The Rich Part of Life

by Jim Kokoris

  “He’s in the bathroom,” I said. Tommy was sitting on the floor still wrestling with his pants.

  “Has anyone else talked to him yet?” she asked. “Has anyone else called?”

  “No.” I decided not to tell her about Abraham Lincoln. I wanted to get off the phone and look at myself in the mirror some more.

  “Teddy, please, this is important. Can you get your father?”

  I heard the shower running from inside the bathroom and knew that in a few moments my father would begin turning into Stonewall Jackson.

  “He’s in the bathroom,” I said.

  “Well, please have him call me as soon as he can.”

  “Okay,” I said, though I had no intention of relaying her message.

  A few minutes later, my father emerged from the bathroom, a wall of steam rising behind him. I watched as he took the uniform from the closet and carefully laid it on the bed. Then he began to put it on.

  He took a long time getting dressed. Moving between the bedroom and the bathroom, he struggled, first with the pants, which were too tight, then with the shiny black belt. Finally, he decided against wearing the belt. “I doubt General Jackson wore one,” he said. “I don’t believe there’s any record of it.”

  Once dressed, he stood in front of the mirror and stared at himself. Then he turned and faced us. I was amazed. My father had disappeared. His round shoulders had broadened and his soft face now had a lean alive look that I found thrilling. When he put his large gray hat on, his transformation was complete. He looked brave and stout, clearly in focus, and I suddenly wished my mother could see him.

  “Well,” he said.

  Tommy looked up from the floor, his leg still tangled in his pants. “Wow,” he said.

  A SMALL REGIMENT of Virginia infantry greeted us in the hotel lobby, ten men wearing Confederate uniforms of varying shades of gray. A few of them held what looked to be old-fashioned rifles, their barrels shaped like snouts.

  One of the soldiers, a large older man about my father’s age with a drooping gray mustache, stepped forward and saluted us as we approached.

  “Atten-hut!” he yelled.

  My father stopped dead in his tracks and instinctively grabbed my and Tommy’s hands.

  “Dear God,” he said softly.

  The group of soldiers stood ramrod straight, looking off in the distance, over our shoulders. A Japanese couple who had been drinking coffee in one of the overstuffed couches quickly walked over and began taking our pictures, nodding and smiling furiously.

  “Colonel Jackson,” the soldier with the mustache barked. “Your limousine is waiting.”

  WE SAT IN THE BACK of the white stretch limousine and waited for Aunt Bess, Uncle Frank, and Maurice for awhile. The soldier with the drooping mustache, Sergeant Hardy, sat facing us, his back to the driver’s. Rather than revel in the luxury of the limousine, I kept my eyes on Sergeant Hardy. He had a wild, Mr.-Sean-Hill look and feel about him that made me nervous.

  “Nice car,” he said.

  “Yes, it is,” my father said. He still held on to our hands.

  “Big,” Sergeant Hardy said.

  My father agreed. “Yes, it is.” Then he cleared his throat. “And where are you from?”

  Sergeant Hardy drew a deep breath, looked out the window, his eyes a squint.

  “Cold Harbor, Chancellorsville, and . . .” he looked back at us, his eyes full of meaning and suffering. “Gettysburg.”

  “Well,” my father said. “You’ve been . . . busy.”

  “Made Pickett’s Charge.” He held up three fingers. “Three times.”

  “Ah.” My father nodded. “That must have been tiring. That was . . . quite a charge.”

  “Keeps me in shape.” As Sergeant Hardy talked, I began to notice that he was developing an accent, drawing his words out in a strange way like he was dragging them over a hot sidewalk. He sounded like Bobby Lee.

  We were quiet for awhile. I kept looking out the window for everyone else. Despite its spaciousness, the limousine was beginning to feel cramped and hot. On the other side of my father, Tommy squirmed.

  “Where are you from, geographically?” my father asked. “Where is your home. In, well, real life?” I was surprised that he was trying to make conversation. This usually wasn’t his way, particularly with strangers.

  “Pittsburgh,” Sergeant Hardy says. “Born and raised. That’s where my practice is.” He stopped, then said, “Gynecology.”

  “Ah,” my father said.

