The Rich Part of Life

by Jim Kokoris

  “Well,” my father said, putting the magazine back into the flap in the seat in front of him. “We seem to be safely off. A very smooth departure, don’t you think, Teddy?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Teddy, I thought you might like to read this, or at least browse through it,” he said. He pulled out his briefcase and handed me a book, Reflections on the Civil War. “I hope it’s not too advanced for you. I have others, but I don’t have anything specific on Manassas, unfortunately.”

  I opened the book with exaggerated gusto, turning the pages quickly. “This looks good,” I said. “I’m going to read it all right now.”

  My father gave me a peculiar look, then went back to his briefcase.

  I tried reading the book for a while, but found my eyes glazing and the words blurring halfway through the first chapter, a tedious explanation of why the war was important. I was tired from a poor night’s sleep and sensed a nap was dangerously close. Falling asleep while reading the first Civil War book my father had ever given me would do little to improve my standing with him though, so I closed the book thoughtfully and nodded my head.

  “That’s neat,” I said.

  “Excuse me?” my father said. “I’m sorry, you said something?”

  “The Civil War, I think it’s interesting,” I said, sounding like Mrs. Wilcott.

  “Well, I’m glad you find the book interesting,” my father said. He gave me another odd look through his small, rectangular reading glasses. “The author, Bruce Carton, is quite good. I think he was the best at what he did. He brought the war to life in a way no other writer could. Though Shelby Foote is quite good too. I haven’t heard from Shelby in years.”

  “Why do you like the Civil War so much?” I asked.

  My father took off his glasses and rubbed his nose, then returned them to the perch on the tip of his nose. “Well, I suppose I just find it interesting. I find all history interesting. I am a history professor after all.”

  “But how come you don’t like other wars?”

  “Oh, well, the Civil War was unique, I suppose. It made this country what we are today. And it did away with a terrible thing.”

  “Slavery?” I asked.

  “Yes,” my father said. “1 also think that, I think that the Civil War produced more heroes than any other war. Heroes on both sides really. Both sides truly believed in their causes. And the courage that this war required, the courage and faith it demanded were remarkable, just remarkable.”

  “Why was Bull Run so important?” I had decided that asking questions about the War would be much easier than reading the book.

  “Well, as I mentioned, it was the first real battle of the Civil War. And its brutality and the fact that the South won shocked the world. It made a hero out of Stonewall Jackson. Before that battle, he was just Thomas Jackson.”

  “How come they started calling him ‘Stonewall’?”

  My father cleared his throat, obviously warming to the subject. “Well, the Union side was initially winning the battle. For awhile, there were indications that the battle was turning into a rout. Many rebel units were, in fact, retreating. Just as the battle seemed lost, a Confederate officer looked up and saw General Jackson’s brigade holding its position against the Union onslaught and reportedly cried, ‘There’s Jackson, standing like a stone wall,’ something to that effect. The other rebel units rallied behind Jackson and the tide of the battle was turned. It’s really quite inspiring to the rebels,” my father said, smiling. “Jackson refused to move. He made a stand. A remarkable stand.”

  “What was Stonewall Jackson like?” I asked.

  “Well, he was a fascinating character really. I have some reading I can give you. He was a brave man, of course, a man of many contradictions. Despite his reputation as a ceaseless fighter, he was very religious and would pray before battle. His troops would see him sitting on his saddle, looking up to heaven, praying. He was killed in Chancellorsville, accidentally, by one of his own men.”

  “Was he a good fighter. In the War?”

  “Yes, brilliant, though every so often he seemed to lose focus, show up late almost, to battle. Still, it was amazing what he did in the valley. He was very mobile and his mobility kept his opponents off guard.”

  My father was speaking in a fast and excited way, a tone I hadn’t heard in awhile.

  “What do you mean, mobile?” I asked.

  “Well, you see, one way to be successful in battle is to keep moving, keep your opponent guessing where your next charge will be. This is particularly effective when you’re dealing with a dangerous foe. Simply put, Teddy, if you feel, well, if you feel you’re the underdog, you don’t want to attack head on. You want to flank them, if you can.”

  “Flank them?”

