Life Among Giants

by Bill Roorbach

  The first bell rang. I felt a surge of violence. I would have liked to have been there to pull him off her. But I felt tender, too: Emily had picked me as her confidant.

  She said, “I should have gone to tea with you, is what I’m saying. Do you think there will be more chances?”

  IN OUR OLD stone house, in my bright room, in my large closet, there was The Dancer cover to study. Out to here! I was. I saw masturbation as a weakness in those days of generalized adolescent guilt; it had to be all but accidental (awake from a dream in the night, or maybe rushing to dress before a tea party) for me to accede. And anyway, I wanted to be true to Emily. I put the album cover away, thumped downstairs, lifted the lids on all the pots, sniffed.

  “What’s got into you?” Mom said. “How’m I supposed to cook with you racketing around? Make yourself useful. You could finish those leaves, for one thing.”

  In the backyard I found no surcease but pulled my scattered leaf pile and Dad’s together with the biggest rake we had, urged them furiously to the Butt, set a match to the huge pyre they made, watched the flames, the ascendant sparks. The familiar smoky fragrance was comforting, but only barely.

  At dinner, Dad had a long, not exactly funny story about something complex that had gone wrong at work, a package of documents mailed instead of messengered, a missed deadline, an unusually lucrative contract canceled, several mid-level execs called on the carpet by the nasty Mr. Perdhomme—Dad himself among them—all followed by a week of gloom around the office, rumors that his whole team might be demoted or even let go. Then had come that day’s news: the generous little firm that had canceled the contract—Tetron Mechanical—had been suddenly indicted as a Mafia money-laundering front, a long list of horrendous crimes, which Dad listed: “Threw one guy off the Brooklyn Bridge, just an accountant at a bakery, this guy. And chained four guys from a ticket agency together and hung them off the scaffolding at a job site. Yeah, yeah, Tetron Mechanical! And apparently these guys are tied to the Dick Fortin thing!” Dick Fortin was a Westport lawyer, everyone knew: gentle, peaceable man, he’d been taken from his office in broad daylight by two men in fake police uniforms, never to be seen again. Any firms doing business with Tetron had been named in the court papers, and indictments were set to roll. “So me and my half-assed colleagues have accidentally saved Concept Credit Corporation!” Dad stilled called it Concept though the name had been changed to Dolus Investments some five years before, sore point with Mom, who made a face. “Mr. Perdhomme owes me big time!” At the thought of all the missed carnage he laughed, and listed a few more grisly crimes. Which somehow seemed very funny. At least Mom and I laughed as he told us.

  “And yet until now you’ve said nothing to us,” Mom said, her laugh drying crisp.

  And Dad said, “I wanted to spare you, is all.” His beard was coming in scruffy, well beyond the usual shadow. Had he failed to shave that morning?

  “Dad,” I said. “Just tell us. What’s going on?”

  He said, “This is between your mom and me.”

  “And between you and Kate?” I said bravely.

  “Kate nothing,” he said.

  “Honey,” my mother said to me, her hardest look: I was way off base.

  And quickly the discussion excluded me, drifted far from any secrets Kate and Dad might have: Mom wasn’t going to put up with his lies anymore! Dad was doing his dead-level best to make a living for all of us! Mom was sick unto death of his self-righteous rubbish! Why couldn’t he be a man and stand up to Perdhomme! Dad didn’t understand how Mom could be so ungrateful, all the slaving he did for our sakes! Mom was sick of his floundering, and what kind of man put all his earthly wealth in a briefcase and left it on a train! That last sally marked a large escalation and the battle went thermonuclear, real shouting. Soon the dinner plates would be flying, if we had any left, these people who loved each other. I sauntered out into the living room, put on the TV—nothing but news—left it on loud and went to the front door to check the mail. No one had touched the pile. My heart pounded with the dark emotion of my parents’ argument, the ugly picture of Mr. Perdhomme, all of that bile layered over dark visions of Emily and Mark. I thought a little desperately that maybe there’d be a Life magazine to look at before homework (a ton of math, a little Spanish). I seldom got actual mail. No Life, but under a grocery-store flyer there was a silver-piped envelope, fragrant, elegantly addressed to my mother. Sylphide!

