The Rich Part of Life

by Jim Kokoris

  “You did?”

  He cleared his throat. “Yes. Yes, I did. I expressed my disappointment.”

  I was stunned. I couldn’t imagine him doing that.

  “What did she say?”

  “Well, I’d rather not get into that right now. It’s for the best though.”

  “Are you going to marry her?” I asked.

  He made a strange sound that I recognized as his rusty chuckle. “Oh, no, no. I assure you, that won’t happen.”

  We sat together on the bed and listened to Tommy breathe. “Teddy,” he finally said. “We should be hearing very shortly about our situation. I received a call earlier, as we were leaving for the party. Our lawyer called,” he stopped here. I felt dizzy and closed my eyes for a moment, waiting for him to tell me the news that I was leaving. But instead, he just coughed. “We don’t know anything yet, but we should know within the next few days. About the outcome. They’re coming to a decision much sooner than we expected, anticipated. I’m sure everything will be fine though,” he added hastily.

  I couldn’t think of anything to say so I was quiet.

  “Well.” He stood up, pressing down on my bed with his hand to raise himself. He started for the door.

  “Do you miss Mom?” I asked.

  His shoulders shook at the directness of my question, but his voice was steady. He turned back to face me. “We all do.” He paused. “I know she tried. With me, with us. With everything. She wanted things to work. And she wanted everyone to be happy, especially you and Tommy. But unfortunately, things didn’t work out the way she envisioned.” He smiled at me in a way that made me want to cry. “You have her good qualities, you and Tommy. Her spirit.” He didn’t say anything else. He just stood there. Outside, a car drove by, its headlights bright against the walls, then gone. “Despite everything, I miss her. I miss her every day,” he finally said and then he too was gone, disappearing with the light.

  WE DIDN’T GO to the Wilcotts’ for Thanksgiving. Instead, we stayed home and celebrated Uncle Franks birthday by eating lamb. My father offered no reason or explanation for this change of plans, nor did he return any of Mrs. Wilcott’s many phone calls. Instead, the night before Thanksgiving he simply brought home a large leg of lamb from DeVries, the local supermarket.

  I was pleased with the change of plans, content to sit on the living room floor, watching the flames lick the bricks of our little-used fireplace, eating feta cheese and olives. Aunt Bess had prepared an immense tray of appetizers for us but I focused most of my efforts on the Greek olives, a treat I found irresistible.

  “This is all rather quaint,” Sylvanius said. He was sitting in a gleaming new wheelchair my father had bought him, a bright red blanket draped over his legs, a glass of wine in his hand. “This all reminds me of a Norman Rockwell movie.”

  Uncle Frank looked up at him, then over at Maurice who was sitting quietly on the couch, reading an old issue of National Geographic by the firelight. In the dining room I could hear Aunt Bess asking my father when he wanted to slice the lamb.

  “There is something so, so, well so nice about a fire,” Sylvanius said.

  Uncle Frank shook his head. “You have a poet’s eye, you know that, Sylvanius? A poet’s eye.”

  Sylvanius smiled at Uncle Frank’s comment. “Dear, dear Frank. Tell us, do you feel any wiser today? You certainly are older. Has your great advanced age brought on any great insights?”

  Uncle Frank silently stared into the fire, his jaw at a reflective angle. He had been quiet all day, moping around the house in blacker than usual clothes, leafing unenthusiastically through the special holiday issue of Luxury Living!, with its cover story on amphibious snowmobiles and ice cruising yachts. Aunt Bess said he never liked his birthdays because they reminded him of death and all the money he never made.

  “Penny for your thoughts, Frank,” Sylvanius said.

  Uncle Frank grunted. “That’s about all you could afford.”

  Sylvanius laughed. “Oh, Frank, always thinking about money. Even on your fifty-third birthday.”

  “My fiftieth,” Uncle Frank said.

  “Ah, of course,” Sylvanius said. “I’ve forgotten your unique way of marking time.” Sylvanius took a sip of wine.

  Maurice turned the page of the magazine.

