WHO IS WALTER SCHMIDT
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD SWAIN
Someone, no more than one, was lifting him up. His first thought, who are you people? He was being treated like an invalid, which did not suit him one bit. A ruddy faced man with terrible breath kept repeating himself, “Just stay calm, we’re trying to help.”
Plopped into a seat, he stared up to faces clearly invading his personal space, and then a hand reached down and touched his forehead. “Ow! bloody hell” he yelled, “Get your hands off me, please!” With frowns and raised eyebrows, they moved away. Now alone, he felt an absurdly large goose egg bump where he had been touched. Pausing to collect his thoughts, he had no recollection of apparently falling. Almost immediately, he woke to the realization, he did not know where he was. Correction, it was obvious he was on a train, but where was he traveling, why, and god forbid, who was he?
Fortunately, the seat by the window was vacant, and he moved over and laid his head against the cool glass. Taking slow breaths while counting to ten, he repeated this calming action several times, took a final deep breath, and slowly exhaled. He whispered to the seat back in front of him, “My name is”. He could not answer his own question. Experiencing no panic, he closed his eyes, and hummed quietly for what seemed an eternity. He marveled that his amazing brain could direct these melodic sounds while asking and answering questions at the same time. The sky is blue, the train makes a rumbling sound, someone just bumped my seat, I can feel my toes wiggle.
A gold band was on his left ring finger, he was married. A pencil and menu pad sat on the window shelf, and without considering answers, carefully wrote down five questions:
1) What is my wife’s name?
2) Where did we first live?
3) Who married us?
4) Why did I ride the train today?
5) When do I depart from the train?
Anger welled up with an inability to answer a single question. Each attempt was met with a total blank page in his mind. Looking around, he fumed, “Blue dress, little boy, sneeze, horn, 1956 Ford at railroad crossing.” He was confident he knew these answers were correct, why the disconnect on anything personal. Reaching into one pant pocket, he pulled out a smart phone and said “Apple.” Touching the home button with his thumb he expected to see the phone come alive, but uttered a “Shit” when asked for a passcode. No series of numbers worked until the message to try again in sixty minutes appeared.
After a breather, he pulled from his other front pocket a small card wallet with money clip. Two credit cards both with the name Walter Schmidt, and a New York State driver’s license with picture, name, and address affixed. Studying the picture and then looking at his reflection in the window, he was satisfied he was in fact Walter Schmidt who lived at 369 Fish Canyon Road in Fountain Grove. He counted out $152, and for a moment, felt perhaps a light was appearing at the end of the tunnel.
The wall map showed Fountain Grove midway between New York City and Rensselaer. As he stepped onto the platform, it was disappointing to find the scene unfamiliar, and the momentary elation quickly faded. The set of keys in his back pocket included a Subaru fob, and wandering into the parking lot, he pushed the panic button numerous times. The small lot had several of the cars, but no sound and no doors unlocked, perhaps his wife drove him to the station.
Do all men resist help? Is it pride that drives them this way, fear of showing weakness, or just risk of failure. He knew he would ask no one, but would rely on his own ability to overcome this freakish circumstance. The cab stopped at a lovely white colonial two story home set back from a well manicured sloping lawn and bordered by beds of azaleas, camellias, and rhododendrons. He thought of that 1956 Ford. “I know old cars, I can name flowers, surely what is blocked will suddenly reappear. Walter Schmidt, I challenge you to be a patient and inventive man.”
On his second try, the front door opened. Classical harp music emanated from an area beyond the lovely furnished living room. His first invention, “Hello, I’m home.” With no response, he walked back into what was a large family room with kitchen and dining combined. Perhaps his wife was a decorator as colors, fabrics, and set design were warm and welcoming. Large plate glass windows looked out to a covered patio with a swimming pool, Japanese garden, and gazebo in a far corner. Two women sat at a table with their back toward Walter, and seemingly engaged in a boisterous conversation. A wine bottle was visible, and the laughter suggested the party had started some time earlier.
