Schmidt Steps Back (23 page)

The question is, are you inviting me to dinner tonight with your nice lady, or do I have to eat alone? Mike Mansour had asked.

Oh Mike, Schmidt had replied, I wish I could, but I’m having dinner at her house. Another time, let’s do it another time.

Pas de problème
, was the great financier’s answer, and, benevolence personified, he announced that he was taking Schmidt and Alice out on Saturday evening. It would be his treat. He might even have a surprise guest.

The ground crew had already put their suitcases in the trunk of the car; Mr. Mansour and Schmidt had finished shaking hands with the captain, the copilot, and the stewards; the chauffeur, cap in hand, stood at the open passenger door of the Rolls, when a small white car approached at breakneck speed. A man wearing some sort of uniform got out, greeted Mr. Mansour, and asked to speak to Mr. Albert Schmidt. This gentleman here, Mike said pointing, whereupon the airport official handed Schmidt an envelope.

Go ahead and open it, said Mike.

Schmidt nodded. It was a fax from Myron Riker. He read it aloud, his knees about to buckle:
Charlotte was injured in an accident. She’s at the hospital in Hudson. Please call me, and meet us there
.

The cell phone number appeared at the bottom of the page.

I’ve got to call him, Schmidt said to no one in particular, and I’ve got to get there. It surprised him that he was able to speak.

Hold it, said Mr. Mansour. The question is how you can get there, and if you call before you know that, you’re nowhere.
Pas question!

Archie, he continued speaking to the captain. Please get on the phone—he handed him the cell phone—and find out how quickly your people can have a crew here to take the plane back to New York—no, not New York, to Albany.

You mustn’t, said Schmidt.

Let me put it to you this way, replied Mr. Mansour, the last commercial flight from Paris to the U.S.—he looked at his watch—will leave in a few minutes. You can’t catch it. I want to get you where you need to go, and the plane needs to go back anyway. I don’t want it sitting here while these guys—
his wagging index pointed at the crew—live it up at the Lido!
Pas question!

Mr. Mansour, said Archie, you’re in luck. There’s a crew at the Sofitel in Roissy waiting to fly commercial that can get here in less than an hour. Shall I tell them to come?

Yes.
Prestissimo!
And tell your people to get a landing slot in Albany, whatever it takes. Schmidtie, now you can make your call. Was that Riker’s father writing to you? You can tell him you’ll be in Albany around eleven this evening his time and will get to that hospital from there. No need for him to worry how. One of the security boys will meet the plane and drive you there.

I don’t know how to thank you. He realized he had tears in his eyes.

You’re a fucking idiot. Let me tell you this: if you’re like me, and have a lot of money, really a lot of money, you have the right to spend a little of it on your friends. You may not know it, but you’re my best friend.
Pas de problème
. Even if your best friend is Gil Blackman! Ha! Ha! Ha!

Schmidt shook the proffered hand and stepped out of Mr. Mansour’s embrace to make the call he dreaded.

Schmidtie, Myron answered on the first ring, she fell; she’d climbed on the windowsill to fix a blind that had gotten stuck. She was holding on to it to steady herself, it slipped out of the socket, and she fell backward. Probably she passed out. Yolanda—that’s the baby nurse she hired—found her. She was bleeding heavily, so Yolanda called the ambulance. They’re still working on her in the operating room. There is the problem of the concussion too, but it doesn’t seem serious. It’s good that you’re coming.

Will she be all right?

I’m sure of it. Of course, she’s lost the baby.

Oh, so long as she’s all right they’ll make another one, replied Schmidt, instantly realizing that for some reason his remark was grossly stupid.

Myron made no direct response. Instead he said that probably Schmidt wouldn’t get to Hudson before midnight, and by that time it was likely they—Renata, Jon, and he—would have been obliged to leave the hospital, and he certainly wouldn’t be allowed to see Charlotte. The best thing for Schmidt would be to call Myron after he landed in Albany. He would give him the news.

That conversation ended, he called Alice. Her voice: hearing it he began to wish shamefully that Mike Mansour had not taken matters in hand. Without his plane, he would have been obliged to spend the night in Paris, and he would have spent it with Alice. Miscarriages happen all the time, he thought, the Rikers have overreacted. Once they have dragged me there, that awful trio will do everything to shove me aside. These were thoughts he kept to himself. To Alice he said that he could return to Paris in ten days’ or two weeks’ time. Would she like that?

Hush, Schmidtie, she replied. Don’t make plans to visit me now. First see Charlotte and make sure she’s all right. Be with her. Help her. Let me know how she is.

