The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [66]
That episode stood out in Pella’s mind as a benchmark of small but irresistible desire, but if anything she wanted to wash these dishes even more. She could see in advance the scrubbed white color of the fresh-bleached sink, the rows of overturned pots lying on the counter to dry. Maybe Mr. Arsch wouldn’t think she was psycho. Maybe he’d be thrilled. Who wouldn’t want a maid who worked for free? Maybe Mr. Arsch was sad, just as she’d been sad, and that was why the kitchen was such a mess. Maybe a scrubbed-out sink would be the boost he needed. Slovenliness correlated highly with despair—the inability to exert influence over one’s environment, et cetera. Speaking of despair, she hadn’t yet taken her sky-blue pill. She’d probably have a cracking headache in about five minutes. Better enjoy this respite while it lasted.
While these thoughts were spinning through her sleep-buoyed brain, she had scrubbed several plates and laid them on the counter in a fanned-out formation to dry. A fistful of flatware was calling her name. Whatever retribution awaited, she’d left herself little choice but to finish the dishes. She squinched her rag between the fork tines and rubbed.
By the time she finished she’d worked up a sweat, and she needed her sky-blue pill far more than a cup of coffee. On her way out she lingered in the doorway for a long minute, admiring the empty sink.
21
As the Harpooners filed off the bus, each of them slapped the black rubber seal above the door for luck. Driving four hours south made a difference in the weather; birds were chirping, and a loamy smell of spring hung thick in the air. Loondorf began to sneeze. The clouds were breaking and shrinking, leaving marbled patches of stonewashed blue between them. The Opentoe players, clad in their threadbare brown-and-green uniforms, were liming the foul lines and raking the basepaths like old homesteaders.
“Same old Opentoe,” Rick O’Shea noted, scratching his incipient beer belly as he blinked the sleep from his eyes. “Same ugly-ass jerseys.”
Starblind nodded. “Same jerks.” Opentoe College had some sort of evangelical mission that involved perpetual kindness and hopelessly outdated uniforms. The Harpooners hated them for it. It was unspeakably infuriating that the one school in the UMSCAC that spent less money on its baseball program than Westish always managed to kick their ass. The Opentoe players never talked even the mildest forms of smack. If you worked a walk, the first baseman would say, “Good eye.” If you ripped a three-run triple, the third baseman would say, “Nice rip.” They smiled when they were behind, and when they were ahead they looked pensive and slightly sad. Their team name was the Holy Poets.
Usually Owen began warm-ups by leading the team in a series of yoga stretches. Today Henry took his place, omitting Owen’s stream of commentary (“Pretend that your shoulders have dissolved, good, no, let them dissolve entirely…”) and instead just proceeding from one stretch to the next. The Harpooners followed along by rote as they scanned the bleachers. There weren’t any girls, Opentoe was weak on girls, but more and more scouts kept arriving, each new scout announcing himself as such by either his laptop or his cigar, depending on his generation, and by shaking hands with the rest of the scouts.
After they stretched, Arsch took Starblind down to the bullpen to begin loosening up to pitch. The rest of the Harpooners jogged into position for infield/outfield drills. Schwartz, who saved his body for games by practicing as little as possible, retreated to the dugout. Today was going to be a long one: in his rush to leave the house, he’d left his Vicoprofen