  My father turned to face me, his eyes bright. “Yes, flank them. Basically, flanking involves movement. Coming at your enemy from an unseen direction. The key is to try and get around your enemy somehow, Teddy, and attack from the side or from behind. Draw and hold their attention in one direction and attack from another. Surprise and movement are often the keys to battle. Yes.”

  Satisfied, my father went back to his briefcase, sorting and rearranging papers and folders. I couldn’t bring myself to read my book though. I was still afraid I would fall asleep.

  “Did you bring your book?” I asked. “The one you wrote?”

  “Oh. Yes, of course. I have it somewhere. Oh, here it is,” he said as he handed me A Civil War Companion, by Theodore N. Pappas. He returned to his briefcase.

  I studied the book. I had never really looked at it before. It was fairly large and on the cover there was a map of part of the United States colored blue and gray.

  “It’s probably too technical for most people, closer to a textbook really,” my father said. He had stopped sorting through his briefcase and was looking warily at me over the tops of his small rectangles.

  I opened the book with enthusiasm. On one of the inside pages were the words, “To my parents and to my brother Frank. Thank you for your patience.”

  “Do you mean Uncle Frank?” I asked, pointing to the page.

  “Oh,” he said. “I had forgotten about that. It was a long time ago. I wrote that some twenty-five years ago.”

  A young woman holding a baby walked past us unsteadily in the aisle. The baby was crying loudly and other passengers turned to look at them. Across the aisle, Uncle Frank looked up, said “Jesus Christ,” then went back to his newspaper.

  “How come you didn’t write any more books?” I asked.

  My father looked surprised. “Well, this one book more or less covered everything I had ever wanted to write about. Besides,” he said, picking up another book from his briefcase, “it took six years to write and I had to make a living. Writing books about history unfortunately doesn’t pay as many bills as I would have liked. And I didn’t have a grant. So I guess it was also a function of time and money. Ultimately, I went into teaching and research. I write quite a few articles and papers now, but I don’t have time to tackle another book. I barely have time to do my research.”

  “You can write now,” I said. “You don’t have to work and do so much research now.” Then I said, “We’re pretty rich.”

  My father looked down at me and nodded his head. “Well, I imagine you’re right, Teddy. I’ll have to remember that. Yes, I’ll have to remember that. Maybe I will write another book.”

  “Why do you like history so much?” I asked. I sensed my father had wandered past the safety of his tower and I wanted to lure him out farther and see him in the light of day.

  “Well,” he said. “I like to study things. I like to measure things and put them, well, put them in context.” He was looking straight ahead, at the back of Aunt Bess’s seat, as if he were reading. Then he turned and briefly smiled. “The study of the past fits me, I suppose. I’m comfortable with studying things from an objective viewpoint, from a certain distance.” He cleared his throat and returned to his
briefcase, sorting through some more papers.

  I was quiet for a few moments. “I think you’d be a good writer,” I finally said.

  He looked back up, surprised. “Well, thank you for your confidence, Teddy,” he said. “Thank you.” He smiled again, but this time in a different way, in a way that didn’t totally disappear.

  THE HOTEL WAS much larger than I had imagined, its size and elegance surpassing all my expectations. Walking through the spacious lobby, with its marble tables, thick burgundy rugs, and eager uniformed bellmen, I thought I had walked straight onto the pages of Luxury Living! or Eastern Estates. I was sure, high atop the hotel, a helicopter pad was silently waiting to receive busy CEOs.

  “This is all quite nice,” my father said as we made our way to the registration desk, gliding over a sleek polished floor that seemed made of ice.

  A tall, thin man with a trimmed white beard was waiting for us by the desk.

  “Theodore Pappas. Professor Pappas, is that you?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m Theodore Pappas.”

  “August Field,” the man said as he shook my father’s hand. “Dr. August Field. From the Society.”

  “Oh, yes. We spoke. On the phone,” my father said.

  “I just want to say that the Society cannot thank you enough for your very generous contribution.”

  “Contribution?” Uncle Frank said as he walked up behind us, carrying suitcases. “Contribution?”

