The Rich Part of Life

by Jim Kokoris

  I looked up at the Earless Jesus just in time to see Him nod.

  MY FATHER WAS waiting for us at the front door when I got home from school. When I saw his face, my stomach started to hurt again, a deep dull pain that I imagined as a small thorny ball, all bristles and blood. He looked worried.

  “Thank you, Mr. Jackson. We’ll see you shortly,” he said. Fie closed the door and led me up to his study. The thorny ball in my stomach expanded, scratching the sides of my stomach.

  “Teddy,” my father said after I sat down in the chair against the wall. “You are going to have to spend a little time with, ah, with . . .”

  “Bobby Lee,” I said.

  “Yes.” My father walked over and sat down behind his cluttered desk with a thud. Off in the corner a fax machine that my father had just bought spit out documents, all of them, I was sure, concerning Bobby Lee and me.

  He cleared his throat. “The court has ruled that until this is resolved, he is entitled to visit you. He has requested this. We have insisted that those meetings be supervised however.”

  “Will you be there?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Will Uncle Frank or Aunt Bess?”

  “No, they won’t be there either. Part of the agreement is that no family members can be present. We’ll be around though. Mr. Jackson will be there however. In the room with you. We agreed to that.”

  Knowing that Maurice was going to be there with me made the Stomach Ball shrink, but just a little.

  “When do I have to talk to him?”

  My father cleared his throat, then rubbed his chin with his hand.

  “He’s here, isn’t he?” I asked.

  My father looked at his watch and said, “No, but he’ll be here shortly.” He sighed, looked down at the desk and arranged some papers. Then he quickly looked up, his face brightening for a moment. “Oh. I almost forgot. Aunt Bess has made a snack for you.”

  “I’m not hungry,” I said.

  “Well, you should try to eat something.”

  “I’m not hungry,” I repeated. But I got up and headed for the bathroom.

  While washing my hands, Uncle Frank stuck his head in the doorway of the bathroom.

  “Oh, there you are,” he said. He lowered his voice. “How are you doing?”

  “Okay,” I said. I had accepted the fact that people were going to be asking me that question for the rest of my life.

  Uncle Frank looked over his shoulder, back out into the hallway.

  “Remember our little talk the other night, remember what I told you about that imaginary blanket?” His voice was still low.

  “Yes,” I said. I turned off the faucet, turned, and faced him.

  “Well,” he said. “Throw it on now.”

  BOBBY LEE kept coughing and drinking water.

  “Your name wasn’t Teddy when you was born, you know that? It was Ryan. Amy always liked that name. Ryan Lee.”

  He was holding a football in his hands and sitting on the black couch in our living room on top of the two puncture holes Tommy had made with a pencil. Maurice was sitting on the other side of the room, looking at the floor. In the kitchen, I could hear my father’s and Bobby Lee’s lawyers, talking quietly, their voices a flat mumble.

  “I got this for you,” Bobby Lee said, holding up the football. “You like football?” he asked.

  I didn’t say anything. I just looked at the football.

  “I hear you play soccer. Hell, that’s a phony sport. You never see soccer on TV.” Bobby Lee looked over at Maurice. “Do you like soccer? Hell, you used to play pro ball, I heard. Bet you got your bell rung a few times.”

  Maurice looked up at Bobby Lee. “I did. I rang a few of my own too,” he said.

  Bobby Lee laughed. “You were all-pro two years. That’s what the paper said. What are you doing being a bodyguard? Seems to me like you be doing something else. Maybe own a bar or restaurant, or something. Lot of ex-athletes do that. Cash in on the name. Good P. R. brings in the people.”

  “I enjoy my work,” Maurice said.

  “Who else did you ever bodyguard?”

  “You and I can talk later. You’re here to talk to Teddy,” Maurice said. “We only have the hour. You were late.”

  “Yeah, well, I got stuck in that damn traffic. Still not used to it.” He looked over at me. “Have to learn how to gauge it better. You know, figure out how long it takes to get somewhere.”

