27

Any doubts Pella might have had about the provenance of her father’s strange behavior dissolved when she entered the study to find a beautiful black yoga-sculpted woman nestling—or maybe not quite nestling but sitting pretty close for a near–total stranger—against him on the couch. Her skin was youthful, her hair cropped short, her legs and eyelashes insanely long. The legs, as she uncrossed them and rose from the couch to greet Pella, flashed in sensual arcs like polished Brancusi birds.

“Pella! So nice to meet you.” Genevieve squeezed Pella’s elbow and smoothly took the bag of groceries from her, as if they’d accomplished this exchange hundreds of times. Pella, in the presence of this sleek being, felt frumpy and floury again. She crossed her arms to protect the pasty sag of her breasts and biceps, vowed to hit the pool with new vigor tomorrow.

“Pella, this is Owen,” Affenlight said. “Owen, Pella.”

Owen smiled with half his face and lifted a palm in greeting.

“Congratulations on your fellowship,” Pella said.

“Thank you.” The unsmiling half of his face was hugely swollen, covered in purple bruises, and he was wearing a bizarre getup of white undershirt and red pajama pants dotted with black-and-white yin-yang symbols. But what struck her most was how slender and gentle he looked: she knew he played baseball and was expecting an enormous jock like Mike.

“Pella and I will be in the kitchen.” Genevieve carried the food that way as if the apartment were her own. “You men try to entertain yourselves.”

Pella trotted behind obediently. Genevieve opened all the right cabinets, finding serving dishes Pella didn’t know existed, and busily began transferring Chef Spirodocus’s concoctions—falafel, hummus, vegetables, something wrapped in grape leaves, something that smelled of fennel—from their plastic cartons. Pella tried to think of some way to help. Finally she spotted the cinnamon-currant loaf sitting on the counter, where Genevieve had set it, and stuck it in the oven.

“Now,” Genevieve said, pouring herself another glass of wine, “as long as we’re women in the kitchen, can we indulge in a bit of women-in-the-kitchen gossip?”

“Sure.” Pella squinted at the oven display. Three hundred degrees? Four hundred? She decided to split the difference.

“You should probably preheat that.” Genevieve touched Pella’s elbow to lessen the force of the order.

“Of course.” She punched the button that said PREHEAT.

“Maybe without the loaf in there?”

“Ah.” Pella withdrew the pan and set it on a burner. Back home in Buena Vista she had a restaurant-quality six-burner self-cleaning stainless-steel range, yet she didn’t even know how not to char food that someone else had made. That seemed like some kind of metaphor for her life, or modernity, or something.

“Perfect,” said Genevieve. “So. Your dad’s not married anymore?”

“He never was,” Pella said, more eagerly than she intended. It’d been a long time since she’d talked about boys; it was fun, even if the boy was her dad.

Genevieve nodded. “He has that perpetual-bachelor thing going. Responsible without being mature. And this apartment—it’s like an English major’s dorm room but with first editions instead of paperbacks. Where does he spend the summer?”

“Here.”

“The poor man.” Genevieve’s hair was shorter than Mike’s, but she had an analogous way of passing her hand over it when nonplussed. Though maybe it wasn’t analogous at all—Genevieve’s was a breezy feminine grooming motion, whereas Mike’s was always accompanied by a sad exhalation. In which case, thought Pella, I’m looking for excuses to think about Mike. Which would mean that I like him. But maybe I don’t want to like him. She poured some wine into her empty whiskey tumbler and tabled the question—she’d come to Westish to try her hand at being unattached.

Genevieve was looking at her intently.

“Pardon?” said Pella.

“I’m sorry. Did that question offend you?”

“Which question?”

“It would never have crossed my mind,” Genevieve said quickly, sounding apologetic, “except that when O was in high school he read your dad’s book—I forget the —and was so enamored of it. I think that’s how he first heard of Westish, by Googling Guert Affenlight.”

“Ah,” said Pella. “Is my dad gay.”

Genevieve was watching her anxiously, as if awaiting forgiveness.

“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 that rattled the windowpane, like a handful of tossed pebbles. Affenlight went to the window and peered down into the dark quad. Unable to make out whoever or whatever was below, he pushed open the hinged windows and, half a moment later, staggered backward, spilling champagne as his hand shot up to clutch his jaw. A round object, more rock than pebble, dropped to the study’s floor. “Who’s there?” he yelled.

“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 morning.”

