The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [97]
A cabin door opened, and the dark outline of a person appeared. The figure yawned loudly, muttered a few pleasant curses, and, using the still-open door as a shield against the wind, struck a match, revealing the meaty, splotchy, amiably dissolute face of Rick O’Shea, his lips cupped around a home-rolled cigarette. “Schwartzy?” he puffed, squinting into the darkness and letting the door bang shut behind him. “That you, pal?”
“It’s me.”
Rick ambled over and leaned against the railing, blew a pensive smoke-shape into the night. “Bitch-tit of a game.”
Schwartz nodded.
“You talk to Skrim?”
Before Schwartz could decide how to answer, a patter of footsteps became audible in the distance and another figure hove into view, this one with its silhouetted hands atop its head, silhouetted elbows spread like wings. The head nodded up and down, keeping time with unheard music. As it drew closer, Schwartz could hear short sharp breathing that bordered on hyperventilation.
“Skrimmer.” Schwartz laid a hand on the slick fabric of Henry’s warm-up jacket, but Henry kept moving without slowing down. “I’m just walking,” he said breathlessly, still nodding. “I’ll just walk.”
“You okay, Skrim?” Rick asked. “You got a cramp or something?”
“Just walking,” Henry said. “I’ll keep walking.”
He continued down the deck toward the stern and was absorbed into the darkness.
Rick took one last drag before flicking his cigarette butt over the rail. The orange flame bounced once, twice, against the hull and vanished. “Panic attack,” he said.
“What do we do?”
“My mom usually drinks a couple screwdrivers. She says the orange juice has a soothing effect.” Rick, seized by a thought, took off after Henry. Schwartz tried to follow, but his legs wouldn’t let him.
Before long Rick and Henry reappeared, walking fast, Henry still nodding with his hands locked atop his head, Rick with his face tucked close to Henry’s own, whispering. Schwartz stepped aside to let them pass.
A few laps later, Henry’s arms fell down by his sides, and Rick flashed Schwartz a thumbs-up sign. They made seven or eight more orbits, each at a slower pace than the last, as Henry wound down like a toy. When they finally stopped, the ferry was in sight of the dock.
34
Later that night, Schwartz and Pella lay in Schwartz’s bed. Even with some postgame painkillers in his system, even with the deadness that entered his legs after a game, he’d never had trouble before. Pella tried to coax him as they kissed, her fingertips trailing lightly along the flap of his boxers, but it was no use. “It’s okay,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
“About what?”
“You know. Henry.”
“It’s bad,” Schwartz said. “I’m starting to worry that it’s bad. The last couple of games, he seemed to be getting over it. But today—today was bad.”
“Are you sure he’s not hurt? Maybe he hurt his arm and he’s afraid to tell anyone.”
“His arm’s fine. You should see the throws he makes at practice. Or even in games, on the bang-bang plays. When he doesn’t have time to think about it. His arm is a triumph of nature.”
Pella said nothing. The stertor of Meat’s breathing came softly, almost soothingly, through the wall. “It’s always the easy plays,” Schwartz said, “the balls hit right at him. You can see the gears spinning: Am I gonna screw this up? Maybe I’m gonna screw this up. I just want to grab him by the shoulders and shake it out of him. He’s creating this whole problem out of nothing. Nothing.”
Pella nestled closer, again passed her hand against the front of his boxers. In the three-quarters