The Rich Part of Life

by Jim Kokoris

  “I’m not sure yet. But I’m confident that there are suitable lodgings nearby. Maybe in the city. Simple accommodations, really. All I need is a small cot really, a bare mattress.”

  “The city? You don’t want to go downtown now, at this time of night. Listen, why don’t you stay here? Theo is out of town until tomorrow. You can use his room. He won’t mind. He won’t even know.”

  I didn’t hear a response and I imagined that Sylvanius was bowing his head again. It seemed like something he would do after my aunt’s offer.

  “Under normal circumstances, I would never think of imposing,” Sylvanius finally said. “But considering the lateness of the hour and my general unfamiliarity with this city, I can see no other option but to accept. So accept I shall.”

  “Good,” Aunt Bess said. I heard her rising. “I’ll go change the sheets. Theo is a heavy sweater.”

  “Ah,” Sylvanius said as I scrambled back to my room.

  THE NEXT MORNING at breakfast, Sylvanius walked into the kitchen wearing his red handkerchief around his neck and a white shirt of my father’s. He attempted to pull out the chair for Aunt Bess when she sat down, but this just seemed to confuse her.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, alarmed. “Why are you taking my chair?”

  As we ate, Sylvanius kept asking about Uncle Frank, but Aunt Bess said simply, “He’ll be up soon enough.” Then she passed a platter full of bacon over to Sylvanius, who bowed his head several times before taking five pieces. When Maurice came to the door, Sylvanius jumped to his feet.

  “Good God,” he said. “They’ve sent a black assassin.”

  “That’s the boys’ bodyguard,” Aunt Bess said getting up to open the door. “He’s on the payroll.”

  “Oh, I see,” Sylvanius said. He stood up and introduced himself to Maurice with a deeper than usual bow. Maurice stared at him and nodded his head once. I put my jacket on.

  “I’m sure the children are being well protected,” Sylvanius said. “I’m sure that they are quite safe. One cannot be too cautious nowadays.”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Aunt Bess said as she poured orange juice into a glass pitcher. “There’s crazy people everywhere. You don’t know what we’ve been through.”

  “Oh, I can imagine,” Sylvanius said, sitting back down at the table and picking up the last piece of bacon. “Sometimes I wonder where we are all headed.”

  When I got to school, Benjamin walked up to me on the playground and informed me that soccer practice was starting tomorrow afternoon. He stood very close to me when he said this, giving me a slight push when he finished. Over his shoulder, I saw Maurice walking on the far side of the playground, deeply engrossed in the study of his pipe. He seemed miles away.

  “Are you going to be there?” Benjamin asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. I kept looking over his shoulder, hoping that Maurice would detect my situation, walk over, and punch Benjamin.

  “You don’t know what?” Benjamin said. He moved closer to me, his nose and mine almost touching. I saw small freckles on his cheek that I had never noticed before. “You don’t know what?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m coming.”

  Benjamin nodded. A circle of boys, all St. Pius football players, formed a small knot around me.

  “Okay, pussy. And just in case you forget, here’s a little reminder,” he said. He kneed me in the groin.

  I fell on the ground, my stomach hot coals and fire. The pain was so intense I had trouble breathing. I squeezed my eyes tight and gasped for air.

  “You’re a pussy,” I heard him say. “I can’t wait to get you on the soccer field. And you better show up or I’ll do a lot worse.”

  I opened my eyes just in time to see Big Tony Cezzaro, Johnny’s older brother, whack Benjamin on the back of his head with a book. Benjamin fell forward on top of me without making a sound.

  The circle of boys parted and Johnny Cezzaro walked casually through the crowd, a toothpick in his mouth. “Thanks, Ton,” he said, patting Big Tony on the back. Big Tony, who never said much of anything, shrugged and walked away.

  “You okay, Pappas?” he asked. Benjamin rolled over and lay next to me, rubbing his head, trying not to cry though his lips were trembling and his eyes closed. The other boys had widened the circle considerably and looked over at Benjamin from a safe distance, with open mouths and embarrassed expressions.

  “I’m okay,” I said standing up. “I’m okay.”

