The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [80]
“Hi, President Affenlight. It’s Mike Schwartz. I was, uh, aiming for the weather vane.”
Affenlight rubbed his jaw. “You missed.”
The gray form three stories below—he was standing in what, tomorrow morning, would be the shadow of the Melville statue—lifted his arms in a cruciform gesture of apology. “I guess I’m a little tired. We played two games today.”
“Both wins, I hope.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well done. You gentlemen are doing us proud this year.” As Affenlight stepped back from the window, he tested the small lump that was forming at his jawline. “Good night, Michael.”
“Uh, President Affenlight?”
“What is it?”
“I was wondering whether I could speak to Pella.”
Affenlight looked at Pella, who nodded her assent. Aha, thought Affenlight. “Should I lower her down in a bucket,” he said to the window, “or would you prefer to come upstairs?”
“I’d be happy to come up, sir.”
“Make it snappy,” Affenlight growled, his tone a kind of half-serious homage to the surliness of fathers toward their daughters’ suitors. “The champagne’s getting warm.”
MIKE SCHWARTZ ENTERED THE ROOM muttering apologies, wearing a penitent frown between his beard and his baseball cap. He stopped short when he saw Owen. “Buddha. You’re out of the hospital.”
“I am,” Owen agreed. “Mike, this is my mother. Genevieve, this is Mike Schwartz, the moral conscience of Westish.”
Genevieve rose from the couch to shake Mike’s hand, legs flashing below her navy skirt. “Now I just need to meet the famous Henry,” she declared. “And my trip will be complete.”
Affenlight, who’d gone to the kitchen, returned with tumblers and bottles on a tray. “Invite Henry over,” he said. “I thought we might try some scotch, in honor of Owen’s news.”
“Yes, call him!” Genevieve said. “I’ve been talking to Henry on the phone for years, he’s practically my second son, and yet I’ve never met him. It’s really atrocious.”
Mike shook his head. “He’s probably asleep already. The Skrimmer had a rough day.”
Owen asked what happened, and Mike delved into the story at greater length than Pella cared to follow—a bad throw, another bad throw, and so on.
“Poor Henry,” Genevieve said. “Sounds like he could use a drink.”
It was good scotch, meant for sipping, but Pella poured herself an extra belt and burrowed down into the couch. Mike, Owen, Genevieve—it seemed like everyone she met wanted to talk about Henry. On her way out of the dining hall she’d seen a copy of the weekend Westish Bugler lying on an unbussed table. “Henry Goes for 52,” read the block-lettered headline, and beneath it ran a half-page photo of a guy on a field, throwing a ball. His hat was pulled down to his eyes and he looked like any guy on any field, throwing any ball.
When a lull came in the conversation, she touched Mike’s elbow and flashed her comeliest come-hither look. Although technically it was more of a let’s-go-thither look. He had certainly earned some romance points by tossing pebbles at her window, even if the toss turned out to be an athlete’s forceful throw, the pebble a rock, the window her dad’s face. He’d tried, in his courtly but awkward, bearlike way—he’d been thinking about her. And he had those eyes, those lovely amber eyes…
Those eyes met hers with a total lack of comprehension. “What?” he said, halting the conversation and turning everyone’s heads toward them.
“Maybe we should get going.”
Mike looked at her dumbly. “Why?”
“You know… we were going to watch that movie? That movie you wanted to watch?”
“Are you serious?” he said. “And pass up a chance to sample the presidential scotch collection? I’ve been waiting years for this.”
“Oh, please stay!” Genevieve chimed in. “I’m leaving in the