Life Among Giants (31 page)

Wes Fielding clapped his hands—nothing to lose in this game—urged me on. I breathed and felt huge. In the huddle—no eye contact—I called Coach's first number, but after the perfectly executed hike I didn't run the play, not even close, but let the field flow left, faked the pass everyone expected, and then took off, spun and charged through the Catholic linesmen, easily evading grasping hands, easily racing everyone downfield, ninety-nine-point-nine yard touchdown. I didn't really hear the shouts from our side of the little stadium, didn't really care about beating Catholic. I just wanted to do the thing for Dad, who had lived for my powers, and maybe to do it for Mom, okay, who simply liked an athlete, especially an athlete who won. Kate was in there, too, somewhere, like a little spinning top you wanted to grab, just grab it so it would stop, stop long enough to hold.

I took my place behind the bench.
Th
e opposing coach came racing across the field in protest: was I on the official roster for the day's game?
Th
e refs gathered around. Coach must have felt pretty smug: yes, Hochmeyer was on the official roster. He'd inked me in on the basis of my phone call, so much for pride: he'd known he'd play me from the moment he heard my voice.

Next series I called another of the old plays, but I wasn't going to hand the ball to Jimpie Johnson, no way, instead motioned to Eric Unbattle (great hands, but unfairly disrespected by Powers for his small size). Catholic didn't even notice the small kid hustling downfield, and I hit him past all the defenders: touchdown.
Th
e next series was longer, Catholic having made some adjustments. I called all the Jimpie plays but simply withheld the ball from him, let him stagger past me unmet, several beautiful fakes in effect, the entire defensive line swinging after my ex-friend while Unbattle took the real handoffs and made short gains. “Why do we need a fucking huddle?” Jimpie hissed.

“Let's just win the game,” I said.

After one of four third-quarter touchdowns I stayed out on the field, made myself part of the line for the kickoff, tackled the all-star return man two steps into his run. And stayed for the defensive plays: I couldn't let Catholic rack up touchdowns. I was big, fast, tricky, but in that game I was possessed, too, a reptile, all right, got in on every tackle, caught punts, ran them for thirty, forty, fifty yards, never took the sidelines. Eric Unbattle ended the game with the hundred-year school touchdown-reception record, I forget how many, a fantastical, come-from-behind rout that brought Staples High even in the standings with Catholic, theretofore touted as the best team in the league.

Game won, I bolted, drove myself home to Westport, Freddy close behind. In my room, the reptile gave way to Lizard, and Lizard gave way to David, then Davy, who wept: defense, offense, there you go, Daddy.

T
H
E DOUBLE FUNERAL
was Monday morning, no delays as there was no question about the cause of death, no trouble with the medical examiner's office up in Danbury. We had our corpses on time, Dad's in a plain pine box, Mom's in a plush silver chariot.

Grandpa walked head high into the church, still angry with the world. I'd played a football game, and as if that weren't bad enough, Sunday morning early he'd found Kate and me passed out on the living-room floor, TV squealing. She'd only got in late Saturday, Jack decorously dropping her before going off to their hotel. We'd slept the day away while Grandpa did all the heavy lifting—phone calls, visitors, church bulletin to write, obituary to submit to the local papers, half a column about Mom, very few words about Dad, and anyway plenty about both of them on the front pages. He was unhappy that Kate had a professor for a boyfriend. He was unhappy that we didn't have a family car. He was unhappy that his daughter had ever married Nick. He was unhappy with the coroner. He was unhappy with the FBI. He was unhappy with Mrs. Paum, who wept uncontrollably when not saying sunny, revolting things about life everlasting.

I let Grandpa's rage sink into me: I could have stopped Kaiser, could have leapt on him the minute he climbed from his car. Also Emily's skin, her mouth on me, our showers together, the two of us on every bed in the house, a guy debauching himself on his parents' last night, bad guilt. Not a word from her since. Playing the football game, too, a mistake, some misplaced urge to violence. And Kate had disappeared, gone off with Jack to his hotel, a shower no doubt.

