The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [145]
“God, no. I’ll have to keep my distance for a while, though. You bruised the hell out of me.”
“Me?” Henry said, alarmed. “No I didn’t.”
She pushed aside the duvet and pointed to the front of her shoulder: a coppery, greening mark, almost literally a thumbprint. Henry’s stomach did a queasy flip.
“I’ve got a few more, I’m sure.” She twisted away, and Henry saw the corresponding fingerprints near her shoulder blade. “And this big one on my hip.”
“I’m really sorry,” said Henry.
“Don’t worry about it. Part of the social contract, right?”
Owen’s sheets felt silky and rich. Henry wasn’t sure whether he had the strength to stand. His swim, his night in the cold, had exhausted him like never before. Pella climbed over him, out of bed, and poured a finger of scotch into each of two tumblers. “When will they be back?” she asked.
To judge by the windowlight, it was nearing six o’clock. “Coshwale’s pretty far,” he said. “Probably two or three hours. More, even.” He let the scotch scorch his throat and warm his empty stomach.
“Well, you can’t be too careful these days.” Pella already had her jeans and flip-flops on. Now she knelt down and felt around beneath the foot of Owen’s bed. She lifted her T-shirt into view and shimmied inside. “Look how white this still is,” she said. “There’s not even any dust under the beds.”
“There might be some under mine,” Henry said. “But I think Owen cleans there too.”
“What a guy.” Pella half zipped her sweatshirt and began pacing around the room. “I don’t know what I’m so worked up about,” she said. “I mean, if my dad’s gay, and he’s happy, then it’s no big deal, right? Or even if he’s gay and unhappy, it’s still not that big a deal. A certain number of people are gay, just like a certain number of people have blue eyes. Or lupus. Don’t ask me why I just said lupus. I barely know what it is. And I know being gay’s not a disease. The point is, it’s all just probabilities. Numbers. How can I be upset about numbers?”
“You can’t,” Henry said.
“He’s a grown man who can do what he wants. And actually, it might be worse if Owen were a girl. If he were a girl he might turn my dad in for harassment, and it’d turn into a scandal and my dad would lose his job. That would be bad.” She poured herself another finger’s worth of scotch. “I guess Owen could turn him in too. But it seems less likely somehow. Maybe that’s sexist of me.
“But even if Owen doesn’t turn him in, they still might get caught. What would happen then? All hell would break loose.”
“I don’t think they’ll get caught,” Henry said. “Besides, Owen’s going to Japan.”
Pella was still pacing the room, looking distressed. Even if she’d been sitting next to him on the bed, he probably wouldn’t have had the guts to hug her, or to pat her on the shoulder and say, There, there. They barely knew each other. He’d probably never touch Pella Affenlight again.
“Maybe you should talk to your dad.” Henry hauled himself to his feet, tugged on warm-up pants and a T-shirt. He was shivering. “It seems like the two of you are pretty close.”
“Close,” she said, spitting the word like a curse. “We’re close, all right.”
Having lived in Phumber Hall for three years, Henry had become expert at distinguishing among different people’s footsteps. As soon as these passed the second-floor landing, he knew that they didn’t belong to any of the girls on the third floor, nor to either of the Asian Steves across the hall. Owen was back. But there was a second set of footsteps too. Henry stood up. Pella stopped pacing and looked at him, puzzled by what had no doubt become a very grave expression on his face. If he’d had more energy he might have shoved her into the shower or under his bed, which might have led to an even stupider sort of farce.
What really happened was that he was standing dumbly in the center of the room when Owen’s key scraped in the lock. Pella flopped down into the overstuffed