The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [179]
Of course, it happened plenty this way too, the same-sex way—had always happened plenty. Affenlight hadn’t made a major innovation in human relations by falling for a bright young boy. But then again people got fired all the time, people resigned, and rarely did you find out why.
We can run away, Affenlight thought. We can just go. Owen and I. Me and O. I can pull my bid on the house. We can move to New York, get an apartment in Chelsea, walk up and down Eighth Avenue holding hands. We can be free.
“Does Genevieve know?” he asked, though he wasn’t sure why it mattered. If Mama Ain’t Happy…
“Parent X has not communicated directly with Ms. Wister. That communication has been entrusted to us.”
“But if this parent has a son who plays baseball, then this parent must be in South Carolina, with Genevieve. All the parents are there.”
Melkin looked up from his notes. “Parent X does not currently have a student traveling with the team.”
“What?” said Affenlight. “But how is that even possi…” He trailed off as he realized what Melkin was telling him. What he wished Melkin hadn’t told him. “Oh. I see.”
This was how the world worked: Implacably. Irrevocably. But always through particular people. Affenlight felt faint and peculiar. He looked at Contango, who’d settled back into his own version of implacability, head on paws on rug on floor. The dog’s black nose and one blue eye seemed to be receding from him, racing away at the Audi’s top speed. Affenlight gripped the arms of his chair. “What about Pella?”
Bruce cocked his head. “Excuse me?”
“His daughter,” said Melkin.
“My daughter. She’s been accepted for the fall term. But only informally. Her situation is a bit unorthodox. She’s a few credits short of requirements.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“What about her tuition?”
Bruce hesitated. Affenlight couldn’t tell whether he was being bold or not nearly, nearly bold enough. Shouldn’t he throw punches? Shouldn’t he rage against this smugness, this goddamned smugness, this hypocritical fucking smugness? Contango’s blue eye raced out to some terminal point and then stopped and switched and raced back in. Bruce was speaking.
“I can’t imagine the daughter of a former president paying tuition to Westish College. Or his grandchildren, or his grandchildren’s grandchildren. That’s not how the system works.”
The system. Affenlight nodded, looked down at his tie, lifted a shaky hand to smooth it uselessly. He tried to think of Chelsea, an apartment in Chelsea, he and Owen on Eighth Avenue holding hands, or else Tokyo, what about Tokyo, but the image wouldn’t come. His hand dropped into his lap. He was pressed deep into his chair, unable to move, unable to muster his strength. In an instant he’d become an old man, a wilted and pliant old man.
“If you tender your resignation, effective at the end of the academic year,” said Gibbs, “no further investigation will be made by the trustees, in whose stead I am acting as a unilateral representative. You’ll be free and clear to seek a professorship or a presidency elsewhere. Dean Melkin will put that folder of his through a shredder.”
Affenlight felt a strong, dull pain where his neck met his shoulder. He found his cigarettes in his jacket pocket, fumblingly lit one while Bruce was still speaking. That much, at least, they couldn’t deny him.
“Mr. Dunne has been retained by the Drama Department as an instructor for the summer term, which begins June twelfth. If you intend to remain in your current position past that date, we will have no choice but to inform Ms. Wister and conduct a thorough investigation.” Bruce looked up at Affenlight.