  When Aunt Bess and Uncle Frank got in the car, I had to move over and sit next to Sergeant Hardy. He smelled dank and musty, like I imagined war smelled.

  Aunt Bess seemed impressed with the limousine. Her eyebrows arched excitedly over the rims of her large, round sunglasses. Uncle Frank, though, seemed uninterested and merely looked out the window.

  “Where’s Maurice?” I asked as the driver started the car.

  My father cleared his throat. “Well, he said he had some friends here in Washington, so I encouraged him to go visit them. I think we’ll be fine.”

  I was disappointed that Maurice wasn’t coming and feared my comment about slavery the night before had something to do with his absence. I didn’t say anything to my father though. I just looked out the window, away from Sergeant Hardy.

  As we drove, first through the crowded streets of Washington, then through quiet country highways, Uncle Frank kept asking Sergeant Hardy questions about the battle.

  “Who wins this thing again?” he asked. “Bull Run? Who won it?”

  Sergeant Hardy smiled. “We did, the South! And it’s all because of that man over there,” he said, pointing to my father, who at that exact moment was seriously examining a small thread on the sleeve of his uniform, pulling it with his fingers.

  “Is this thing orchestrated? Choreographed or anything? How does everyone know where to go?” Uncle Frank asked.

  “That’s all worked out,” Sergeant Hardy said. “We pretty much line up on one side and the Yankees line up on the other and we start shooting. It all comes together pretty good. Everyone in this group is a veteran. They know what to do.”

  “They don’t use real bullets, do they?” Aunt Bess asked.

  “Naw, course not.” Sergeant Hardy from Pittsburgh was dragging his words again. “We use black powder, makes a good noise. If someone points a gun at you and shoots, you drop.”

  Uncle Frank looked at Sergeant Hardy and my father, examining their uniforms. “I have to admit it, you guys look good, like the real deal,” he said. “The real deal.” Then he looked out the window.

  When we got to the parking lot of the battle, Sergeant Hardy left without so much as a salute. Within seconds, Dr. Field found us. He was dressed resplendently in a blue uniform with a gold braid that hung down low from his jacket lapel, and a stiff, sharp blue cowboy hat that had two tiny swords crossing in the front. He was also wearing a monocle in his eye. Standing next to him was a fat woman wearing a long, hooped skirt and a bonnet on her head. She was holding an umbrella and when she smiled, she looked like a very pretty pig.

  “General Jackson!” Dr. Field said to my father. “I’m so glad your uniform fits! We were so worried.”

  “Yes,” my father said. He was looking around the parking lot at the countless campers and minivans that were dislodging fresh troops. Everywhere I looked, I saw men in blue and gray uniforms, polishing their weapons and boots and urgently grilling hot dogs and hamburgers on small, smoking barbecues.

  “You look very, well, authentic, yourself,” my father said, looking at Dr. Field. “Who are you supposed to be reenacting again?”

  “McDowell,” he said.

  “I didn’t know he had a vision problem,” my father said, gesturing toward Dr. Field’s monocle.

  “It’s my interpretation,” Dr. Field said. Then, turning to the fat woman he said, “May I introduce Miss Anna Bell Smith?”

  The fat woman curtsied and smiled.

  “She’ll be
Mrs. Pappas’s hostess this afternoon.”

  “Miss Pappas,” Aunt Bess said. She looked suspiciously at Anna Bell Smith. “I don’t need a hostess.”

  “You don’t want to spend all day out in the hot sun,” Miss Anna Bell Smith said. She had an accent and sounded like Sergeant Hardy wanted to sound. “That’s no place for a lady of your breeding.”

  “My breeding?”

  “Come on now,” Anna Bell Smith said, hooking her arm into Aunt Bess’s. “We’ll stroll over to the pavilion and have some refreshments, then go watch the men fight.”

  As she was being led away, Aunt Bess looked over her shoulder at my father for help, but he merely waved his hand. “I think that might be the best place for you, Aunt Bess,” he called out after her. I tried to follow where Aunt Bess was going but soon lost her in the bright sun.

  “Frank,” my father asked. “Would you like to join her?”

  “No,” Uncle Frank said. “I’m going to stay here, with you.”

  Just then, a small, thin black man approached us. He was dressed in torn rags and walked with the aid of a crutch.