  “I remember when I was fifty-three. It seems like yesterday. Teddy, let that be a lesson to you. Time flies so enjoy it while you can.”

  “You should write for Hallmark,” Uncle Frank said.

  “Speaking of writing, how’s your book going?” Sylvanius asked. “I haven’t seen you writing much lately.”

  Uncle Frank shrugged. “Slow,” he said.

  “Are you blocked?”

  “What?”

  “Are you blocked?” Sylvanius asked again.

  “What do you mean, like writer’s block?”

  “Yes.”

  “No,” Uncle Frank said.

  Everyone was quiet again. Maurice turned another page.

  “I think you’re blocked,” Sylvanius said again.

  “Goddamnit, I’m not blocked. I’ve taken a little time off from it. Now stop talking to me.”

  “My, my,” Sylvanius said. “So much for the lively art of conversation.” He sipped some more wine as I reached for my fifth and last olive. Aunt Bess had said I could only have five so I ate it slowly, rolling it around luxuriously inside my mouth before biting all the way down through the soft, bitter skin to the pit.

  “So, Maurice,” Sylvanius said. “You’re so quiet sitting over there. What are you thinking?”

  Maurice looked up, distracted. “I’m reading,” he said softly.

  “Oh, and what are you reading?”

  “About an ancient Indian burial ground they discovered in New Mexico.”

  “Ah,” Sylvanius said. “Of course. Burial grounds. Very appropriate for today’s celebration. Have you given much thought to where you’ll be buried, Frank?”

  Uncle Frank grunted again and kept staring into the fire.

  “I will be cremated, of course,” Sylvanius said. “Burned to ashes.”

  This interested me. “Why?” I asked.

  Sylvanius finished his wine and placed the empty glass on the coffee table. Then he brought both his index fingers together and tapped them back and forth, thinking. “Elvis,” he said after some time.

  No one said anything. Maurice looked up briefly from his magazine, then back down again. I took the olive pit out of my mouth and laid it carefully on my plate, next to the others I had lined up in a row. I guiltily reached for another.

  “Yes, Elvis Presley,” Sylvanius continued. “Many years ago, I visited Graceland, where he’s dead and buried. In Memphis.”

  “Memphis?” I asked. “In Tennessee?”

  “Yes, I believe it’s around there. And I remember thinking what a spectacle all this is, his fans waiting in line, people leaving things on the grave. Horrid, really. I do have a dedicated group of fans and I don’t wish that on myself. No, I’ll be burned and my ashes will be scattered. On Broadway, of course.”

  “Try the Poconos,” Uncle Frank said. “Or the parking lot of a dinner theater.”

  Sylvanius shot Uncle Frank a sly serpent smile. “Very clever, Frank. As always, very, very, clever.” He sighed. “Well, I can see my attempts at thoughtful and provocative conversation are going nowhere so I’ll just contemplate the fire and warm my old and broken bones.”

  “Broken bones.” Uncle Frank spat the words. “Let me ask you something here. How long are you going to milk this foot thing?”

  Sylvanius fixed Uncle Frank with another serpent stare. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. How long are you going to be pulling this FDR act? When are you going to get the hell out of here?”

  “If your brother asked me that question I would feel compelled to answer it since this is his house. But since you yourself are nothing but a guest I do not feel I have to respond. Besides, as we speak, my foot is throbbing and
in need of medication.”

  Sylvanius reached over and picked up his glass, raised it high in the air, and smiled at Uncle Frank. “Oh, Bess,” he called. “Oh, Bess, dear.”

  My father entered the room instead with Tommy walking stiffly by his side. They both sat down on the leather couch next to Maurice. It was then that I noticed that my father was holding a children’s book.

  My father looked apologetically around the room, which had fallen completely silent, and said, “Excuse us.” Then he picked up the book and cleared his throat while Tommy, expressionless, stared straight ahead into nothing. He seemed to be in a state of shock.

  “What are you doing, Theo?” Uncle Frank asked. “What the hell’s going on?

