The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [58]
If he didn’t get out of the house he’d turn to the handle of Smirnoff in the freezer. A pleasant idea, to get thoroughly and mercifully blotto, but the bus was leaving for Opentoe at seven a.m. He flipped open his cell phone out of habit, but he couldn’t call Henry, not after standing him up for dinner. Or rather, he could call Henry, but he didn’t feel like it. He scanned the bookshelves for the campus directory. It seemed unlikely that Affenlight’s home number would be listed, but there it was in black and white. Yet another benefit of the small liberal arts college.
President Affenlight answered. “Good evening, sir,” Schwartz said. “This is Mike Schwartz.”
“Michael. What can I do for you?”
“First of all, I wanted to let you know that Owen is doing much better. It looks like he’ll be coming home this weekend.”
“Marvelous,” President Affenlight said. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“And thank you for all of your help yesterday.” Schwartz could feel himself overenunciating to compensate for the Crazy Horse. “The whole team really appreciated it.”
“You’re welcome. But of course I was just doing my job. Have a good night, Michael.”
“I was also wondering whether I might speak to your daughter for a moment.”
“My daughter? Do you know her?”
“We met this morning.”
“Ah. Well, I believe you’ve come to the right place. Hold on just a moment.”
President Affenlight held the phone away from his mouth. “Pella,” he called. “Telephone.” There came a pause in which Pella yelled something back. “It’s not David,” Affenlight replied. “It’s Mike Schwartz.”
Pella picked up the phone a half beat later. “You didn’t freeze to death.”
“How was your swim?”
“I lasted a lap and a half. Then I had to lie down on the deck. The lifeguard came over to administer CPR, but I waved him off.”
“Sounds rough.”
“I prefer to start slow,” Pella said. “Gives me room for improvement.” She began a new thought, something about the snow. Schwartz slugged down the rest of his forty and cut her off.
“I was wondering whether you were free tonight.”
“Free? Heavens, no. After a cappella practice I’ll be volunteering down at the soup kitchen while I finish my paper on the theme of revenge in Hamlet. Then my sorority has a mixer with the Alpha Beta Omegas, my bulimia support group is getting together for dessert, and after that I have a date with the captain of the football team.”
“I’m the captain of the football team.”
There was a long pause.
“Oh. Well, in that case. What time can you pick me up?”
“YOU’VE GOT SCHOOL SPIRIT,” he remarked as he took her sweatshirt and hung it on a wooden peg in the front hallway of Carapelli’s. “A true Harpooner.”
Pella glanced down at her outfit: a navy Westish polo shirt beneath an off-white Westish sweater, the same jeans she’d worn on the plane. “Sorry,” she said. “There weren’t many choices at the bookstore.”
“No, no,” Mike said. “You look great.”
“Thanks. So can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“Do you always have a beard?”
Mike touched his cheek as he slid into the booth. “It’s supposed to be motivational,” he said. “While I finish my thesis. Kind of an I’m-so-busy-writing-I-don’t-have-time-to-shave thing.”
“Does it work?”
“Not lately. I take it you’re not much into beards.”
Pella shrugged. “My ex has one.”
“David.”
“How’d you know that?”
“I heard you mention him to your dad. While we were on the phone.”
A woman waddled over the red carpet toward their table, her arms open in greeting. “I thought you boys weren’t ev—” Seeing Pella, she shrieked and spun toward Mike as if to shield him from harm. “Where’s my Henry?”
“Henry sends his love, Mrs. Carapelli,” Mike said. “He had to study tonight.”
“Studying! That doesn’t sound like my Henry.” Mrs. Carapelli gave Pella a sniffy, formal,