Very Rich

by Polly Horvath

  While Rupert waited for the others to finish, he looked at his party favor. It was a small plastic-wrapped deck of cards.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” he whispered to Turgid, although he need not have whispered because now everyone was eating and talking and drinking wine (the adults) and Shirley Temples (the children) and the room was full of happy festive noise.

  “I dunno,” said Turgid.

  “Well, what are you doing with your favor? What is yours?”

  “Hmmm, looks like a key chain,” said Turgid. “We usually keep them around with the general clutter and mess of Christmas and then I don’t know where they disappear to. Get thrown out, I suspect. Nobody really wants the things they get in the Christmas crackers. It’s the same boring, worthless junk year to year. But, you know, you have to put up with it because, well, it’s part of Christmas, isn’t it? Doesn’t your family do Christmas crackers?”

  Rupert wanted to say, my family doesn’t even do food, which wasn’t quite true because of the Christmas turkey baskets. Although there was never enough chicken to go around, everyone got something from the basket. The rest of the food in the basket came from the food bank and it was mostly things people had found in their cupboards and regretted buying and so ended up putting in the food bank bins. It was heavy on the smoked octopus and chipotle-chickpeas kind of groceries, which, heaven knows, the Browns didn’t object to. They were more than happy to eat Steelville’s grocery mistakes.

  “No, we’ve never done Christmas crackers,” said Rupert.

  If Turgid couldn’t figure out that a person who couldn’t afford winter boots or a coat probably couldn’t afford Christmas crackers, Rupert wasn’t going to appear unfriendly by pointing it out. Rupert wasn’t even sure that Turgid had noticed his lack of boots and coat. He started to hide the small deck of cards under his bread plate when he realized that there was a roll sitting on it. He ate the roll and then saw the butter pat and he stuck that whole into his mouth and let it melt in savory wonder all over his tongue. He’d never had butter. The only kind of fat the Browns ever saw was lard. He liked lard but the butter was simply out of this world. And all the time he was thinking that if the Riverses were throwing out the party favors perhaps it would be okay if he kept his. In fact, maybe he could somehow scoop up all the party favors before they got thrown out and take them home. He had never had a toy before and neither had his brothers or sisters. So he slowly palmed the cards and slid his hand to the edge of the table and then down to his side. He put the cards in the pocket of Turgid’s sweatpants, to be transferred later to his own pants.

  When he looked up from this covert operation he found Uncle Henry eyeing him thoughtfully. Rupert blushed. He blushed until he thought he must be the color of an eggplant. He blushed until he thought he would explode. He quickly looked at his plate, but when he finally lifted his eyes again he saw that Uncle Henry had wiped the thoughtful expression off his face. He winked at Rupert and turned to talk to Sippy.

  Being caught out was terrible. He was sure he had just done what they all expected a poor boy from the wrong side of town to do and he was filled with embarrassed regret, but at that moment the rest of the soup bowls were carried out of the room and Mrs. Cook began to bring in such a variety of tureens and platters that Rupert’s embarrassment was supplanted by excitement. He had never seen or smelled such food in his life. It would have been an extraordinary dinner for someone who ate well, but for someone living on thin oatmeal and kitchen scraps, it was a sight not to be believed. There was roast beef and mashed potatoes and roasted potatoes and Yorkshire pudding and gravy and biscuits and carrots and corn and beans and stuffing. There was cranberry sauce and cloudberry jelly and sour pickles and sweet pickles and hot pickles and chocolate pickles. There was cheese soufflé and spinach soufflé and spoonbread. There were so many kinds of food, so much food, and it began to be passed around the table at such speed that before he knew it, Rupert had a meal mountain before him on his plate.

  He sat silently through the rest of dinner, eating away with intense concentration, feeling like a bear about to go into hibernation. He must put on all the weight he needed for winter. This is for January, he thought, taking more potatoes. This is for February, he thought, loading his plate up again with prime rib and pouring gravy on top.

  By now he was feeling a little unwell, but just as he finished his last bite his plate was taken away and the pies were brought in: mince and apple and pumpkin and cherry and chocolate and banana. There were cookies and custards, éclairs and cake. There was pudding. There was fruit. There was cheese.