That settled it. Affenlight, pleased by Mike’s mention of his scotch collection, brought out three more bottles. They tested each in turn, murmuring, Ooh, peaty… ahh, smoky! as they made small noises of pleasure. They toasted Genevieve’s visit, Pella’s arrival, Owen’s Trowell, Henry in his absence. Mike, looking happier than Pella had yet seen him, roamed the room, browsing the endless shelves, until he found The Book itself—the oversize, hand-set, Arion Press Moby-Dick that her dad had bought for a thousand dollars in 1985 and was now worth thirty times more, not that you could assign a value to such a dear and beautiful thing… Soon Mike and Owen and Genevieve were gathered around, admiring The Book, listening raptly as Affenlight launched into the tale of Melville’s trip to the Midwest, his own discovery of the misplaced and tattered lecture, and the subsequent story of how the Melville statue and the name Harpooners came to be.

Pella stayed put on the couch. She had a complicated attitude toward her dad’s performances. Deep down she loved to listen to him and thought he should have been a truly famous man—president of Harvard, at least, or a small but influential post-Soviet country. But the way he cranked up the charm at certain moments and then basked in the adulation of his audience annoyed her. She knew this was precisely a professor’s job—to build a repertoire of lectures, refine them over time, and perform them as charismatically as possible. To never seem sick of your own voice, for the sake of others. And yet. You could take the same class only so many times.

When the lecture ended Mike wrapped a big paw around Pella’s hand, smiled at her gently. Her annoyance faded as she glimpsed Westish College through his eyes. To her it was a run-down, too-rustic safety school to which her father had banished himself; to Mike it was everything, his home and family, the place into which he’d poured every bit of himself, and which, as soon as the semester ended, planned to boot him out forever. He’d been trying to find a new home, a law school that would take him in, but it hadn’t panned out. If home was where your heart was, then Westish was Mike’s home. If home was where they had to take you in no matter what, then it was hers. She squeezed his hand.

AFTER ONE MORE SCOTCH, the evening passed its fulcrum. Mike fell asleep in his chair, his bowling-ball shoulders heaving politely, one bearded cheek squashed against an open palm. Affenlight caught Pella gazing at his sleeping form. She’d never gone for jocks—they were too straitlaced, too prone to follow orders—but Affenlight sensed that this one stood a pretty good chance. David had left three messages on Affenlight’s cell in the past two hours.

Genevieve’s shoulder was pressed against his own, but her attention had been diverted to Pella; the two of them were looking at Schwartz and whispering girlishly. Affenlight excused himself to carry glasses to the kitchen. He picked up a dishtowel and brushed some crumbs off the countertop. He flipped on the light above the sink. He flipped it off again. He was loitering, and he didn’t know why, or at least could pretend he didn’t know why, until Owen walked into the room and leaned against the crumbless counter.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Please.”

“Genevieve seems rather smitten with you.”

Affenlight feigned a smile. “As an erstwhile English professor, I should probably point out that that isn’t a question.”

“I’ll be more direct. You’re not intending to sleep with my mother, are you?”

Through the archway, not five yards away from where Affenlight was standing, Genevieve’s slim dark legs projected from the couch, her top foot bobbing gently as she dangled her sandal between two toes. “No,” Affenlight said. “I’m not.”

“Good.”

Owen looked at Affenlight intently, and Affenlight felt—well, Affenlight felt like an idiot. What would happen next? He slung his dishtowel over his shoulder, he pulled it down and wound it around his hand like a boxer’s wrap. Not since the night he found out that Pella’s mother had died, his daughter’s visit suddenly transformed from a novelty, a running departmental joke, into a permanent way of life, had Affenlight felt so overwhelmingly helpless.

“You’re leaving,” he said, meaning not for the evening but for Japan. “Soon.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll miss you.”

Owen smiled. “Who’s we?”

Affenlight didn’t answer. He was a little taller than Owen, but the way they leaned against the counter made their eyes exactly level.

“You might have to endure me awhile longer,” Owen said. “Dr. Sobel asked me to teach playwriting to the summer-school kids.”

Three extra months—it wasn’t the forever Affenlight longed for, but it was something. He nodded, showing part but not all of his relief at this. “Beautiful summers here.”

“So I hear.”

“Fishing. Some very good fishing.”

Owen smiled. “Sounds barbaric.”

“We could go sometime,” Affenlight ventured. “On a Saturday morning.”

Owen smiled again. “As long as we don’t kill any fish.” His socked toes brushed against Affenlight’s cordovan loafer. “Or any worms, of course.”

The moonlight made a little patch on the battered linoleum, which Affenlight had always meant to replace and which now seemed awfully embarrassing. What would happen next? Owen leaned toward him, one eyebrow lifted in an expression of benign irony, his eyes near blind like a prophet’s. Closer and closer still, taking care to avert the sore, swollen side of his face. The moon slipped behind clouds, and the pall over the linoleum became uniform. Affenlight’s heart galloped and seized. The phone in his pocket buzzed again. The kiss landed tenderly, toward the corner of his mouth.