Schmidt Steps Back (28 page)

Popov, you old devil, what are you doing here? roared Mr. Blackman. You’ve crossed the ocean, found your way to Water Mill, and haven’t bothered to announce your presence! Shame on you!

Schmidt heard himself say, in a funny neutral voice, Hello, Alice, hello Serge!

I’m doing the same thing as you, bellowed back Popov, drinking Tovarich Gibson’s booze and celebrating Independence Eve. Had I known I’d be anywhere near Wainscott, I
would have taken the liberty of disturbing the great cineaste to bring greetings from Tovarich Godard. But this young lady and I—Alice Verplanck, may I present to you the famous Gil Blackman—we are staying with Jeremy at his
Schloss
on the North Fork, and nothing had led us to believe that we would twice cross the waters of Peconic Bay, glittering like a bejeweled diadem in the midsummer calm, to make landfall at Tovarich Gibson’s fête champêtre. As you can imagine, Jeremy, rich in oxen and milk-white asses, is Comrade Gibson’s star author! Ours as well.

You’re forgiven, but just barely, said Mr. Blackman.

A change in the tone of Gil’s voice told Schmidt that he had grasped the enormity of the encounter.

Well, enjoy the
fête champêtre
, he added, while we look for my beautiful Elaine. Come on, Schmidtie. Time and tide, you know how that goes.

One second, said Schmidt. Alice, may I have a word with you?

She nodded and followed him a few steps away.

I am sorry, she told him. This is a total surprise.

For me too, replied Schmidt. In more ways than one.

I know, she said. We have a date in London in ten days, don’t we? I’ll explain then, if you will let me.

All right. He nodded. Rendezvous in London.

That was rather strange, said Mr. Blackman when they were all back in his car. Let’s drop you off at your house. You can visit the loo and join us for dinner—Elaine, what shall we say, at eight? Eight it is! Schmidtie, has the Popov got your tongue? You are joining us?

Later during drinks, while Elaine was busy in the kitchen, Gil said: What ho? Were you aware of this?

Schmidt shook his head.

That was really something.

Schmidt nodded.

On the other hand, perhaps it’s nothing, Gil continued. Professional colleagues doing the necessary care and maintenance of an author who must account for a nice chunk of their publishing house’s profits. Judging by what you’ve told me about what’s gone on between you and Alice—by the way, she’s a knockout—that’s the likely explanation.

Unless she’s making a fool of me. Perhaps for Popov’s amusement.

Why would she bother? She’s an adult; you’re an adult. Why would she let you get all wound up about her if it was just—what shall we say—an escapade?

Why indeed, answered Schmidt. I wish I knew. But I’m going to find out in London. I told you, didn’t I, we have agreed to meet there over the July fourteenth holiday.

Mr. Blackman nodded.

Well, she just told me she expects to be there. As previously arranged. Do you think I’m crazy to go along?

You mean to keep the date in London? No, said Mr. Blackman. It’s not crazy; it’s the only thing to do. I don’t see what you’ve got to lose.

Perhaps my dignity?

Nonsense. Have fun. Have as much sex with her as you like and she’ll let you, and give her a chance to tell you what’s really going on with Popov.

Schmidt found a telephone message when he got home. It was from Myron Riker, asking him to call back before ten that same evening or first thing on the Fourth of July. “First
thing,” he specified, was after nine but preferably before ten. He would have his cell phone turned on and would await Schmidtie’s call.

Schmidt called at nine sharp.

Thank you for calling back.

Schmidt could tell that Myron was searching for words.

Let me put it simply, Myron said at last, it’s not surprising, but it’s a cause for concern. Charlotte is suffering from depression. Some—Renata and the first psychiatrist Charlotte consulted—would call it severe depression. My own judgment is that she’s somewhere midway on the spectrum from mild to severe. But that’s only terminology. The point is that she is suffering a great deal. She’s moved back to the New York apartment, but it doesn’t really matter whether it’s Claverack or Manhattan, the fact is that she isn’t fit to go back to work, and staying at the apartment alone while Jon is at the office, with nothing to do all day except see her psychiatrist, is not a situation that’s conducive to good management of her condition. So to make a long story short, the psychiatrist she is now working with has recommended an institutional setting. Her medication would be monitored, and the psychiatrist—no reason you shouldn’t know his name, Alan K. Townsend—is a senior consultant there, which means he sees patients twice a week. He’d continue to treat Charlotte.