Stepping in to the kitchen area, he stood in front of a large double wide Subzero refrigerator to study what colorful animal magnets held. Here was a break, a Christmas card picture clearly from the back garden with the threesome waving, “From our house to yours, Sue, Walter, and Dorothy”. He guessed Sue would be the wife, but why take a chance at this early stage. A shot of adrenaline moved from his feet to the brain, signaling a challenging game had begun.
Something caused the women to turn, and both appeared similar in appearance, perhaps sisters, and either could be the Sue or Dorothy. A welcoming wave drew him out the door with a Clark Gable line, “I am intrigued by glamorous women” and added “Any of that wine left, or should I get another bottle?” The two stared in bewilderment, looked at each other and then back. One, he assumed his wife, spoke, “Walter, please don’t say something so scary or foolish.” “Just kidding“ was his quick response, but he was sure his puzzled countenance was not a good sign, and then he added, “Hectic train ride, I was accidentally tripped and banged my forehead.”
He turned, avoided their questions of concern, and with a backward wave did a little Fred Astaire dance step before going back inside. “Strike one” he murmured softly, “Not so easy as I thought.” An office or den room invited his attention. One wall was shelving from floor to ceiling with one of those cool sliding ladders hooked at the top of a rail for access to the highest reaches. Perhaps someone in the house was a college English professor, given the substance of the library. A large mahogany desk was on the opposite side with four double hung paned windows facing out to the street. Rich linen curtains gave a comforting warmth to the room, and caused Walter to speculate on who made the money in the family.
As he walked down the hallway past a powder room, he glimpsed in a bedroom and saw a teenager facing a large computer with text books stacked to the side. He paused away from the door, and with neither a loud or soft voice called out, “Dorothy, have you seen my car keys?” There was no response. Perhaps Sue was the daughter, or the kid has those small earbuds with rap music blaring. He called a second time, as if he was trying to reach someone further away. “Daddy, I promised I would not answer you unless you called me Dot, and no, I have no clue where your car keys might be. Ask mom, she picked me up in your car this afternoon.” He stuck his head in her room, “Sorry Dot, I still think of you as my little Dorothy from Oz, I’ll try harder next time.” She turned and gave a smile silently mouthing “Thank you.” He moved from the door, but immediately stepped back, “Hey Dot, looks like we might have company for dinner?” “If you mean Aunt Louise, I would say good chance.” Not knowing when to stop, he added “Those two sure look more alike as they age.” She gave a big laugh and threw a wadded piece of paper at his feet.
Further down the hallway was perhaps the guest bedroom. Folded clothes were neatly stacked on a low dresser with a suitcase against the wall near a corner. Not the best time to have extended family he mused while stretching his neck from side to side to release tension. At the far end of the house were the double doors that led into the master bedroom.
It was the outside patio that drew his attention, another Japanese garden, much smaller in size but with a large cedar soaking tub with curved ascending cedar steps that wrapped the side. Something jarred his mind, did they honeymoon in Kyoto? The setting reminded him of the Golden Pavilion, colorful parasols, and a soft yellow gown that fluttered in the breeze.
Eyes closed and nodding from the swirling warm water, Walter looked up hearing the glass door slide back. “I want to see that bump of yours.” The same one who spoke earlier, and no doubt Sue, walked over to the tub and put her hands to each side of his forehead. “Any symptoms that could indicate a concussion?” “Who me, with this old bowling ball of a head? not a chance. By the way, how is Louise?” “Walter, are you batty from that fall? First it’s the wine, and now Louise. How do you think Louise is, it’s only been a week!” He sunk down in the water, blew bubbles, and popped back up. “You’re right, I’m not thinking straight, long day.”
Called to dinner, Walter took the remaining chair out on the patio in front of the ice tea. He suppressed a laugh realizing Sue and Louise were clearly identical twins, although now, different lengths of hair and color, Sue shorter and lighter. For the past hour, he had been deliberating his circumstance, wondered if this charade was ill advised, and was now time for true confessions. As food was being passed, he put his palms on the table and spoke. “I don’t want to scare you, but,” he paused to see all three stop dead in their track, stare anxiously, and hold breath for what was coming. “I lost my phone in the commotion, hope no one can access my personal information.” There was an audible sigh of relief, and Dot cackled “56-58-90, if someone guesses our birth years, yes you are fried.” He grinned, repeating “56-58-90, no chance. I’m starving, pass the salad please.”
