The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [115]
Owen plugged in the electric teapot that sat above the squat refrigerator, set about making tea.
“I tried to call,” Affenlight said. This was somewhere between an accusation and an apology for showing up unannounced. “You didn’t pick up.”
“I just got home a few minutes ago.”
“I saw you in the window while I was dialing.”
Owen’s eyebrows lifted in what Affenlight hoped was genuine puzzlement. “You did?”
“Yes.”
Owen snapped his fingers. “Henry.” He walked over to the phone, inspected the console, flipped a switch. “He’s been turning off the ringer. He comes home and doesn’t want to talk to anyone. Not the scouts, not his parents, not even Mike. It’s worrisome.”
“Mm.” Affenlight didn’t want to talk about Henry, not right now.
“I went to practice today,” Owen said.
“You did?”
“I’m going to play tomorrow against Coshwale. Or rather, it’s unlikely I’ll play, because I’ve missed so much time, but I’ll wear my pinstripes and warm the bench. Dr. Collins cleared me this afternoon.”
“You went to St. Anne’s?” Affenlight said. “I would have driven you.”
“That’s why I didn’t ask. I take up enough of your time. You have a college to run.”
“Bah.” Affenlight’s knees wobbled, and he sank into the plushy rose chair. “This place runs itself.” It was dawning on him that they’d reached the end of something, something that began when that errant baseball hit Owen in the face, and would end now that he’d rejoined the team. They’d had their time together, the time of Owen’s convalescence, his holiday from baseball. Their time out of time. And now that time was over. And he had stupidly turned up here to speed things along. “That’s great news,” he said. “About being cleared to play.”
Owen smiled gently. “Then why do you look so glum?”
“No reason. I just missed you today.”
“I missed you too.”
Owen handed Affenlight a cup of tea, tousled his hair, leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. Affenlight couldn’t help feeling consoled, like a child whose goldfish has died. “I wish you had told me,” he said.
“Told you what?”
“That you were going to practice. You must have known ahead of time.”
“I didn’t know the doctor would clear me. And then Mike and I went straight to practice.”
“Mike took you to the hospital.”
“Yes.”
There was nothing especially interesting about that bit of information, but every syllable Owen spoke felt portentous. “You come every day,” Affenlight said. “It makes me expect you’ll keep coming.”
“It’s just one day.”
“Well, carpe diem, as they say. A day is a day. There are only so many of them.”
“Guert, don’t get upset. I mean, why be upset? Because there was one afternoon when my schedule didn’t conform to yours? You’ve never visited me, you know. This is the first time you’ve even called, and you only called to chastise me.”
“I’m not chastising you. That’s not—”
“Are you under the impression that this is really what I want? Covert oral sex in an office, like some scene from a seedy movie?”
Affenlight was baffled. “I hardly think it’s like that.”
“What do you think it’s like?” Owen was standing in front of his desk, his tailbone and the heels of his hands resting against its wooden edge, his long legs crossed at the ankles. Affenlight recognized the posture: that of the lecturer in command. Which made Affenlight, fidgety and underprepared in his borrowed chair, the student. “I show up, we read and make small talk, we suck each other off, we smoke a cigarette, I leave. You wash the couch with Windex and we do it again. It’s like a gay-porn Groundhog Day.”
“We… I don’t wash the couch,” protested Affenlight. “I… we drink coffee.” He sounded pleading and inane, trying to imbue these three simple words, this one banal act, with all the import and sentiment it held for him.
“Everybody drinks coffee,” Owen said.
Affenlight, as he glanced longingly toward the bottle of scotch on the mantel of the deactivated fireplace,