It was Schmidt’s turn to be at a loss for words.

Myron, do you think this is a good idea, medication, institutional setting, all of that. What room is there for therapy in all this? Oh, my poor Charlotte.

Yes, Schmidtie, yes, I do think it’s a good idea. I can assure you that I put nothing, I mean nothing, ahead of Charlotte’s
welfare. Treatment of depression has changed. Very few people still attempt to deal with it exclusively or even principally by analysis or other talk therapies. The new medications—I’m sure you’ve heard of Prozac, but there are other, more subtle drugs as well—if administered expertly and combined with psychotherapy are really very effective. We know now that the cause is principally physiological and the treatment has to be aggressive. I mean very aggressive, because otherwise serious, perhaps irreversible, harm can be done to cognitive functions. Trust me please. This is as good a solution as can be found.

Where does this take place? I mean the institutional setting? And when?

The transfer to Sunset Hill? Optimally next week. Sunset Hill is in western Connecticut, and it’s a very good environment.

And what can I do?

Myron once more seemed to have difficulty expressing himself. Schmidtie, he said, I hate to say it, but the most important thing you could do is to pay for Sunset Hill and Dr. Townsend. Insurance will pay a bit, but I’m afraid that what I’m asking you to pay will be quite a lot. I am so sorry. I would have thought Jon could pay for it, but he has shown me that he can’t.

All right, said Schmidt, as the Riker family knows, I’m good at paying bills.

Immediately he was shocked at what he had said. Please forgive me, Myron, I’m just flailing about. Of course, I’ll pay. Do what’s needed and direct the bills to me. If insurance does pay something, the checks can be endorsed over to me.

Understood, Myron answered. Thank you.

But I meant what can I do for Charlotte? Can I see her? Will she see me? Now? At this place, Sunset Hill? Will Dr. Townsend talk to me?

Schmidtie, I doubt she will want to see you now. She tends to be unresponsive. Later, in Connecticut, I should think so. Townsend won’t talk to you without Charlotte’s permission. If I were you, I would write to Charlotte. A short letter, very affectionate and very supportive, asking for nothing, wishing her luck.

Schmidt thought this over. He was going to say, You’re a good man, Myron Riker, but he stopped himself. Instead he told Myron he was genuinely grateful and counted on him to give him news, tell him if he could help in any other way.

Five minutes later he called Myron again and said he had two questions he should have put before: Was it all right to allude in his letter to her illness and to Sunset Hill? And why had his daughter, his only child, set her face against him?

These are good questions, Myron replied. I think you can, as you say, allude to her situation, but don’t carry on about it. Mention it, if you can do such a thing, in passing. As for the second question? I don’t know the answer. Perhaps Alan Townsend will find out. All I can say is that, as a general rule, it is more likely than not that something will go seriously wrong between a parent and a child. It’s such a fraught relationship.

The conversation having concluded, Schmidt made a second pot of coffee and drank a big cup, to which, contrary to habit, he added sugar and milk. Should he type or write by hand? Type, he decided. Charlotte knew that the only letters he didn’t type were letters of condolence.

He reread the letter. It wasn’t much, but he didn’t think he was capable of doing better. Later that morning he mailed it to Charlotte’s New York address. He supposed that, if it arrived after she had been moved to Sunset Hill, Jon Riker would have the decency to forward it. On second thought, there was no reason to credit him with any fine feelings. If Charlotte didn’t answer within a reasonable period of time—what would that be? two weeks? longer?—he would ask Myron to try to find out whether the letter had reached her. And if it turned out that Myron couldn’t obtain or supply that information? Stop, Schmidtie, he told himself, you can’t go on like that. If she doesn’t answer, you will write to her again, at Sunset Hill, and send your letter by FedEx, specifying that someone must sign for it.