  But Rupert knew with sick disappointment that he could not eat a bite of any of it. He was full to the top. He could literally feel the food pressing on the top of his esophagus and threatening to make its way back into his mouth. There was no room, not a hairbreadth of space for more.

  “Oh, you must have some dessert, Rupert,” said Mrs. Rivers after a bit, noticing how, unlike the family, engaged in a general free-for-all among the sweets, he was not reaching for any of it.

  “I can’t,” said Rupert.

  “You shouldn’t have stuffed so during dinner,” said Melanie through a mouth full of pie. “I saw you.”

  “You shut up,” said Turgid.

  “I’m just saying,” said Melanie.

  “Rupert can have his dessert later after the games when everyone else is having their seconds and thirds,” said Mrs. Rivers. “I’m not hungry anymore myself. Billingston, take it all away.”

  So Billington took away all the plates with their half-eaten pies and cookies and custards. Away went all the cracker wrappers and jokes and favors. He collected the crowns, which Rupert relinquished regretfully. He had been hoping to save his for Elise, but it was tossed into the fire with the rest. Nothing remained on the table except everyone’s drinking glasses.

  For the first time Rupert noticed his untouched Shirley Temple. He was very thirsty. He had just enough room now for a sip. It was delicious. It was red and bubbly and topped with a maraschino cherry. Like everything else he’d had today it was the best drink, the most wondrous version of a drink he’d ever had. He was so delighted he felt like crying. But he had no time because now Billington was bringing in a pile of wrapped prizes and spreading them all over the table.

  Mrs. Cook came into the dining room to say good-bye. She had on her coat and hat and gloves and was departing finally for home to have Christmas with her family.

  “Oh, Mrs. Cook,” said Mrs. Rivers, “your presents are on the buffet.”

  “Thank you,” said Mrs. Cook frostily. Every year she thought the Riverses took too long at dinner. She felt sure they did this to spite her. She had a large shopping bag and two garbage bags with her. She opened them up and scooped the dozens of presents from the Rivers family into them.

  “We hope you find something there you like,” said Mrs. Rivers, and, turning to Rupert, whispered, “She never much likes what we get her. Oh well.”

  Rupert didn’t know what to say back. Mrs. Rivers seemed to like him, and this was an unusual occurrence for Rupert. It wasn’t that people disliked him for himself. Some disliked him for his position in life, his general dishevelment and, he feared, his smell—although he tried to bathe as often as he could get bathroom time in that crowded house—and others disliked him for his brothers’ cat stealing. That pretty much covered all the people in town, so he was not accustomed to being thought well of.

  Mrs. Cook marched ceremoniously out of the dining room, dragging her bags behind her.

  “Oh, and Mrs. Cook,” called Mrs. Rivers, “if you should find anyone swinging from the gate, let’s give them a pass? It being Christmas and all.”

  Mrs. Cook didn’t stop or turn back, but she nodded and left.

  “All right,” said Uncle Moffat, rubbing his hands in glee. “Pass the Parcel first?”

  “I don’t know how to play,” Rupert whispered to Turgid.

  “Oh, it’s easy,” said Turgid. “E
veryone picks a folded piece of paper with a number on it from a hat we pass around. The person who has the number one picks a prize from the table and unwraps it. Then number two does the same, but number two can now decide whether to keep his prize or exchange it for number one’s. Then number three, when it is his turn, can decide to keep his prize or exchange it for number one’s or number two’s. Once your turn is past, you have no chance for selection. The best number to draw is obviously the last, as that person has the choice of exchanging his prize for anything anyone else has. Some prizes are quite good and others are awful.”

  “The goal is to make a number of people very unhappy,” Uncle Henry joined in. “Inevitably someone breaks down and cries.”

  “Oh no,” said Rupert.

  “That’s the best part, my boy!” said Uncle Henry. “Spare no one’s feelings. If they have something they particularly want, trade for it when it’s your turn. Take it away from them. Make them miserable. That’s the entertainment factor of this game in a nutshell.”

