The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [156]
The cigarette wasn’t having much effect. Henry tried to imitate Pella’s approach, really sucking on the end this time. His head exploded into dizziness, and he put his cigarette-holding hand on the desk to steady himself. He lifted the other to his mouth and coughed a little fluid into it.
“Henry, are you all right?”
He nodded.
“Come on. Let’s sit you down for a minute.” Pella took him by the hand and guided him to the curb, where they sat with their feet in the street. “I got a new place,” she said, to distract him. “It’s over on Groome Street, with two juniors named Noelle and Courtney. They had a third roommate, but she left midsemester—five to one she went into rehab for her eating disorder, to judge by the general vibe of the place.
“When I went to pawn my ring to pay the rent, I saw this writing table in the shop next door. I figured it’d be nice to have one piece of furniture that was mine. So I bought it.”
“It’s nice.”
“Thank you. The owner asked when I wanted to pick it up. And I said, Do you deliver? And he hemmed and hawed and said, Well, he didn’t have his truck, maybe he could bring it by on Saturday. And I said, Saturday? It’s Monday! And he said he knew what day it was. So I said, Forget it, I’ll just take it now. I carried it out of there and got a block away and nearly collapsed.”
“I can help,” Henry said.
“You just take it easy for a minute.”
They sat there in silence while Pella finished her cigarette. Then she helped Henry to his feet and they began lugging the desk toward Groome Street. Henry had to walk forward to keep from getting dizzy, which meant Pella had to walk backward, and her tiny mincing steps, combined with the fact that he kept getting dizzy anyway, made for slow progress. Every half block they had to stop and rest.
Finally they reached Groome and turned east, toward the lake. “It’s on this block,” Pella said. “I think.”
“What’s the number?”
Pella couldn’t remember. “Why do all these houses look alike? And don’t say because it’s dark. Oh wait—maybe this is it.” They set down the table, and she darted up onto the porch and peered in the window. “They really do all look alike,” she said.
Henry hiccuped. The street was tilting under him. “Try your key.”
“I forgot to get one.” She climbed the porch steps again and tried the door—it was unlocked. She peeked inside. “This is it,” she said. “Let’s be quiet.”
They carried the table onto the porch, into the darkened living room, and then into Pella’s room. She flipped on the light to reveal an empty carpeted room with dust bunnies in the corners and a futon mattress on the floor, the contents of her wicker bag and backpack spilled out across it. On the floor beside the futon sat a fresh-from-the-box digital alarm clock, its cord still kinked as it snaked across the rug. “Voilà,” she said. “Mon château.”
They carried the writing table to the obvious spot, kitty-corner from the futon, and worked it up tight to the wall. Pella stood back and appraised it with folded arms, used her hip to shove it a half step closer to the window. “I think that’s it,” she said.
Henry walked down the hall to use the bathroom. On the way back he peeked into the kitchen, where a dim light shone above the sink. On the counter stood a bottle of wine with a rubber stopper in it. He’d never tasted wine before; even in church he skipped that part. The bottle was a little more than halfway full. He pulled out the stopper and glugged it down in two long pulls. He shoved the bottle as far down in the trash as it would go.
The kitchen table had a blue Formica top and four matching chairs, but there were only three people living there. And Pella didn’t have a chair for her new desk. Therefore he picked up one of the chairs and carried it back to Pella’s room, trying not to bang it on the hallway walls as he walked.
“Oh,” Pella said. “I probably shouldn’t use that.”
“What? Why?” Henry felt himself wobble a bit. “Do whatever you want.” He pushed the chair under the desk with a flourish.
“Hm.” Pella folded