  My father cleared his throat again and held the book up for everyone to see. “I just thought Tommy and I would read this book,” he said. “By the fire. This one here. Together. While we wait for dinner. Aunt Bess is almost ready.”

  Sylvanius looked over at Uncle Frank, who nodded his head, then leaned back in his chair.

  Maurice stood up from the couch. “Let me give you more room, Mr. Pappas.”

  “No, please, Mr. Jackson, I didn’t mean to chase you . . .”

  “It’s no problem. I have to get something from my car. I’ll be right back in a minute. Besides,” he said, “you need some peace and quiet to do some reading together with your boys. Isn’t that right?” He looked at Uncle Frank and Sylvanius, neither of whom said anything or made any effort to move.

  “What?” Uncle Frank asked.

  “I just thought. . .” Maurice’s voice trailed off into silence.

  Uncle Frank just sat there, stretched out low in his chair, looking bored and depressed while Sylvanius rearranged his blanket across his knees.

  “I’ll be back,” Maurice said quietly and was gone.

  “Well, then,” my father said. He cleared his throat and took out his rectangle glasses from his front pocket and put them on the edge of his nose. Tommy remained completely silent and continued staring. I knew he was nervous. While my mother had frequently read to us, my father never had.

  “May I ask, what are you reading, Theo?” Sylvanius asked.

  “Oh,” my father said. He closed the book he had just opened and studied its cover. “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie,” he said. “Tommy chose this. I asked him what book he wanted me to read and he chose this one, this book.”

  ”If You Give a Mouse a Cookie,” Uncle Frank repeated. “What’s it about, Tommy?”

  Tommy looked down at the floor. “About what happens when you give a mouse a cookie.”

  Uncle Frank nodded. “Hence the title.”

  “And then, after he gets the cookie, he wants a lot of other things too,” Tommy added.

  “Well,” my father said, opening the book again. He cleared his throat. “Shall we begin, Tommy? To read the book?”

  Tommy nodded once.

  “If you give a mouse a cookie,” my father began, his voice halting and tentative. “He’s going to ask for a glass of milk.”

  Uncle Frank glanced over at me, then sat farther back in his chair.

  “When you give him the milk, he’ll probably ask for a straw.”

  Sylvanius yawned and picked up his empty wine glass, then put it back down, then once again readjusted the blanket around his knees.

  “When he’s finished, he’ll ask for a napkin.”

  I sat on the ground and watched my father, his face rigid and tense. He read without interruption or pause, speaking slowly and enunciating carefully, for both Tommy’s and, I suspected, his own benefit, since he was essentially attempting to master a new language. He turned each page slowly, allowing Tommy plenty of time to study the pictures.

  “So, he’ll probably ask for a pair of nail scissors . . .”

  Throughout the first few pages of the story, Tommy continued to stare, first at the floor, then at the book. After the mouse asked to be read a story, however, he began to steal glances at my father, then smile.

  My father finished the story within a matter of minutes, slowly closed the book and exhaled.

  “Well,” he said. “It’s a bit short. Did you enjoy it though, the book?”

  Tommy nodded and smiled some more.

  My father looked relieved, his face broadening out, and relaxing. “Good. I’m glad. He’s an interesting character. The mouse.”

  “Can we read it again? Later tonight?” Tommy asked.

  I could tell that my father was both surprised and pleased by Tommy’s request. “Yes, yes, of course, of course. Tonight. And we can read other books too. There are others we can read, as well.” My father looked over at me. “We have other books here, don’t we, Teddy?”

  “We have a lot of books,” I said. “Upstairs.”

  “Well, then,” my father said. “We’ll make a point of it then, Tommy. Yes.”

  “I know what books I want you to read,” Tommy said. “The books Mom used to read.”

  Mention of my mother made everyone look at the ground. Uncle Frank sat up a bit and Sylvanius picked up his empty wine glass again.

  My father seemed unfazed though. “Your mother used to enjoy reading to you,” he said. “I remember that. Yes. Yes, I do. And I know you enjoyed that as well.” He looked up at Tommy and took a deep breath. “Well then, I think we have a few minutes before dinner. Why don’t we take a look at them now, those books? Pick out which ones would be appropriate for reading later.”