  Johnny helped me to my feet and dusted off my shoulders. Then he pressed his finger in my chest and said, “You owe fifteen thousand dollars for that. Half for me, half for Big Tony.” He finished dusting off my shoulders and walked away.

  I passed the rest of the day feeling sorry for myself. The incident with Benjamin was a harsh reminder of my standing at St. Pius. I was a coward, with few friends, little respect, and a bruised groin.

  My brooding eventually led me to thoughts of my father. I was angry at him. On a number of levels he was to blame for my predicament. He was involved with Mrs. Wilcott, he was making me play soccer. And he was ignoring the fact that we had won the lottery, refusing to use the money to help us, to help me.

  I couldn’t understand his attitude toward the lottery. He wasn’t acknowledging it, choosing instead to stand apart from it, something he had great practice in doing. Sitting there, I vowed to press the issue, vowed to discuss my List of Things with him and urge him to consider the ranch in Montana, as well as a new house in a different suburb, in a new school district where I could start my life over with new friends. The money, I concluded, could buy me this life.

  When I got home from school, I found my father standing in the dining room, peering out through the window shades at Sylvanius, whom we had just passed sitting on Mrs. Rhodebush’s porch, talking to her. Behind him, Aunt Bess set the table, placing forks and knives next to plates with deep, meaningful sighs.

  “He’s a talker,” Aunt Bess said, polishing a knife on her apron.

  “Yes,” my father said. “I believe he is. Though he is polite. Why is he at Mrs. Rhodebush’s?”

  Aunt Bess looked annoyed. “I don’t know, why are you asking me? He said he was going out for a walk. Next thing I know . . .” she shrugged and plopped the knife down hard on the table.

  When my father turned around to face me, my anger left. He looked like old lettuce, wilted and soft. His eyes had a given-up heaviness to them and his puffy hair hung now in lifeless, confused strands.

  “So, Teddy,” he said. “How have you been bearing up?”

  “Good,” I said. He smiled, one of his short smiles that was gone before it was there.

  “Good,” he said. “And how was school?”

  “Fine.”

  “Well,” he said, “quite a bit of excitement the last few days.”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s been a soldier through it all,” Aunt Bess said. “A soldier.”

  “Yes, well, that’s good,” he said. “A soldier. That’s good.” Then, noticing that Aunt Bess was setting the table, he said, “Aunt Bess, don’t set the table for Frank and his friend and me. I think we’ll be going out for dinner. We have some things to discuss.”

  Aunt Bess was confused by the comment. She held a plate in one hand and a fork in the other. “What? You’re not going to eat here? Why? Where are you going? I’m cooking. I’m setting the table now. Where are you going? I’m setting the table.”

  “We’re going out for a quick bite so we can talk. We might go to Will’s.”

  “What? Oh!” Aunt Bess said. “Oh,” she said again. “Okay, all right, all right. You’re going to talk. Okay.” She quickly began to pick up silverware and plates. “I see,” she said and walked back into the kitchen.

  After she left, he glanced at me, then quickly at the floor. “Urn, Teddy,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’ve been meaning to tell you that I signed you up for soccer. I think it would be good for you to have some type of activity, other th
an your artwork. You need some exercise.”

  I was shocked that rather than talk about Baby Girl, Tommy, or even Sylvanius, he chose that moment to discuss soccer. The expression on his face kept me from saying anything though. The heaviness in his eyes had lifted and he looked expectant suddenly, hopeful for my agreement. I didn’t want to disappoint him, at least not then. On some level, I understood that he wanted me to play soccer for my own good, and I took some consolation in this.

  I shrugged. “Okay,” I said.

  My father exhaled. “Good,” he said. “Good. Well, then, I have some things I must take care of.” Then he went outside to talk to Sylvanius.

  During dinner, the Fire Starter asked where everybody was.

  “Where’s that monster?” he asked.

  “He’s with your father and your uncle. They’re discussing business.”

  Tommy laughed. “Uncle Frank says he drinks blood in movies. He’s probably drinking a glass of blood right now. I’d like to drink blood. I love blood. It tastes sweet.”

