The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [39]
“How’s your health?”
He drummed on his sternum. “Like a bull,” he said.
“You’re taking your medicine?”
“I take my walk by the lake every day,” Affenlight said. “That’s better than medicine.”
Pella gave him a distressed maternal look.
“I take them,” he said. “I take them and take them. Though you know how I feel about pills.”
“Take them,” Pella said. “Are you seeing anyone?”
“Oh. Well…” Seeing, actually, was just the word for it. “Let’s just say there aren’t many enthralling women in this part of the world.”
“If there are any, I’m sure you’ll hunt them down.”
“Thanks,” Affenlight said dryly. “And you? How’s David?”
“David’s fine. Although he’ll be less so when he finds out I’m gone.”
“He doesn’t know you’re here?” This revelation trumped the lack of luggage; Affenlight resisted the urge to stand and pump his fist.
“He’s in Seattle. On business.”
“I see.”
Lately it seemed to Affenlight that the students were growing younger; maybe he was just getting old, or maybe adolescence was stretching out longer and longer, in proportion with the growing life span. Colleges had become high schools; grad schools, colleges. But Pella, as always, seemed intent on shooting ahead of her peers. She looked older than he remembered, of course—her cheeks less round, her features more pronounced—but she also looked older than twenty-three. She looked like she’d been through a lot.
“Are you tired?” he asked, remembering not to say You look tired.
She shrugged. “I haven’t been sleeping much.”
“Well, the bed in the guest room is great.” Mistake: he should have said your room. Or would that have seemed too eager? Anyway, onward: “And the darkness out here is something to behold. Totally different from Boston. Or San Francisco.”
“Great.”
“You can stay as long as you like. Of course.”
“Thanks.” Pella finished her whiskey, peered into the bottom of her glass. “Can I ask one more favor?”
“Shoot.”
“I’d like to start taking classes.”
“You would?” Affenlight stroked his chin and considered this happy news. “That should work out fine,” he said, trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible; to betray too much enthusiasm might backfire. “The deadlines for the fall have passed, of course, but you can register for the summer session as a visitor, and if we sign you up for the next SAT date, I’m sure I could convince Admissions—”
“No no,” Pella said quietly. “Right away.”
“What’s that?”
“I… I was hoping I could start right away.”
“But, Pella, the summer is right away. It’s already April.”
Pella chuckled nervously. “I was thinking about tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Every nerve in Affenlight’s spine quivered, half with love of his daughter, half with indignation at her presumption. “But, Pella, we’re halfway through the semester. Surely you can’t expect to hop right in.”
“I could catch up.”
Affenlight set down his drink, drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “I don’t doubt that you could. You’re an excellent student when you choose to be. But it’s not simply a matter of catching up. It’s a matter of courtesy. As a professor, I can tell you I wouldn’t be pleased to be suddenly told—”
“Please,” Pella said. “I could just audit. I know it’s not ideal.”
Those first two years after Pella’s mother died: call them an adjustment period. He tried day care—expensive day care—but as soon as Affenlight grew accustomed to the fact that Pella was his, the sons and daughters of his fellow professors seemed like wan, elitist company. Better to throw her in with hoi polloi, to let her lift them up—but no, that would be even worse. He’d wanted to take her to another country, Italy, or Uganda, or somewhere, where it might be possible to raise her properly; he wanted to buy a tract of land in Idaho or Australia, with hills and streams and trees and rocks and birds and mammals, where Pella could