Very Rich

by Polly Horvath

  Yet when he rounded the corner there were no cars, no children racing about throwing snowballs, no lights, no buses. There was only what appeared to be an empty building. He stared in dismay.

  Rupert knew he must have gotten something wrong.

  Either this is the weekend, he said to himself, or it is a professional development day or a holiday. Mornings were such a blur for him, always tired, always hungry, that except for the absence of the oatmeal, he hadn’t even noticed that his family wasn’t up preparing for the day. Well, there was nothing for it. He would have to turn around and go home. He would have to try not to faint or freeze to death. Mind over matter, he said to himself again, mind over matter. At least he had his own tracks to walk back in. He wouldn’t have to break the virgin snow with his tennis shoes. It would save a little energy. At least he had that. He began the walk home.

  First he passed through the very rich people’s enclave. There were seven mansions here. All on huge lots with high fences or hedges and gates that defied even the John and Dirk cat stealers of the world. The very rich people were not just safe themselves, their cats were safe.

  Rupert was walking in front of one of these gates when it swung open to allow a departing car to pass through. The gate swung right into Rupert. A curly decorative piece of iron hooked into one of the holes of his sweatshirt and hoisted him up. This was when Rupert fainted. The gate continued opening, causing his unconscious hanging body to bounce against its iron rails. Bang, bang, bang.

  Rupert was just waking up from his faint with the thought that on top of everything else he was probably going to bruise when the car pulled through the gate and stopped. A woman stuck her head out the window and stared at him.

  She said, “Is that a body swinging from the gate, Billingston?”

  “I do believe you’re right, Mrs. Cook,” said Billingston, who was driving.

  “Well, use the electric charge button. That’s what it’s there for. To deter gate-crashers.”

  The next thing that happened was a huge jolt of electrical current passed through Rupert’s little shopworn body and caused him to buck and bang hard against the metal gate again. The gate began to close and the car drove on, Mrs. Cook satisfied that this would be the end of such high jinx. Billingston, as he drove away, pressed the gate charge button one more time for good measure. This one jolted Rupert into the air and he ended up flying right over the top of the seven-foot hedge and landing on the wrong side of it. That is, on the mansion side. On the snowy lawn of these very rich people. Exactly where no one really wanted him to be. Rupert expected to feel at any second the thick, viscous drool of vicious guard dogs, followed by their sharp, ripping teeth. He had come to find that the worst thing that you anticipated, the worst thing you could even imagine, was usually what happened. So he waited patiently to be consumed. He hadn’t even the energy to move, let alone fight them off. Whole minutes passed. But no dogs came bounding up to him. No cats either. Clearly these were not animal people.

  Rupert started to get up when he heard a voice say, “How did you get here?”

  It was Turgid Rivers. The richest boy at school. He was in the sixth grade, a grade above Rupert.

  “I guess you must live here,” said Rupert weakly.

  Turgid nodded.

  “Nice house,” said Rupert.

  And then he fainted again.

  THIS TIME when Rupert woke up he was lying in front of a big, warm fireplace. There was Turgid’s small, curious face hanging above, staring at him.

  At first he thought he must be in the Riverses’ living room—the carpet was so thick and luxurious, the fireplace so large, and the fire in it so roaring—but gradually as he gained full consciousness and began to turn his head this way and that, he realized he was in a bedroom. From the look of the toys, Turgid’s bedroom.

  “My goodness,” said Turgid, “Christmas is always very exciting. You never know what you’re going to find. But I didn’t expect to find a dead schoolmate on my front lawn. I dragged you in here. You’re not very heavy.”

  “I’m not dead,” said Rupert.

  “Well, you’re not very lively! How did you get past the gate?” asked Turgid.

  “As far as I can tell, I got jolted over it by an electric shock,” said Rupert.

  “Oh, the security system. But why aren’t you at home with your family? It’s Christmas morning.”

  “Is it?” asked Rupert.

  “Yes, of course. You must know that, surely,” said Turgid.

  “That explains why no one was at school,” said Rupert feebly. He really felt quite ill. Between the starvation and the cold and the electric shocks, he was not at his best.

