The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [70]
Even as he thought this, his spirits dipped at the loss of the chance to read to Owen. He’d been dreaming of it all morning. But Whitman! What was he thinking? Reading aloud was already borderline intimate, one voice, two pairs of ears, well-shaped words—you didn’t need to press your luck. He should have brought Tocqueville. Or William James. Or Plato. No, not Plato.
He released Genevieve Wister’s hand and bathed her in the most charming, mother-schmoozing smile he could muster. Still, he felt jittery, as if addressing an authority-wielding elder rather than someone twelve or fifteen years younger than he. “The surname threw me,” he said apologetically.
“When I divorced Owen’s father, I decided that ‘Owen Wister’ wasn’t such a good idea.”
“Ah,” Affenlight said again dumbly. What a strange thing love was! You met an excruciatingly beautiful creature, one who seemed too well formed to have sprung from sperm and egg and that whole imperfect error-prone process—and then you met his mother.
“Good news,” Owen said. “They’re setting me free today.”
“You won’t have to travel so far to visit, President Affenlight,” Genevieve joked.
“Wonderful,” Affenlight said. “That’s wonderful.” The longer he looked, the more attuned he became to the resemblances between mother and son. At first the differences in their skin color had fooled him. Owen’s—apart from his parti-colored, metallically bright bruises—was close in hue to Affenlight’s own, though ashen where Affenlight’s was ruddy. Genevieve, on the other hand, was extremely darkly complected in a West African way. Owen’s black, Affenlight thought. He’d known this, of course, but seeing his mother made it plain.
Genevieve’s features were sharper, more forceful than Owen’s, but their dark eyes were nearly identical, and the true similarities were in their bodies: the same modest, gently sloping shoulders, the same soft limbs and long graceful fingers. The way she sat down on the edge of the bed, gesturing Affenlight toward the vacated chair with a slight, lively movement of her palm, might have been something she’d learned from countless hours of observing her son. Or, of course, the other way around.
“I really can’t stay,” Affenlight said. “I just dropped by to ensure Owen was being well cared for. Clearly”—he offered Genevieve a solicitous smile—“he is.”
“Well, you’re very kind to take such an interest,” Genevieve said.
“My pleasure.” Affenlight took out his handkerchief to wipe his brow. He hadn’t felt this awkward in a social situation since—well, since last night with Henry, in Owen’s room. But before that it had been a long time.
“Perhaps you’d let me make a small show of thanks? Owen and I would love it if you could join us later for dinner.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” Affenlight said quickly, but maybe that bordered on rudeness. “That is, I’d love to, and you’re extremely kind to offer, but unfortunately—well, not unfortunately, of course—my daughter’s just arrived from San Francisco. In fact”—he glanced at his watch—“I’m late to meet her ri—”
“Your daughter?” Genevieve said. “How perfect! I thought you were going to claim a business engagement. The four of us can dine together. My treat.”
Why, why hadn’t he claimed a business engagement? Affenlight appealed silently to Owen, but Owen, propped against his pillows, looked as amused and detached as if he were watching a movie. “It’s not every day my mother comes to town,” he pointed out.
Genevieve nodded. “I’m allergic to the Midwest.”
“So’s my daughter,” Affenlight allowed, and something in his tone—he heard it as readily as Owen and Genevieve did—marked this as an acceptance of the invitation. “There’s a French place near the campus,” he said. “Maison Robert. It’s a little down at the heel, but the food is good.”
“That sounds perfect,” Genevieve said.
As Affenlight inched toward the door, she stood up and extended her arms in a pre-embrace posture. Affenlight