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way of such things till it reached Coach Powers’ cauliflower ear.
    Among my old teammates I still had vestigial friends (Jimpie not among them), and it was Carl Little, a huge tackle, smart in science, devastating on defense, that telephoned. “Congratulations,” he said straight off. I’d taken the call on the illegal extension Dad had wired in the basement, where in my capacity as post-football saint I’d been building new window boxes for a nursing home up in Weston. “Coach says congratulations, too. And I’m supposed to kind of sweet-talk you and spit on my hands and pull on your dick and so forth, Lizard, but here it is straight: the old general needs your ass and he’s ready to make a deal. He’s got to save face. You’re making him look like a shithead. Which he is, of course. Don’t get me wrong.”
    â€œTell him forget it.”
    â€œLizard, you fucking won the war!”
    â€œTell Coach I’m taking ballet.”
    A FEW DAYS later a fellow in a tidy suit pulled Sylphide’s freshly buffed silver Bentley into our cul-de-sac. Emerging well-buttoned and dignified, he clicked smartly up our flagstone walk, presented himself at our door, knocking formally though it was wide open. I stood there in a towel staring down at him, my hair wet and stringing around my shoulders.
    He regarded me without judgment, taking in my size, and said, “Mr. Hochmeyer?”
    â€œHe’s at work.”
    â€œMr. Lizard Hochmeyer?”
    â€œOh, okay, that’s me.”
    He went on to explain with further formality (and a partly conquered working-class Boston accent) that he was employed by Sylphide. Which, of course, I knew. Kate had told me all about this guy, Sylphide’s butler, Desmond: soul of discretion, heart of a lion, mind like an IBM computing machine taking up whole air-conditioned rooms, as organized as a military parade. A person who could have run a bank, yet who’d taken this subservient position. Th is sacrifice he’d undertaken willingly for the good of the world, said his posture. In his eye, though, was something a little misplaced, slightly furtive.
    I said what my mother would have said, and in her knowing tone, too: “I thought all the staff had been let go over there.”
    He smiled briefly. “Let us simply say, sir, that funding has been restored. I am the houseman. Th e others will be back on the job shortly, as well.”
    â€œAh,” I said, “Did Sylphide win her lawsuit?” I wanted gossip for Mom, whose attention could be won by such things.
    Th e little butler—shorter even than Sylphide—smiled despite himself, his eyes darting. “I didn’t say that. I said only that funding has been restored. Madame has sent you a gift, along with a check for your services during the brief absence of the groundsmen.” He handed me a fragrant, gilt-edged envelope.
    I’d thought I’d heard a lawn-mowing rig over there! Genuinely nonplussed, I said, “Oh, I don’t want pay.” I’d had plans to mow more, dreams of further impromptu visits with the dancer. I could not forget the feel of her cheek on my chest.
    But the little man didn’t hear. As I towered there in my towel, he clicked back to the car and opened its trunk, wrestled with a large, flat parcel wrapped in kraft paper. Th is he handed up to me with a bow I took to be ironical. He looked me over one more time, said a complimentary, “You, sir, are gargantuan .”
    â€œTwo meters,” I said. “We measured me in math class last year.”
    He approved of the metric system, sized me up, sized me down. Soon he’d be building me a coffin. “Your torso, it’s a keystone, ” he sighed, those eyes darting. Suddenly professional again, he spun on heel, clicked to the car, and drove off stately, not more than fifteen miles per hour.
    Only when he was gone did I tear open the fragrant envelope.