  “You actually went to school?” asked Turgid in amazement. “But wasn’t waking up to a stocking full of toys some kind of clue?”

  “We don’t do that. I think I’m going to faint again,” said Rupert sickly.

  “Goodness,” said Turgid. “Anything I can do to help? Why do you keep fainting like this? It can’t be normal. Are you ill?”

  “I think it’s the hunger,” said Rupert. “But it might be the cold. It’s not the electric jolts, because I felt this way before that happened, so you mustn’t blame yourselves.”

  “Oh, no fear, we never blame ourselves around here. Well, gosh, what can we do for you? Have some chocolate!” And Turgid grabbed a large chocolate Santa from a pile of trinkets by his bed. “I got it in my stocking.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Rupert. “It’s your Christmas chocolate.”

  “Well, I don’t want you fainting all over the house,” said Turgid.

  He broke off a chocolate arm and gave it to Rupert, who sat up and crammed it into his mouth. He immediately felt better. He could feel the chocolate ooze all over his tongue and run down into his stomach, where it awoke a hunger so vast, it was as if the chocolate were a flame thawing Rupert’s frozen insides and igniting the appetite therein.

  “More,” croaked Rupert through a mouthful of chocolate and drool.

  Turgid gave him the whole Santa and looked politely away. Rupert was a mess.

  When Rupert had consumed the Santa and three chocolate Christmas ornaments that Turgid gave him for good measure, he felt much better. That was when he noticed he was wet through and, despite the roaring fire, was shivering madly.

  “You need dry clothes,” said Turgid.

  He ran to his closet and got the warmest things he could find: sweatpants and a sweatshirt and socks, all fleece. Then he ran to his bathroom to get a towel for Rupert’s drool while Rupert changed.

  Rupert was warm and dry and while not full, not fainting from starvation either.

  “Thank you. Thank you,” was all he could say.

  “Never mind,” said Turgid. “This is rather fun. It’s like having a pet.”

  “But I have to get home,” said Rupert. If this really was Christmas, it was the day they got their Christmas turkey basket. It was only once a year. He didn’t want to miss it.

  “Oh no,” said Turgid. “You must have Christmas dinner with us. I insist. It may not be our fault, but as a consequence of our security system you’ve had a terrible shock. It must have been Mrs. Cook who gave the order to shock you. She’s our cook. The name is purely coincidental. We don’t for instance call our butler Mr. Butler. His name is Billingston and he’s probably the one who actually pressed the button. Although I’m sure it was on Mrs. Cook’s orders. Mrs. Cook is a little too fond of watching people frizzle up from electric jolts. She was leaving to get a Christmas goose because Aunt Hazelnut said it wouldn’t be Christmas without a goose. Mrs. Cook had planned on prime rib. We’ve never had a goose, but Aunt Hazelnut has been reading a lot of Dickens because the librarian living here keeps bringing it home for her—”

  “You have your own librarian?” interrupted Rupert in amazement. Oh, these rich people!

  “Yes, but it’s not what you think. We don’t employ her. We’re not even quite sure who she is. Well, I mean, Uncle Moffat shou
ld know. What happened was, he made the mistake of offering one of our bedrooms as a raffle prize in a fundraiser. I think he meant for someone to come and just spend the weekend. People are always wanting to know what it’s like in the Rivers mansion. This librarian won and moved in with a suitcase and never moved out. We all started politely ignoring her, which is what Uncle Moffat said we should do to whoever won. For their sake as much as ours. You know, let them observe us freely without making them uncomfortable. But instead of going back home Monday she just stayed on and on and we kept ignoring her and she kept spying on us from behind chairs and curtains and such and in the end we simply all got used to the arrangement. I wouldn’t say we like it exactly, but she makes herself useful. She brings home books if you let her. Anyhow, I guess they’re always chowing down on goose in Dickens, so off Aunt Hazelnut sent Mrs. Cook for one. Mrs. Cook was in quite a temper. She hates last-minute menu changes. So that’s probably why she shocked you. It wasn’t personal. She was in a mood. That and her enjoyment of the ‘moment of frizzle’ as she puts it. So you see, you must have dinner with us. Should I phone your family to let them know?”

