About Schmidt by Louis Begley Read Free Book Online Page A

restrain the publication in Ukraine of a biography of the late husband that alluded to his taste for little boys—the treatment reserved for him by those hags, and even more so by their men friends, would be patronizing, of a sort to make him regret his presumed wealth, flat stomach, and as yet unredeemed failure to tend the thankless Muse. There were other disadvantages. For instance, did he want the overly familiar owner who seated guests when he wasn’t too busy downing a shot at the bar or watching a momentous pass on the television screen to direct him automatically to the widows’ table? Was he ready to do the arithmetic when the time came to split the check and measly tip among the revelers, to keep track of who had drunk how much of what? It was a case that called for the application of Groucho Marx’s rule: If that club would have him as a member, he didn’t want to join. “People”might think he had become a hopeless case, ready for AA and the social worker. But were there people likely to turn up at O’Henry’s—other than Carrie, the waitress, and Mr. Whittemore, at whose store across the street he bought liquor in transactions marked by mutual respect—about whose opinion he gave a hoot?
    He couldn’t think of anyone. Martha’s friends, who had taken up Mary and him with old-lady graciousness, were dead or resided in nursing homes or distant retirement communities. It was true that, in principle, anyone with a house nearby, or even a chance visitor capable of identifying the Weird Sisters and their entourage, might go to O’Henry’s, for hamburgers with chili, which were good, or, in the case of resident squares and summer people, for the regular sightings of local litterateurs. But Schmidt no longer had contacts with squares of his own class who owned property nearby. They had ceased when the tennis club refused to admit as a member the Jewish laryngologist who had bought, overpaying considerably, a large house across the street from the club entrance, especially in order to be near the courts on which he had hoped to play. Mary was on the admissions committee and, upon the fatal blackballs being cast, resigned in the name of the whole family. Schmidt hadn’t complained—not even about not having been consulted. Later tennis stopped being an issue because Mary had to give it up, they had thought only temporarily, after the false alarm of her angina that was exacerbated by the anguish over her family history of heart disease. Schmidt hadn’t wanted to play, if it meant leaving her alone; she loved the game with such a passion. In the meantime, Schmidt and Mary’s social life continuedamong Mary’s friends: other editors, writers of all stripes, and literary agents, and their hangers-on, so many of whom lived nearby. They were by and large more interesting than the squares, and often played good tennis. Some were rich as well as glamorous and could organize games on their own courts. Frankly speaking, Schmidt was not displeased when the subject came up, because a gossip column had mentioned some lunch on a terrace overlooking the beach, to note that his partners envied his fancy connections. Obedient to unwritten rules that govern such matters, none of them dwelled in the surrounding woodland, their habitat being nearer the city, chiefly in Westhampton. It had occurred to Schmidt recently that his social situation had changed: he might rejoin the tennis club. But Charlotte’s marriage plans were going to throw a monkey wrench into that project; he had no intention of becoming Riker’s Trojan horse.
    It was Schmidt’s belief that he had no friends of his own in the agreeable circle that had been his and Mary’s. He had entertained most of Mary’s pals and colleagues as her husband, and it was in that capacity that he had been entertained by them. They had been popular hosts: the fact that their parties were held at an old house of considerable distinction, and the food and drink they served