Life Among Giants (2 page)

“Dad's had some trouble at work,” Mom said when he was gone, no particular emotion. “Bail has been set very high.”

Later I heard her cursing him out in her room. “Fucking asshole” was the exact phrase, repeated endlessly, Bar-Bar someone who never swore, except on the tennis court.

A
FEW DAYS
later (October 30, 1970, to be exact), Dad's court-appointed lawyer—a portly sycophant named McBee—met us at the courtroom steps, gazed up at me.

“Ozymandias,” he said darkly.

I knew what he was saying, more or less, knew my Shelley from Honors English. “It just means I hit my head a lot,” I said.

“Seven feet?”

“Only six eight,” I told him.

McBee wheezed, sighed, gave us our marching orders: “Okay, just as I discussed with your mom. You kids, you must look solemn. Pretend it's his funeral. Look one part pissed, two parts forgiving, like people who are going to put your old man on the straight and narrow. Got it?”

My sister put on a face—pissed forgiveness is hard to do—and of course kept putting it on, and soon I couldn't stop giggling. Kate wasn't laughing much in those days, kept the straightest face possible, which just made things the worse for me. Mom was plainly irritated with her, but said nothing, just as she'd said nothing about Katy's tennis clothes, which were hardly appropriate for the occasion. They hadn't seen each other since Katy had left home for her first year at “New Haven” (you weren't supposed to say the name of the school), and maybe Mom just couldn't admit that her daughter looked great.

Katy's new boyfriend was there, Jack Cross, who (shockingly enough) was her professor. He was a stoic guy with wild hair and posh court-day clothing, meeting Mom for the first time. Solicitous, he took the old lady's arm, shot Kate a look that froze her. And silenced me, too. Because, well, I'd met him before.

Plenty of secrets in our family.

Under the dome of the stately courthouse lobby (still not so grand as the High Side foyer), Mom brushed her hair and pinned it into a bun, made her face up in a tiny mirror, reclaimed her gorgeous poise.
Th
e courtroom itself was just plain, nothing but cinderblocks and workaday furniture, the judge at a table in shirtsleeves, not what I'd pictured.

Mom and Kate and I took seats in the front row. Jack sat in the row behind us. He was Dad's age, Mom's age, craggy as a sea cliff. My mother had asked if I thought he and Kate were sleeping together. Unlikely, I told her. Kate, who'd never even had a boyfriend? Sleeping with a professor? Easy lies. Because I knew more, a lot more. Kate basically lived at Jack's beautiful house, for example. And I'd visited them there. I'd liked him for not mentioning my height, a feat few could manage. He'd even loaned me a car to take home to our family.
Th
at was the kind of man he was, someone with extra cars. Dad had lost ours.
Th
e kind of man who lost them. For Mom's sake I'd said the loan was from Katy's roommate, true enough, as far as it went.

Th
e judge shuffled papers. He looked like an insect. People came and went, whispered to him, whispered to one another. Kate wasn't the only one with a new love. My mind wandered over Emily Bright's brown skin, her soft and secret hair, a whole night of her kisses and long hands, Emily in the shower, Emily in my little bed all night while Mom was away managing Dad's crisis, wreaking her vicious serve on defense and prosecution alike. Two cops brought him out in his rumpled business clothes, handcuffs in front. He definitely looked like a guy who'd been in jail, dusty and pallid, badly mussed. He scanned the room back over his shoulder, couldn't find us.

McBee approached the bench with the sandy-haired prosecutor, said a few quiet sentences.
Th
e prosecutor said several more—nothing we could make out—and the judge nodded. He looked to Dad. Dad said a long, long paragraph, almost silent, his back to us, his posture weary, carefully remorseful. When he was done the judge made a sign and two Afro-American men the size of NFL tackles stepped to Dad's side.
Th
e judge instructed them, didn't look at my father.
Th
ey nodded seriously. A bailiff came in, removed Dad's handcuffs. Exhausted smiles all around.
Th
e gavel.

Dad had gone state's witness. He turned to us, looking unhappy as ever. He shuffled over to the docket gate. “Lunch,” he said.

Katy leapt to him and hugged him with all her strength, which was considerable. Dad teared up, choked and sobbed. Mom joined them, offered hugs, too, less voluble. She wasn't buying the tears. Professor Cross waited for the exact moment, found it, shook my father's hand. I could see from the brisk quality of the shake and greeting that they already knew one another, too, more secrets.

Th
e prosecutor sidled over before I could join the greeting, gave Dad ten fond slaps on the shoulder. “We'll be getting to know each other very well,” he said. He gave Katy a long look, the way certain kinds of men did, up and down, down and up, wry twinkle when he got to her eyes.

Katy didn't turn away but took him on.

“State Champions,” he said to me, tearing his eyes from hers, a guy who must have played football himself, years back.

“Yessir,” I said.

“You're even bigger than they say. Gonna repeat this year?” Dishonest eyes, a guy on the take, something you could see from a vantage point high as mine.

I didn't feel any need to explain I'd quit the team. “Sure,” I said.

Mom accepted a folder of papers from McBee, who looked proud of himself. And finally it was time to go. With the big African-American guys—Dad's security detail—we formed a phalanx around the old man, made our way out to the parking lot. He said, “
Th
ey're paying for the best restaurant around. It's all approved.”

My mother made a show of not being impressed.

Dad rode with his guards. We dutifully followed.
Th
e restaurant was called Les Jardins, and it was very fancy, all right, acres of garden, empty fountains. Empty parking lots, too, and an empty dining room—it wasn't even eleven o'clock yet. At our lace-and-lantern table, under the staid textures of what Dad said were real medieval tapestries, we ordered Bloody Marys, though Kate and I were underage. When his drink arrived, Dad looked happy for the only time so far that day. He chugged it down and ordered another before the waiter, working around the table, had even managed to put mine in front of me.

