The Rich Part of Life

by Jim Kokoris

  “Tommy, don’t touch it,” I said as Tommy approached the piano. He stared at it, transfixed, as the keys moved.

  “There you are,” a man’s voice said.

  I started and sat forward on the couch. A man had suddenly appeared in front of me holding a camera.

  “Give us a smile there, buddy,” the man said.

  I stared at the man as he took my picture, his camera clicking. He had a long white mustache and as he circled me, the two other cameras that were dangling from his neck swayed back and forth. He took several pictures, his camera whirring and clicking.

  “You know, I’ve been chasing you around all day,” he said. “Ever since I heard the news.” He was talking fast and breathing heavy. “Okay, one more, and I’m gone,” he said. His camera clicked a final time, then he turned and quickly walked away, across the lobby and out into the rain.

  “Teddy, who was that?” my father said. He had appeared at my side.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  . . .

  WE WENT TO the Statesman, a restaurant Aunt Bess picked out of a magazine in her room because the ad promised elegant dining in a setting where history comes alive. When we got out of the taxicab, we were all disappointed to find a small, somewhat run-down building on a crowded street next to a computer repair store. Once inside, we were equally disappointed and confused to see a small plaque on the wall by the coat check that read, NEPTUNE’S BASKET. ESTABLISHED CIRCA 1973.

  “Excuse me?” my father asked. A short man in a rumpled tuxedo who was standing behind what looked to be a podium briefly looked up. “I think we’re possibly in the wrong place.”

  The man looked over my father’s shoulder, out toward the door. “You’re in the right place.”

  “No, we were looking for the Statesman, I believe.”

  “This is the Statesman,” the man said, picking up some menus. “Same restaurant, different name. Follow me, please.”

  We followed him through the crowded, hot restaurant, weaving between tables, booths, and weary looking waiters with wrinkled faces.

  “Nineteen seventy-three,” Aunt Bess said as we were being seated. “What’s so historic about nineteen seventy-three?”

  “Watergate,” the man said. “Nixon ordered out here once.” Then he handed us our menus and left.

  When our waiter came to take our drink orders, I was surprised to see my father study the wine list and even more surprised to see him order a glass.

  “May I?” Uncle Frank asked my father when the waiter returned with the bottle. My father gave him a disapproving look and Uncle Frank slowly sat back in his chair. “Make that a Diet Coke,” he finally told the waiter. “Your finest year though.”

  The restaurant was long and narrow and reminded me of a PBS show I had once watched about Nazi U-boats in World War II. Our table was directly in the middle of the submarine, where the periscope would be, and had two small candles that threw tiny dancing shadows across the white tablecloth. All around us, older faded couples ate quietly over soft music and whispering waiters.

  “This place reminds me of that pancake place,” Uncle Frank said. “Back home.”

  “Oh. Will’s,” my father said, scanning the restaurant. I watched as his eyes stopped on a large blue swordfish that was mounted on the wall in the corner. “I think this place has a bit more character.”

  “Let’s hope that’s all it has,” Uncle Frank said. He was holding his fork up to the dim light and studying it. “I haven’t had a tetanus shot recently.”

  Everyone but Tommy ordered crab legs, which were the specialty of the house. When they arrived, a tangled mass of orange and white appendages, I was shocked by all that was involved in eating them.

  “What’s this for?” I asked, holding up what looked to be a pair of pliers.

  “They’re for cracking open your crab legs,” my father said. He demonstrated with his own pair.

  “Let me try,” Tommy said, grabbing the pliers out of my hands.

  “They don’t work on cheeseburgers,” Maurice said as he quietly took the pliers away from Tommy.

  Throughout dinner, Aunt Bess kept talking about monuments and statues. She had read a tourist magazine in her hotel room and was eager to tour the city.

  “I don’t understand why there isn’t a statue of Washington somewhere,” she said. “There’s just that monument.”

  “What’s the difference?” Uncle Frank said. He was struggling with a particularly thick crab leg that looked to be still alive.

