The Rich Part of Life

by Jim Kokoris

  “It is?” I raised my eyebrows high when I said this and worked hard to keep the corners of my mouth in a straight line.

  My mother stopped flipping the pages of her magazine and I thought I saw her bite down on her lip to keep from smiling.

  “Why don’t we go to Boogie Burger?” she finally said.

  Boogie Burger was a restaurant where the waitresses and waiters dressed up as hamburgers and french fries and danced with hula hoops while they served you. I found the place loud and annoying—much more up Tommy’s alley—and was disappointed in my mother’s suggestion. I had hoped for bigger and better things than Boogie Burger for my first surprise party. In particular, I had my heart set on the Laser Zone, a place I had heard much about, but never been.

  “Sure,” I said. This time I didn’t have to work at not smiling. The last time we had gone to Boogie Burger, a dancing cheeseburger had knocked over a real milkshake onto my father, who, caught completely off guard, reacted like it was hot lava and clutched his heart and yelled “Dear God,” so loudly that the cheeseburger asked if they should call an ambulance.

  “I asked Bobby and Michael to come too,” my mother said. She had stopped flipping through her magazine and was now peering intently at a page. “They’re going to meet us there.”

  “The Kopiks?” My heart sank. Bobby and Michael were twin brothers whose house backed up to ours. Their family was in the process of moving to New York City but unfortunately were still living in Wilton at the time of my birthday. They defined odd and spent much of their time discussing their braces and allergy medications when they weren’t playing with their handpuppet collection, speaking in a bizarre language they claimed to have invented. Despite being neighbors, I avoided them. They occupied a lower rung on the St. Pius social ladder than I did, a rung so low that it ceased to exist the day they finally relocated.

  “What about Charlie? Can he come?” I asked.

  My mother started flipping through the magazine again. “Who? Oh, I forgot to ask him,” she said absentmindedly. “He’s probably doing homework or something.”

  “It’s summer vacation,” I said, but my mother didn’t seem to hear me. Then, without even looking at me, she told me to go upstairs and get dressed.

  On the way to Boogie Burger, I asked where my father was.

  “He’s at the library,” my mother said as she switched lanes. “But he did tell me to wish you a happy birthday. Actually, he asked me to sing it. You can help me, Tommy. Come on, honey!”

  As we drove, my mother and Tommy, who was sitting next to me in the backseat, sang round after round of Happy Birthday, as I looked out the window, depressed, lonely, and more than a bit confused. I had imagined a number of scenarios for my birthday, none of which included my current reality.

  “Oh, Teddy, honey. Do you mind if I just pop into Nancy’s Fabric for awhile? I want to look at some new fabric. I want to make new curtains for your bedroom windows. It will only take about an hour.”

  “An hour?” I asked. My voice cracked a bit when I said this and I felt my face grow red.

  “It’s right there in the mall,” she said as we pulled into the parking lot. “Come on in with me, honey, I want you to help me pick out some fabric.”

  “I don’t want to go,” I said. I slumped down in my seat.

  My mother had already parked and was opening my door. “Come on, birthday boy, it’s right over there, right next to the Laser Zone. Tell you what, you can take Tommy in there while I go next door.”

  My mood immediately changed. “Oh, okay. Let’s go, Tommy,” I said, quickly taking his hand. “We only have an hour.”

  The first people I saw when we entered the Laser Zone were the Kopik brothers holding their puppets. They were standing right next to Charlie, who was standing right next to Aunt Bess, who was standing right next to my father, who was standing right next to most of my fourth-grade class, all of whom yelled “Surprise” so loudly that I momentarily lost my breath.

  I stood there in shock and then turned around to find my mother, who, was still standing in the doorway looking at me. Rather than leading the cheers and singing, she was simply smiling, looking at me in a way I had never seen before, as if she were studying and memorizing me. She held her hands in front of her in an unusually tentative manner, both nervous and hopeful. She clearly wanted me to be pleased. It was only when she stepped forward into the room, away from the bright daylight, that I saw her tears. It was the first and only time I ever saw my mother cry.