“Love this place,” Dad said.
Th
e bodyguards stood in two corners of the room, deadly serious, no lunch for them.
Th
e Bloody Marys were like salads, spears of celery, slices of green and red pepper, home-pickled pole beans. Emily the night before with Mom away was our first time, my first time, and I couldn't stop thinking of her skin, the skin on her inside, too, endless minute visions, her brown skin, and pink, her kisses, the nipples of her breasts like knots to untie with your tongue.

No prices on the menu.

Mom choked down sudden rage, I could see it.

Jack said, “
Th
ese are going to be difficult weeks.”

We sat in silence, empty dining room soon to fill, clatter from the kitchen, biting our celery stalks.

“How's your tennis, Katy?” Dad said suddenly in his investments voice, loud and jovial, always disastrous.

“Good,” Katy said, not buying.

Same voice: “No, I mean, give us the works. Who the heck have you played? What are the rankings? How awful is your coach? Bring us through the season.”

Mom writhed, rankled.

Which inspired Katy. She took Dad's cue and held forth. Her coach was brilliant, she'd been seeded high. Dad signaled for a third drink, or maybe it was his fourth, or even fifth, impossible to keep up with him. We all slaughtered a basket of bread, speared our tiny salads. Just the previous weekend, Dad not yet in jail, Kate had played the longest match in the history of the Hanover Classic, but lost finally to the top seed—a girl from Penn.

“I cried,” my sister said.

“She howled,” Jack said.

“Oh, honey,” Mom said, not very warmly.

“I'm sorry,” Dad said. And then he laughed, booming mirth, vodka hitting the old brain, bones all sore from jail, laughed his hollow laugh, deeply all alone inside his misery.

Th
e meals arrived, really gorgeous, simple BLTs, thick, flavorful bacon like I'd never had, slices of tomato thick as steaks, crisp, fresh-picked lettuce from the gardens beyond. We ate in the silence, Mom's silence, except a single moment in which Jack cleared his throat. But he thought better of whatever it was he was planning to say, and we all looked back to our food.

Th
e waiter cleared the table efficiently, dropped dessert menus in front of us. No other diners had arrived.
Th
e place was like church.

“So, state's evidence,” I said. I just wanted to jumpstart a conversation, the one we really should be having.

“I'm not allowed to say much,” Dad said. He nodded toward the bigger of the guards.

“But he'll be free when it's all done,” said Mom, no apparent joy in the thought.

“Get my good name back,” Dad said.

“
Th
ey're treating you very well,” said Jack. He was a philosopher with a famous book and plush towels in his house, that's all I knew.

“Daddy's got valuable information,” Kate said wryly. Her neck, her arms, even her wrists were thicker than when she'd left home, more muscular, much healthier: college sports.

“Always something to sell,” said Mom, mocking.

“Didn't we agree . . .” Dad said, but he trailed off.

Mom pounced: “We agreed on
lots
of things. We have always agreed on
everything.
And look, just
look
where we
are.
”

Kate slammed her water glass down on the polished table. “Just get off his back,” she said.

And Mom said, “Don't
you
start.”

Jack said, “Of course we're all tense. Couple of deep breaths here.”

Mom puffed and fumed, but Jack had a way about him.

Dad said, “I'm thinking cognac.”

“If you want to know,” Kate began.

Cutting her off, gentleman Jack said, “I'd really better get Kate back to campus.
Th
e tennis van leaves for Ithaca at two. She's supposed to travel with the team if at all possible. Your girl gets another crack at Miss Penn again this weekend, if all goes well.”

“We leave at three,” Kate said, sudden wince.

He'd kicked her leg under the table. “I believe it's two,” he said.

“No dessert?” Dad said. He wasn't oblivious, though, and let them get up and go without protest, just an overly long hug for Kate, and a kiss on her hair. She kissed him back, on his cheek, his ear.
Th
ey whispered to one another, patted at each other, always in league. He held her out for a look, straightened her collar, gave a tidying tug at the pockets of her tiny skirt. Once again, tears started to his eyes, but this time continued to flow. More hugs.

“
Th
ese have been tough days,” he said over her shoulder.

“Not only for you,” Mom said.

“Always selfless,” Kate said to her bitterly.

“Don't force your backhand,” Mom said brightly, as if it were just tennis advice.

“Good afternoon,” Jack said, enormous warmth. You could certainly see why Katy liked him, forty-year-old genie with a famous book about love. “Wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Hochmeyer.”

Mom patted at her hair. “Yes, Professor, lovely.”

I felt glad when Jack and Kate were gone. Much of the tension dissipated the second the restaurant's perfect front door shut perfectly behind them. And nice to have my parents to myself.

We dug into dessert, which was a huge piece of chocolate cake to share.

Presently, the check came, and Dad proffered the credit card he'd been given by the state.
Th
e three of us talked logistics, nothing more interesting than that. I would drive Mom and myself home to Westport in the loaned Volvo. Dad's new bodyguards would take him to his secret location. Apparently the judge thought the old man's life was in danger. Mom would join Dad in a few more days, get him settled in his rooty-toot lodgings (as he called them—this was before anyone had ever heard the phrase “witness protection program”), then she would come home to me.
Th
is or that undisclosed town around Danbury would be his home and his life for the next several months; he had to remain under guard.
Th
ere were people who wanted him to stay quiet. What people, what crimes, these were not discussed, not for the children to know, though of course I'd read the papers: half of middle management at Dolus Investments had been indicted for hundreds of counts of dozens of crimes, from fraud and extortion to murder and back again, also gross embezzlement. Dad's bosses had been portrayed as victims, Dad as a ringleader. Not true, I knew, impossible: Dad was a follower, never in front.