The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [99]
“Couldn’t Henry’s family help out? I mean, he stands to make a lot of money, right? It’d be an investment.”
“The Skrimshanders don’t have money to invest,” Schwartz said. “His dad’s not a college president.”
“I didn’t imagine that he was.”
“I’m not sure you can imagine anything else.”
“Don’t pick a fight with me! Why are you picking a fight with me?”
“Sorry.”
They lay in silence for a while. Finally Pella said, “I’ve been planning to sell my wedding ring. Henry could use part of that money. As a loan.”
As soon as the words left Pella’s lips, she knew that they were a mistake. It was a genuine offer, genuinely meant—but it came at precisely the wrong time, and she could already tell by Mike’s face how it would be interpreted: She was trying to insert herself into his relationship with Henry. She was implying that she, or a therapist, could help Henry where he could not. She was brandishing her superior financial status. She was reminding him that though they both had crackers and tea for dinner, she didn’t have to.
“Henry has enough loans,” he said.
“Then I could just give him the money. Or give it to you, and you could arrange it with the therapist. Henry wouldn’t have to know how much it cost.”
“I’m sure it would cost plenty.”
“Well,” Pella said, “it’s a pretty expensive ring.”
Something flared in Schwartz’s chest. He’d Googled Pella’s husband, had seen the photograph on his firm’s website: The Architect leaning back from his drafting table, mechanical pencil in hand, fixing the camera with a tight, tolerant smile. He looked like a dork in his cashmere sweater and neatly groomed beard, but he had money and read Greek and was married, for Chrissakes, to Pella. However much she disparaged him, he was part of a world of casual privilege that she could return to at any time. “I’m sure it is,” he said. “I’m sure it cost a fortune.”
“You want to know how much it cost?” Pella matched the sharpness in his voice and raised it one. “It cost fourteen thousand dollars. Does that make you feel better?”
“I feel great,” said Schwartz. “I feel like fourteen thousand bucks.”
“Ha.”
Down the block someone was dribbling a basketball. Each bounce reverberated through the corrugated drainpipes that cut beneath the ends of driveways, connecting one section of culvert to the next. “Forget it,” Schwartz said. “We don’t need your money.”
“I wasn’t offering it to you,” Pella said. “And anyway I don’t know why you’re being so contrary. If Henry hurt his elbow, he’d go to the doctor, right? And you’d make sure he had the best doctor money could buy.”
“We’re not talking about Henry’s elbow. We’re talking about his head.”
“It’s an analogy,” Pella said, as if he might not have heard the word before. “And a fair one. But you’re not trying to be fair, are you?”
Goddamnit, Schwartz thought. If only they’d had sex everything would be fine. The Viagra was right there in the drawer by the jeans; so close and yet so far.
“Would it upset you,” Pella said, “if Henry saw a shrink and it helped?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“You can’t be afraid that it won’t help—that would be absurd, because nothing else is helping. You’re afraid that it will help. What scares you is that he’ll get drafted and go pro and be fine. Better than fine. He’ll be happy as a clam and he won’t need you anymore. But as long as he’s at Westish, as long as he’s a mess, then you’re still running the show.”
Schwartz stared up at the dirt-gray sheet that the breeze was making billow and dance just above his nose. “That’s bullshit.” It was bullshit, he knew it was bullshit, but it was plausible bullshit, and to hear it spoken aloud sapped the air from his gut.
Pella wasn’t quite finished. “What you two need is couples counseling. Classic codependency. The neuroses and secret wishes of one partner manifesting themselves in the symptoms of the oth—”
“Oh, shut up.”
“I will, don’t worry. First I have to tell you something.” Her eyes softened in a way that surprised him. “David’s coming.”
“David David?”
“That’s