The plane made better time than the captain first estimated, landing in Albany shortly after ten. Once again, Myron answered at once.

It was a huge hemorrhage, he said, and it went on too long. The time that passed before Yolanda found Charlotte, the wait for the ambulance, the ride to Hudson. They transfused
her right away and tried a D & C. It didn’t work, Schmidtie, it didn’t work! So they did a hysterectomy to save her life. It’s all right now. She’ll be in the recovery room until tomorrow morning. Schmidtie, listen to me. She’s out of danger. Let’s meet at the hospital at ten. No visitors are allowed earlier.

Stony faces of the mother and son Riker. Only Myron held out his hand for Schmidt to shake. We’ll be able to see her starting in about a half hour, but only two by two. Why don’t we let Jon and Renata go first. You and I will take the second shift.

Schmidt had in the meantime talked to his new doctor, Dr. Tang. Hysterectomy after a miscarriage? she asked, sounding nonplussed. Well, that is late in the term. Every case is different, but usually the hemorrhage can be stopped with a D & C. You say they tried it? Perhaps the uterus ruptured. I am truly sorry for you and your daughter and for your entire family.

While they sat in the waiting room, he repeated the conversation to Myron. Yes, said Myron, that’s what I would have thought too. I’ve asked to see Charlotte’s obstetrician, but he’s at a medical meeting in New Orleans. The other obstetrician is also away; they didn’t tell me where. The emergency room physician—a reasonable and calm man—did try the D & C and was getting nowhere, so they got in the general surgeon who was on call. You can’t second-guess people in these situations. Even with the transfusions they were afraid of losing her.

After what had seemed like a long time, mother and son Riker returned.

Charlotte wants to see Myron first and then her father, said Renata. She’s exhausted. These should be short visits.

An age ago, when Charlotte was still a schoolgirl, he had waited with other parents on the sidewalk for the bus bringing the Brearley girls back from a school excursion. Suddenly, when they were getting off, he experienced a moment of panic. He wasn’t sure that he would recognize his daughter. The panic returned, twisted into a new shape as he stood in the door of the hospital room looking at the woman lying in the bed. Yes, this was his poor daughter, there could be no doubt; the nurse had opened the door for him, indicating that this was the room. Face lifeless and white, eyes closed, perhaps she was asleep. He went in on tiptoe. She opened her eyes, and her expression changed. Charlotte was trying to smile.

My darling, he said, you’re all right. You’re going to be all right.

He took her hand and kissed it.

Hi, Dad, she said. I’m glad you made it here. I thought you were in Paris.

Someone very intelligent—so far he hadn’t asked who it had been—called the house or the foundation, figured out that a fax could be gotten to me, and I rushed back. I had just landed, and I was able to turn right around.

Myron sent you the fax. He told me before the operation.

I see. He is very intelligent.

There was a chair next to the bed. He sat down and kissed her hand again.

I don’t want to tire you, he said. It’s such a happiness to see you. I was so scared on the plane. I thought we’d never get across the Atlantic and, once we were over the St. Lawrence Seaway, that we’d never make it to Albany.

Dad, I’m not going to be able to have children. They took
my womb out. I so wanted to have that little boy! Now Jon’s going to leave me. What’s the use of a wife who can’t have children? What’s the use of marriage?

No, he won’t, sweetie, there are lots of happy childless marriages. You’ll see.

Sure. We can have a dog. Or two dogs. Or a dog and a cat. We can adopt!

Many people do adopt and love their adopted children so much it doesn’t make any difference. This is not the time to start thinking about it. This is the time to get well enough to leave the hospital and get all your strength back.

Sure, Dad.

She began to cry. He quieted her as best he could, calling her all the childhood names.

Dad, she said after a while, do you think you could stay until Friday afternoon? Jon has to go back to the city—he’s on trial and it’s a big case—and Renata and Myron have to get back to their patients.

Nothing could make me happier. I’ll be back in the afternoon. You get some good rest. The nurse is making all sorts of signs to get me out of here.

That day, and the morning of the day that followed, which was Friday, were the happiest time he had known with Charlotte since Mary died. He read aloud news from the
Times
. They started
The Warden
, which he had put into his suitcase. They talked about incidents from the old days, which she remembered more accurately than he, all involving Mary, that testified to the harmony of their household; she told him Radcliffe dormitory gossip that made him laugh although he had long forgotten the names of the girls who had figured most prominently in her stories. In that mood of easy
intimacy they agreed that he would go back to Bridgehampton for the weekend, leaving before the Rikers arrived so as to escape the worst of the Friday afternoon and evening traffic, and would return on Monday and stay until she was discharged. The surgeon thought that if she kept making good progress a Wednesday release was likely. At that point, either he and Yolanda or one or more of the Rikers would take her home.