  Aunt Bess stopped chewing and stared at Tommy. She looked worried, even though I thought she would be relieved that Tommy was at least talking again. He hadn’t really said anything since the fire.

  “Sweet, sweet blood,” Tommy said. “Sweet, delicious blood.”

  I glanced at Aunt Bess and saw that she was still frozen in midchew.

  The phone rang, breaking her trance, and she got up to answer it. We had changed our number again. After every change, the phone would fall silent for a few days, then the ringing would mysteriously resume, louder and more persistent than before, as if the callers had been angered by the disruption. Aunt Bess was the only one who ever answered it. She was always interested in whoever called, asking questions and listening intently to their stories, measuring their misery against the misery of previous callers.

  “Hello?” she said. She listened for a while. “Oh my God, that sounds terrible. Well, I’ll tell you something, honey, you got a better chance of winning the lottery yourself then getting a dime out of Theo Pappas. No, I’m his aunt and I still clip coupons. What? I can’t hear you. That sounds terrible. Well, good luck, I hope you get your children out of Saudi Arabia. I’ll pray for you. No, I’m sorry. I used to own a bakery in Milwaukee. The most I ever made was forty-two thousand a year. I have no money, but I will pray. I have to go now. I have another call.” I watched as she removed the phone from her ear and squinted at the receiver. “Someone’s beeping. How does this work? It’s another call.”

  “Press the button that says phone,” I said.

  “What button?”

  “The button on top.”

  She pressed the button and said, “Hello? What? I can’t hear you. What? Who? What? No. Where? Gabon? Listen, I can’t hear you. You’ll have to call back.” She hung up the phone and came back to the table, sitting down with a thud.

  “Who was that?” I asked. I thought she had said Gabon, which was where Ergu was from, but I wasn’t sure.

  She waved her hand. “Someone,” she said. “People. Everyone’s miserable. Everybody has pain.” She looked over at Tommy and suddenly asked, “Why did you start that fire, Tommy Pappas? Are you trying to kill your only aunt?”

  I was startled by her question. We had more or less gotten into the habit of not asking Tommy direct questions.

  Tommy was sitting backward in his chair with his eyes closed. “Because the bathroom smelled. Like shit and farts.”

  Aunt Bess threw her napkin down on the table. “Go to your room, young man, and don’t come out until I say so.”

  Tommy left the table and crawled up the stairs.

  “Did you say Gabon?” I asked quietly after Tommy was gone. I could tell that she was in a foul mood and didn’t want to provoke her. Still, I was curious.

  “What?”

  I picked casually at some broccoli with my fork. “On the phone, you said Gabon.”

  She waved her hand again and said, “I don’t remember. Just eat.” After a few minutes she said, “This is a crazy house,” and got up and disappeared into the kitchen.

  After dinner, while I was making my way to my room to do my homework, I stopped in the doorway of my father’s study and peered in. I liked this room. It was small and orderly with cedar-paneled walls that filled the room with a fresh smell the rest of our house lacked. The sturdy brass desk lamp gave off a soft halo of light that sent shadows halfway up the wall. My father was always leaving the light on. I walked over to turn it off, but once inside I decided to look for letters from women who wanted to marry my father.

  He had continued to get a steady stream of such letters and I had seen a number of the familiar pastel-colored envelopes on his desk that very morning. He usually let these letters collect unopened for awhile until he unceremoniously threw them out in a bundle. Rather than rummage through the garbage to retrieve them as I sometimes did, I decided to examine the letters in the quiet of his study with the hopes of finding photos of naked women, which some of the letters contained.

  I quickly found three packets of letters in a drawer, each bound with a rubber band. On the top letter of one pile my father had written: “To consider.” All of the envelopes in this pile had already been opened. I took a letter out and read it:

  Dear Mr. Pappas:

  I work at the Chapter of Children with Communicative Disorders. I’m just an assistant therapist, but the work we do here for children who cannot for different reasons communicate in the normal way is nothing short of a miracle.

  We serve more than 500 children in the Danbury area and unfortunately are well behind in our taxes. We are a privately funded . . .