On the church steps, Aunt Ellen's mood was dark.
“Murdered,”
she said, when I went to hug her.

“You always said Nicholas was trouble,” Grandpa said, not lightly.

In the church I sat beside him in the first pew. Aunt Ellen sat away from us as if leaving room for someone.
Th
e place filled up behind us. I took sly looks back over my shoulder. Dad had not a single mourner of his own there, not that I could see, certainly no one he worked with. Not even his brothers—both of whom lived in California, as far away from home as possible. Uncle Shelton had called late the night before and waxed on mournfully: “David, terrible. Terrible. Always on the wrong side of the luck, your father.” A cough, or tears. “Once he stole a huge sapphire ring from Trift's Jewelers—is that still there in Westport on Main Street?—
stole
this display ring for his girl at the time, who was Betty Clearmont, said he'd saved up and bought it for her. So Betty about swoons, you know, and suddenly they're hot and heavy, and after a week or so of the googly pants she takes the ring into Trift's to be sized. Trift about threw an embolism. Our old man nearly broke your father's arms, I'll tell you, shaking him. No love lost there! Night in jail, day in court. And then the kid was washing sidewalks downtown for six months in lieu of jail time. And of course, it's him who ends up staying in Westport. David, I'm too ill to travel. Long story. You'll have to give your Mom and Dad my best sendoff. And I'm going to mail you a formal letter. I'm going to forgive your dad's debt to me. It's about six figures by now. I'll put the exact amount in the letter and forgive it, okay? I loved your Dad, David. But he was a pill, if I may use the mildest word possible. No need for you to live with his debts.”

Uncle Pete didn't even call, but eventually a letter came from him, too, identical wording to Uncle Shelton's—those decent men colluding—except more money involved, debts I'd never heard anything about. My anger revolved back around to my father, and awake in the night I'd found myself hating him as Grandpa did, all my tears for Mom, who'd been my tender beloved and soul-mate and one true friend.

Reverend Glass entered, came to us in the pew, took Grandpa's hand, patted it lovingly, irritating the old man, I could tell.

Gentle smile and professional warmth, here was the good Reverend who had never given up on me as I struggled with confirmation class and finally bailed out. “
Th
ere is no tragedy that is not also a lesson,” he said very slowly.

Grandpa grunted: he'd once kicked a preacher in the balls, famous family story, a stranger who'd come to his door and called him a sinner.

Reverend Glass took my hand. “I'm always here, David. You're going to need to talk. We'd love to see you in church.”

I promised he'd see me, knew he wouldn't, felt angry at him, too: these holy men, eliciting lies daily.

At the last possible second, Kate arrived in a burst of cold wind and leaves from outdoors, but elegantly dressed, new little skirt-suit in charcoal-gray tweed, appropriate sober demeanor. Jack escorted her to the front pew, hurried to find his own seat far from Grandpa. Katy settled in between Aunt Ellen and me. And, oh, how Ellen's face lit up: Katy was her favorite. Reverend Glass took my sister's hand, smiled at her indulgently, said nothing—Kate he'd given up on long ago.

No sign of Emily Bright.

We'd made love in my parents' shower, on their bed, on every piece of their hard-won furniture, terrible. And we would have made love the very night before they died, the very morning, if Sylphide hadn't stolen Emily, no comfort there.

Th
at same October sun slanted through the sanctuary windows. Reverend Glass took the lectern. Kate hugged my neck, a sudden, surprising gesture, very near a chokehold. Grandpa put his hand on my knee, even more surprising, leaned into me. Aunt Ellen slid closer to Kate, all of us connected, an arbitrary unit, myself suddenly at the center, being strong for them as Freddy had advised. Behind us in the church, row after row of Mommy's friends, groups of Kate's friends, a few kids I knew from school, a large contingent of our teachers, people we all knew from town, the pharmacist, the post-office guy, the lady from the flower shop. And okay, one mourner for Dad: Mr. Davis, our school-bus driver.

