The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [79]
“Actually,” Pella said, “the book has very little to do with homosexuality per se. It’s more about the cult of male friendship in nineteenth-century America. Boys’ clubs, whale boats, baseball teams. Emotional nourishment before the modern era of gender equality.”
“Pseudo-equality, you mean.”
Pella smiled. “Pseudo-equality. I think my dad’s lonely,” she added. “When we lived in Cambridge he always had a girlfriend, two girlfriends, however many. But none of them stuck around very long. I think it was too soon after my mom died.” Pella paused. In fact she had little idea how her dad felt about her mom’s death, and this simple sentence she’d always, as a child, believed—It was too soon—now came out sounding like a lie.
“Anyway,” she concluded with overt cheer, because Genevieve was looking at her with oh-no-your-mom-died sympathy, “he could use a girlfriend.”
Genevieve tipped the bottle’s dregs into her glass. “I’ll take that as a blessing.”
Pella, happy to play along, drew a sign of the cross in the air between her and Genevieve. She retrieved the champagne that her father had jammed into the freezer, and they carried the food and champagne into the study.
“To Owen,” her dad said, raising his glass aloft. “May he prosper in the Land of the Rising Sun, as he has in the Land of the Falling Snow.”
“How sweet,” Genevieve said. “Hear! Hear!”
“We’ll miss him”—Affenlight’s voice fell to a forlorn note—“but we’ll soldier on.” Pella thought this a bit much; her dad must be pretty keen to get between Genevieve’s legs. Not that he could really be blamed. Few women made it into their forties with legs like that.
They clinked glasses. “Only a sip for you, kiddo,” Genevieve said, leaning forward to squeeze her son’s toes. “You’re on all that medication.” She turned to Pella. “I never asked what you do in San Francisco.”
“Do? Um, well, you know…”
“Wait, don’t tell me. You’re a graduate student. In”—Genevieve pressed her fingertips to her temples and closed her eyes—“something stylish. Something artistic. Something like… architecture.” She opened her eyes. “How did I do?”
Had David left that deep an imprint on her? Pella reached across her body to scratch a nervous itch along the flukes of her tattoo. “You’re close,” she said.
“I knew it! How close?”
“Genevieve, you’re being gauche.” Owen yawned, opening his mouth cautiously because of the swelling, and rubbed his belly. “It’s only Americans who insist on asking everyone what they do.”
“Well, we are Americans, dear.”
Pella distributed the remaining champagne, filling Owen’s flute to the brim as thanks for his intervention. He winked at her, took a long slow sip, and let his eyelids flutter closed. He had beautiful eyelashes, like his mother. Pella wondered at the blithe comfort that allowed him to doze off like that, in the company of the president of his college, in his pajamas. She was developing an admiration for him.
“Let the punishment fit the crime,” her dad said. “Genevieve, what do you do?”
“I’m an anchorperson,” Genevieve said. “On the San Jose evening news.”
“Ah!” said Affenlight. “A celebrity in our midst.”
“It’s really not very glamorous. Sit around all day staring at the internet, then spend an eternity in hair and makeup—that’s why I shaved my head, so I could skip a step.”
Genevieve paused to give Affenlight an opportunity to tell her how good her hair looked, but Affenlight barely noticed. Was Owen really asleep? he wondered. Or was he just pretending to be asleep, in order to monitor Affenlight’s behavior toward Genevieve? That would be like Owen—to control the room with his torpor.
“Your hair looks lovely,” he said several beats too late.
Genevieve beamed, ran a hand breezily over her scalp. “Tell my producer. I thought he was going to fire me. But I’m black and I’ve been there forever.”
“Indeed,” Affenlight said.
Owen’s good eye popped open. “What’s that?”
“What?”
“Outside. Listen.”
Affenlight leaned forward. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Probably the wind,” Genevieve said, but then it came again, a patter