The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [64]
“Any word from your schools?”
“Not yet.”
“I wish they’d hurry up.”
“Me too.”
“I’ve been carrying this around for weeks.” Henry reached into his bag and produced a bottle of Duckling bourbon. “I figured I’d be ready when the good news came.”
A too-precise longing zipped down Schwartz’s spine. Duckling was his favorite, and he’d been craving it lately, in the absence of any money with which to buy a bottle. “Skrimmer—,” he began, but wasn’t sure how to continue. Henry didn’t have a fake ID, nor did they sell Duckling anywhere near campus. He must have gone to considerable trouble.
“Just take it now,” Henry said, pressing the bottle into Schwartz’s hands. “I’m sick of carrying it around.”
“I can’t,” Schwartz said.
“Call it a Passover present.”
“It’s chametz.”
“It’s what?”
“If I observed Passover I’d have to throw that in the trash. Or let the goyim steal it.”
“Oh.” Henry thought hard. “Then it’s an early graduation present.”
Schwartz was starting to get annoyed. He couldn’t tell Henry right now. The little guy had enough on his mind—an errorless game today meant he would break Aparicio’s record, and there were bound to be plenty of scouts in the stands. Once Miranda Szabo called you on the phone, you were big-time, and you had to perform.
“It can’t be long now,” Henry said. “I told you about Emily Neutzel and Georgetown, right?”
Schwartz ground his teeth together. The bus slowed to take the Opentoe College exit. The other Harpooners bobbed their heads to their pregame playlists, whittling down their thoughts to the ones that would help them win. Henry was still holding the bottle. “That stuff’s expensive,” Schwartz said gruffly. “You should keep it.”
“What am I going to do with a bottle of whiskey?”
“Drink it on draft day. Celebrate your newfound fame and wealth.”
The tone of this was wrong, mean, and a confused look crossed Henry’s face. In his mind it was Schwartz who’d be drinking bourbon on draft day, clinking a toast against Henry’s SuperBoost shake as they celebrated their departure from Westish into a bigger, better world. Henry tucked the bottle back inside his bag. He turned in his seat to gaze out the window.
Christ, thought Schwartz. He should have told the Skrimmer straight up, each time a letter came. Now he’d maneuvered himself into a real damned-if-you-do-or-don’t. The only reason not to tell him right now was to avoid distracting him right before the game—but he’d already distracted him by being so brusque and rude. Might as well come clean.
“I didn’t get in.” It came out sounding heavier, more melodramatic than he’d planned.
Henry looked at him. “What?”
Try to be lighter this time. “I didn’t get in.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
Henry shook his head. “That can’t be right.”
“It ain’t right. But it’s true.”
“You heard from Harvard?”
“Yup.”
“You heard from Stanford?”
To keep him from going through the whole list, Schwartz reached into his bag and pulled out the stack of envelopes. Henry flipped through them. He didn’t read the letters, just glanced at the fancy seals by the return addresses, ticking off each of the six in his mind. He handed the stack back to Schwartz, looked at him desolately. “Now what?”
The bus ground to a halt in the Opentoe lot. The Harpooners rose from their seats, stretching and yawning.
“Now,” said Schwartz as upbeatly as he could muster, “we play ball.”
20
Pella realized she’d been asleep for a very long time. The clock by the bedside—by Mike’s bedside—read 1:33, and daylight streamed through the uncurtained window. It was pleasant and scary both, to think about where her mind had been for the past twelve hours or so. She wished she knew exactly what time she’d fallen asleep, so she could record her accomplishment, quantify her journey: I slept for this long!
Mike was nowhere to be found, and she remembered nothing of his departure. She hadn’t taken any sleeping pills—just half a bottle of wine, barely more than doctors recommended. She headed to the bathroom, which was