Life Among Giants by Bill Roorbach

you bet she came around.”
    And before I could formulate the next question—Dad obviously lying—he gave me a shove, retrieved his rake, shouted, “Last man to the Butt cooks dinner!” Th e old stakes with rakes. He ran comically and took the little west side of our modest lawn, leaving me with the big east side, reversing the advantage of my childhood, and we set to, herding leaves like a couple of overcranked toys, real competition. He pressed his advantage, wasn’t a dad who was going to let you win. He was stout on top, slim on the bottom, legs like a heron’s, forty-four years old, stamina of a goat. Th e Butt was a massive round boulder down at the edge of the pond, cracked down the middle from all the fires we’d had there, from leaves to marshmallows to Kate’s troop of Girl Scouts, the ones who’d named it. Th e physical exercise broke the gloomy mood. My father laughed and shouted taunts.
    As we came around the house—scratch, scratch, scratch with the rakes—I saw three large men in black clothes striding purposefully down the High Side lawn toward the dam end of the pond. When they saw I’d noticed them they visibly hurried, splashed heedlessly through the little brook and high cattails. Th ey were coming to see us.
    I said, “Dad?”
    Th e biggest guy broke from the others and jogged to put himself between us and the house. He stuffed his hand in the pocket of his sweatshirt, showed the grip of a black gun. My hands began to shake. Why were armed men coming from Sylphide’s ? Why were armed men coming at all ? A gray-haired guy, clearly in charge, stepped up calmly. My father pulled himself up to his full five ten—or maybe in his work boots it was six feet—thrust himself into the guy’s face. “State your business, Freddy.”
    Freddy put a hand on Dad’s chest. “Nick, relax. Take a breath.”
    I was incredulous. “Dad! You know these guys?”
    â€œ Th ey’re goons,” my father said, playing tough. You could see how it was he’d gotten his nose broken so many times, little cockerel among the roosters.
    Th e third man was the High Side chauffeur, I suddenly realized, the Chinese guy who had always dropped Linsey at school, a nervous henchman, if that’s what he was, breakable as a twig.
    Freddy turned to me, authoritative, not particularly scary: “You were at the High Side the other day?”
    â€œIxnay,” Dad said.
    But I saw no need to be secretive, took a reasonable tone: “I tried to light Sylphide’s stove for her. Th e gas was out. Oh, and I mowed the lawn. She asked me in. She was very sad, I thought.”
    â€œShe ought to be sad,” Freddy said. “She’s missing some very important paintings.”
    Suddenly, Dad flung his rake to the ground, wheeled hard and threw a sucker punch into the chauffeur’s delicate nose, turned and bolted, his comical trot, former track star with bad knees, working hard to lift those huge boots. Th e surprise gave him a couple of seconds head start—no thought of me, as I would later realize—and he trundled up the lawn toward the house with the biggest guy chugging along close behind.
    Freddy seemed unconcerned about either Dad’s escape or the bloodied chauffeur sprawled on the ground, so I flung my rake, too, raced up the hill after Dad and his pursuer. I tackled the big guy in the middle of Mom’s thorny Schneekoppe roses. He was soft, pillowy, way out of shape, huffed and puffed beneath me, no fight in him.
    Rescued, Dad leapt across the patio and into the house, slid the big doors shut, dropped the heavy locking bar in place. I could see him as he raced to the front of the house, where no doubt he was locking that door, too. For the first time, I understood all those deadbolts: Dad’s paranoid dream was coming true. And I was on the wrong side of the doors. I got to my feet—the big goon