About Schmidt - Louis Begley [98]
When he woke up—in the end he did take a nap—it was dark. He dressed rapidly, feeling the need to get away from the house to a place where there were other people. Inside his house, wherever he turned, he felt mocked: Charlotte’s presence and Charlotte’s absence, like twin masks of Comedy and Tragedy in some allegory he was unable to decipher. On any other night, he would have driven straight to O’Henry’s. That was out of the question.
Right after law school, before he had met Mary, he went out with a receptionist at W & K who was a cousin of the debutante from Boston brought so vividly before his eyes through the magic of involuntary memory as soon as he heard Gil Blackman’s fickle assistant on the telephone. The receptionist was nice to him, but not so nice as he had wished. He suspected that a senior associate, whom, as it turned out, she eventually married, was allowed to take certain liberties. During a short but shameful period, on evenings when he was working late, or she had refused to see him, he would telephone her. If she didn’t pick up, Schmidt would immediately conclude that she was with his rival, and gave his imagination free rein. The thought that she might have activities outside of work that weren’t connected with dating, for instance going to a concert or the movies with another woman, never crossed his mind. The age of the answering machine had not yet arrived: he could not keep calling just to savor one more time the sound of the promise that she would call back. If she did answer, he would cover the receiver with a guilty hand, listen, and hang up after a minute or two. But to hear Charlotte! It occurred to him that unless Riker was already back from the office he would be certain to hear her voice—at least a recording of it. He dialed the number and let it ring until the answering machine took over.
Eight-thirty. There had to be a nine o’clock show in Southampton, in one of the odd shoe-box rooms into which the old movie theater that smelled of mold had been divided. Any film would do.
He parked his car around the corner. Fifteen minutes to show time. There was no line. He bought a ticket and went to look at the vans and convertibles through the window of the General Motors showroom next door. What should he do with Mary’s car? Give it to Carrie. It was absurd to let her drive an old jalopy while the Toyota was just sitting in the garage. Or he could trade the Toyota in for another car and give Carrie that one. He would lose money, and it was foolish to get rid of a car that had maybe twenty thousand miles on it, but that would be the more elegant thing to do. There was also Charlotte’s car, which she had left on her last visit. She hadn’t mentioned it in her letter. Perhaps now that she was being advised by both attorney Riker and Dr. Renata she had come to think that the car, registered in Schmidt’s name, wasn’t really hers. They must have counseled in their tactical discussions: Don’t ask for the VW at the same time you make a grab for your old man’s silver! He’ll flip out!
He looked at his watch. There was time for a quick drink across the street. He started in that direction. But in the entrance to the alley next to the bar, as if carved in stone, staring at Schmidt and registering no surprise, stood the man. He held a brown paper bag at chest level. In anticipation of the season, he wore a beige duster. On his head perched a stained gray fedora.
Get over here, you bastard, you old goat, he cried to Schmidt. I’ve been waiting for you. You and I have business to settle!
Schmidt turned tail. Once inside the movie theater, he found a seat toward the front, in the middle of the row, with people on both sides. He felt calmer when the movie ended. The man’s unspeakable filth and stench—it was that, not his physical strength, that terrified him. Like fear of rats feeding on garbage. He would overcome it.
Mary took long baths. Carrie prefers showers. There is a white wicker armchair in the bathroom. Schmidt sits in it, watching Carrie take a shower.