The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [69]
The next thing he knew Coach Cox had him around the waist and was leading him off the field, calmly chomping his gum while Schwartz twisted halfway around so he could keep screaming at the umpire. The ump fiddled with his ball-strike counter and pretended not to listen. Schwartz stopped midsentence. The red cloud behind his eyes began to lift, and he wondered what all he’d said. Of course he’d been ejected. He glanced back toward Henry, who offered a tiny lift of his shoulders. Schwartz never should have told him, not right before a game.
Schwartz shifted his gaze to the scoreboard in right field. There it was, plain as day, that green light winking in the distance beneath the letter E. Somebody said a few words over the loudspeaker, announcing the end of Henry’s streak. The whole crowd, including the scouts and the players from both teams, rose as one and began to applaud.
22
Affenlight slipped out of his office, a slim volume of Whitman tucked into his inside jacket pocket like a concealed weapon. He headed toward his car, staying close to the bleached-stone walls of Scull Hall so he couldn’t be seen from the windows above. Scull Hall, though similar in size and design to the other buildings on the Small Quad, was supposed to look slightly more distinguished, housing as it did the president’s office and quarters, and to that end the narrow strip of earth between the foundation and the sidewalk had already been churned and fertilized and planted with spring bulbs. The damp soil, sprinkled with tiny white nutritional pellets, sent up a pleasingly dense black odor. He’d told Pella he needed to work until four, whereupon they’d drive to Door County to buy her some new clothes.
He drove fast and parked the Audi. The glass doors of St. Anne’s parted to grant him entrance. Affenlight dropped his cigarette butt into a trash can and thought of Pella’s mother, who’d spent her life—or at least the part during which he’d known her—among the sick and dying, but never seemed to suffer a moment of physical or psychological weakness. Perhaps she was blessed with a hardy constitution, or perhaps she couldn’t afford to complain or feel pain when she had so many fragile bodies to tend to. When Affenlight caught the flu or fell into one of his grim moods, she would frown and ignore him. He’d dismissed this as a lack of sympathy, and even perhaps a form of stupidity, but maybe it was wisdom instead. Had he learned—would he ever learn—to discard the thoughts he could not use? It remained an open question, how much sympathy love could stand.
When he walked into Owen’s room, Owen was sitting up in bed, and a very composed-looking African-American woman in a tailored suit was sitting in his—in Affenlight’s—chair, though she’d dragged it closer to the bed than Affenlight would ever have dared. “President Affenlight,” Owen said, his voice improved since yesterday. “What a nice surprise.”
The woman rose and extended her hand. “Genevieve Wister.” Her tone and smile suggested some sort of ownership of the room. A doctor, then, or a physical therapist—they probably dispensed with uniforms on the weekend. Her skirt was cut just above the knee. Her heels, though low, made it virtually impossible not to notice the long sleek muscles of her calves.
“Guert Affenlight.”
She continued to clasp his hand, several beats past what Affenlight had anticipated. “A personal visit from the school president,” she said, her tone occupying some hard-to-identify spot between wry and impressed, “after a bump on the head. I’ve always known that Owen was in good hands here at Westish, but this surpasses everything.”
Always known? Affenlight looked from Genevieve Wister to Owen Dunne, and back and again. Owen nodded, as if in response to an audible question. “My mother,” he explained.
“Ah.” It occurred to Affenlight that if someone aimed a gun at his chest right now, Whitman would take the bullet. The little green-clad book rested against his heart like a hidden ridiculous earnestness.