  I couldn’t hear her over all the noise and music, but through the commotion, I could still see her lips move. She was trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t hear her. She repeated the effort, but I was swept away by the party. Her standing in the doorway, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, wiping tears away with a finger, was the last real image I had of my mother. A few days later, she would get into her car, drive onto the interstate, and disappear from my life forever.

  I was lying in bed, trying to re-create that party, trying to imagine what my mother was trying to tell me, wondering if it had any significance other than happy birthday, when I heard my bedroom door open. “Teddy,” I heard Sylvanius’s voice ask. “Are you still resting?”

  I sat up in bed, the image of my mother fading. Sylvanius was standing in my doorway, a new, bright red scarf tied loosely around his neck.

  He opened the door wide and bowed slightly. “Breakfast is served,” he said.

  WHEN I GOT DOWN to the kitchen, I saw that Sylvanius had set the table for one. It was late in the morning and Tommy and Maurice had already left for school. After our talk the night before, my father had said that I should stay home and rest the next day. “I imagine you have quite a bit on your mind,” he said as he helped me back into bed. “Sleep as late as you wish.” I tried to stay awake and sort things out, but I fell asleep while my father was still sitting on the edge of my bed.

  “Your uncle and father had to go into the city,” Sylvanius said. “And your aunt went to the market. So,” he smiled, “it is just you and I. I had to convince your aunt that you would be fine, she didn’t want to leave you.” He paused and his lizard eyes dragged over me a moment, then he said, “Per her instructions, I have taken the liberty of pouring you a bowl of cereal with some fruit. Bananas freshly peeled. Now, exactly where did I put it?” He slowly rose and walked over to the kitchen counter. As I sat down, I instinctively glanced at his monster shoes out of the corner of my eye. They looked particularly immense that morning and I wondered if somehow they were expanding, feeding on some unknown food source.

  Sylvanius found the bowl on top of the microwave. “Ah,” he said. “And how did it get here?”

  He returned to the table with the bowl and a pitcher of milk and sat down. “You were up late last night,” he said.

  I poured milk and started to eat my Cheerios, crunching them hard in a way that I hoped would discourage further discussion from Sylvanius. The bananas he had cut were brown and mushy looking so I pushed them to the side of the bowl and ate around them.

  “I usually don’t hear or see much from my lair in the basement,” he said. “But unfortunately I heard all about this sad tale.” He leaned across the table. “I can only imagine how you must feel. It must be very upsetting.”

  I shrugged and kept eating. I didn’t want to talk about Bobby Lee. I didn’t even want to think about him.

  “Could I have some orange juice?”

  “Ah, juice, of course.” He sighed and stood up and walked over to the refrigerator. “Juice is important for children. It gives you vitality and, and”—he waved his hand—“other things.”

  He returned to the table and handed me a glass that he watched me drink. When I finished, he bowed his head and said. “Refreshing, no doubt,” and then sat down again.

  I ate more cereal, now swallowing Cheerios whole, avoiding his eyes.

  “I want you to know that everything will be fine,” he said after some time. “Everything will b
e fine.”

  Stavros walked into the room, stopped and looked at Sylvanius, then glided by into the dining room and out of sight.

  “Everything will turn out in your favor,” Sylvanius said. “You’ll see. That horrid man will never succeed with his plans. Never. Your father and uncle present a formidable team. He will never take you away from here.”

  I stopped eating and looked down at the Cheerios floating in my bowl. The thought of Bobby Lee taking me away from Wilton hadn’t occurred to me.

  “Where would he take me?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Sylvanius said. “To the hills somewhere, I suppose. In the South. They have hills down there, I believe. But he won’t get away with it. Your uncle assured me of this just last night. We were up quite late discussing the matter.” He yawned and stretched his thin arms upward. “Yes, quite late, indeed. Planning your defense.”