  “Oh,” Dr. Field said. “You found us. Wonderful. Dr. Pappas, this is Taupe. Taupe Bogi. He’ll be your personal slave, Midas Johnson.”

  Midas Johnson smiled brightly, his teeth an amazing flash of white. “Massa,” he said.

  My father staggered backward a few feet and I was afraid he might fall. I tried to remember if he had taken his antiheart-attack pills that morning in the hotel.

  “Taupe,” Dr. Field said quickly. He looked worried. “Mr. Bogi, why don’t you meet us at the battlefield. We’ll be there shortly.”

  Midas Johnson smiled again. “Ah’s goin’ to da war, Mr. General. Ah’s goin’ to fight da damn Yankee. We goin’ to whoop him, we’s gonna give him such a beatin’.” Then he laughed and put his crutch over his shoulder and sauntered off.

  My father was speechless.

  “He’s an actor,” Dr. Field said. “We don’t have any African-Americans in the Society, so we hired him for his role. He’s really quite accomplished. He’s been in Cats.”

  “Cats,” Uncle Frank said, impressed.

  “The traveling troupe,” Dr. Field whispered.

  “I want to fight,” Uncle Frank said suddenly “What the hell, I want in on this too. I’m here, for chrissakes.” He turned to Dr. Field. “Give me a uniform, what the hell. I want something comfortable. Pleats maybe.”

  A look of concern emerged over Dr. Field’s face, spreading like a shadow. He took his monocle out of his eyes and rubbed his chin. “Unfortunately, Mr. Pappas, unfortunately, it’s not that simple. You see, we have no extra uniforms.”

  “What?” Uncle Frank angrily took off his black wraparound sunglasses and pointed his chin at Dr. Field.

  “Everyone brings their own uniforms,” Dr. Field said. “The Society doesn’t actually own any uniforms. The Society doesn’t actually own anything, other than letterhead.”

  “What the hell kind of deal is this?” Uncle Frank said. “We’re producing this goddamn show.”

  Dr. Field looked at my father, who was still recovering from the shock of being told that he had a personal slave. Next to us, two more Yankee soldiers got out of a shiny black minivan and, with military precision, began to assemble a large barbecue grill.

  “Well, to be honest, I don’t know how we can accommodate . . .” Dr. Field said.

  Uncle Frank cut him off. “I want to be one of those guys, you know,” he said, snapping his fingers, “Grant or Lee.”

  “Frank,” my father said calmly. “Grant was not here, at this battle.”

  “Where the hell was he?”

  My father sighed. “He was out west.”

  “Where was Lee?”

  My father cleared his throat. “Lee, well, was . . .” his voice trailed off. “Lee was somewhere else.”

  Uncle Frank’s chest swelled and his chin looked like it was about to explode.

  “Professor Pappas, may I have a word with you?” Dr. Field asked.

  While my father and Dr. Field walked a short distance away to discuss the situation, Uncle Frank put his black sunglasses on again and folded his arms across his chest.

  “You got a uniform,” he said.

  “Mr. Pappas,” Dr. Field said, smiling as he returned. “We think we have a solution. You will work in the Union commissary.”

  Uncle Frank first absorbed this without reaction, then scowled. “Commissary! I’m going to be a cook! A goddamn cook!”

  “Head cook,” my father said quickly.

  Uncle Frank looked back and forth between my father and Dr. Field, then let out a deep breath. “Lee or Grant, one of those guys should have been here,” he said. He stormed off, into the ocean of sunlight, soldiers, and Weber grills.

  “Well,” Dr. Field said. “If you’ll please follow me, Dr. Pappas.”

  He lead us out of the parking lot and up a small wooded hill. Walking on the small path covered with soft brown pine needles, my heart began to race. Up ahead I could hear the low thunder of drums beating, of men moving. We emerged from the woods, back out into the full sunlight. My father took Tommy and me by the hand.

  Below us, in a wide, grassy field, were hundreds of soldiers, marching. They moved in small groups, synchronized blocks of blue and gray, their boots hitting the ground and kicking up dust with surprising precision. Cannons mounted on crazily large-wheeled carriages rolled by, pulled by sleek black horses with mean, hooded eyes. Off to the sides, dozens of gray and green tents shimmered in the sun. When the marching band that was in the middle of the field struck up the song “Dixie,” I felt a lump in my throat.

