The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [122]
But the earrings were something else. The earrings existed. They lay there on the table. They did look vaguely familiar—no doubt they’d seen them in some boutique in Hayes Valley, and Pella had oohed and ahhed, and David, having taken note of her oohing and ahhing—he’d never been stingy with gifts—bought them before flying out here. And now was pretending that he’d given them to her before. She picked one up to put it back in its manila envelope. A nice touch, that: to hand them over in their brand-new box would make them seem brand-new. It was a classic David maneuver to try to win her back this way, by making her think she was crazy. He made her crazy, no one else. He did have good taste, though. The earring squirted from her hand and landed in her empty wineglass amid the pale grit. She should drink it, swallow it—now that would make her crazy. And it would make him crazy too.
She lifted the wineglass, clicked it against David’s, which was still half full. She met his eyes meanly, lifted the glass to her lips. Fuck Mike Schwartz was the toast that arose in her mind. Fuck Mike Schwartz, whom I live to fuck. Never too drunk to use whom. Funny that she’d thought live to fuck instead of love to fuck or like to fuck. Like to fuck would have been the most accurate, but it didn’t make much difference. David was speaking and reaching. She leaned away. She had the wineglass nearly inverted, but the earring hung up in the little hollow that led down to the stem. She tapped the glass with her injured hand. The earring rattled free and skied down the goblet’s concavity into her mouth. She rolled it around, cold metal and stone. She tested it with her teeth, slipped it under her tongue. It felt right.
“Spit that out,” David said, alarmed.
She stuck her tongue out at him.
“You could be seriously injured.”
A thousand-dollar dinner. A piece of performance art.
“You’re acting like a five-year-old,” David said. “It’s not becoming.”
“You said you had no use for them.”
“Quit performing. Spit it out.”
She showed him the inside of her mouth, like a five-year-old who’s finished her spinach: clean. When she’d gone to swallow she felt a thrill and then a fear—what if it stuck in her throat? But it was small and went down without a problem.
David looked terrified. He pulled out his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m calling an ambulance. That thing will shred your intestines.”
“Oh, relax.” Pella shoved back her chair, a bit unsteadily, and walked away from the table. Relying on yourself wasn’t easy; it could involve strong measures. There were two stalls in the women’s bathroom, both vacant. She’d never really been bulimic, but it was one of those things a girl just knew how to do. The earring came up in a tide of pink wine and snail sauce. She held her hair with her left hand and fished the beautiful blue teardrop out of the toilet with her right. She went to the sink to rinse her mouth and then the earring. A wicker basket of woodchip potpourri sat beside the basin. In the mirror she looked blanched and haggard, thirty at least, but the wine was gone from her stomach and she was starting to feel better already. She wouldn’t even have a hangover tomorrow.
43
Schwartz, still wet from his post-practice shower, was standing in his weirdly clean kitchen, chasing a couple Vicodin with some flat ginger ale, when he heard the gate’s jingle and footsteps on the front porch. The bell rang. Pella, he thought wishfully, but she was off somewhere with The Architect. Schwartz had fantasized about hunting them down, about putting a scare into The Architect if not pummeling him into submission, but Pella didn’t have a cell phone, he didn’t know where to find her, and he needed to get some sleep before tomorrow’s games.
“Gentlemen.” He nodded, shaking Starblind’s hand and then Rick’s. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No thanks,” said Starblind. Rick shook