  “Yes,” my father said quickly. “Well, it is a worthy cause. And thank you for accommodating us on such short notice.”

  “Accommodate you, dear sir!” Dr. Field laughed. “You have resurrected the Battle, not to mention the Society. We considered renaming the Battle Pappas Run.” He laughed again.

  Uncle Frank looked at my father who cleared his throat and said, “I hardly think that would be necessary. Or appropriate.”

  “We will be sending a car around to pick up you and your family tomorrow morning for the Battle,” Dr. Field said. “We would once again like to extend an invitation to speak at tonight’s dinner. You said you would consider it.”

  My father grimaced and shuffled his feet. “Yes, well, I don’t think we will be able to attend. We’ll just see you on the grounds tomorrow.”

  “Well, then,” Dr. Field said. He bent down and picked up a long, narrow box that had been lying on the ground. “We were hoping to present this to you tonight, but since that’s not possible . . .” He handed the box to my father.

  “What’s this?” my father asked. He took a few small steps back, away from the box.

  Dr. Field smiled. “An exact replica of Stonewall Jackson’s sword. We would be honored if you wore it in battle tomorrow.”

  My father looked confused. “I wasn’t planning on participating in the battle. We had just wanted to observe it,” my father said.

  Dr. Field raised his hand. “Mr. Pappas, please. We would like you to assume the role of Colonel Stonewall Jackson tomorrow and lead his Virginians in their defense against the Army of the Potomac.”

  The look of fear on my father’s face quickly spread to panic. “Oh,” he said. Then he said, “Oh my, no. No, no, no. I couldn’t possibly. You want me to be Stonewall Jackson? Oh, no.”

  “If you would like to be someone of a higher rank, we could easily arrange for you to play the role of General Johnston or Beauregard. We have a uniform waiting for you in your room.”

  “A uniform?” My father was silent for a moment. “Ah, that’s why you asked me how tall I was when we spoke on the phone. I thought that odd.”

  Dr. Field smiled and nodded his head. “Yes!” he said loudly.

  “And how much I weighed.”

  Dr. Field clapped his hands and said, “Yes!” again, even louder.

  Just then, Maurice and Aunt Bess walked up with more suitcases.

  “Who’s he?” Aunt Bess asked. “Is he the bellman?”

  “Urn, this is Dr. Field.”

  “August,” Dr. Field said as he shook Maurice’s hand. “August Field.”

  “August?” Aunt Bess said.

  “He’s with the Civil War Group, The Living Dead Society,” my father said.

  “The Living History Society,” Dr. Field said.

  “Yes, of course,” my father said quickly.

  Dr. Field looked down at me and Tommy. “We have two small uniforms for each of you. I understand from your father that you wanted to participate in the battle. You will be part of your father’s staff.”

  “Thank you,” I said. The prospect of wearing a uniform excited me terrifically.

  “What battle? They aren’t going to be in any battle,” Aunt Bess said. “They’re boys, young boys! Who are they fighting?”

  “It’s not really a battle, Aunt Bess,” my father said.

  “What is it then?”

  “Well,” my father said.

  “It’s a reenactment,” Dr. Field said, cutting my father short. “An authentic reenactment.”

  Aunt Bess slowly nodded her head like she understood but I could tell that she didn’t. Her eyes narrowed and began to suspiciously shift back and forth between my father and Dr. Field.

  “So, it’s like a play,” she said. “You’re playacting then and you want the boys to play with you.”

  “Well,” Dr. Field said. “Not exactly.”

  “Frank,” my father interrupted. “Why don’t you check us in? I would like to speak with Dr. Field for a moment.”

  Uncle Frank shook his head and picked up the suitcases. “Let’s go, everyone.”

  WE HAD THREE ROOMS on the fourth floor. Maurice, Aunt Bess, and Tommy took the first elevator and my father, Uncle Frank, and I followed in the next. On the ride up, my father informed Uncle Frank that he would be sharing a room with Maurice, a fact Uncle Frank wasn’t pleased about.

  “What, you got me sleeping with a stranger? You put me with some guy I barely know. We’re sharing a bathroom, for chrissakes. A shower. Towels, maybe soap.”