Sitting in his car with the garage light off, he opened the phone to a flashing 10% power level. Using the cigarette adapter, he mentally backtracked the day while recharging. Did he trip and fall a second time? A light flashed in his mind as clear as day, stumbling toward the steps while boarding the train. A dog on a leash with an absent minded owner. It was like a trip wire in a Sylvester Stallone combat movie, but also something else, he was fuming, distracted, and angry. A beep jolted him out of deep thought, a missed message.
A woman’s voice, youthful and anxious. “Walter, you promised you would call, you promised. This is not what I want, and I believe you feel the same, call.” He suddenly felt sick to his stomach, and a nasty bile rose in his throat. The phone number was a NYC 212 area code. He turned the phone off and stared at the garage wall. “Walter, is that you in the car, why is the light off? Sue was standing at the door.
A restless sleep and needed coffee, thank goodness it was Saturday morning. He sat in the gazebo tossing tiny pebbles into the pond and watching the koi swim toward the splash. They did honeymoon in Kyoto. The tomato soup on the bullet train from Tokyo was always a shared happy memory. Please, he said to himself, tell me it’s a bad dream and I’m not screwing up my marriage. He had roamed the house around the 1:00 A.M. time for a good hour if not longer. The canvas tote bag sat by the chair, and he pulled out the 3X5 photo album. The cover was embossed with gold lettering, “Our Dorothy.” Walter remembered the line yesterday afternoon, “I still think of you as my little Dorothy from Oz.” That was not an invention from a man who lost his memory, it was a real feeling buried deeper than consciousness would allow. He reached for the magazine as his phone rang. The number was the same 212, he let it go to message.
“Walter, I was awake all night, and cannot bear another hour without hearing your voice. Past experience reminds me that chasing you is a mistake, so forgive me for calling again. I’m young, impressionable, and I admit, immature at times, but we can work this out, I know we can. To be honest, it’s your fault as much as mine.”
Seized with anger, he reached down and took a handful of muddy dirt and flung it into the pond. The magazine was still in his lap, and he wiped his hand as best as possible on the concrete flooring before looking at the cover. He found it on the office desk, and something about the picture captured his attention. It was an October issue of “House Beautiful” from several years earlier, and the lower tagline read “The Professor and the Madman” page 49.
Four pages unlocked his mind as if a thunderbolt struck his forehead. “Susan Schmidt, the NYU Professor of Asian Literature, Walter Schmidt, the Dreyfus Award interior decorator of Schmidt and Associates, their story that started on a honeymoon in Kyoto.” The last picture of the article showed Walter at his New York City showroom. He was sitting in a beautifully upholstered wingback chair, one leg crossed, and holding his reading glasses. Standing at his side was the the assistant Valerie Evans. He called her number.
“Oh Walter, you dear, thank you for calling, I know we can work this out.” Before she could say another word, with measured tone, he spoke. “Valerie, nothing has changed from yesterday morning, it’s time you move on. You are a talented decorator, there is nothing more you will learn from me.” “Walter, wait, hear me out, it’s more than our working together, it’s our being together.” “Stop” he almost shouted, “Old men like me can become infatuated with a young attractive woman, but I hate myself for opening any door that would make you think we have a together, we have no together. I have a wonderful, beautiful, incredibly brilliant wife I love dearly, and a precious daughter I will not disappoint with foolish infidelity. By the way, my stupid brother-in-law just left an amazing wife last week, and there will not be another one in this family. Empty your desk before Monday if you want a constructive reference, goodbye again, and thank you again.
“Walter, you found your phone.” Sue, carrying a fruit plate, was walking over the koi bridge Walter designed and built. “Would you believe, it was in my coat pocket all the time, I must be the absent minded professor, but you’re the professor, so I can’t use that line.” She smiled brightly at her silly husband she loved even with his goofy Hollywood lines. “Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention last night, Valerie is moving on, I made it abundantly clear.” Her smile broadened with perhaps a deeper hidden meaning.