  I opened it carelessly—Mom had opened mine, after all—and read the note, breathing the fragrance as my mother shouted something to my father about ineptitude, and now, uh-oh, his haplessness, haplessness!

  The butler’s efficient, blocky handwriting, Sylphide’s swooning scent:

  Dear Mrs. Hochmeyer: Thank you for your kind note. The answer is yes. Linsey and I will attend. And with your kind permission, the High Side will provide transportation and victuals for the Tailgating Picnic you describe so beautifully. We cannot wait for the game, and the chance to visit with Katy. And please let your Lizard know there is an eclipse of the full moon this very night at ten-fifteen, an excellent opportunity to try his new binoculars!

  As if acting upon my own sudden flood of fury—Sylphide invited to my game at Katy’s college behind both Katy’s and my backs?— Dad stormed out of the house and shortly roared off in the Blue ’Bu. He wouldn’t be home that night, I knew, might be gone for days. He’d take a late train into the city, which would force Mom to call a taxi to get to Westport Station in the morning if she wanted to use the car.

  I took his place in the kitchen. “Mom!” I said.

  “Don’t shout,” she spat. She looked very beautiful, flushed, young even, her eyes blazing, shades of Katy.

  “What’s this!” I said brandishing the letter.

  Briefest pause as she took in the evidence. “Count yourself lucky,” she said unrepentant.

  “Those are my tickets!”

  She took the note card away from me, took a deep breath: “Has Sylphide said yes? She’s said yes! Wonderful!”

  “Katy hates Sylphide.”

  “We don’t know that,” Mom said haughty.

  But of course we did know that; we just didn’t know why, and we wanted to, badly. Perhaps now we’d find out. A chance to visit, indeed! I groaned.

  Mom took no notice, said, “We can’t make our friends based on Katy’s quirks.”

  I begged: “Quirks aren’t the issue. Katy’s going to tear our throats out!”

  “Then that is Katy’s prerogative,” Mom said, followed by a little chirp of delight as she reread the dancer’s note. She patted my shoulder queenly; one did not let the men in one’s life slow one down. “Honey, I’m going to the club.”

  “Yes? And how’re you going to get there? Dad took the car.”

  “Mrs. Miles and Mrs. Howley will pick me up presently. It’s already planned. I’m not simply running off like certain other members of this family. If the ladies and I can find a fourth we’ll play a late set of doubles.”

  “Double martinis, you mean.”

  That made her beam: the truth is funny.

  Me, I wasn’t going to smile for anyone. “Those are my tickets,” I spewed. “Sylphide? Linsey? Kate, Kate? And Dad?”

  “Don’t forget you,” she said, impossibly pleased with herself. “You’re the guest of honor. And me of course, your ever-lovin’ mom. The gang of six!”

  “More like a circus act! You write back to Sylphide right now and tell her you made a mistake!”

  But Mom was already bustling up the stairs: game, set, match.

  ALONE IN THE house later, I tried again on my calculus homework, found the long problems I’d been happily solving for weeks unfathomable. Once again, I pulled out the little card from Desmond: “DO NOT FOLLOW IN YOUR FATHER’S FOOTPRINTS.” Suddenly I noticed the emphasis, and understanding dawned: there’d been footprints on the High Side parlor floor, evidence in the case of the stolen paintings, the case that Freddy wouldn’t take to the police. Freddy must
think Dad took the paintings, which would have seemed absurd before I learned that Freddy knew Dad. And that Dad knew him. And if Dad knew Freddy and Freddy knew Dad and there were paintings missing, then Dad very likely did have something to do with their disappearance. And if Dad had spent enough time at the High Side with Dabney to get to know Freddy, then Kate had something to do with the missing paintings, too, as the only way Dad would have been allowed over there was with Kate. Kate would have the nerve for any caper, and had the power over Dad, too, could get him to do anything at all. But anything at all certainly would not include high crimes, even if such crimes might serve some purpose of hers.

  All of us together at a football game!

  Suddenly, thinking of New Haven, I realized where Dad had been going the morning he’d crossed over the platform without his briefcase. He’d been going to see Katy at Yale.