  “Well, it’s just for two nights,” my father said.

  “He may be one of those guys who walks around naked all the time,” Uncle Frank said. He looked down at me. “Some men are like that, you know. They just walk around naked like it’s nothing. Especially jocks. They’re used to locker rooms. That’s all they know.”

  “Well,” my father said. “The rooms here are quite expensive. I just thought we could economize a bit.”

  “Economize, Jesus Christ, Theo. You got a hundred and ninety million in the bank. What are you afraid of, inflation?” He was about to say more but the elevator doors opened, revealing Maurice in the hallway, still fully clothed.

  “Jesus Christ,” Uncle Frank said, picking up his bag.

  Our room was large and airy with a high ceiling and dark blue curtains that were tied back in an elegant way that reminded me we were rich. The carpet was an endless, wall-to-wall lawn of colors, deep green and red. The beds were imposing with four column posts and swooping white canopies; they looked like two ships docked in a harbor. There was a phone in the bathroom and a small refrigerator in the corner filled with an exotic selection of drinks: papaya juice, soda pop, tonic water, seltzer, lime juice, and cranberry cocktail drink. My father allowed Tommy and I each to choose one. After careful consideration, I decided on the cranberry cocktail drink, thinking it the most refined.

  While we were unpacking, we found my father’s uniform hanging in the closet. It was as gray as a storm cloud, with bright gold buttons and a black belt that glistened. When my father saw it, he softly said, “Dear God.”

  “Wow,” Tommy said.

  “Well,” my father said. “I wasn’t expecting this.” He squinted, thinking. “I imagine your uniforms are here somewhere too.” We searched both closets and dressers, but couldn’t find them.

  A moment later, Uncle Frank knocked on our door. He was holding two small gray uniforms, miniature versions of my father’s. “These were in my room. Or should I say our room. They were on Maurice’
s side of the room.”

  “Does Maurice have his clothes on?” I asked.

  “So far.” Uncle Frank shrugged. “But it’s early.” Then he left.

  “Well,” my father said as he hung up our uniforms. “Do you still want to participate in the reenactment? Is this something you would like to do?”

  “Yes,” I said. I knew he didn’t want to, but the idea of wearing a uniform, of marching into battle next to my father, was proving irresistible. “Yes,” I said again.

  Tommy yelled, “Yeah. I want to shoot people.”

  My father shook his head. “I don’t think there’ll be any shooting, Tommy.”

  IT RAINED ALL DAY, so rather than go visit monuments, my father allowed Tommy and me to play video games in our room, further proof that things in our family were changing. My father held a dim view of video games, actually held a dim view of electricity, yet he allowed us to play for hours while he sat rigidly in a desk chair with a high back, and cleared his throat.

  “Well,” he said after we had successfully destroyed the last of the attacking Xenoites from the remote planet Xenon. “I think it’s time for dinner, don’t you think? Your aunt has picked out a special place so I think we should get dressed.”

  “Are we going to wear our uniforms?” Tommy asked.

  My father looked warily over toward the closet. “No. We’ll dress like . . . civilians tonight,” he said.

  We ran into Dr. August Field again in the hotel lobby while we were waiting for the others to join us. He was wearing a blue blazer and a sharp red scarf around his neck that reminded me of Sylvanius. I sensed my father’s body stiffen when he approached us.

  “Dr. Field,” my father said.

  “Dr. Pappas. I was wondering if I could have a word with you. I have some maps spread out,” he gestured at a table off in the corner. “I would like to show you your position tomorrow. I thought it important that we review your tactics.”

  “My tactics.” My father looked at me for a moment and sighed. “I’ll be right over there, Teddy. Please keep an eye on Tommy. We’ll leave as soon as the others arrive.”

  I sat down on an overstuffed couch, while Tommy circled a large fountain in the center of the room. I watched as trickles of water slipped up and over the top of the fountain, sliding down a column and falling into the small pool at the base. Next to the fountain, a sleek black piano played music by itself, a soft melody. Content, I sat back and let the couch swallow me, my only regret being that Johnny Cezzaro was not somehow outside the hotel, standing in the rain, watching me.