  “We haven’t a phone,” said Rupert.

  “How odd,” said Turgid. “Are you odd people?”

  Rupert didn’t know how to answer this. He wanted to say no, they were ordinary. Or ordinaryish. They simply couldn’t afford a phone. However, to say this would be to expose his extreme poverty, which was embarrassing. So he said nothing. Also, he thought, perhaps to a rich person being poor is odd.

  When Rupert didn’t answer, Turgid said, “Well, shall I send Billingston to your house to inform your family?”

  “That’s all right. They won’t care,” said Rupert before he had time to think.

  “Won’t care if you miss your own Christmas dinner?” asked Turgid.

  Rupert thought if they did notice he was missing, which was unlikely, they would simply be glad there was one less person to fight over the paltry amount of chicken. Except for Elise. She would probably notice he was missing, but even she would most likely be too focused on getting some chicken to be worried. This is what extreme hunger did to people.

  “No, we’re very casual about those things,” said Rupert, knowing he couldn’t possibly explain the complications of a life so different from Turgid’s own.

  “Well, then it’s settled.”

  Someone shouted from downstairs for Turgid. He pulled Rupert with him to the top of the stairs.

  “Turgid, darling!” called the voice again from some recess of the house. “Mrs. Cook couldn’t find a goose at the only store open on Christmas, so it’s prime rib after all. Everything is ready. Mrs. Cook wants us to eat so she can get out of here. She wants dinner with her own family.”

  “All right, Mother,” Turgid called back. “It’s a little early, isn’t it?”

  It was ten in the morning.

  “She’s been up cooking since four apparently,” Mrs. Rivers’s disembodied voice went on. “Come on, let’s indulge her. It’s Christmas, after all. Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Not terribly. I’ve been eating chocolates all morning. Are you hungry, Rupert?” asked Turgid.

  “I’m always hungry,” said Rupert truthfully.

  “Rupert is starving!” called Turgid. “He’s having dinner with us. That’s all right, isn’t it, Mother?”

  “Oh good,” said Mrs. Rivers. “Someone else for the games. The games are always better with more people.”

  A FEW minutes later everyone converged in the dining room.

  “Well,” said Uncle Moffat as they all sat down, “it seems every year we eat at a more ridiculous time.”

  “Yes, what’s with such an early dinner?” asked Turgid’s little sister, Sippy.

  “Are we having an early dinner or are we having roast beef for breakfast, that’s the question,” said Uncle Henry. He was a thin man with a beak of a nose and a mass of unruly white hair.

  “Should I tell you who all these people are?” Turgid asked Rupert as Billingston set an extra place for him.

  “I’ll never remember them all,” said Rupert, thinking, Get to the food, get to the food.

  “Oh, sure you will. That’s my brother, Rollin, my sister, Sippy. My mother is the stocky one sitting next to you at the head of the table with the blond hair and the weird glasses that make her eyes look like they’re squinting,” he said quietly so she didn’t hear. “That’s my father heading up the other end of the table. There’s my Uncle Moffat - he’s the fat one with the bright red cheeks. He lives here with my cousins, who are all awful. Their names are William, Melanie, and Turgid. You don’t have to worry about talking to them. They usually spend the whole of dinner arguing among themselves. Their mother, Aunt Anne, has left to dairy farm in Wisconsin—don’t ask. My Uncle Henry is in the purple smoking jacket sitting in front of the fireplace. My Aunt Hazelnut is the stringy, very white powdery lady with the curly red hair next to him. She’s easy to remember because she’s the only other woman here who isn’t my mother.”

  “Did you say another Turgid? Is it a family name?”

  “No, and there was a huge fight about it when Uncle Moffat and Aunt Anne announced they were naming their son Turgid too. Oh, and that’s the librarian that I mentioned earlier, spying at us from behind the curtains. I forgot there was another woman here besides Mother and Aunt Hazelnut. I always forget about her at dinners because she doesn’t say a lot. We don’t know much about her past and don’t feel we are familiar enough to ask. But you can ask her anything else. She knows everything. Just try it. Go ahead, try it. Mother thinks she must be a reference librarian.”

  “Maybe later,” said Rupert.

