Free Life Among Giants by Bill Roorbach

be nice? A family day? We’ve got six tickets.”
    â€œ ‘A looker!’ ” she said, British tones, wagging her head to imitate the rocker.
    Suddenly a rumpled tuxedo staggered into the room, landed on the piano bench without acknowledging us, took a couple of big sniffs of air, began softly to play. Th e guy had a large blue earring, something in my sheltered existence I’d never seen on a man: queer? His nose was a like a potato left in a drawer too long. He sniffed audibly at every pause in the music.
    â€œChopin,” my mother said, too pleased with herself.
    Next a maid trotted in, dark eyes, dark hair, heavyset, black uniform, white apron, a very friendly face, not a peep from her mouth, large silver tray tinkling with china in her nervous arms. Th is she set carefully on the low table in front of us. Desmond followed immediately, carrying a sort of miniature samovar, and the two of them performed an elaborate ritual that resulted in four perfect steaming teacups sitting prettily on four matching plates, four teaspoons, four lace napkins. Th e parlor maid hurried out, hurried back with an assortment of tiny cookies. Th e Chopin swelled.
    Desmond put a hand on my shoulder, squeeze-squeeze, slipped something into my shirt pocket, all one smooth motion. He didn’t break character for a second, didn’t catch my eye again, just snapped his heels together for my mother’s benefit, bowed and left us. She stared after him, thoroughly impressed.
    I took all my cookies in a handful, stuffed my mouth. Th e piano player worked expressively—this was the real thing, very beautiful, Chopin at concert pitch.
    Surreptitiously I pulled the little card from my shirt pocket, just a blank rectangle with the butler’s famous block letters:
    DO NOT FOLLOW IN YOUR
    FATHER’S FOOTPRINTS.
    Seconds later Sylphide popped in, damp hair combed out plain, sweatshirt over a leotard, black tights, bare feet, not a trace of make-up on her face, acne scars for all the world to see, gentle smile for my mom (who rose and curtsied), something a little more ironic for me (who stayed put, hand over the front of his pants, feeling he’d been caught out). Th e great ballerina walked unnaturally, each step the result of thought, the effect more awkward than graceful, a quality of being a forest creature caught indoors. I cast down my mortal eyes. Her feet looked as if they’d been smashed and glued back together poorly, toes knobbed and bent. Clearly she’d been dancing before we came, and for hours.
    â€œGuess who’s home?” she said warmly, tiniest increment of a smile.
    And Linsey tumbled into the room! He laughed to see me, his favorite classmate by dint of being Kate’s brother, his former quarterback, too (he was the team equipment man, the only one of the fellows to quit on my behalf), bowled into my chair. No way around it, I had to stand, accept his sticky hug.
    â€œWoo,” he said, holding on tight, face ducked into my belly, deformed hands gripping my belt. He smelled of bologna and mustard. He wriggled to get closer to me.
    â€œSylphide,” my mother said.
    â€œCall me Tenke,” the dancer said kindly.
    â€œWizard,” Linsey said.
    â€œTenk-a,” Mom repeated, like it was the most difficult foreign word. She stood up tall, seemed to measure herself against the tiny dancer. She was more than a decade and a half older, at the near end of her forties, but anyone would have guessed that they weren’t far apart, Sylphide’s world-weariness, perhaps, Mom’s immaturity, like a couple of sisters who’d been dealt wildly divergent hands, and the unfairness was surely what darkened Mom’s face, the same hurt look she got when losing at tennis, which was very, very seldom.
    I pounded Linsey’s back, like pounding a pillow, extricated myself from his grip, indicated he should hug my mom.
    He blushed, took my hands instead. “Smell