  Rupert had no plans to do this. He figured he would be fine with anything he won. He had gotten through life so far by being unobtrusive and not making waves or enemies.

  Billingston brought in the hat with the bits of folded-up paper. It was passed around the table. Rupert picked one and opened it. He got the number four.

  “That’s not the best number,” said Melanie knowingly.

  “Or the worst,” said the other Turgid.

  When everyone had a number before him, Mrs. Rivers, who had picked number one, chose and unwrapped a prize first. It was an orange.

  “Oh, well, I guess I’m stuck,” she said morosely. “No one will ask me to trade. Why do I always get a low number? In all the years I have been playing this game why have I never gotten a good number? I think it’s fixed.”

  “You say that every year,” said Mr. Rivers, who had picked number two. He got a set of Nancy Drew books.

  “Splendid,” he said. “I’ve never read these. I can see a very pleasant week ahead of me.”

  “If you get to keep them,” chimed in William.

  “Which you won’t,” said Melanie determinedly. She had number three and was busy unwrapping her prize. It was a box of chocolates. “Right. I’ll just trade these for your set of Nancy Drew books, thank you,” and she ran around the table to Mr. Rivers’s place to snatch them. She tossed him her chocolates.

  “And I don’t even like chocolate,” said Mr. Rivers sadly.

  “Perhaps you’d prefer an orange?” asked Mrs. Rivers.

  “You wish,” said Mr. Rivers, and stared sulkily out the window.

  “I like chocolate,” said Sippy hopefully.

  “You can’t exchange now,” barked Uncle Henry. “You’ve both had your turn. And you certainly can’t give the chocolate away to Sippy; she knows very well that’s completely against the rules! You’re stuck with your lot. No cheating!”

  Now it was Rupert’s turn. He picked a small prize and opened it. It was a kazoo.

  “Oh, thank you,” he whispered. He had no idea what it was.

  “Who are you thanking?” scoffed William.

  “That’s a rotten prize,” said the other Turgid.

  “Yeah, it is, but you can’t have my Nancy Drew books,” said Melanie threateningly. “So don’t even think about it.”

  “He can have anything he wants!” said Uncle Henry.

  “He doesn’t even live here,” complained Melanie.

  “That’s not a rule,” said Uncle Henry. “If you want to institute a new rule you must apply to the rules commission. You can’t just come up with a new rule such as one must live here to get the good prizes.”

  “There is no rule commission,” said Melanie. “You’re making that up.”

  “Of course there’s a rule commission,” said Uncle Henry. “How could we have a set of rules otherwise? Are you stupider than a paramecium? Are you completely insensate?”

  “Oh dear,” said Mrs. Rivers. “Now you’ve made her cry.”

  “I was just asking the important questions,” said Uncle Henry. “Questions she should be asking herself.”

  “Am I stupider than a paramecium?” shouted Melanie, standing up. “I don’t even know what a paramecium is!”

  “I rest my case,” said Uncle Henry, folding his hands and nodding quietly.

  “And I’m not crying!” Melanie continued to shout. “Uncle Henry makes up the rules as he goes along and then makes up institutions to cover for it!”

  “I don’t! I never did!” said Uncle Henry, rising in indignation and coming eye to eye with Melanie.

  “Take her books, boy,” said Uncle Moffat to Rupert. “That’ll teach her.”

  “I think I’ll just keep this thing, thank you,” whispered Rupert, clutching his kazoo.

  “You don’t even know what it is!” said the other Turgid, crowing with laughter.

  “He doesn’t play in the spirit of the game!” said Rollin.

  “Right,” said William. “He’s no fun.”

  “You shut up,” said Melanie. “Of course he wants a kazoo. Who wouldn’t?”

  “My turn,” said Turgid, changing the subject by opening his small prize.

  It was the new 1996 Farmer’s Almanac. He traded it for his father’s chocolates. He would have taken the Nancy Drew books but he was afraid of Melanie.

  “Thank God,” said Mr. Rivers, looking at the Almanac for the new year. “At least this is useful.” And he started reading the weather prediction for January.

  “Wouldn’t you really rather have an orange, Turgid dear?” asked his mother.

