by Jim Kokoris
A FEW HOURS LATER at the press conference where we received the oversized check for a hundred and ninety million dollars, a woman reporter asked my father if he was married. “Yes, I mean no,” he said. “I mean, I was married, but my wife is not with us any longer. She’s dead, actually.” The reporters in the small, hot room in the hotel in downtown Chicago looked at each other and were confused. One man squinted his eyes and shook his head. Standing just behind my father on the small stage, I watched my father shift his feet.
“I selected, I played her numbers, you see,” he continued. “Yes. I played her numbers, the numbers she always chose. They’re my oldest son’s birthday, actually. I guess that was a very lucky day for her, the day he was born.” My father seemed to be saying this more to himself than to the reporters. “She picked the same numbers every week for nine years, and . . .” He stopped as if he just then realized that he was talking and cleared his throat again. No one said anything. Some reporters coughed but most wrote fast in their notepads. A TV camera light suddenly went on and I held on tight to Tommy’s hand.
“When did your wife die?” a reporter asked.
“A year ago. A year ago today actually. Yes, today.”
“She’s up in heaven though,” Tommy said. “She’s up in heaven and we’re going to pay some money to get her to come back.”
There was a stunned silence, a moment when everyone stopped thinking and breathing. As we stood there, I felt a wave of pity wash over my family, our lives suddenly a spectacle, a sad parade.
My father was slow to react. He stood with his shoulders hunched at the podium forever, his face blank and open. Then he finally stepped back and took Tommy’s other hand and mumbled something I couldn’t hear. More camera lights went on. A woman holding a pad and pencil wiped her eyes with a tissue.
Finally a reporter asked how my mother died, but someone from the lottery office took the microphone and said something about respecting privacy and reminded everyone that children were present. Everyone looked at Tommy and me and then everyone was quiet for awhile.
“How does it feel to not have to work anymore?” someone finally asked.
My father, clearly shaken by Tommy’s comment, was confused by the question and asked her to repeat it.
“Are you going to quit working?”
My father shook his head. “No. Well, I intend to continue working.”
“You won a hundred and ninety million dollars,” someone from the crowd yelled. “Give the money back then.” Everyone laughed.
“What do you do for a living?”
“Well, I am a teacher, a history professor.”
“Why did it take you three weeks to claim the ticket?” another reporter asked. She was a short, squat woman with black hair that hung over her eyes. When she spoke, she pointed her finger at us as if she were angry.
“Well, I’m not sure,” my father said.
“Three weeks is a long time not to claim a hundred and ninety million. What were you thinking? What were you doing?”
My father moved back up to the podium and gripped its edges hard to steady himself. It would be some time before I truly learned the answer to that question. “It was a bit much to comprehend,” he said slowly. “I was very busy. Making adjustments.”
“Three weeks though,” the short reporter said again. She was about to ask another question when someone yelled, “I hope you were shopping,” and everyone laughed.
“Yes,” my father said. “I was very busy.” And then we walked off the stage and began what I thought would be the rich part of our lives.
ON THE WAY HOME after the press conference, my father pulled over on the shoulder of the expressway and began breathing loudly and holding his chest. He had had a heart attack before I was born and took medication, “antiheart-attack pills” as my mother used to refer to them, for his condition. Due to the uncertain state of his health, I was convinced that Tommy and I daily walked the fine line that separates children from orphans. So real was this fear, that I had recently looked up orphanages in the local Yellow Pages to prepare for the inevitable and was both disappointed and relieved not to find any listed.
After a few deep breaths, my father started the car again and we drove in silence to the cemetery.
“I forgot the flowers,” he said, as we pulled into the parking lot. “I left them in the kitchen.”
It was a warm day in September, summer was fading and on the tips of trees the first shades of color were appearing. As we walked to where my mother was buried, I wished I had brought my sketch pad and colored pencils. I would only need two pencils though—orange and red.