  “What’s that pointed thing have to do with him? Lincoln has a nice statue.”

  “Well,” my father said. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and reached for his glass of wine, still chewing some crab. He seemed at ease in this dark restaurant and his face, usually a pinched frown, looked strangely relaxed. “Both Lincoln and Washington deserve memorializing. I think they are the two Americans who upon close study measure up to their, well, deification, if you will. In fact, the more you learn and study them, the more you realize how remarkable they really were. Other great Americans such as Jefferson, or even Roosevelt, don’t hold up as well under close scrutiny. But Lincoln and Washington do. In fact, they should each have a dozen statues or monuments built in their honor.” My father smiled after this last statement. Realizing that this was his attempt at humor, I smiled back.

  He was about to say something else when a dark older woman wearing a brown uniform that stretched tightly over her body appeared and tapped him on the shoulder. I had noticed the woman clearing off a nearby table while we were being seated, loading dirty dishes and silverware onto a tray. “Excuse me, I’m so sorry to interrupt, but are you the person who won the lottery?” she asked. “I seen the magazine.”

  My father jumped in his seat. “Yes, yes, I am,” he said. “We are.”

  The woman wrung her hands together nervously. “I’m sorry to interrupt but my grandson, he’s sick. He needs a machine to help him eat the food now. The machine, it cost eight thousand dollars. I don’t have the money. He needs the money.”

  Out of nowhere the man in the tuxedo appeared at her side and took her elbow. “Let’s go, Rosilita. Let’s go now.” He looked at my father. “I’m sorry about this. She’s a little emotional.”

  As the man led her away, the woman started crying. “Please! I will pay you back all the money. The insurance, it won’t pay for the machine. The doctors say he might die. Please, you must help him. God gave you that money to help people. Please. Help my child.”

  A confused silence filled the restaurant as people turned and craned their necks our way, their forks and knives frozen in midair. Several of the waiters stopped serving and looked over at us. My father kept his eyes trained on the table while Uncle Frank glared around the room.

  “Well,” my father said after a few minutes. He picked up his water glass, then quickly put it down, spilling some. He cleared his throat.

  “Why don’t you give the lady some of the money?” It was Tommy.

  My father’s face reddened and he started to cough. “Well, Tommy,” he said. Then he took a deep breath. “You see, it’s not quite that simple . . .”

  “We can’t, Tommy. We can’t help everyone,” Uncle Frank said. I looked up at him, surprised at the gentle and slow tone of his voice.

  “Who are we helping then?” Tommy said. He picked up a french fry and licked some ketchup off its tip. “We should give her some of our money. She was crying.”

  “Maybe we will, honey,” Aunt Bess said. “Maybe we will.”

  We all started eating again. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched my father continue to stare at the table. His face was blotched alarmingly red, and his chin hung low.

  “Well,” he said, picking up his fork.

  We pretty much cracked our crabs in silence after that and didn’t order dessert.

  WHEN WE GOT back to the hotel, Dr. August Field and another tall man with a beard, whom he introduced as Dr. Henry Hunter, were waiting for us in t
he lobby. My father seemed to be expecting them.

  “And how was dinner, Professor?” Dr. Field asked smiling.

  “It was fine, it was fine,” my father said. It was the first he had spoken since the incident in the restaurant and I could tell from his tone of voice that he was tired and wanted to be left alone.

  “Well, we’d like to complete our earlier review of tactics.” He made a fist and punched the air with it. “We have a battle to fight tomorrow, after all.”

  My father sighed. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose we do. Teddy, why don’t you stay with me for awhile? You might find it educational. Frank, Mr. Jackson, Aunt Bess, we’ll see you all back at the rooms.”

  After everyone else left, Dr. Field and Dr. Henry spread out some maps on a low table in the middle of the lobby. Two men who were smoking cigars on a nearby couch looked over at us and eyed the maps. I sat down next to my father and watched Dr. Henry Hunter light his pipe.