  With that, he took Tommy’s hand and slowly led him out of the room.

  No one said anything for a few minutes after they left. I contemplated the scene I had just witnessed, but could draw no clear conclusions in regard to my father’s strange behavior. My introspection however, quickly gave way to a more serious contemplation of the final olive that sat desperately on the tray before me.

  It was Uncle Frank who finally spoke. “Interesting book, don’t you think?”

  “Quite,” Sylvanius said.

  “I was talking to Teddy,” Uncle Frank said, looking over at Sylvanius. “That book was probably over your head. You probably missed the significance of it. It had significance. You don’t even know what it’s really about.”

  “Oh, Frank, really.”

  Uncle Frank sat up. “Okay, tell me what it’s about then. Come on.”

  “It’s a simple children’s tale,” Sylvanius said. He waved his hand, dismissing the subject.

  Uncle Frank shook his head and smiled. Then he fixed me with a long, meaningful look. “That little book there,” he said, “was about people wanting things, Teddy. It was about. . .” he stopped here and reset his jaw, giving it a good forward thrust. “The human condition.”

  I took in what Uncle Frank said, then stared back down at the coffee table and counted the number of brown olive pits on the tray. I now counted eleven.

  “The human condition,” Uncle Frank said again. The fact that he had repeated this made me feel like I had to respond. I chose my words carefully.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And you know the reason your father read it?”

  I had a response for this. I looked back up at Uncle Frank. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Sylvanius intently watching our exchange, looking concerned and a bit confused.

  “Because it’s Tommy’s favorite book,” I said.

  “Because it had a moral.” Here Uncle Frank looked at me hard and pointed his finger. “And do you know what the moral is, Teddy?”

  I made no attempt to answer him. After living with Uncle Frank for more than two months, I was coming to the conclusion that not saying anything was the best way to talk with him.

  “Never give people an inch or they’re going to want a mile,” he said. “Not an inch, Teddy. Not a goddamn inch. You know, your father was trying to send you and your brother a message with that book. A message about things.” He pointed at me. “About things.” With that he stood up and disappeared into the dining room.

  After he was gone
, I popped the final olive in my mouth and bit down hard. It was then that I noticed Sylvanius looking at me.

  “Teddy,” he said, speaking in an exaggerated whisper. “It was just about a mouse. Just a little, little mouse.”

  AT THE DINNER TABLE, my father shocked us all again by asking that someone say grace. We had never said grace in our house before, even when my mother was alive, and I was speechless, a condition my father was increasingly leaving me in.

  “That’s an excellent idea, Theo,” Sylvanius said. “A meal like this is really a religious occasion of sorts.”

  “Aunt Bess, why don’t you do the honors?” my father asked.

  Aunt Bess stared at him, confused.

  “I mean, say the prayer,” my father said.

  “Oh, the prayer. I’m not saying a prayer, I cooked the food. Someone else should say it. It’s Frank’s birthday, I think Frank should say it.”

  “I’m not saying any prayer,” Uncle Frank said. “What would I say?”

  My father looked around the table, his desperation rising. “Mr. Jackson? Would you care to say something?”

  Maurice shook his head slightly and repositioned his fork and knife, moving them closer to his plate.

  We all sat in silence. I was waiting for someone to ask me or Tommy to say a prayer when Sylvanius spoke.

  “I would be honored to bless this food, honored.” Then he cleared his throat and looked up at the ceiling. He looked at it for a long time without saying a word, his eyes wide and serious. After a while, Aunt Bess looked up too, then my father and then finally Uncle Frank and Maurice.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Uncle Frank finally asked. “Praying for rain?”

  “Pray out loud, Sylvanius,” Aunt Bess said. “Out loud.”

  Sylvanius shook his head. “I’m sorry, Bess, I’m afraid anything I said would be hopelessly insignificant. I am not worthy of such responsibility. Besides,” he said, reaching for his wine. “I just now realized that I don’t really know any prayers. Any religious prayers that is.”