RICHARD SWAIN
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD SWAIN
Someone, no more than one, was lifting him up. His first thought, who are you people? He was being treated like an invalid, which did not suit him one bit. A ruddy faced man with terrible breath kept repeating himself, “Just stay calm, we’re trying to help.”
Plopped into a seat, he stared up to faces clearly invading his personal space, and then a hand reached down and touched his forehead. “Ow! bloody hell” he yelled, “Get your hands off me, please!” With frowns and raised eyebrows, they moved away. Now alone, he felt an absurdly large goose egg bump where he had been touched. Pausing to collect his thoughts, he had no recollection of apparently falling. Almost immediately, he woke to the realization, he did not know where he was. Correction, it was obvious he was on a train, but where was he traveling, why, and god forbid, who was he?
Fortunately, the seat by the window was vacant, and he moved over and laid his head against the cool glass. Taking slow breaths while counting to ten, he repeated this calming action several times, took a final deep breath, and slowly exhaled. He whispered to the seat back in front of him, “My name is”. He could not answer his own question. Experiencing no panic, he closed his eyes, and hummed quietly for what seemed an eternity. He marveled that his amazing brain could direct these melodic sounds while asking and answering questions at the same time. The sky is blue, the train makes a rumbling sound, someone just bumped my seat, I can feel my toes wiggle.
A gold band was on his left ring finger, he was married. A pencil and menu pad sat on the window shelf, and without considering answers, carefully wrote down five questions:
1) What is my wife’s name?
2) Where did we first live?
3) Who married us?
4) Why did I ride the train today?
5) When do I depart from the train?
Anger welled up with an inability to answer a single question. Each attempt was met with a total blank page in his mind. Looking around, he fumed, “Blue dress, little boy, sneeze, horn, 1956 Ford at railroad crossing.” He was confident he knew these answers were correct, why the disconnect on anything personal. Reaching into one pant pocket, he pulled out a smart phone and said “Apple.” Touching the home button with his thumb he expected to see the phone come alive, but uttered a “Shit” when asked for a passcode. No series of numbers worked until the message to try again in sixty minutes appeared.
After a breather, he pulled from his other front pocket a small card wallet with money clip. Two credit cards both with the name Walter Schmidt, and a New York State driver’s license with picture, name, and address affixed. Studying the picture and then looking at his reflection in the window, he was satisfied he was in fact Walter Schmidt who lived at 369 Fish Canyon Road in Fountain Grove. He counted out $152, and for a moment, felt perhaps a light was appearing at the end of the tunnel.
The wall map showed Fountain Grove midway between New York City and Rensselaer. As he stepped onto the platform, it was disappointing to find the scene unfamiliar, and the momentary elation quickly faded. The set of keys in his back pocket included a Subaru fob, and wandering into the parking lot, he pushed the panic button numerous times. The small lot had several of the cars, but no sound and no doors unlocked, perhaps his wife drove him to the station.
Do all men resist help? Is it pride that drives them this way, fear of showing weakness, or just risk of failure. He knew he would ask no one, but would rely on his own ability to overcome this freakish circumstance. The cab stopped at a lovely white colonial two story home set back from a well manicured sloping lawn and bordered by beds of azaleas, camellias, and rhododendrons. He thought of that 1956 Ford. “I know old cars, I can name flowers, surely what is blocked will suddenly reappear. Walter Schmidt, I challenge you to be a patient and inventive man.”
On his second try, the front door opened. Classical harp music emanated from an area beyond the lovely furnished living room. His first invention, “Hello, I’m home.” With no response, he walked back into what was a large family room with kitchen and dining combined. Perhaps his wife was a decorator as colors, fabrics, and set design were warm and welcoming. Large plate glass windows looked out to a covered patio with a swimming pool, Japanese garden, and gazebo in a far corner. Two women sat at a table with their back toward Walter, and seemingly engaged in a boisterous conversation. A wine bottle was visible, and the laughter suggested the party had started some time earlier.