  He was feeling shy and overwhelmed. Everyone was talking at once now and the cacophony filled the room. Mrs. Cook had come in with a tureen and was ladling soup into bowls from the head of the table and Billingston was placing them before people.

  As the soup reached the other Turgid, he picked up his spoon and began eating when Uncle Henry cried out, “THE CRACKERS!”

  “Put your spoon down, Turgid,” said Aunt Hazelnut.

  “Oh, I hate the crackers,” said Mr. Rivers. “What a load of nonsense.”

  “Nonsense? Everyone loves the crackers,” said Uncle Henry, holding up what appeared to Rupert to be a gift-wrapped cylinder with ruffled ends.

  He watched at first before trying it with Turgid, as each person took turns pulling on an end of his own cracker and the one belonging to the person next to him. Little explosions occurred, and then the cylinders were ripped open and a paper crown, a joke, and a party favor poured out of each one.

  “Everyone, read your joke out loud before we eat,” commanded Uncle Henry.

  “What did one snowman say to the other?” called out Sippy.

  “Do you smell carrot?” screamed Aunt Hazelnut, shrieking with laughter.

  “What did one reindeer say to the other?” read Uncle Henry.

  “I don’t know,” said Uncle Moffat.

  “Nothing. Reindeer can’t talk,” read Uncle Henry.

  Around the table they went. When it was Rupert’s turn, he nervously began to unfold the bit of paper with his joke when Uncle Henry said, “Wait a second. Who are you?”

  “R-R-R-Rupert,” stammered Rupert.

  “Well, that doesn’t tell us much,” said Uncle Moffat.

  “He was found on our front lawn, half frozen and fainted dead away,” said Turgid.

  “Goodness, another librarian?” asked Uncle Henry.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” roared Uncle Moffat. “He can’t be more than nine years old.”

  “Ten, almost eleven,” corrected Rupert in a whisper.

  “People do seem to be just showing up and moving in of late,” said Mr. Rivers, who never had been apprised of the circumstances surrounding the librarian. He worked long hours and was often out of the loop, family-news-wise.

  “What’s wrong with his speaking voice?” asked William.

  “
Nothing at all, shut up and read your joke,” said Turgid.

  “He could be a librarian-in-training,” said Uncle Henry, ignoring them all. “That would account for the whispering. They are always telling people in libraries to whisper. I bet I’m right! I’m sure I’m right. Am I right, boy?”

  “No,” whispered Rupert.

  “HA!” said Uncle Moffat.

  “I hope you’ve unfrozen,” said Mrs. Rivers kindly.

  “Yes, thank you,” whispered Rupert.

  “Wait a second!” screamed Mrs. Cook, who was bringing in olives and celery. “Are you the kid I tried to jolt off the gate?”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” explained Rupert frantically. “I was walking by and the gate snagged a hole in my sweatshirt.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Cook, not the frizzle again?” said Mrs. Rivers reprovingly.

  “I keep telling you people,” said Mrs. Cook, “I don’t like watching people frizzle up any more than most. I’m just deterring burglars. I ought to get paid extra.”

  “Come, you like to see them frizzle up a bit, admit it,” said Uncle Henry.

  “Oh a bit, everyone likes to see people frizzle up a bit,” said Mrs. Cook defensively.

  “I don’t see any holes in your sweatshirt now, young man,” said Mr. Rivers, craning his neck forward over his soup bowl to peer at Rupert.

  “He’s wearing my sweatshirt, Father,” said Turgid. “Will everybody please leave him alone? Rupert, read your joke.”

  “What did one reindeer say to the other?” read Rupert.

  “We’ve already had that one!” called out Uncle Moffat accusingly.

  “There’s always a few repeats, you know that,” said Uncle Henry. “Enough. We’re done with the crackers. Everyone eat your soup.”

  And just like that everyone did. Rupert noticed they were now all wearing the paper crowns from their crackers, so he put his own crown on and began to eat as well. The soup was the most delicious thing Rupert had ever eaten. It was full of cream and potato and he knew not what else. He ate it in quick, quiet spoonfuls and finished before everyone else. He wished he could have more, but as soon as he was done Billingston swept his bowl away.