52

Izzy scored the winning run in the second game of the doubleheader when, with the score tied 6 all in the bottom of the tenth, Schwartz hammered a double into the left-field corner. The Harpooners poured out of the dugout to greet Izzy as he crossed home plate, trading fist bumps and man hugs and muted words of praise. The split left them one game behind Coshwale in the UMSCAC standings, with another doubleheader tomorrow at the Muskies’ home diamond. “Tomorrow,” someone said, and it became a refrain to nod to and repeat.

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

Back in the locker room, they set about their private postgame rituals, stretching and heating and icing, showering and shaving and scraping off eye black, slathering on the stinging menthols of Icy Hot, Tiger Balm, Fire Cool, detonating sneezy white puffs of foot powder, baby powder, fungus powder, crotch powder. Schwartz headed into the whirlpool room to soak. He turned off the lights, lowered himself into the rattling tub, and tried not to think about baseball for a few minutes, tried not to think about Henry, while the salts and churning water did their inadequate work on his body. He’d spotted Pella in the stands today—she hadn’t hopped a plane back to San Francisco with The Architect. It had been sweet to see her navy windbreaker amid all that ugly red.

When he returned to the locker room it was empty. His back hurt as much as it ever had. It took two minutes to put his underwear on. He popped a handful of Advil—he was fresh out of anything better—and finished dressing as quickly as he could.

By the time he emerged onto the broad stone steps of the VAC the sun had set, and the evening had turned spring cool. Through the semidarkness he could see someone wandering the parking lot in mothlike circles—she stopped and looked up as the wooden doors creaked shut. “Sophie,” he said.

“Mike?”

She trotted over, backpack bouncing on her shoulder, and gave him a commiserative hug. Schwartz felt like he knew her well, though they’d only met once. She looked distinctly like her brother—same slender neck and elegant posture, same soft features and pale-blue eyes. She looked older than the girl in the faded photo above Henry’s desk, more nearly adult, but also as skinny and credulous as Henry had been when he arrived at Westish. The Skrimshanders were late bloomers. “Where’s Henry?” she asked.

“Probably at Carapelli’s, with the rest of the team. I’m late to meet them.”

“I saw the rest of the team,” Sophie protested. “Henry wasn’t with them. I figured you two were together.”

Goddamnit. Schwartz reached for his phone—his first impulse was to call Owen, but he didn’t want Sophie to know that he didn’t know where Henry was. Instead he tapped out a text: is H w u? “Your brother likes to use the fire door,” he lied. “One of his rituals. Where are your folks?”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “My mom dragged my dad back to the hotel to keep him from yelling at Henry. He’s, like, half a second away from an aneurysm.” She deepened her voice to a growl. “Kid just quit. Quit on his team. Deserves what he gets.”

“He’ll cool off.”

“Someday. Anyway we’re all in one room. I’m keeping away from there.”

Schwartz wasn’t sure what to do. He could take Sophie to Carapelli’s for dinner with the team, she could meet Aparicio Rodriguez, nobody would object—but he was already beginning to understand that Henry might not be there. That he might be gone. Whatever gone could mean, on this little campus.

His phone trilled in his hand. He assumed it would be Owen, but the caller ID showed his own home number.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” said Pella. “Where are you?”

“In front of the VAC.”

“In your favorite towel?”

It took Schwartz a few beats to remember what she was talking about.

“I really need to talk to you. Will you be back soon?”

“I have to go to team dinner. I’ll be back around ten.”

“Could I come meet you? I’m sorry, Mike. I know you’ve had a rough day. I just really need your advice. It’s about my dad.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll be home by ten.”

Pella sighed. “Okay. Is it okay if I wait here?”

Sophie had wandered a few yards away and was sitting on the bottom step, staring at the tapping toes of her laceless sneakers. Schwartz couldn’t send her back to her parents, couldn’t take her with him, couldn’t leave her here. He was about to hang up the phone when an idea struck him.

“You want me to what?” Pella said plaintively.

“You heard me.”

“You’re kidding. Mike, it’s been a really weird day.”

Schwartz wasn’t kidding. “Go get dressed,” he told Sophie as he hung up the phone. “Pella’s going to meet you here in half an hour.” He pressed two of Coach Cox’s C-notes into her palm. “Tell her you want to go to Maison Robert.”