  I paced the whole evening away, not another lick of homework, finally threw myself on my bed, warplanes overhead hanging on their threads: Messerschmitt, Zero, P-38, Spitfire, Flying Fortress, Mustang. You broke all the hundreds of little plastic pieces off of plastic trees, glued them together painstakingly, painted them, put the little decals on the wings, flew them with your hands all through the house. I counted tickets in my head, as no doubt Mom had done. She’d used them all, all right: Kate and me, Linsey and Sylphide, Mom and Dad—a mess from all angles—and right behind the Princeton bench. I lurched out of bed, assaulted the kitchen phone, dialed Kate’s suite, Dad and the stupid phone bill be damned. Ling-Ling Po was perfunctory: she hadn’t seen my sister in days, and no, she wasn’t taking any messages.

  Outside, the full moon rose. I retrieved Dabney’s brilliant binoculars, stood swaying on the patio focusing them—never had I seen the moon so clearly. The edge of the disk against black outer space was jagged with craters, the center too bright to look at for long. Ten-fifteen came and went but there was certainly no eclipse in progress. And wouldn’t Mr. Kerklin have told us about such a thing in physics class that afternoon?

  It didn’t take much to row across the pond to the High Side. I traversed the vast lawn, crouching and running to the wall of a lost garden, vaulted onto it easily, crept my way up the grown-in old ladder to the platform of the forsaken tree fort I’d spotted while mowing, protecting the binocs all the way. Up there, I had a clear view into a dimly lit bedroom—the only lights in the house, floor-to-ceiling glass doors that in summer would open out onto the large deck overlooking the pool. But nothing was happening, so much for my hunch. I focused on the full moon, picked out the same minor craters, grew bored. Definitely no eclipse. I thought of Linsey, asleep in some other wing of the house. Almost reluctantly then, I focused back on the large bed. Not much else to see: pair of ornate armoires, a blue-striped Queen Anne chair by the window, all lit by a studio spot, the effect through the glasses like looking at a stage set.

  Just then, a man in a long red robe came in and out of view faster than I could focus. The spotlight went off, and there was nothing more to see, just the mansion bathed in moonlight. Eleven o’clock. So. The weird game was yet another illusion, and I was the one inventing it. I let the binoculars hang from my neck, started for the ladder, but turned at the advent of a powerful feeling. The studio spot blinked on, and this time Sylphide was there in its warmth, highlighted as if onstage, her pale skin tinted amber, her robe just a shade lighter. I put the glasses to my eyes. The man slipped in behind her and I saw it was Georges Whiteside. He’d dropped his robe. I could see his hairy shoulders. Sylphide accepted some kisses on the back of her neck, then seemed to shoo him. He walked out of view, barrel-chested, skinny-legged, high little butt embarrassing to me.

  Sylphide straightened and stretched, let her hair out of its bun, shook it free. She appeared to be looking directly at me, but of course what she’d be seeing was her own reflection. I was a mirror, too, I realized suddenly, as purposefully placed as the bright spotlight. She’d known somehow she could count on me, and I’d known somehow how to proceed. My view was as clear as if I were on her deck, nose pressed to the glass, nearly as clear as if I were in the room, those excellent Austrian optics. She opened her robe, let it drop around her feet. Her pubic patch showed pale and trimmed leotard neat, her nipples pale, too, her belly taut and muscular. My involuntary hydraulics went into flow, all the levers pulled straight back. No chance of looking away now. Sylphide’s hands went delicately behind her and she bent forward, shifting her hips to an obvious beat—a view for Georges—dancing as to music. Perhaps he was singing. I knew (as did the whole world) that his voice was low and lovely. Slowly she gyrated clear around, caressed herself, gave me the outlook Georges had had, the two halves of her butt, eerily familiar. Emily came to mind in her ripped dress, Mark’s paw prints all over her.

  Georges eased up behind the dancer. His expression was very serious as he massaged the wings of her back. He gave her coarse kisses on her shoulders. Tormented, I tugged at my pants to untangle myself, that’s all. Sylphide lifted a knee gracefully, put a battered foot up on the Queen Anne chair. Her eyes never closed; she never turned back to look at him, skillfully cheated downstage, as actors say, gazed out at her audience. She adjusted her feet for better balance, that’s all, one on the chair, one on the floor. Georges crouched, clearly starving, ate peaches right from the tree.