Stepping in to the kitchen area, he stood in front of a large double wide Subzero refrigerator to study what colorful animal magnets held. Here was a break, a Christmas card picture clearly from the back garden with the threesome waving, “From our house to yours, Sue, Walter, and Dorothy”. He guessed Sue would be the wife, but why take a chance at this early stage. A shot of adrenaline moved from his feet to the brain, signaling a challenging game had begun.
Something caused the women to turn, and both appeared similar in appearance, perhaps sisters, and either could be the Sue or Dorothy. A welcoming wave drew him out the door with a Clark Gable line, “I am intrigued by glamorous women” and added “Any of that wine left, or should I get another bottle?” The two stared in bewilderment, looked at each other and then back. One, he assumed his wife, spoke, “Walter, please don’t say something so scary or foolish.” “Just kidding“ was his quick response, but he was sure his puzzled countenance was not a good sign, and then he added, “Hectic train ride, I was accidentally tripped and banged my forehead.”
He turned, avoided their questions of concern, and with a backward wave did a little Fred Astaire dance step before going back inside. “Strike one” he murmured softly, “Not so easy as I thought.” An office or den room invited his attention. One wall was shelving from floor to ceiling with one of those cool sliding ladders hooked at the top of a rail for access to the highest reaches. Perhaps someone in the house was a college English professor, given the substance of the library. A large mahogany desk was on the opposite side with four double hung paned windows facing out to the street. Rich linen curtains gave a comforting warmth to the room, and caused Walter to speculate on who made the money in the family.
As he walked down the hallway past a powder room, he glimpsed in a bedroom and saw a teenager facing a large computer with text books stacked to the side. He paused away from the door, and with neither a loud or soft voice called out, “Dorothy, have you seen my car keys?” There was no response. Perhaps Sue was the daughter, or the kid has those small earbuds with rap music blaring. He called a second time, as if he was trying to reach someone further away. “Daddy, I promised I would not answer you unless you called me Dot, and no, I have no clue where your car keys might be. Ask mom, she picked me up in your car this afternoon.” He stuck his head in her room, “Sorry Dot, I still think of you as my little Dorothy from Oz, I’ll try harder next time.” She turned and gave a smile silently mouthing “Thank you.” He moved from the door, but immediately stepped back, “Hey Dot, looks like we might have company for dinner?” “If you mean Aunt Louise, I would say good chance.” Not knowing when to stop, he added “Those two sure look more alike as they age.” She gave a big laugh and threw a wadded piece of paper at his feet.
Further down the hallway was perhaps the guest bedroom. Folded clothes were neatly stacked on a low dresser with a suitcase against the wall near a corner. Not the best time to have extended family he mused while stretching his neck from side to side to release tension. At the far end of the house were the double doors that led into the master bedroom.
It was the outside patio that drew his attention, another Japanese garden, much smaller in size but with a large cedar soaking tub with curved ascending cedar steps that wrapped the side. Something jarred his mind, did they honeymoon in Kyoto? The setting reminded him of the Golden Pavilion, colorful parasols, and a soft yellow gown that fluttered in the breeze.
Eyes closed and nodding from the swirling warm water, Walter looked up hearing the glass door slide back. “I want to see that bump of yours.” The same one who spoke earlier, and no doubt Sue, walked over to the tub and put her hands to each side of his forehead. “Any symptoms that could indicate a concussion?” “Who me, with this old bowling ball of a head? not a chance. By the way, how is Louise?” “Walter, are you batty from that fall? First it’s the wine, and now Louise. How do you think Louise is, it’s only been a week!” He sunk down in the water, blew bubbles, and popped back up. “You’re right, I’m not thinking straight, long day.”
Called to dinner, Walter took the remaining chair out on the patio in front of the ice tea. He suppressed a laugh realizing Sue and Louise were clearly identical twins, although now, different lengths of hair and color, Sue shorter and lighter. For the past hour, he had been deliberating his circumstance, wondered if this charade was ill advised, and was now time for true confessions. As food was being passed, he put his palms on the table and spoke. “I don’t want to scare you, but,” he paused to see all three stop dead in their track, stare anxiously, and hold breath for what was coming. “I lost my phone in the commotion, hope no one can access my personal information.” There was an audible sigh of relief, and Dot cackled “56-58-90, if someone guesses our birth years, yes you are fried.” He grinned, repeating “56-58-90, no chance. I’m starving, pass the salad please.”