I'd been right to play the football game, right to go help the team clobber Catholic, right to go behind Grandpa's back. Because touchdowns were the only genuine memorial Dad was going to get. And, in fact, the back rows of the church were taken up with the whole team, cheap suits and muscle-bound solemnity, Jimpie sitting with Jinnie, Jinnie weeping copiously: she'd really liked my dad, told him to his face he was a
piece of work,
didn't seem to mind when he squeezed her plump bottom.

So, make that two for Dad.

Th
ree if you counted Freddy, who stood in the vestibule with the deacons, watching closely.

Reverend Glass gave a stolid eulogy, carefully offering it in Katy's and my names—neither of us was up to saying anything—an actually very thorough rendition of my parents' lives right up to the fatal brunch in Danbury, not leaving out a struggle or two, but leaving out the fact that they'd been shot. I gazed off through the bubbly-glass windows at the perfect day outside, the colorful shrubbery. We stood for another hymn, and as soon as the last organ tone died out a wail came up, a long hooting, the pounding of heavy orthopedic shoes. And suddenly Linsey was upon us, hugging Katy and me to him, waterfall of tears: he understood death, all right. Katy gave me a sharp look, but I gave it right back: I'd invited no one. Back through the pews there was a ripple of response, fond chuckles, teenage snickers, explanations and scoldings that crescendoed only slowly into fond laughter. Back by Freddy I spotted Sylphide, and just behind her, Emily, Emily at last.
Th
e attention in the room subtly shifted back there.
Th
e great Sylphide!

Kate, quaking with fresh emotion, got Linsey to sit between her and Aunt Ellen—Linsey hadn't forgotten Kate in the faintest—got him to settle down, her great gift of loving him, and the service went on, another mourner in Dad's column.

O
VER DESSERT AT
Sizzler, which was Grandpa's favorite, Jack laid out a plan. I could go live with him and Kate. Grandpa laid out a counterplan that would take me to Michigan. He'd spent the afternoon sputtering and fuming at Dad's rolltop desk, unpacking the cubbyholes I'd stuffed so hurriedly after they'd been rifled by our mysterious visitor. From what Grandpa could tell there was no estate left, less than zero. All the bank accounts were empty, the house remortgaged six times over, six different banks, dunning notices unopened, threatening letters unopened. I didn't mention Dad's debts to his brothers: Grandpa was disdainful enough.

“When a child's parents transfer in his senior year, he often stays on,” said Mrs. Paumgartner brightly. “It's not uncommon. Perhaps Mr. Demeter would be amenable? David could stay here. I'd keep an eye. We'd all keep an eye.”

“
Th
is isn't a transfer,” said Grandpa, sloshy with cheap Sizzler wine, red in the face, furious.

“Plus, there's the thing about football,” I said slowly.

“Football?” said Kate. And then the old ESP: “You mean
nookie.
”

Mrs. Paum fell into tears again: such nasty language.

Grandpa slammed the table: “Your brother saw fit to play a game Saturday.”

“I did it for Dad,” I said.

“Even worse,” Grandpa roared.

“
Th
e rest is for Mom,” I said, no real idea what I meant.

“Home is where the heart is,” said Mrs. Paum helpfully.

“Next he'll be dancing ballet,” said Kate.

G
RANDPA COULDN'T BEAR
to sleep in his late daughter's room one more night, took up Mrs. Paum on her offer of her guestroom. Freddy kept his vigil under the hemlock trees. I didn't point him out to Kate, who would not have been pleased. She'd disappeared after Jack left for their hotel, a private quarrel over whether she'd stay with me or go with him. Late, after some hours alone with inane television, I found her in the attic, where she'd always gone to get away from everyone, and where once upon a time we'd played. Our great-grandmother's trunk was open and all the play clothes strewn about, Kate draped in the ermine cape that had always been our prize.

She said nothing, just put the old stovepipe hat on my head. I sat beside her.

“Oh, David,” she whispered after a while. “What have I done?”

“You've done nothing,” I said.

“We're orphans,” she said.