The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [153]
Except when buying suits and scotch, Affenlight habitually thought and acted as if he were poor; this was one consequence of his upbringing he’d never quite kicked. But in truth he had plenty of money; his expenses were nil and his salary went straight in the bank. The Audi, his last extravagance, was six years old. The lake, through the patio door, felt near enough to touch.
“We can make this work!” shouted Sandy over the hum of the juicer. “If we move fast we can pull it from the realtor—the sign just went up this morning—and do it ourselves, chop off six percent that way. Lord knows Kitty Wexnerd doesn’t need the money. And all the red tape we can just leave in ribbons on the floor. I would so love to have you and Pella fall in love with this place. It pains me to leave it.”
The front door banged open and in came Tom Bremen, fit and bald and drenched in sweat. “Herr Doktor Presidente,” he said. “Let me wash my hand before I shake yours.”
“Guert stopped by to talk about the house.”
“Really?” Tom kissed his wife, took two beers from the fridge, set one down in front of Affenlight. “Did you gild the turd and gloss over all the flaws in this dump?”
“I certainly did not. Because there aren’t any.”
“I knew I could count on you. Like a sexy Ricky Roma. ABC, baby. Dump needs a new roof, though.”
Sandy rolled her eyes. “We put on a brand-new roof last summer,” she explained. “Tom and Kevin did it themselves.”
“Five weeks of fourteen-hour days. Almost cost me my life. And my relationship with my son.” He sat down at the table, clinked his Heineken against Affenlight’s. “Good to see you,” he said, plucking his sweat-wicking shirt away from his chest. “Did Sandy tell you the unburdened beast comes standard?”
Affenlight looked at Contango, who looked back. Maybe it was the third beer that made the latter’s expression seem so companionably wise. “Really?”
“How about I translate?” Sandy said, joining them with her juice. “Contango is Kevin’s dog. And Kevin’s going to be in Stockholm for a length of time he refers to as ‘indefinite to permanent.’ ”
“To what end?” Affenlight asked politely, reaching down to pat the dog again.
Tom, catching Affenlight’s eye, mimed a plenteous Swedish bosom.
“Thomas, please. And I’m actually terribly allergic to pets of all kinds, though I’ve been keeping a stiff upper lip about it. And Contango has grown very comfortable here in the past few months. So if the buyer of the house, whoever that may turn out to be, were really and truly interested in such an arrangement…”
“We’d throw in a year’s supply of Purina and flea shots,” Tom concluded. “How’s that for sweetening the pot?”
“Huh,” said Affenlight. “Wow.”
60
The Harpooners finished dressing and followed Schwartz outside to run stadiums till they puked. No one made a sound. Izzy lingered until he was the last one there, tugging on his wristbands extra slowly, fiddling with the gold crucifix he wore around his neck. It seemed like he might try to say something, but instead he just dropped his head and left. As he passed into the hall he popped his fist loudly into his glove’s webbing, a one-smack salute to Henry’s career.
Henry sat down in front of his locker. His outburst at Schwartz had surprised him; what surprised him more was the way his anger wasn’t subsiding. He, not Schwartz, had messed everything up. He, not Schwartz, was to blame. And yet every memory that popped into his head as he sat there in that underground room thick with memories was a memory of Schwartz causing him pain. He was angry at Schwartz. He kind of hated Schwartz. Remember when he arrived at Westish, friendless and adrift, and Schwartz, who’d brought him here, who’d led Henry to expect he would guide him, had left him hanging for twelve long lonely weeks before he’d finally called, and said by way of excuse that he’d been busy with football? Back then Henry had felt too pitifully grateful to mention his distress, but now the pain of those early days broke over him. He pretty much hated Schwartz for that. Hated him too for every weighted stadium he’d