Sitting in his car with the garage light off, he opened the phone to a flashing 10% power level. Using the cigarette adapter, he mentally backtracked the day while recharging. Did he trip and fall a second time? A light flashed in his mind as clear as day, stumbling toward the steps while boarding the train. A dog on a leash with an absent minded owner. It was like a trip wire in a Sylvester Stallone combat movie, but also something else, he was fuming, distracted, and angry. A beep jolted him out of deep thought, a missed message.
A woman’s voice, youthful and anxious. “Walter, you promised you would call, you promised. This is not what I want, and I believe you feel the same, call.” He suddenly felt sick to his stomach, and a nasty bile rose in his throat. The phone number was a NYC 212 area code. He turned the phone off and stared at the garage wall. “Walter, is that you in the car, why is the light off? Sue was standing at the door.
A restless sleep and needed coffee, thank goodness it was Saturday morning. He sat in the gazebo tossing tiny pebbles into the pond and watching the koi swim toward the splash. They did honeymoon in Kyoto. The tomato soup on the bullet train from Tokyo was always a shared happy memory. Please, he said to himself, tell me it’s a bad dream and I’m not screwing up my marriage. He had roamed the house around the 1:00 A.M. time for a good hour if not longer. The canvas tote bag sat by the chair, and he pulled out the 3X5 photo album. The cover was embossed with gold lettering, “Our Dorothy.” Walter remembered the line yesterday afternoon, “I still think of you as my little Dorothy from Oz.” That was not an invention from a man who lost his memory, it was a real feeling buried deeper than consciousness would allow. He reached for the magazine as his phone rang. The number was the same 212, he let it go to message.
“Walter, I was awake all night, and cannot bear another hour without hearing your voice. Past experience reminds me that chasing you is a mistake, so forgive me for calling again. I’m young, impressionable, and I admit, immature at times, but we can work this out, I know we can. To be honest, it’s your fault as much as mine.”
Seized with anger, he reached down and took a handful of muddy dirt and flung it into the pond. The magazine was still in his lap, and he wiped his hand as best as possible on the concrete flooring before looking at the cover. He found it on the office desk, and something about the picture captured his attention. It was an October issue of “House Beautiful” from several years earlier, and the lower tagline read “The Professor and the Madman” page 49.
Four pages unlocked his mind as if a thunderbolt struck his forehead. “Susan Schmidt, the NYU Professor of Asian Literature, Walter Schmidt, the Dreyfus Award interior decorator of Schmidt and Associates, their story that started on a honeymoon in Kyoto.” The last picture of the article showed Walter at his New York City showroom. He was sitting in a beautifully upholstered wingback chair, one leg crossed, and holding his reading glasses. Standing at his side was the the assistant Valerie Evans. He called her number.
“Oh Walter, you dear, thank you for calling, I know we can work this out.” Before she could say another word, with measured tone, he spoke. “Valerie, nothing has changed from yesterday morning, it’s time you move on. You are a talented decorator, there is nothing more you will learn from me.” “Walter, wait, hear me out, it’s more than our working together, it’s our being together.” “Stop” he almost shouted, “Old men like me can become infatuated with a young attractive woman, but I hate myself for opening any door that would make you think we have a together, we have no together. I have a wonderful, beautiful, incredibly brilliant wife I love dearly, and a precious daughter I will not disappoint with foolish infidelity. By the way, my stupid brother-in-law just left an amazing wife last week, and there will not be another one in this family. Empty your desk before Monday if you want a constructive reference, goodbye again, and thank you again.
“Walter, you found your phone.” Sue, carrying a fruit plate, was walking over the koi bridge Walter designed and built. “Would you believe, it was in my coat pocket all the time, I must be the absent minded professor, but you’re the professor, so I can’t use that line.” She smiled brightly at her silly husband she loved even with his goofy Hollywood lines. “Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention last night, Valerie is moving on, I made it abundantly clear.” Her smile broadened with perhaps a deeper hidden meaning.
RICHARD SWAIN