  I found I could hold the heavy binoculars with one hand.

  After a while Sylphide bucked and then bucked again and then suddenly folded in on herself, fell at the chair with no grace, caught her own weight, pushed Georges’s head away, looked at her reflection and gave a little wave as Georges rose and lumbered around behind her, bent her to the chair. I died well before he did, an eruption with aftershocks, like nothing I’d ever experienced, the binoculars falling from my eyes, scales, too.

  MY MOTHER HAD indeed gone for the double martinis, too much of a hangover to see me off to school. The car was not back in the driveway. What a Tuesday night we Hochmeyers had had, all secret from one another, Mom, me, Dad, Katy: school night, ha. Before bus time I’d tried my sister’s college and just got Ling-Ling again, nasty as ever.

  I waited in the high school parking lot.

  Just at the bell Emily pulled up, climbed out of her car in a rush.

  And suddenly there was Mark Nussbaum beside us. He spat in the dirt at my feet. To Emily, he said, “New boyfriend?”

  Emily took a disgusted gulp of air, unleashed her foul mouth: “I told you, dickhead, I’m not having any boyfriends. I’ve had it with boyfriends. And I’m telling Lizard here the same: I’m not dating anyone.”

  “You hear that?” Mark said pushing past her. He wasn’t the little acerbic Mark I had vaguely known since junior high. Abruptly he took a step backward, wound up like a baseball pitcher, and punched me, a short shot too low to hurt much. I held my chin, stepped back in surprise.

  Emily threw her hands over her mouth to cover a gasp.

  “What the heck?” I said trying not to laugh.

  Mark looked surprised himself, looked about to apologize—tricky—wound up again and took another shot, grazing my cheek. Maybe it looked bad—I did snap my head back to avoid the blow, but it was nothing at all, not to me at that age, twice his size and accustomed to being pulled down by overweight linemen and crushed to the ground, cleats to my face. Emily leapt between us, put both hands on Mark’s chest, forcefully pushed him away. The homeroom bell rang, a long clattering. I turned and simply hurried away.

  LINSEY STRYKER-STEWART WAS a savant of the emotions, always feeling things with you, or for you, even despite you. He was in Miss Butterman’s history class with me, two periods into the school day, officially seated beside me. This was duty I’d volunteered for—the difficult but beloved kid had a partner in every class, a system that mostly worked. Your job was to help him find the right pages, help him get his special homework out, help him keep quiet or raise his hand to speak, help him get to his next class. Mostly, I found the assignment easy, oddly satisfying. He onl
y acted up when others did, or when some kind of storm was brewing, whether meteorological or human. He was the kid who got all A’s just making crayon marks on a page and occasionally farting dramatically in class (you can imagine the laughter, his artist’s pride), raising his hand to repeat key words of the lesson in uncanny tones, history as comedy: “Hammurabi-abi.” Among the boys he was popular. The girls had got tired of him, mostly, all his kissing and slobber, innocent though it was, and despite the oddly handsome face, which was a freaky misprint of his father’s, melted at the edges, slack. Anyway, they were rough on him, not that he noticed much.

  That day he moaned for me, kept patting my shoulder. I couldn’t shut him up, even with the formidable Miss Butterman staring us down. For two periods I’d been beside myself with jealousy, and Linsey felt it: Emily had given her attention to Mark Nussbaum, put her hands on him, anger all for him. I had to calm down so Linsey would, had to put Emily out of my mind.

  Which worked. And class proceeded.

  After, Emily was at the door as Linsey and I shuffled out at the back of the pack, her eyes blazing for me, for me alone, her long braid pulled over her shoulder, raveled in her hands. She dropped it to give me a short hug, said, “I want to say. You were so great. You just walked away. All that power and you chose not to use it!”

  Linsey heard the same thing in her voice that I heard: he honked and spun around on his heels. “Schist!” he said, which we all knew meant kiss.