I’m tired. Then I just want to be quiet.
He nodded his head.
You want chocolate-chip ice cream? I got a quart. Hey, I’ve still got your change in my pocket. I’ll put it on the counter by the toaster.
Then when they were eating the ice cream, she asked, You’re not going to be mad if we don’t do anything tonight? Maybe just watch the TV in bed and neck? Promise?
Of course. If we’re friends, we can’t just make love all the time. We have to do other things together—read, listen to music, do nothing. That way there is a chance you won’t get tired of me and bored!
Oh shut up! You’re nuts. Schmidtie, look at me. I need to know. Are you asking me to be faithful to you?
What a strange question!