  Dr. Field faced us and smiled. “Welcome to Bull Run, Dr. Pappas,” he said.

  My father was dumbstruck, his mouth helplessly open. “Manassas,” he whispered, “Manassas.”

  “THIS PASTA SALAD is heavenly,” Midas Johnson said. “To die for.”

  Tommy and I were sitting in a golf cart by the woods finishing our lunch and listening to Abraham Lincoln sing the final verse of “Old Man River.”

  “If that old coot sings one more song,” Midas said.

  Despite its promise, the afternoon had proceeded slowly. There were a number of drilling competitions with the soldiers marching up and down the field while Dr. Field and Dr. Hunter and some other men judged them. Then there was a painfully dull uniform inspection that dragged on, followed by a brief rifle-shooting contest which my father made us stand too far away from for us to really see what was happening. Finally, there had been a number of speeches, lectures really, on the battle and why it was important. Throughout all these activities, no one had said a word about Tommy and my roles as flag carriers. I was beginning to feel left out.

  “I want to go home,” Tommy said.

  “You and me both,” Midas Johnson said, sipping some bottled water.

  “Boys!” I turned and saw my father walking toward us, followed by Sergeant Hardy, who was carrying a small cellular phone and a glass of wine. At first I didn’t recognize my father. He was walking at an unusually brisk pace, his arms swinging by his sides.

  “Is everything all right?” he said. He was sweating heavily, large, dark circles spreading under the arms of his uniform. But he was smiling.

  “Yes!”

  “Daddy, I want to fight,” Tommy said.

  “Yes, that will be starting momentarily, yes. Since I don’t know where your uncle is, would you like to go sit with your aunt, up there?” He pointed toward some bleachers full of people, across the field. Up at the very top, I thought I could see Aunt Bess.

  “No, this is good. Can’t we get closer though?” We were entirely too far away from the battlefield.

  “It might be dangerous out there,” my father said. “I think this is a safe distance.”

  “They’ll be fine, Stonewall,” Midas said. “Really”

  My father looked briefly at Midas. His first official act as Stonewall Jackson had been to liberate him,
freeing him to watch the drills and eat lunch with us.

  Just then, a small man on a motorized wheelchair approached us, bouncing hard over the ground. A red pennant that was attached to the back of the chair hung limply in the heavy air.

  “Dear God,” my father said. “It’s Otto. I thought he was dead. I recall sending his wife a condolence card.”

  “We received your card with great amusement, Professor Pappas,” Otto said as his wheelchair came to a halt, inches from where we were standing. He was wearing a sharply starched Confederate uniform that had a number of red and blue medals pinned up and around the lapel. Despite the wheelchair, he looked vigorous and healthy and I wondered if the wheelchair was part of the reenactment, if he had been somehow already wounded.

  “Dr. Hillcrest,” my father said. “I don’t know, well, what to say I heard from the faculty. . .”

  Otto raised his hand, motioning my father to stop. “Yours wasn’t the only card I received, though it was the last.” His eyes were keen and clear and when he talked his small gray goatee bounced along with his words, like a moving target. He looked briefly at me, but registered no reaction. Then he turned back to my father. “I’m here to say that I resent you. I was slated to play the role of Stonewall Jackson but apparently your newfound wealth has won you some important friends in the Society. Congratulations. I’m sure you’ll perform admirably, considering you’ve had two or three days to prepare for the role I researched for twenty-eight years.”

  My father cleared his throat and looked at the ground. “To be honest, Doctor, I had no desire to usurp your command.”

  Otto once again raised his hand. “Please. I know I can’t compete with what you bring to this event. Salmon, wine, singing Abraham Lincolns. I’m just a simple professor from tiny Coe College. I’m not here to debate that issue with you. Rather, I want to officially register a protest against your upcoming paper comparing Rommel to Robert E. Lee. I think it is an odious comparison.”

  My father looked up, startled. “How did you hear about that? I haven’t even completed it.”

  Otto smiled. “I may not have your vast wealth, Professor, but I have friends. I know all about it. And I think it’s reprehensible. Comparing the two.”