  “I’d like to start with a brief review of tomorrow’s menu,” Dr. Field said.

  “Menu?” my father asked.

  “Yes, we have secured three different caterers. Southern cuisine will be emphasized, particularly at the banquet. But we will have heavy appetizers throughout the battle, as well as a selection of wines.”

  Dr. Hunter drew on his pipe and nodded in agreement. “French wines,” he said.

  “We’re eating? And drinking? During the battle?” my lather asked.

  “We are expecting more than three thousand people tomorrow,” Dr. Field said. “Spectators as well as participants. We felt we had to offer them something throughout the day. We want to make this entertaining, as well as educational. We’re competing with a number of other groups for members, you know.” He unfolded a piece of paper and tried to present it to my father. “Would you like to see the menu, approve it? The wine list is attached.”

  My father looked at the paper as if it were radioactive, then shook his head.

  “We’ve also secured the very best Abraham Lincoln in the country, thanks to your funding,” Dr. Hunter said.

  My father, who had been sinking hopelessly back into the overstuffed couch, struggled forward. “Pardon me?” he asked. “I’m sorry?”

  “A professional Abraham Lincoln impersonator, I should say,” Dr. Hunter said with a laugh. “I saw him last year myself at the Cold Harbor event. Very inspiring.”

  “A professional,” my father said. “I didn’t know there were people who impersonated Lincoln. People who did things like that for a living.”

  “Oh, yes, he’s quite busy. He was scheduled to do something with the Fredericksburg group, but we snapped him up at the very last minute. Stole him away, actually. We simply outbid them.”

  My father was silent as the two doctors began pointing to the map.

  “Lincoln, of course, was nowhere near the Battle of Bull Run,” my father said after a few moments.

  Dr. Field smiled and nodded his head while Dr. Hunter relit his pipe.

  “Of course we know this, Professor,” Dr. Field said slowly.

  “Do you think it right then that he be there, tomorrow? For accuracy’s sake?”

  Dr. Field cleared his throat. “We, of course, debated this. But he is such a good Lincoln, such a wonderful Lincoln, that we simply could not resist. We’ve tried to get him before but have always lacked the funding. Now though . . .” Dr. Field didn’t finish. Instead, he simply laughed.

  “Well, what role will he have?” my father asked. “This Lincoln. What will he do exactly? Surely he won’t fight in the battle. He’s the president. Was the president.”

  “No, of course not. We think he’s going to give a brief speech beforehand, welcoming everyone. Then he’ll work the audience, as they say.” Dr. Field had a proud look on his face and nodded his head.

  “Excuse me?” my father said.

  “Meet some of the spectators,” Dr. Hunter said. “Many of them are members of the Society. Others are considering membership and we need their support. We need to grow.”

  “Oh, I see,” my father said. “So it’s more of an ambassador’s role.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Dr. Field said. “That’s an accurate description. And he has a beautiful voice. When he sings ‘Dixie,’ you’ll be hard pressed not to stomp your feet and join right in.”

  My father was startled at this statement. “Excuse me? Did you say sings ‘Dixie’? This Abraham Lincoln sings?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Hunter said. “He’ll do a few period pieces. He and Mary. Mary Lincoln.”

  “Mary Todd Lincoln is singing also?” my father asked. He looked frightened.

  “Yes, yes. They sing a duet,” Dr. Hunter said. “Wonderful voices.”

  “Yes, wonderful,” Dr. Field agreed. “You’ll be very impressed. The songs themselves have historical value, in addition to being entertaining. Music had a definite role in the war, as you know.”

  “Yes, I know,” my father said softly. “But I don’t believe there is any record of Lincoln himself singing. Especially before a battle.”

  Dr. Hunter and Dr. Field were quiet for a moment. I could smell Dr. Hunter’s pipe burning and watched a thin line of smoke rise from its center. It smelled sweeter than Maurice’s pipe.

  “Well, we can always reconsider his performance,” Dr. Field said after awhile. “If you’re opposed to it.”

