The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [93]
Henry won the next one. And the five after that. His lungs rose high in his throat. His legs shook. They’d never run this many sprints at this pace, especially not midseason. He put his hands on his hips and tipped back his chin. His dizziness made the dusk-dark clouds wheel madly through the sky. Come on, he thought. Hang on.
He won the next two, heart pounding, stomach heaving. He eked out the next one by a nose. Henry nine, Starblind eight, with one tie. Starblind looked bleach-pale, his footsteps wobbly and erratic as they headed toward the next starting line. Henry almost asked if he was okay, if maybe they shouldn’t quit early—but that wasn’t how the game worked. Starblind could take care of Starblind.
Henry lost the nineteenth race on purpose. Tie score. That way Starblind would still have a chance to win and would have to push himself to the last. They walked up to the line. Henry summoned every bit of strength he had left, pounded down the track with a spent-but-still-game, far-from-giving-up Starblind right alongside him. Empty yourself completely, Henry could hear Schwartz saying. Empty yourself.
He unleashed a war cry and accelerated, outran his breath. He left a dark gap between himself and Starblind. Starblind slowed a few yards short of the finish, coughing hard. He staggered forward, planted his hands on his thighs, spilled his stomach onto the track. Henry, light-headed, hands on hips, was trying to ward off nausea himself. He wandered away to give Starblind some privacy. Out over the lake a hard white spray kicked high off the breakers and caught some source of light. A moth banged against Henry’s arm, banged against his shoulder, finally lit on his wet chest. He cupped a hand over it. Furry wings fluttered against his palm. Starblind was still crouched down, making piteous puppyish noises. It felt good to make somebody else puke for a change.
32
Are you okay?”
“Sure.”
“No, really. You look stricken. Like you might be ill.”
“I’m fine,” Affenlight said. He and Owen were side by side on the love seat now, Owen’s left leg flipped over Affenlight’s right, their arms curled around each other’s shoulders.
“If you’re not okay just tell me.”
“Shhh.” Affenlight’s stomach did feel a little funny, but he wasn’t about to say so.
“Do you want me to leave?”
“No,” Affenlight said. “Not at all.” But he wasn’t displeased when Owen withdrew his leg and arm to leave a space between them on the love seat. He even felt relieved. He didn’t want Owen to leave, but he didn’t really want him there either.
Owen eyed him warily, tied the drawstring on his martial artist’s pants. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
“I’m fine,” Affenlight said. “Just give me a second.”
“I don’t want you to do things you don’t want to do. I don’t want to force you.”
“You didn’t. You aren’t.” Affenlight’s stomach grumbled nastily. He felt confused and inarticulate. He wished Owen would go, just for a little while, but he couldn’t stand to see him walk out the door.
“If you’re straight, you’re straight,” Owen said. “C’est la vie.”
Well, wasn’t he? It was true that Affenlight thought of himself as straight. Or, at least, he didn’t think of himself as gay. But he also knew he’d never be with a woman again. Or another man either. He was only so old, but it seemed he’d reached the final movement of his sexual life—from here on out, he’d be with Owen or no one. No one or Owen.
“Say something,” Owen said.
“I’m not sure what to say.” Affenlight noticed his right hand clutching his stomach in a way that indicated discomfort. He tucked the hand under his thigh. “I’ve never done that before.”
“Well, sure,” Owen said. “That’s obvious.”
Affenlight blanched. Not only was what he was doing strange and shameful and somehow wrong—wrong not in any conventional ethical sense but simply because he felt so strange and scraped and speechless now—not only all that, but he wasn’t any good at it either. “It was that bad?”
“It was fine.”
“Fine?”
“Better than fine. It was wonderful. Are you sure you’re okay?”
Affenlight nodded, looked at Owen