They were close to finishing a game of Scrabble around noon on Friday when Renata called. Although Charlotte had said nothing and had made no sign to suggest it, he went out into the corridor so that she could speak more freely. It was a long talk. Finally, he heard her put down the receiver and went back into the room to ask what she would like to have for their farewell lunch. She was allowed to eat soups brought in from the outside and plain meats such as roast chicken. There was a nearby grocery-cum-delicatessen Schmidt had found that sold precisely that kind of fare.

She stared at him blankly and announced: They will be here by three, that is, Renata and Myron. Jon can’t get away until late. He may not even get here this evening.

That’s too bad, Schmidt replied. Have you thought what you might like for lunch? Chicken soup and cold chicken? It’s twice the same thing, but they’re both good. Vanilla ice cream for dessert?

It doesn’t make any difference. Whatever you like.

There was a dark look about her, so he asked, Darling what is the matter?

Oh, not much. I’m just facing what I have become.

He hurried with his purchases, stopped at the florist’s to
have white and pink peonies arranged in a vase, and so encumbered arrived at Charlotte’s room. He could see that she had been crying.

They ate their lunch in almost complete silence. She had looked at the flowers but had not said a word about them. After clearing the plates and throwing away the paper napkins and the rest of the disposable junk that without fail accompanies a takeout order, he asked again what had happened to make her so sad.

Nothing, she said. Renata told me that the grandparents are really disappointed. When Leah—that was Renata’s mother—heard I could never have children she cried so hard that Ron had to tear her away from the phone.

Ron, Schmidt recalled, was Jon Riker’s grandfather.

I’m so sorry, he said. It’s new to them. They’ll adjust. We all will. Don’t take that sort of thing so to heart.

You know that Seth—that was Renata’s younger brother—is gay.

I didn’t.

Well, that’s the fact. He won’t have any children. I have no womb. Renata and Myron won’t have a grandchild from me, Jon won’t have a son, and I can get a dog. A nice standard poodle. Do you recommend honey color or black?

Darling, I’m so very sorry.

No, you aren’t. Or maybe you are. It doesn’t matter. But you sure were right. You knew how to call it. You knew not to set up a trust for little Myron. You knew he wouldn’t need it! You put a hex on us!

Darling, this is crazy talk. Stop thinking and saying such things. How can you!

I’m telling you the truth, that’s how I can! You hate Jon, you hated the idea of having a Jewish grandson, and you showed your colors! I’ll never forgive you!

Darling Charlotte, I beg you, stop!

Don’t darling me. I know what I’m talking about. And I’m not alone to think so. Renata thinks the same! Anyway, it all figures. That Puerto Rican floozy has just had your kid. Right? Jon checked up on it. A little boy called Albert. Isn’t that cute!

Instead of responding, he murmured good-bye and leaned over to kiss her. She pushed him away so vehemently that the IV tube was wrenched out from the port in her forearm. Schmidt called the nurse and, while she busied herself repairing the damage and scolding her patient, crept away.

T
HE THOUGHT
crossed his mind that he should assure Charlotte once more that he would come back after the weekend and stay with her until she was discharged, but as he was leaving her room he instantaneously decided to say nothing. Whatever he said was almost certain to provoke another salvo of insults, one that might make impossibly difficult all future dealings, as well as, most immediate among them, his return to her bedside. Indeed as he was driven back to Bridgehampton by Mike Mansour’s security man, he asked himself over and over: had so much damage been done already that he couldn’t bring himself to do it, that he wouldn’t be able to return? The answer that came to him uniformly each time was that he had no choice. The blow that Charlotte had suffered was so cruel that he must do everything in his power to help her. He must do nothing to make the hurt worse. Like all the countless other tantrums that had marked her rebellious adolescence, this odious outburst had to be disregarded. Forgiven. Certainly, but the great difference was that then they had been two, Mary and he, to sift through the barrages of wild accusations and demands, to laugh and to commiserate with each other. They were a family. Now he was quite alone.
Charlotte had chosen another family, one that, with the possible exception of Myron, was hostile to him. There was no one to whom he could repeat Charlotte’s tirade, no one whose advice he could seek, no one to whom he could turn for reassurance and consolation. About the miscarriage and the hysterectomy, he had already told Alice, and he would tell Gil Blackman as soon as he could see him and Mike Mansour upon his return from Paris. But Charlotte’s tantrum, the horrible accusation, could never be mentioned. They made him feel ashamed; he did not want anyone else’s thoughts about Charlotte to be stained by them.