When we got to the headstone, we stood. Surprisingly, we did not visit often as a family. I suspected my father thought it might be too hard for us. I knew he came alone many times though, disappearing for hours after dinner while Mrs. Rhodebush, our neighbor, watched us at home. The Nose Picker, finally tired of standing, lay on the ground, facing the sky, looking comfortable. I wanted to lie next to him and study the trees, but I didn’t. Instead, I stood next to my father and stared at the memory of my mother.
“Your mother was born to be rich. That’s what she used to tell me. ‘I’m born to be rich.’ Now . . .” my father wasn’t able to finish. I thought he might cry but he didn’t. He just sighed and bent down to pull a weed that was growing near the tombstone. He stayed in a crouch over the grave, smoothing over the dirt where the weed had been with his hand, patting it gently like it was my mother’s hair.
“Your mother always bought lottery tickets,” he said. “I never did. I’m fifty-five years old and my entire life, I never bought one. Your mother bought hundreds. We always fought about that. We disagreed about many things.” Then he stood back up and said, “We should be going now.”
When we got back to Wilton, Aunt Bess was waiting for us on the front porch. I liked my great aunt, though I suspected her presence annoyed my father. She was an outspoken woman given to wearing capes and owning cats. She had tall, black hair that rose upward at a crooked angle like the Tower of Pisa and large, equally dark eyes that could look at once both angry and soft. Despite being the age when most women shrink and shrivel, she remained very large and appeared to be expanding at a healthy pace. She spoke frequently in Greek even though she was born in Chicago and lived in Milwaukee, where she used to own a bakery until it burned to the ground after an oven exploded. When I was younger, I used to think she was a witch. She believed in ESP and used to communicate with dead relatives and famous celebrities using tarot cards. Once she claimed to have spoken to President John F. Kennedy, though she never discussed what he told her. “It’s very disturbing,” she had said. “And I don’t want to put you in danger.”
Close to eighty now, she had lost a bit of her mystery, but none of her drama. When she saw us, she fell slowly to her knees on the porch and simultaneously started crying and speaking in Greek. When she was through, she looked up blearily at my father, who cleared his throat and said, “So, I assume you’ve heard our news.”
Without explanation, she moved in with us that day, taking over the Nose Picker’s room. My father accepted this, as he did most things, without comment.
The next morning was Saturday and Aunt Bess made bacon and eggs for breakfast, walking slowly and with great effort around our table as she poured juice and coffee and buttered and rebuttered toast. Off in the corner of the kitchen, eggs fried and bacon popped on the stove, sending a spiral of salty smoke up to our cracked ceiling.
I ate my fried eggs in silence, intimidated at this early hour by Aunt Bess’s presence. Our kitchen, small and overflowing with the various baskets and vases my mother had collected, was overwhelmed by my aunt’s large size and loud voice. Stavros, my aunt’s oldest and favorite cat, lay motionless on the floor near the refrigerator. Even though Aunt Bess owned four cats, she brought only Stavros with her because he was partially blind and partially deaf and she wanted to be with him at the end, she said.
“You l
ook terrible in this picture,” Aunt Bess said to my father as she handed him the newspaper. My father was drinking coffee in his peculiar and delicate manner, which used to infuriate my mother. Holding the cup with both hands, he closed his eyes and took two short sips before carefully returning the cup to the exact center of its saucer.
“I’m sorry?” my father said.
“This picture,” Aunt Bess said pointing to the photo of him, the Nose Picker, and me standing with the oversized check at the Marriott Hotel. “You look like Christ on the cross. You don’t look like a man who just won a billion dollars.”
“It wasn’t quite that much, Aunt Bess,” my father said, picking up the newspaper.
“You could have at least pretended to be happy.”
“It was a poor photograph,” my father said.
“And you looked miserable on TV. Miserable. You looked mad, angry. You know what they’re saying about you on the radio this morning?”
My father remained silent.
“They’re saying, what’s the matter, is he angry he didn’t win more? They’re also saying you should buy a toupee. To tell you the truth, Theo, you looked very bald on TV. Well, not bald, but balding.”