  I looked back down at the floor. Bobby Lee took a deep breath. He seemed nervous. He kept running his hands down the side of his pants.

  “You don’t remember me at all then, huh?” he asked.

  I shook my head slowly. In the bathroom before I came down, I had decided on a strategy of not speaking to Bobby Lee, my hope being that he would find me dull, even unintelligent, and consequently lose interest in me.

  “Well,” he said, “we used to live in Memphis. Do you know where Memphis is?”

  I shook my head. A perceived lack of geographical knowledge might also aid my case, I thought.

  “It’s in Tennessee. On the Mississippi River. Well, you, me and Amy, your mom, we used to go to Beale Street once in awhile and walk around, buy ice cream. You were in a little buggy. You don’t remember any of that?”

  I looked at the floor.

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t think so. You were just a pup an’all.” Bobby Lee started to cough and then took a sip from the glass of water he asked for when he came in.

  “Gotta quit smoking,” he said. “It’s messin’ me up.” He coughed again, a raspy, raw sound. “You don’t smoke, do you?”

  I shook my head again. I was surprised by the question until I realized that hillbilly boys probably started smoking when they were four or five.

  “That’s good. I discourage smoking,” he said.

  “I hear you’re a regular artist,” he said after awhile. “Heard you can really draw. Your mom, she liked to draw too. They always hung her pictures and stuff in the halls at school. She had talent they said. They say the same thing about you too now. That’s good. I got some pictures your mother drew when she was about your age, maybe a little older. She drew this one of the stars and the planets, she called it ‘The Galaxy at Night.’ It won all sorts of awards. Awards for kid artists, I mean. I got that one with me. I got to show it to you one time. Maybe next time I visit.”

  Bobby Lee’s comments about my mother’s drawing interested me. Though I was determined not to ask any questions, I was curious to see her work.

  “Yeah, she had talent,” Bobby Lee continued. “Me, I never could draw much. All the teachers said that my pictures looked like monsters or aliens. Hell, I should have gone to Hollywood and made monster movies.”

  I kept looking at the floor. Bobby Lee’s boots were old and had a thin film of dust and dried mud on them and the cuffs of his jeans were frayed. He was clean-shaven though and was wearing what looked to be an uncomfortable but new blue shirt and tie.

  “You ever been back to Tennessee, to Memphis?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s nice down there. Warm winters. Don’t get snow. Looks like you get a lot of snow up here.”

  “We get some,” I said for some reason.

  “You do, do ya?” Bobby Lee smiled, relieved that I had actually spoken. He looked over at Maurice and nodded his head.

  “You play hockey?” he asked.

  I quickly shook my head, angered at my lapse.

  “I thought everyone in Chicago played hockey. With all this snow you get I mean.”

  “I don’t play any sports,” I said. I concluded this warranted communicating. Not liking sports would be another negative in his eyes. Bobby Lee definitely seemed like the type of person who would want a sports-liking son.

  “I don’t like sports that much either. I just watch it on TV once in awhile. Bunch of whiny millionaire jocks. Hell,” he said looking over at Maurice, “no offense.” Then he looked back at me and laughed. “And no offense to you, million
aire.”

  Bobby Lee coughed and took another sip of water. Quinn, my father’s lawyer, a slight, quiet man with large glasses, walked in the room and pointed to his watch, then left. Bobby Lee rubbed the side of his pants again and took a deep breath.

  “You know, I’m real sorry about what happened to your mother. If I had known where she was living, I would have come to the funeral or sent flowers. I thought she was in Georgia though. She had some cousins down there. I didn’t know she was dead until I saw you all on TV. Then I drove right up here to meet you. I swear that’s the truth. I didn’t want none of this to happen. All the commotion. I want you to know that. I just wanted to see you. You’re my blood. Hell, I remember the day you were born. I held you in my arms in the hospital, came and visited you and your mom. I’m your daddy. That’s still worth something, ain’t it?”