  “No, no, please, don’t make any changes on my behalf. I was just taken by surprise,” my father said as he put on his glasses and began studying the map.

  Afterward, on the elevator ride back up to our rooms, my father seemed worried. It was apparent that he had not liked the way the meeting had gone. Throughout the discussion, he had kept clearing his throat and mumbling about “inconsistencies,” though when Dr. Field and Dr. Hunter pressed him, he merely shook his head. As the meeting was ending, he had once again tried to refuse the role of Stonewall Jackson, but the doctors were insistent.

  “I worry that tomorrow’s battle may not be quite as educational as I would have hoped for you, Teddy,” he said as the elevator doors opened.

  “There seems to be more of a theatrical element involved that I didn’t anticipate.”

  “Do you want to be Stonewall Jackson?” I asked. I had a hard time imagining my father leading men in battle.

  “Well, to be truthful, I have reservations,” he said as we walked down the wide hallway to our room. “I don’t feel comfortable. Fortunately, not much is required of me. Apparently, I’ll just stand and wave my sword.”

  “Are you going to kill anyone with your sword?”

  “No, no, no. I don’t plan on, well, killing anyone.” He sighed. “And neither will you, of course. You and Tommy won’t actually participate in the battle. You’ll be off to the side somewhat.”

  “I know,” I said. Dr. Field had discussed this with my father and agreed that Tommy and I could wear the uniforms and possibly hold a Confederate flag up until the start of the battle. Then a slave would escort us off to watch the event from a golf cart, where we would have a cold pasta and salmon salad for lunch.

  “Do you think Maurice minds?” I asked.

  “What?” my father asked as he fumbled in his pocket for the key to our room.

  “Do you think Maurice minds us fighting for the Confederate side? They liked slavery, didn’t they? They had slaves.”

  My father stopped looking for his key. He was surprised by my question.

  “Well, I never really had thought about that. That’s very . . . perceptive of you, Teddy. The thought hadn’t even occurred to me. I certainly wouldn’t want to offend Mr. Jackson.” He stood still and stared at the floor, thinking. Then he took a deep breath and began fumbling for the key again. “Well, I’ll ask him about this tomorrow. Hopefully, he’ll understand that we are merely recognizing history, not glorifying a cause. Well, then,” he said as he opened the door.

  THE NEXT MORNING while my father was clearing his throat in the bathroom, Abraham Lincoln called.

 
“Is Professor Pappas available?”

  “No, he’s in the bathroom,” I said.

  “Well, if you could please give him a message, Abraham Lincoln would be mighty obliged. Tell him that the entire Society would once again like to thank him for his generosity and for making this battle happen.” I thought I heard Dr. Field or Dr. Hunter’s voice in the background, then Abraham Lincoln said, “The president thanks and commends him for his duty to his country.”

  “Okay,” I said. I was watching Tommy try to put his uniform pants on. He had worn both his little gray cap and jacket to bed and both were now wrinkled. I already had my uniform on and liked everything about it, right down to the black stripe that ran sharply down the side of my pant legs like a dark thunderbolt. I had already spent a good part of the morning admiring myself in the mirror.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Abraham Lincoln asked.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Is there a particular song your father likes? Does he have a special song? I’d like to surprise him. It really doesn’t have to be related to the war.”

  I tried to think of a song that Abraham Lincoln could sing to my father but couldn’t.

  “Maybe a show tune?” Abraham Lincoln asked.

  I wasn’t sure what a show tune was. “No. I don’t think he likes show tunes,” I said.

  “Well, if something comes to mind, pull me aside at the battle and let me know. We want this to be a special day for your daddy. He’s the man and we aim to please,” Abraham Lincoln said, chuckling.

  “Okay,” I said.

  As soon as I hung up, the phone rang again. This time it was Mrs. Wilcott. Her chipmunk voice sounded higher and more animated than usual, scraping my ears.

  “Teddy, is your father there? I must speak to him. Right away, sweetheart. Please.”