My father flipped slowly through the newspaper. “I don’t think hair is on my list of, well, immediate needs,” he said quietly.
“Well, what is then?”
My father just shook his head and said nothing. Since the press conference, he had said little, retreating into his remote space. He reminded me of a kite in the sky, flying higher and higher, getting smaller and smaller, with just a fragile string connecting him to the earth and to us.
“Your brother called last night,” Aunt Bess said, holding greasy plates walking over to the dishwasher.
“Frank?” my father said, looking up from the paper. There was an unusual trace of annoyance in his voice.
“You have more than one brother?” my aunt asked.
“Why didn’t you tell me this last night?”
“Well, so many people have already called this morning,” she said. She loaded the plates into the dishwasher. “I can’t keep track. It’s craziness. People have been driving up and down the street all morning honking their horns and pointing at the house. I don’t know how you slept so long. I can hardly think. I called the police and complained.”
My father looked startled. “The police?”
“Yes. The police. They said they would keep an eye on our block. Personally, I’m glad Frank’s coming. Maybe he can keep those cars away.”
“Dear God. Frank is coming here? To this house?”
“He’s flying in from Los Angeles.”
I detected an almost silent sigh from my father as he went back to his paper.
“Frank can help you,” Aunt Bess said. “He’s an attorney. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing. You’ll need advice now. Besides, we have such a small family. All we have is Frank, really.” Turning toward me she said, “Your father and his brother Frank were inseparable growing up. Inseparable. They were the two smartest boys in the neighborhood. The two. Everyone knew they would be rich and famous. And now . . .” she looked up toward heaven, closed her eyes and began mumbling in Greek.
My father looked at her and then nervously glanced over at me and said quietly, “You’re going to frighten the boys.”
“I’m just giving thanks for being blessed with two genius nephews. Oh, your parents would be so proud. Geniuses.”
“Aunt Bess, please. I assure you, I am not a genius. I just happened to pick the right truck stop to buy coffee. And Frank, well. . .” here my father stopped and carefully sipped some coffee.
“His last movie didn’t do too well,” Aunt Bess said.
“I don’t think any of them have ever done well,” my father said. Then he quickly added, “At least according to Frank.”
“It was about vampires,” she said. “Vampire cheerleaders.” She turned to look at me. “Isn’t that amazing? Such creativity. Where does he get such ideas?”
I nodded and finished my eggs. “How come he just makes movies about vampires?” I asked.
Aunt Bess picked up my plate and walked over to the dishwasher, considering my question.
“Well, because they’re interesting. They’re interesting people,” she said. “Vampires.”
Aunt Bess started the dishwasher, turning the dials slowly. “Well, he’s done a lot of other things too. He made that one movie about all those pretty maids being murdered. Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, turning to face my father. “The man who owns the truck stop called too, a . . .” She put on her glasses which had been hanging around her neck, and looked down at a long piece of paper on the counter where dozens of names and numbers were written. “A Tony Ammosti. He wanted to thank you since he gets a percent of the winnings. He couldn’t make the press conference, he got the days mixed. He thought it was today, but he wished you a long, healthy life and said that you can stop by for coffee on the house anytime.” She took off her glasses. “Well, that’s very nice.”
My father nodded silently as Aunt Bess put her glasses back on and glanced down at the paper again.
“Someone from People magazine called too,” she said. “They want to do a story on you.”
My father looked over at her. “What’s People magazine?” he asked.
THE PHONE RANG early the next Monday morning. I got up and went down to the kitchen to answer it, something I had been instructed not to do by my father. He was in the process of having our number changed because people kept calling and asking for money.
“Who’s this?” a loud voice shouted over the phone. There was music in the background.
“Who’s this?” I asked back. Stavros, the cat, wandered gingerly into the kitchen and lay down under the table.
“The Kink Man,” the voice said louder. “WROLL Radio. You’re on the air. Now, who’s this?”
“Teddy.”