  I tried eating again, but the Cheerios were fat and soggy, the milk warm. I could still feel Sylvanius’s eyes on me and I knew he wanted to talk about Bobby Lee but I didn’t. I was fairly positive I didn’t want to discuss Bobby Lee ever again.

  “Did you ever drink blood?” I asked. “In your movies?”

  My question surprised him and he smiled when he answered. “No, no, no, of course not. I believe they used ketchup or some type of food dye.”

  “Were you ever anything besides a vampire in a movie?”

  He eased back in his chair and folded his hands. “I occasionally played other roles, roles of a somewhat sinister vein. Once I played a professor or doctor of some sort. Dr. Gray Vatem. If my memory serves me, I was beheaded by an angry mob.” He paused here, confused. “Or was I eaten by a large crab? Well, anyway, I came to some dastardly end that I no doubt deserved.” He crossed his legs, his monster shoes now dangling close to my sneakers, dwarfing them. “I suppose I would have liked to have stretched myself a bit more. My last film, about the good vampire, the one that was never released, was different. It had some excellent writing in it. I had some very thoughtful lines. I gave this wonderful little speech at the end, wonderful, about love and people and family and growing. Frank, of course, didn’t like the scene, he wanted me to be burned alive, but I actually cried when I first read it aloud, actually cried. It’s a shame no one will ever see the film.”

  “Is it hard being an actor?”

  Sylvanius closed his eyes and nodded, my question large and irresistible. “It is,” he said, “the most challenging of professions.”

  “Is that what you always wanted to be?”

  “Well, I thought briefly of becoming a surgeon, medicine has always fascinated me, but . . .” He took a deep breath and let the air out slowly, his chest falling. “I was born to be onstage. Everyone is born to do one thing well, I suppose.” He was quiet again and looked over my shoulder, out the window. “Oh,” he said. “I had such talent and dreams.” He took another deep breath, then stared silently out the window over the sink. I finished my Cheerios and looked up just in time to see him wipe a tear from his cheek.

  “I am sorry,” he said. He looked embarrassed and stood up. “My career is not without memories. Or regrets. I’m afraid I’ve grown quite reflective over the past few weeks. My recent ordeal, my escape if you will, has served to remind me of how far I have fallen, how far I have strayed from my dreams. And being here with you all, well, it reminds me of what I should have had in my life. A home. A family. A neighborhood to stroll. I should have had some sense of permanence at my age.” He stopped here. “Especially at my age.” Another tear slipped down his face and he didn’t look much like a serpent anymore. He just looked thin and old.

  “Well, if you will excuse me,” he said. “I think I have to be alone.” He made his way over to the basement, his monster shoes creaking and moaning like old ships. When he reached the door, he paused and looked back at me.

  He started to say something, then stopped and merely waved his hand at me, a slow, sad wave. Then he vanished down the steps and into the darkness.

  As soon as he left, I put my bowl away and went upstairs to my room. I had a sudden need to draw. Sitting at my desk, I sketched quickly, with no definite purpose or thought in mind as to what I was drawing. Many times when I drew, I would start with a vague emotion that would reveal itself and take shape as I worked. As I drew, my thoughts came into focus.

  The night before, when my father told me about Bobby Lee, I didn’t understand what he was saying at first.

  “I thought you were my father,” I said.

  “I am. Of course I am. But I am your adopted father. He is your biological father.” He cleared his throat. “Are you familiar with how that situation works? How that can be?”

  “Yes.”

  “He and your mother conceived you. And then I met your mother and soon after she and you moved to Wilton. From Memphis.”

  “I don’t remember moving here.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t, of course. You were only two years old.”

  “Is Bobby Lee Tommy’s father too?”

  “No, he’s not,” my father said. “I am Tommy’s father. Biological father.” These words and the apologetic way he said them had given me a terrible, empty feeling.

  “Tommy’s still my brother though, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Half-brother,” my father said. “But he is definitely your brother. Yes, definitely,” he added quickly.

  I was thinking about that conversation and about Bobby Lee and my mother, when I heard my father’s voice downstairs. Minutes later, he entered my room, walking directly over to my desk without stopping.