  Quinn came back in the living room and Bobby Lee stood up to leave. He handed me the football. “Hey, maybe we can throw this around next time,” he said. “All right then. I’ll be seeing you soon.” Then he left.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I WAS STANDING in the front hallway watching my father try to flatten his Jiffy Pop popcorn hair with the carnival comb again. This act alone, hair flattening, underscored the importance of the occasion. Unless Mrs. Wilcott was coming over, my father seldom acknowledged what passed for his hair and the determined way he was now pressing down on his head once again made me wonder about where we were going and why.

  “Are we all set then?” he asked. I looked up at my father as his hair sprang back to life, lifting gracefully off the sides of his head.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Where is your uncle?”

  “In the car.”

  “Well, then,” my father said, opening the front door. “Are you all set?”

  I grabbed my backpack and walked outside.

  We were on our way to see Dr. Hugh Spiral, the family therapist who was going to help me cope with my shattered world, restore my sense of self-esteem and give me a new foundation to grow on, according to Mrs. Wilcott. He apparently had done the same thing for Benjamin after Dr. Wilcott ran away with Sally Daker, the tennis pro at the Wilton Country Club. Mrs. Wilcott said visiting Dr. Spiral had made a big difference in reducing Benjamin’s hostility to his environment.

  “What the hell kind of name is Spiral?” Uncle Frank asked as he started the old Buick.

  “I’m not exactly sure,” my father said.

  “Well, I think it’s a goddamn strange name for a shrink.”

  “He’s a therapist,” my father said quietly. “A family therapist.”

  It was the day before Halloween and as we drove through the streets of Wilton, I studied the different decorations that had magically appeared overnight. Ghosts hanging from trees twisted strangely in the wind, witches with black capes sat propped up on porches, cardboard tombstones stood silently on front lawns. Wilton had a tradition of having excellent holiday spirit, a fact recognized by a magazine that once described it as “Chicago’s most festive suburb.” My mother used to feel pressure to keep up with the neighbors, working late into the night, stuffing life sized scarecrows with straw and cutting slanty-eyed goblins out of black vinyl. She liked Halloween though and didn’t really mind the work. “Halloween doesn’t try to be anything more than it is,” she used to say. “It’s just fun.”

  “Teddy,” my father said. He turned around a bit in the front seat and looked at me sideways with one eye. “As you know, Dr. Spiral is going to ask you some questions. About things.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “He’s probably going to ask you how things are going. About,” my father cleared his throat, “what you’re feeling.”

  “He’s probably going to ask you some questions about Catfish Mouth too,” Uncle Frank said. “About how much you hate him. You owe it to yourself to be honest on that point.”

  “Frank, please.”

  We drove in silence until we got to the expressway. Then we sat perched on the lip on the entry ramp, waiting for traffic to subside. Behind us, I heard horns honking and the muffled voices of people screaming. The reason Uncle Frank was coming with us, I was sure, was to maneuver through the traffic, something my father had little practice or skill doing.

  “Shut the hell up!” Uncle Frank yelled. Then he raised the window. “You know, Theo, if we had a car that was built this century, I wouldn’t have to plan an extra three hours for every trip just for merging,” he said. “This car has no pickup.”

  “Well, just be careful, Frank,” my father said, looking out at the flowing traffic. “Just take your time, please. There’s no need to rush.”

  “I don’t think rushing is possible in this car.”

  After a few more minutes, Uncle Frank finally eased the Buick onto the expressway, the car shuddering and straining as it picked up speed.

  “We cheat death again,” Uncle Frank said.

  As we drove, I sat silently and tried to prepare for the upcoming meeting. I knew that my answers to any questions would have consequences, knew that everything I said and did would be weighed in some manner. I viewed my upcoming session with Dr. Spiral as a test, an examination I unfortunately had no way of preparing for. Other than imaginary blankets, I knew little about therapy.