“Teddy. You must be one of the rich kids. Tell us, Teddy, how does it feel to win a hundred and ninety million dollars?”
“Pretty good,” I said, then hung up as soon as I saw my father make his way sleepily into the kitchen. He looked at me with small eyes and squinted. Then he cleared his throat and walked stiffly over to the counter to make coffee.
I stood next to him and quietly began making my cheese sandwiches for school, a responsibility I had undertaken since my mother’s death and would soon relinquish to Aunt Bess. I also made half a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich for the Nose Picker’s kindergarten snack and packed it away in his backpack. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched my father take his anti-heart-attack pills, listened to him cough, and assessed his chances of survival for that day.
“Well,” he said, after clearing his throat. “I imagine you’re going to school today.”
I nodded my head and carefully wrapped the cheese sandwich in wax paper, folding over the ends of the paper in the manner my mother had used. Upstairs I heard Aunt Bess’s heavy feet make their way to the bathroom.
“Well, please, Teddy, remember what we discussed. Please be discreet.”
My father had briefly considered keeping us home from school for a few days, thinking our presence would be a distraction. After some discussion, he had changed his mind and decided to let us go, instructing us not to discuss the lottery with anyone.
“Don’t discuss it,” he said again now at the counter. “It’s really no one’s concern but ours.”
“Okay,” I said and went upstairs to get dressed for school.
AS SOON AS I got to the St. Pius playground, Johnny Cezzaro ran over to me and began demanding ten thousand dollars in twenties and tens.
“Come on, Pappas, I know you got the money. It’s just a lousy ten grand. That’s nothing to you. Your old man wipes his ass with ten grand.”
“No, he doesn’t,” I said. The image of my father wiping himself with ten thousand dollars raced through my mind only to be quickly replaced by the sweaty head of Johnny Cezzaro, a
short, wide boy with greasy black hair whom everyone disliked. Johnny was particularly despised by Mr. Sean Hill, the custodian who was almost a priest when he lived in Ireland. I had once heard Mr. Sean Hill tell Mrs. Plank, the principal, that “the good Lord should have just made another rat instead of Johnny Cezzaro. They don’t live as long and you can hit them with a broom handle.”
“Come on, Pappas, I’ll sell you a Pay Day for ten grand. Just give me the money.”
“I don’t have any money,” I said as I tried to walk past him to the lines that were forming in front of the door. I could see my best friend, Charlie Governs, walking ahead of me and I wanted to catch up with him and ask him if he could come over and paint with me after school.
Johnny Cezzaro ran in front of me and fell to his knees. When I tried to walk past him, he reached out and grabbed me by the legs.
“Johnny, quit it,” I said. Other children in the playground were beginning to look our way.
“Okay, just fifty bucks,” he said. “That’s nothing. You won a billion dollars. If you don’t do it, I’m gonna eat this gravel and choke to death. Look.” Johnny grabbed some rocks off the playground and held them close to his mouth. He was known for threatening bodily harm and physical violence to himself rather than to others, which was why he never was considered an effective bully.
“I swear I’ll do it, Pappas. Look! Look! Just ten bucks. Look!”
I wrestled free of Johnny and ran near the head of the line and stood right behind Charlie Governs. Charlie was the second-best artist in class and I enjoyed drawing and painting with him. He could draw people better than me, capturing expressions and character in a way that I couldn’t, and I respected this talent. Even though I won most of the school art contests, I knew he was good. Very few of the other children, especially the boys, cared about drawing. But Charlie and I did. I was the only person Charlie ever spoke to, which consequently made me his only friend. But he never talked to me in school or at recess. Instead, he would pass me notes with cartoons or illustrations on them, inviting me to his house or asking if he could come over. The St. Pius teachers were forever trying to get him to speak in class but he refused, staring stoically past them at the blackboard. If he hadn’t always received the highest scores in math and reading in the class and if his brother Joshua hadn’t graduated college when he was eighteen and gotten a job at a computer company, people probably wouldn’t have thought him smart.