  “Drawing again, Teddy?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He peered over my shoulder at my picture.

  “Very vibrant colors. What is it?”

  I looked down at my paper. I wasn’t sure what I was drawing, it was just a blur of colors and nothing yet had taken shape. “Different colors,” I said.

  “Ah,” he said. I expected him to disappear into his study, but instead he sat down on the edge of my bed. “Teddy, do you have any more questions? About what we discussed last night?”

  “About Bobby Lee being my father?”

  He cleared his throat. “Biological father. Yes.”

  “No,” I said.

  He nodded his head. “Well . . .” He stopped and smiled briefly. “Well,” he said again. Then he was quiet. Outside I could hear a car door slam. I looked over toward the window and saw the blue curtains blowing in the breeze, fluttering softly like someone had just breathed on them. I remembered my mother making those curtains on the dining room table late at night with a sewing machine she had borrowed from Aunt Bess.

  “Teddy,” my father said. “I was thinking that we should all take a family vacation.”

  I looked at him, speechless and confused.

  He cleared his throat once more. “All of us. Together.” I continued to look at him, not sure I heard him correctly. Other than our occasional trips to Wisconsin, we never took vacations. “A vacation? Where?” I asked.

  He rubbed his hands on his knees and took a deep breath. “Well, where would you like to go?”

  His question depressed me. I knew the reason behind it, knew it was because of Bobby Lee. Though I momentarily considered a ranch-scouting expedition to Montana I said, “I don’t want to go anywhere.”

  “Well, how about Disney World?”

  My heart fell. Marcia Broden from my first grade class had gone to Disney World after doctors diagnosed her rare bone disease. She died a year later.

  “I don’t want to go to Disney World,” I said.

  My father looked worried, his jaw moving in and out. The concept of planning a vacation was a daunting task and he was struggling to keep up the effort. “Well,” he said, “we should all go somewhere.”

  “Will Aunt Bess come?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Uncle Frank?”

  He looked surprised. “Well, I hadn’t really . . . I supp
ose if he would want to. Yes.”

  “And Maurice?”

  My father’s forehead tightened and his jaws tensed again. “I hadn’t really thought of including Mr. Jackson, but I suppose that might be wise . . .”

  “Where do you want to go?” I asked.

  He seemed surprised again. “Well, I hadn’t really planned on anything. I thought you and Tommy could pick out a place.”

  “Why don’t we go to Manassas?” I asked. I remembered the brochure I had seen in his study, the one with the silhouette of Abraham Lincoln on the cover. I thought such a trip would please my father. Suddenly, going to Manassas made sense.

  He was confused, his eyebrows coming together in a point. “What? I’m sorry? In Virginia?”

  “We can see that Civil War battle. I saw that brochure. On your desk.”

  “Oh,” he said, half turning toward the door and his study. “Oh, my desk. Hmmm, do you think you would enjoy that? Of course, it is near Washington, D.C., which would be educational. Yes. Well, I could make some inquiries. I believe that it, the reenactment, is coming up very soon. Immediately, actually. Do you think this is something you would like to do?”

  “Can we fight in the battle?”

  “What? Oh. Well, you are a bit young. Not many twelve-year-olds fought in the war, though there are records that show that a number of young boys served in the bugle corps. Well, I could call the Society. I really haven’t had any contact with them in years. Are you sure you want to go there? Isn’t there anywhere else? What about Epcot Center? Have you heard of it? It’s very educational. I’ve been doing some research.”

  “Manassas,” I said. “I want to go to Manassas.”

  My father uncharacteristically searched my face, then took a deep breath and stood up. “Well, I’ll look into it right away.” He was halfway to the door before he turned and said, “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. For dinner, your aunt is preparing your favorite meal. Cheeseburgers.”

  My heart sank to unchartered depths, bouncing off the ocean floor. We never had cheeseburgers for dinner. I looked at my father, braced for news about my rare bone disease.