  I sat back in the car and looked out the window. Up ahead, I could see the skyline of Chicago coming closer, filling our windshield. I regretted not packing my sketch pad. I had never drawn buildings before and suddenly their angles, shapes, and shadows seemed interesting.

  My father cleared his throat. “Well, then, how are things going, Teddy? Is everything all right at school?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Do you see much of Benjamin Wilcott?”

  “A little.”

  “He seems like a nice boy. I was wondering if you would like to have him over some time?”

  I didn’t respond. Instead, I opened my backpack and took out the book, Grant and Lee. I wanted to leave my father with one last positive image of me before I met with Dr. Spiral. I began reading about Lee’s involvement in the Mexican War, trudging through dates and locations, trying to focus in case my father asked me any questions on the book.

  The traffic was heavy and we drove without speaking. Uncle Frank kept honking the horn, something my father never did.

  “That show called again,” Uncle Frank said quietly as he changed lanes.

  My father was startled. He had been reading some documents that he had spread over his lap. “What? I’m sorry?”

  “That show. The one I told you about.”

  “Oh, yes, that television show.”

  “They said that Anderson contacted them but they don’t want him. They want you.”

  “Well, I’m not interested. We’ve been through this, Frank.”

  “Yes, but this show is different. She’s classier than the rest. She’s big time.”

  My father was silent. I looked at the back of his bald head and wondered what he was thinking, then wondered if he was ever jealous of Uncle Frank’s thick, luxurious toupee which sat just inches from his own barren head.

  Uncle Frank continued in a low voice. “I just thought this show could balance some of the crap that’s being written right now. You know about that picture, don’t you?”

  My father looked out the window. “Aunt Bess mentioned something about it, yes.”

  Uncle Frank was referring to the photo of my father dressed as Stonewall Jackson that had appeared on the cover of a magazine with the headline LOTTO LOONY THINKS HE’S ROBERT E. LEE! Aunt Bess had brought two copies home from the supermarket because she was thinking about starting a scrapbook.

  “You should at least consider it, Theo.”

  “I don’t think that would be appropriate, Frank,” my father said.

  Uncle Frank honked the horn. “You know, I can go on with you,” he said. “On that show. I can do most of the talking. You can just sit there. Jump in when you want.”

  My
father picked up his papers and began reading again.

  We drove for what seemed forever, creeping through a sea of red tail-lights, the traffic thick. When we finally got to downtown Chicago, we parked in an underground lot and walked a few blocks in a soft rain. Dr. Hugh Spiral’s office was in a tall glass building that sparkled with wetness. Once inside, we had to take two sets of elevators up to the eighty-eighth floor. When we finally got to his office, we sat in a small, dark waiting room for close to an hour because my father had gotten the times mixed up and despite the long merge, we were still early.

  “Would you like something to drink?” the receptionist asked. She was an older woman with frosted hair and a bored look on her face that she wore like a medal.

  My father shook his head and Uncle Frank said, “What I want, you ain’t got.”

  My father started to pace back and forth, clearing his throat with every other step. Occasionally he stopped and pretended to study some pictures of cows and sheep that were on the wall.

  I opened Grant and Lee again and attempted to read about Grant’s days at West Point. Despite my apprehension over the meeting however, I began to feel drowsy and my mind soon wandered, drifting into a dream about Miss Grace. She had worn high heel shoes and a shorter skirt than usual the day before, a new look I had found stirring. I had spent a good portion of the day memorizing her slim ankles and calves.

  “Interesting book, Teddy? Are you enjoying it?” I glanced up. My father was looking at me with a small smile.

  “What?”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Grant is wearing high heels,” I blurted out.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Grant is at school, at West Point.”

  “Ah, Grant wasn’t much of a student, I’m afraid.”

  “No,” I said. “He wasn’t.”

  “You’re early,” a voice said. We all looked up to see a large bald man with a short gray and black beard walking toward us, a friendly panda bear.

  “Hello, Theo,” Dr. Spiral said, extending his hand.

  “Hello,” my father said. I was surprised that Dr. Spiral used my father’s first name.