The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [150]
“Schwartzy,” barked Coach Cox. “Can we see you for a minute?”
Schwartz, who was sitting in front of his locker with a bag of ice on either thigh, glanced up somberly at the word we, took one earphone out of his ear. “What is it?”
The other Harpooners in the vicinity—Rick, Starblind, Boddington, Izzy, Phlox—stared into their own empty lockers, pretending they hadn’t noticed Henry come in. And they don’t know the half of it, Henry thought.
“Out in the hallway.” Coach Cox jerked his head toward the door. “Let’s go.”
“I’m icing,” Schwartz said. “What is it?”
You could tell by his quick snort of breath that Coach Cox was about to start yelling, something he rarely did. Henry cut him off. “Here’s fine.” He steeled himself and took a step toward Schwartz. “I’m sorry about what happened, Mike. I let you down, I let everybody down. I made a mistake and I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry…” Technically he was apologizing for ditching the team yesterday, which was its own unpardonable sin, but of course it didn’t feel like that. “Coach Cox wanted me to let you know that I’ve decided to quit the team.”
Schwartz was staring dead into his locker, his hairy shoulders slumped, those huge bags of ice on his knees. He reached inside for a stick of deodorant, pulled off the cap with a suctioning pop, and lifted one arm above his head. “Izzy’s our shortstop,” he said. “You can’t even throw.”
“I know. That’s why I’m quitting.”
Schwartz switched to the other armpit. “That’s interesting,” he said. “I thought it was because you nailed my girlfriend.”
“I nail all your girlfriends!” Henry yelled. It made no sense, but he yelled it anyway, fists balled, feeling like he might fall on Schwartz and start swinging. “Who the fuck cares?!”
Schwartz, with infinite slowness, pulled a Westish Baseball T-shirt from his locker, poked his head through the hole, and unfurled it over his massive torso. “Maybe nobody,” he said, his eyes still fixed on his locker’s innards. “Rick, you care if Skrimshander nails my girlfriend?”
Rick, whose locker was adjacent to Schwartz’s, looked up cautiously, his pink face grim. “I guess not,” he said.
“Starblind, how about you?”
“Nope.”
“Izzy?”
Silence.
“Izzy?”
“No, Abuelo.”
Schwartz went around the room, name by name. Each guy murmured in turn that no, he didn’t care if Henry nailed Schwartz’s girlfriend. At least Owen wasn’t there. Henry didn’t know who to feel worst for, but he knew who to blame—himself.
“Well, that’s fine,” Schwartz said. “Let’s go practice.” He removed the Ziploc bags from his knees, dumped the ice onto the circular grated drain between the benches, and, as guys pressed against their lockers to avoid his bulk, rumbled creakily, bowleggedly, out of the locker room.
“This is great,” Coach Cox said, his voice growing from a mutter to a drill-sergeant shout. “This is goddamned outstanding. Everybody to the football stadium now! You’re all gonna run till you puke!” He looked at Henry. “You coming?”
“No,” Henry said.
“You really want to do this, Skrim? You really want to goddamn do this?”
Henry nodded. “I do.”
59
Affenlight sat in the Audi, surreptitiously smoking a cigarette, looking out across quiet Main Street at the Bremens’ place, its expansive porch, its uneven cupolas, its manicured lawn sliding from green to gray in the thickening twilight. After Pella left he’d remembered that Professor Bremen was retiring from the Physics Department this spring; was moving to New Mexico to play golf, walk around in the desert with his wife, teach for kicks at an online university. Bremen was a few years younger than Affenlight, but he’d made a killing.
Sure enough, there it was on the lawn, a FOR SALE sign.
Pella had found a room for the remainder of the semester, with some Westish girls off campus. She’d left Affenlight a message to this effect, on the apartment’s voice mail when she knew he’d be in his office. There was a landline there, but she hoped he wouldn’t call it soon. She wanted some time alone.
Affenlight stubbed out his cigarette in the