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By Root 1379 0

absorbed Affenlight most, during his hours at the diamond, was the hope that Henry Skrimshander would get better. Would get better—that phrasing said it all, as if Henry had some terrible malady that might never lift. The empathy Affenlight felt for him surpassed anything he’d ever felt for a character in a novel. It rivaled, in fact, the empathy he’d ever felt for anyone. We all have our doubts and fragilities, but poor Henry had to face his in public at appointed times, with half the crowd anxiously counting on him and the other half cheering for him to fail. Like an actor in a play, his inner turmoil was on display for everyone to observe; unlike an actor in a play, he didn’t get to go home and become someone else. So raw were his struggles that it felt like an invasion of privacy to go to the games, and at the worst moments Affenlight felt guilty for being there and wondered whether spectators should even be allowed.

Affenlight flipped over the schedule. HOME games in bold caps, Away games in a regular roman font. He was hoping to find a HOME game today, a game he’d failed to note before, because that would explain Owen’s absence, which otherwise couldn’t be explained, and Affenlight could hustle over to the diamond and settle in for a few innings. But today was the last day of April and it wasn’t listed at all. No reason for Owen not to come. Affenlight folded the schedule and shoved it back in the drawer.

Something happened yesterday. At least now, in retrospect, it seemed like something happened yesterday. At the time it hadn’t seemed like much, certainly not a turning point—just one of those moments that force you to admit, because you’re not insane or utterly fanatical, that you and your lover are different people whose views of the world will sometimes differ. But maybe it was more than that, maybe Affenlight had erred badly somehow, because here it was 4:49 by his watch, 4:47 by the wall clock, and Owen had not yet come.

Yesterday Owen discovered the long row of Westish Registers that spanned the length of the bottom shelf behind the love seat. They were arranged by year, their navy spines growing less faded, their gold-leafed letters richer, as you scanned from left to right. The registers were like furniture to Affenlight—not since his first nostalgic days as president, nearly eight years ago, had it occurred to him to look at one. Until Owen, sprawled idly on the love seat while Affenlight finished a memo, plucked out the ’69–’70 edition and flipped to a half-page photo of a tall young man walking a bicycle across the quad. The young man’s shoulders were broad. He wore pleated gray-wool pants and a wide-collared dress shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled in a recognizably dapper way, the only sign of rebellion his hair, which was far enough removed from two years’ worth of Coach Gramsci–mandated crew cuts to have reached a suitably leonine, collar-brushing length. Leaves lay underfoot, their robust crackle almost audible in the photograph as the young man steered the bicycle down a path not fifty yards from where they were sitting now. The young man wasn’t smiling, but he looked quite pleased to be free, free of football practice on a fall afternoon. He’d not yet begun his beard.

“Hubba hubba,” said Owen. “Who’s that?”

“Ha-ha.” Affenlight shifted in his chair. He realized that Owen was using a different one of Mrs. McCallister’s coffee mugs: DON’T TAKE YOUR ORGANS TO HEAVEN—GOD KNOWS WE NEED THEM HERE. “What happened to KISS ME, I’M IRISH?” he asked, taking care to sound nonchalant.

Owen glanced up from the photo, his expression not unkind. “I just grabbed this one,” he said. “I can wash it when I’m done.”

“No, no. No need,” Affenlight said. “You just seemed to be growing attached to that IRISH mug, that’s all.”

“Mm-mm-mm.” Owen pointed to the photograph, just below the roll of Affenlight’s sleeves. “Check out those forearms.”

“That’s just because I’m gripping the handlebars.” Affenlight couldn’t resist glancing down at the current version of those same forearms: not nearly as impressive.

“This