About Schmidt - Louis Begley [81]
It was a strange question, but all at once it occurred to Schmidt that it wasn’t unprecedented. Hadn’t Gil’s Greek-American put something like that to Gil? Was it a part of the mating ritual among the ethnics?
I need to know. I want to know if you’ll go crazy when you find out I fuck someone else.
I don’t think I’ll like it, Schmidt answered. How could I?
Oh, Schmidtie, you are asking me to be faithful.
He had no Elaine to worry about. But he also didn’t have Gil’s high opinion of his own person. It was all eerily just as he had foreseen, just as uncomfortable and troubling. How could he allow such a rule to be established—what would he give her in return. His sexual ministrations? Enlightened conversation? Evenings out with a gent who would be naturally mistaken for her father if she didn’t have that olive skin and kinky hair? Little presents? Big presents—cash, college tuition? Of course, his love! But what was the new language of love? If being in love was the same as having a crush, no problem! He could tell Carrie that during their nap he had fallen in love. Maybe that was all the assurance she needed, a sign that they were at some level above casual sex, and being faithful meant nothing but the opposite of promiscuity. But he thought that her feelings were much more delicate and complex. It wasn’t right to play with words. Therefore, he told her, as tenderly as was within his power, that she had become very dear to him and that he wanted her, but only for as long as she really wanted to have him, as long as she wanted it to last.
Carrie, he concluded, you’ve got to understand, I want to be fair. If I want your good, your happiness, and I do want them very much, I can’t ask for something that could stop you from finding the right guy—someone very nice and of the right age, not a broken-down senior citizen!
Well-intentioned pomposity. Schmidt didn’t like it. It didn’t play well with Carrie either.
Yeah, I got it. You like the way I do sex, but you’re not in love with me. That’s what I understand.
She looked sad. Then her face brightened. She moved to sit in his lap. You’re not going to get mad at me? she asked.
How could I?
I don’t know. There’s a guy in Sag Harbor—Bryan—I’ve kind of been with him since I got this job. If I tell him about you, he’ll go nuts. I don’t know. Run around the room, beat his head on the wall, break things. It’s crazy.
She laughed and put her tongue in Schmidt’s ear.
The news went through Schmidt like an icicle.
This way, I won’t tell him, OK?
He put his hand under her turtleneck, into the cup of her bra. The nipple stiffened immediately. He began alternately to squeeze it quite hard and then reward it by a gentler caress. Nothing mattered. He had to keep her body. She had said she belonged to him.
And this Bryan doesn’t mind if you stay out all day and spend the night with me? You are going to stay?
He squeezed, with all his strength.
God, Schmidtie, keep doing that, you’re making me wet, now rub. Rub hard!
And then she shrieked.
The videocassettes he had didn’t interest her. Ice hockey was all right. She used his toothbrush and said they should both wear pajamas to bed. When they lay down, she made him lie on his side of the bed. He had told her one didn’t have to be always doing it; now he could prove it. They were going to watch the game. Carpe diem. Schmidt stretched his leg toward her so that his toes touched hers. That was apparently all right.
And Bryan? he asked her. He really doesn’t mind if you disappear for a whole night?
He was from Quogue; his parents had moved away to Florida. His sister, who still lived there, was married to a doctor. She had made it through college. Bryan hadn’t. He was doing carpentry and house watching for summer people with a buddy. The buddy had a house in Springs, where he lived with his girlfriend, the red-haired waitress at O’Henry’s. Bryan lodged with them. That was how Carrie met him. She hadn’t moved in with them because the buddy was rough and had tried some funny stuff with her on the beach.
Bryan needs me,