About Schmidt - Louis Begley [93]
You were right; my calendar is clear of conflicting engagements. I intend to be there on June 20th.
Since I am not dead yet I don’t think you will get Mom’s and my silver just now. I will send candelabra, trays, and such like that belonged to Aunt Martha. You may not recall it, but your mother gave Martha’s table silver to one of her assistants as a wedding present. That would have been about five years ago. For the same reason—my being alive—I will have to go over the list of furniture you want and decide what I can send to you without changing the look of the rooms here. I hope Murphy has told Jon that in the purchase of your remainder I am buying the contents of the house as well, I mean your rights to them after my death because all the furniture belongs to me for life anyway. They are included in the price. I also hope he has told Jon that the money is ready. We can close the deal anytime you wish.
I do not recall what you have told me over the telephone about your and Jon’s plans in the weeks to come. Should you wish to come here of a weekend, you are most welcome, but I would like a few days’ advance notice. Perhaps in the future I will have commitments.
Your
Father
Shouldn’t I send a copy of Charlotte’s letter to Renata? Schmidt asked himself. She has the tape. If she gets the letter, she’ll be starting a real collection. In the end, he didn’t do it: he felt too ashamed.
XIV
ONCE AGAIN, it’s Carrie’s Wednesday off: two days short of the beginning of spring. Huge clumps of forsythia are in bloom across the lawn from Schmidt’s back porch. They seem to be a stronger color with each passing year. The crocuses and narcissi are out too. Geese honk on the pond beyond Foster’s field. Every half hour or so, the great wings begin to clap, and a helter-skelter squadron takes flight toward the ocean, on the way sorting itself into an inverted V. It’s only an oafish joke, like the fat girls with chilblains who marched in the St. Patrick’s Day parade yesterday. These birds aren’t about to migrate anywhere. They’ll wheel in the sky and return to the pond, where they were born and will die. Drunks on their way home after the last pub has closed, lurching up Third Avenue toward the 86th Street subway entrance, pissing on grilles of closed storefronts.
It’s so pleasant on the porch. Only one day in the week when she can close her eyes like this and let her face absorb the weak sun. Schmidt asks himself whether she must really work so hard; suppose he offered to supplement her income. Would that upset the balance, should he risk any change? She is in the chaise longue. By now, she must have tried on all his clothes. The heavy white cardigan is very becoming. It makes her look even more exotic than usual. Is she dozing? They made love hard when they woke this morning; she drove him to his limit. The night before it was too late and she was too tired. She had to swing by Sag Harbor to drop off some package for Bryan. When Schmidt came down to the kitchen this morning, to make his and Carrie’s breakfast, the fellow was already sitting there. He could have picked up the package himself and not have made her drive back and forth in the middle of the night. Unless. If Schmidt asks Carrie, she will tell him—more than he wants to know. Bryan and Carrie performing those gestures that are as monotonous as the antics of the geese. I belong to you, Schmidtie, like that, take me like that, she had whispered into the crook of his elbow just two hours ago. What more can he need?
It’s just as well Carrie didn’t come into the kitchen together with Schmidt, teasing him, her hands