The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [181]
There was that damned register, still sitting on the mantel above the fireplace. Affenlight picked up the baseball that was resting against it. The ball’s smooth white flesh was marred by a few scuff marks that gently abraded his fingertips. Amid his confused and wounded thoughts it struck him that a baseball was a beautifully designed thing—it seemed to demand to be thrown, made him want to give it a good strong toss through the open window and across the dove-gray quad. As he bandied it from palm to fingertips and back, he realized that he had spoken.
“You’re flying to South Carolina in the morning.”
Henry looked at him dully.
“I already bought your ticket,” Affenlight said.
Henry lay down on the unmade bed, laid his ear on the pillow. His body was curling and closing into itself, like an old arthritic hand or a daylily at nightfall. “Can’t,” he said. “I’ve got a final tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday. Only freshpersons have finals.”
“Today,” Henry said wearily. “I had a final today.”
“You can take it later. When the rest of the team takes theirs.”
It was getting dark. Affenlight stood in his socks in the center of the rug, tossing the baseball from hand to hand. “You can’t stay here forever,” he added sternly. “The dorms have to be clear by next weekend.”
Henry’s face collapsed and he started to sob, so loudly that Affenlight had no choice but to sit down on the bed beside him and pat his shoulder and whisper what he hoped were calming words, words like sssh and hey and it’s okay. Henry slowed to a whimper and seemed on the verge of regaining his breath, but then the sobbing crescendoed again and he became almost hysterical, his head tipped back and his mouth agape. He started to hiccup. Snot bubbled out of his nose as he sucked hard at the air. A dark sheen of sweat arose on the back of his neck. “Sssshh,” Affenlight said softly, rubbing his back in clockwise circles between the shoulder blades. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” He felt a coolness in the room, especially on the strip of skin where his pant cuffs had ridden up above his socks.
“Sorry,” Henry said, wiping his eyes, once the several waves of sobbing had passed.
“Hush now,” Affenlight said. “You just take it easy.”
Affenlight brought Henry a wad of toilet paper with which to blow his nose. On the windowsill sat a bunch of bananas, an outsize box of Rice Krispies, and the proper dishware. Affenlight opened the minifridge and found a half gallon of milk—Owen’s way, no doubt, of trying to provide for Henry in his absence. Affenlight poured a bowl of cereal, carved off banana slices with the spoon, added milk. He didn’t quite spoon-feed Henry, but he did sit beside him with a hand on Henry’s shoulder, murmuring his approval at each swallowed bite. With his free hand he lit a cigarette, lit another when it was done. Henry grimaced at the first spoonful, and as it reached his stomach he looked like he might vomit, but after a few bites things went more smoothly. He made it most of the way through the bowl and lay down drowsily.
“You have to leave early to make the flight,” Affenlight said. “I’ll set your alarm.”
Henry nodded.
“I’ll drive you to the airport. Meet me outside by the statue. Six o’clock sharp.”
Henry yawned and nodded again. It wasn’t clear whether he was really listening or whether Affenlight would have to come here tomorrow morning and drag him out of bed; either way was fine. Affenlight took the cereal bowl and the fly-clotted soup containers to the bathroom, dumped them down the sink, rinsed them, and set them on Owen’s desk to dry. On his way out he snapped off the light.
“President Affenlight?” Henry said.