  I stopped reading and put the letter back, concluding that there were no photos of naked women in this pile.

  The second bundle of envelopes was marked, “Miscellaneous.” They were all from banks and stockbrokers and I had no interest in them. The third pile of envelopes, the largest, was marked “Discard.” This is what I was searching for.

  I reviewed this pile carefully, looking for pictures. After slow examination, I selected an envelope postmarked Bettendorf, Iowa, turned it upside down, and shook it. Sure enough, two small snapshots fell into my lap. They were both of a small poodle, wearing a cowboy hat and a red-and-white checkered scarf around his neck. A brief note read, “We’re lonely too! Call us, Laura and Brendan.” Disappointed, I slipped the photos back into the envelope.

  I quickly opened another letter and was just as quickly disappointed again. It was from “The Living History Society,” a Civil War association I had heard my father mention from time to time. The letter read:

  Dear Mr. Pappas:

  Dr. Stephen Z. Larson of Dartmouth informed me of your good fortune. I was hoping that you will have the opportunity to review the enclosed literature on the Society and our most recent activities. As you will note, we are in dire need of support and would appreciate any effort you could make in this regard.

  Please forgive the formality of this letter, but I have been unable to reach you by phone.

  We hope you will consider us . . .

  What I thought was a picture was actually a brochure, “Re-Live Manassas.” Two Civil War soldiers were on the cover, superimposed over a silhouette of Abraham Lincoln’s profile. Disappointed, I put the brochure down. Then, frustrated by my poor luck, I impulsively picked up another envelope and checked its contents, even though it didn’t feel like it contained any pictures.

  Theodore Pappas:

  You and me have to meet to discuss the situation. I don’t want to be made out to be the bad guy here, but I know my rights. Maybe we can work something out and then we can all be happy. I’m coming to Chicago soon and then we can talk this out.

  Bobby Lee Anderson

  I looked at the letter, then folded it up and put it in my pocket. I heard my father’s voice downstairs. He had returned earlier than I expected.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE NEXT DAY, I went to soccer practice. All that day
in school my stomach was in a terrible knot and I was unable to focus on Miss Grace who, with a powder-blue ribbon in her hair, looked particularly soft and sweet. Instead, I sorted through various scenarios involving Benjamin and me on the soccer field. Despite my efforts to hope for the best—Benjamin might be in a good mood, Benjamin might not have the opportunity to hit me, Benjamin might feel intimidated by Maurice, Benjamin might be struck by lightning—virtually all of the scenarios ended with Benjamin sitting on my chest, methodically breaking my nose.

  The soccer league was run by the Wilton Park District. St. Pius didn’t have a soccer team. They only had a football team. During most of the practice, I just stood on the sidelines with a few other boys, keeping my distance from Benjamin who seemed strangely uninterested in me and instead very focused on the drills. Our coach, Mr. Peterson, a short overweight man with a thick mustache that hung over his mouth like a curtain, was nice enough and didn’t yell or scream, something I assumed all coaches had an obligation to do. Speaking in a very even, almost friendly voice, he tried to explain various plays to me, none of which I was able to grasp. Every few minutes, I checked my watch, waiting for practice to end so I could go home and play Mr. Verb, a new computer grammar game with Charlie Governs.

  “Okay, Teddy Pappas, you play goalie,” Mr. Peterson said, blowing his whistle.

  I slowly made my way over to the net and crouched down in a position I had seen the other boys assume. Even though I had never been a goalie before, I tried to look nonchalant and experienced. I spat on the ground.

  “Teddy, buddy,” Mr. Peterson said, walking toward me, his silver whistle bouncing off his gray sweatshirt. The sun was setting and the field was slipping into shadows. Off in the darkness, my teammates lined up, a firing squad. “You don’t stand inside the net, you stand in front of it.”

  I spat again and pretended not to hear the snickers from the other boys and nodded my head. Then I moved up a bit.

  “Further,” Mr. Peterson said. He was looking at me in an odd, sympathetic way that suddenly made me feel sorry for myself. I stopped spitting.