T
HERE WAS NO LETTER
from Charlotte in Schmidt’s mail when he picked it up at the post office on the day of his departure for London. Only bills, including a whopper from Dr. Townsend and a request by Sunset Hill for a deposit against charges to be incurred by Mrs. Jonathan Riker. He wasn’t surprised that Charlotte hadn’t written, and it would have been difficult to say without fibbing that he was disappointed. The letter, if it came, would almost certainly bring insults and bad news. Myron had told him over the telephone that what he called the slow healing process had begun. In addition to sessions with Dr. Townsend, there was group therapy and arts and crafts—the latter, according to Myron, being a form of occupational therapy. Of course, thought Schmidt, sedated patients sit in a circle cross-legged on the floor and dump on their parents and spouses before having a go at macramé or finger painting. Nevertheless, the thought that a letter—whatever its content—might sit on his kitchen table unread while he was disporting himself with Alice Verplanck was intolerable. That is why, having turned the problem over in his mind dozens of times, he asked Carrie, who sorted the mail that Bryan picked up during Schmidt’s
absence, to watch for anything that looked like a letter from Charlotte. If one arrived, she was to read it to him over the telephone. It was apt to be unpleasant, he warned her. She nodded. It wasn’t a big deal. In the days when she and Schmidt had lived together she’d been treated more than once to Charlotte’s scenes and understood without further explanation the sort of shock he dreaded. That was one thing he had done right: there was no one else to whom this task could have been better entrusted, no one possessed of as much discretion or tact. She’d read the letter to him and never mention it again, unless it was to offer consolation.

The tryst in London had taken on such incalculable importance, had filled him with such contradictory emotions—excitement, hope, but also foreboding—that he decided to arrive a day early and allow himself twenty-four hours in which to regain his equilibrium after the overnight flight. Calm was what he needed, and serenity. But as he went through the motions of looking at those paintings in the National Gallery that he considered old friends, walked in Hyde Park, had dinner alone at a club near Covent Garden with which his New York City club was affiliated, and the next morning, on the spur of the moment, got a haircut and manicure, he understood less and less why he had listened to Gil and kept the appointment with Alice, why he had allowed himself to think that he had nothing to lose thereby. Or rather, he understood too well; fundamentally, tacitly, he had adopted Gil’s underlying cynical advice: have sex with her and have fun. Yes, he wanted Alice, wanted her urgently. A nonstop slide show of their embraces was in progress, and he had no wish to avert his eyes from it. If only their Paris trysts
had been on that footing, the present excitement he felt, the eagerness of his body, would have been uncomplicatedly joyous. He would have asked the concierge to have a summery flower arrangement placed in the room. He might now be on his way to Heathrow to meet her plane. If only he had not told her right away—far too prematurely and foolishly, he now realized—that he wanted her to be with him always, had talked of marriage. To give Alice her due, she had demurred, but so sweetly and gently that he had allowed himself to take what he thought was her coyness for modest and timid acquiescence. The more fool he, he now thought.

The Jesuit high school teachers had eschewed poetry other than big chunks of the
Aeneid
, and his quondam enthusiasm for Latin led him to catch up in college. He had read and reread Catullus, and now lines from one of the poet’s diatribes against his mistress Lesbia supplied the captions for the slideshow: Now that I know you I burn even hotter, / but you seem lighter and cheaper. / You ask how can that be? Such injuries / force a lover to love more, and also to wish well less. What injury had Catullus suffered? That Lesbia was unfaithful. Wasn’t that true of Alice as well, a comical difference being that Popov, as the lover with clearly the more ancient title, had more to complain of than he!

Her plane was due at two. If there was no delay, she’d be at the hotel around four. The sparkling sunny day was perfect for another walk in Hyde Park. On his way out, he stopped at the porter’s desk to make a reservation for a late lunch for one at the hotel and ordered that summery flower arrangement. For heaven’s sake, he loved her! He had been pining for her! The little devil wont to whisper in his ear tittered. You’re hedging your bets, my boy, are these flowers really an homage of love
or a private joke, a sneer! Well, which is it? Shut up, Schmidt replied, I don’t know. Restaurants generally gave Schmidt reason to believe in the inevitable decline not only of the West but of every corner of the planet. No wonder then that to find the dining room so charming and the maître d’hôtel a paragon of practiced courtesy improved his disposition. A decision ripened as he consumed his excellent lunch. Alice had told him at Bill Gibson’s party that she would explain in London. Well, let her. There were three full days for her to do so, and he was in no hurry. If it so happened that in the interim he treated her like a tramp, that was too bad. They were in Evelyn Waugh country. As a character in
Vile Bodies
might put it, hard cheese on Alice.