The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [77]
The Westish Chapel bells were tolling eight o’clock. “Every hour?” Affenlight said.
“Just about.” Owen laid his hands on the gentle swell of his belly and closed his eyes. “I did feel worse once, I suppose. When Jason broke up with me.”
Jason. The name broke over Affenlight like a wave. “Jason?” he asked.
“Jason Gomes. Do you remember him?”
It took Affenlight a moment to place the name. “Ah, yes. Jason was one of our best students.”
Owen nodded. “And your best-looking.”
“I don’t remember that part.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do,” Owen said coyly. “He was much better-looking than I am. He might even have been better-looking than you.” Owen scratched his chin, his tone evaluative and probably slightly teasing. Affenlight blanched. If Owen thought Jason was slightly better-looking than Affenlight but much better-looking than Owen, then Owen thought that Affenlight was better-looking than Owen. Which was a compliment. But to be compared unfavorably to an ex-boyfriend: that was a slight. But the conditional had been used: might even have been. It was like an SAT for gay flirting. Not that gay flirting differed from straight flirting. But if it didn’t differ, why was Affenlight so bad at it? Genevieve had returned and was perusing Affenlight’s bookshelves, her back turned, sipping her wine.
“It hurt that much?” Affenlight asked quietly, meaning the breakup.
“I was so distressed I refused to eat. Henry had to force-feed me.” Owen opened his eyes and looked at Affenlight. “I don’t like getting my heart broken.”
Before Affenlight could digest this, Genevieve arranged herself beside him on the couch, crossing those dynamite legs in his direction. “Guert, this is quite a place.”
“Do you like it?”
She looked around, her chin lifted thoughtfully. “I do,” she decided. “But it’s certainly very…”
“Academic?” Affenlight suggested.
“I was going to say undergraduate. Or masculine. But I suppose your daughter can help with the latter, at least. Where is she, by the way?”
“She went out to forage for some snacks for us.”
“She’d better not be going to any trouble.” Genevieve waggled a finger at Affenlight. “The whole point of this evening was for me to thank you for taking such good care of Owen.”
“Nonsense. You two are the guests of honor. You’ve traveled all this way, and Owen has done Westish proud. News of the Trowell goes out worldwide—it’s the sort of thing that makes a school president look good.”
“The school president looks pretty good already.” Genevieve smiled. Affenlight smiled back. Was he straight flirting? The legs seemed to demand it. Or maybe it wasn’t the legs but the fact that he had no other way to relate to women. What could you do if you couldn’t flirt, charm, and flatter? You could keep the conversation lofty and erudite, but in Affenlight’s experience this was usually perceived as flirting too. Luckily Owen seemed to have dozed off. Though maybe he was just pretending.
For a split second Affenlight thought that Genevieve’s hand was tickling his thigh; despite himself he flinched, kicking the coffee table and sloshing wine out of his glass. It turned out to be his cell phone buzzing in his pocket. Genevieve, by way of response, patted him on the thigh. “Easy,” she said, plucking at the crease in his light-wool slacks. “You okay?”
“Ha-ha. Yes, of course. Sorry about that,” Affenlight said. “My phone.” He slipped the infernal device partway from his pocket and checked the caller ID. A 415 area code—Pella, he thought, but Pella had left her phone in San Francisco. David, then, returned from wherever he’d been, returned to find his wife’s phone on the kitchen table, the call log stuffed with his own unrequited calls. Bewildered now; apoplectic soon enough. Affenlight let it ring.
27
Any doubts Pella might have had about the provenance of her father’s strange behavior dissolved when she entered the study to find a beautiful black yoga-sculpted woman nestling—or