  “You know I wouldn’t,” said Turgid.

  “I don’t know why we keep oranges in the house,” said Mrs. Rivers glumly. “Nobody likes them.”

  “I like them, I would just prefer the box of chocolates,” said Turgid.

  “But I gave birth to you,” Mrs. Rivers said.

  “Let’s not start that again,” said Turgid.

  Mrs. Rivers tended to bring this up whenever things didn’t go her way.

  “Thirteen hours of excruciating labor,” Mrs. Rivers droned on to herself. No one else paid the least attention.

  “You know an orange or a banana used to be considered an exotic item, a luxury item,” said the librarian from behind the curtains. She had spent dinner helping herself to little plates of food from the table and going back to her seat behind the curtains, picking at her meal while alternately reading and eavesdropping. “At one time children would have been filled with excitement to get such a food item.”

  “Thank you for sharing,” said Uncle Moffat, rolling his eyes slightly.

  “And welcome to the twentieth century and the age of modern refrigeration,” said Mr. Rivers. “Can we just keep this game going, please?”

  And on it went until William unwrapped a small dead mouse and traded it for Melanie’s set of Nancy Drew books, which caused her to cry miserably and wail that she hated this family.

  “Ha ha, Melanie got the booby prize,” sang William.

  “Billingston is in charge of the prizes and every year, by Jove, he tops himself with a horrible booby prize!” crowed Uncle Henry. “Last year it was a piece of moldy cheese. Well, Melanie, my dear, looks like you’re stuck with a dead mouse. How quickly our circumstances change in life. Whoosh whoosh on top of the world and then whoosh whoosh not. No one is going to trade for that. And anyway, now the game’s over.”

  “Oh, Melanie, please don’t take on so, you can get the books out of the library,” said the librarian through the curtains. “I’ve always told you, with a library card you can never be poor.”

  “She’s never going to be poor anyway,” said Mr. Rivers. “She’s a Rivers.”

  But Melanie was too busy wailing to hear anyone else. As far as they could tell, it was something rather incoherent about just wanting to win.

  Finally Aunt Hazelnut said, “Oh, do shut up, Melanie, it’s just a game.”

  And Uncle Henry stood u
p and cried, “NEXT!”

  And they proceeded. For the more physical games they moved to the living room.

  Charades was played. Statues was played. Scattergories, Pictionary, and Dictionary were played. Meanwhile, more and more prizes were brought out by Billingston from a seemingly endless store. Rupert had amassed a mountain of them. And what prizes. He had a train set and warm winter boots. They were two sizes too big for him but he didn’t care. He had a snow shovel and a membership in the Cookie of the Month Club. He had a radio activated plane. He had a pile of warm sweaters. And the best part, he thought, was for the first time he could give his family Christmas presents. The only other presents the Browns had ever received were given by John and Dirk and tended to be largely—well, entirely—cats.

  Rupert sat happily thinking who would get what. One of his younger brothers would get the train set. His father could have the radio-activated plane. He was sure he would love it. It would be something to do while he watched television. The sweaters could be divided among all of them. Some of them were even large enough to fit his mother. There was a stuffed tiger and a stuffed lion for John and Dirk. As teenagers they were perhaps too old for stuffed animals but Rupert hoped they might find them suitable substitutes for live cats. And he now possessed the set of Nancy Drew books which William had lost again to Melanie in a game called Pick and which Melanie had then been forced to surrender to Rupert in a game Uncle Henry had made up and which was his favorite, calling it Forfeit, in which everyone’s favorite prize could be lost.

  Rupert was afraid of Melanie ever since he had won the books, but Uncle Henry had assured him that Melanie was always frightening during the games, that it was good for her to learn sportsmanship, and that he should ignore her. The books, if Melanie didn’t exact revenge, would go to his sister Elise. Elise liked to sit with Rupert in the evening and Rupert tried to make up stories to tell her to keep their minds off the cold. But they were never very good stories. He had experienced little in life so far except hunger and cold, so those tended to creep into the stories, making them somewhat useless as a distraction. But now he could read her all the Nancy Drew books. This made him happier than anything that had occurred that day.