Free The Cranes Dance by Meg Howrey

concerned Gwen, and how could I say how “things were going” without saying how things were going with her?
    I know I can count on them, though. Like when I asked Dad to come get Gwen he didn’t hesitate. He’s very mild andgentle, my dad, but he’s good in a crisis. I think this is because all day long he deals with people who are completely freaked out about whatever is happening in their mouths.
    I asked Dad to get Gwen rather than Mom because Mom’s way of dealing with crises is to organize irrelevant details. She wouldn’t have taken Gwen away. She would have bought Gwen a houseplant (I think she needs more oxygen!) and re-caulked the bathtub (Let’s get everything spic-and-span!).
    I thought about calling my parents this morning, but instead I called my brother Keith.
    I remember the day Mom and Dad brought Keith home from the hospital. I was six, and very excited. Gwen was less so. Keith was thoroughly boy, from the very beginning, and never picked up anything he didn’t want to throw, ram, or pretend to shoot.
    But I have a very sweet memory of Keith from childhood. Every summer (before summer dance programs and tennis clinics took over) we went on a camping trip to the dune beaches at Lake Michigan. It was understood that this was so our parents could “relax,” although Mom treated “rough” living the same way she treated living at home. Much vigorous sweeping out of the tents every morning and a tarp over everything. Gwen didn’t like the water much, so she and Dad would always make a giant sand castle together, very elaborate and, knowing Dad, architecturally accurate. Keith and I loved the water. He would hold on to a boogie board and I would push him out in front of me. Mom would stand at the shore in one of the increasingly conservative series of yellow bikinis she purchased every year, a kerchief around her hair to keep it from frizzing in the July humidity, and shout, “Kay-ay-ate! Look outfor your broth-errr.” Sometimes he let me carry him out piggyback style and we would stand there, bobbing in the waves, Keith’s strong little legs in a hammerlock around my waist, his shrill piccolo scream provoking another automatic “Kay-ay-ate! Care-ful!” from Mom onshore, sitting up on the blanket, shading her eyes with a Danielle Steel romance to make sure we were still alive. Keith was three years old when he first let go of me and swam about ten feet, kicking and splashing like a madman but in a recognizable crawl. He popped his head up with a huge grin, dog-paddling furiously. “Mo-om! Da-ad! Keith can SWIM.”
    Two years later Mom put a racquet in Keith’s hand. We all questioned the wisdom of giving Keith something that could be used as a weapon, but it worked out well in the end.
    “I was just thinking about you!” Keith said when he picked up the phone.
    “Where are you?” I asked. “Are you still here?” Here means Florida, where Keith touches down periodically and where he just bought a house. My little brother has a house. He has a lot of things. Between prize money and endorsements I think he’s making a couple million dollars a year. A ballet dancer at his equivalent level of success might eke out a hundred grand a year, a bit more if they do a lot of guest performances with different companies. In New York City that means you might be able to rent a small one-bedroom and still be able to buy Bumble and Bumble shampoo.
    “Here for another week, then I’m off to Morocco,” said Keith.
    “Oh yeah, clay courts, right?” Keith is awesome on clay. Last year he made it to the semis of the French.
    “Yup.”
    “Is Famke with you?”
    “Francesca, asshole.”
    “I know. I love Francesca!”
    “You loved Famke. You hate Francesca.”
    “Do I? No. Wait. I loved Heidi. Famke had those pipe-cleaner legs. They made me nervous. It looked like you could bend them in any direction.”
    “Yeah, but she had an awesome rack.”
    Keith and I can go on like this for hours.
    “Hey,