The Rich Part of Life

by Jim Kokoris

  My father nodded enthusiastically, obviously impressed with her immediate grasp of the issue. “Yes,” he said. “Their feet.”

  Mrs. Wilcott paused for a moment, measuring my father’s comment carefully. She finally chose to say, “That’s just so interesting.” Then she picked up her glass of wine. “I think it’s wonderful that you have such a passion for your work. I used to have a passion for music.”

  She waited for my father to say something but he was dumbly silent, smiling vacantly in a way that was starting to annoy me.

  “I used to sing,” she continued. “I considered it as a possible career but,” she stopped and smiled, “I chose another career instead.”

  “Ah,” my father finally said. “And what was that?”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Wilcott smiled. “Parent, mother, wife.” She began to finger a small gold necklace that hung delicately down her neck.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” My father quickly picked up his glass of wine and sipped at it.

  I was wondering how much longer we were going to have to sit there when Mrs. Wilcott asked if we would like to hear her sing.

  My father was confused by the request and leaned forward in his chair. He seemed to be considering the matter carefully, as if she had asked him a complicated three-part question concerning the Civil War or possibly physics. He put his hand up to his mouth and furrowed his brow once more.

  “Well, I’m not sure, Gloria, I haven’t sung in years,” he finally said.

  She laughed, a slight tinkling of ice against glass. “Oh, no, Theo, I said would you like to hear me sing?”

  “Oh,” my father said. Shaking his head. “Of course, of course, very much so. I thought you asked if I could sing, well, never mind.”

  “Let’s go, boys,” Mrs. Wilcott said. She stood up. “Benjamin? Will you set up the piano?”

  Benjamin threw his napkin on the table and groaned. Within minutes, he was lugging what looked to be a small, portable keyboard into the living room. As he adjusted its wobbly stand, I wondered what had happened to the white piano I had seen in the picture.

  Mrs. Wilcott seemed to be reading my mind. “I’m afraid this electronic keyboard will have to do,” she said as she pulled a chair up to it.

  We all sat crammed on the couch in the living room as Mrs. Wilcott studied some sheet music, her lips pursed, her eyes small and intense. Then, she took a deep breath as if she were about to fling herself off a mountain top or jump headfirst into a freezing river and began to sing.

  At first, I didn’t understand the words. As the seconds passed, however, I realized that she was singing in a different language. Foreign words, rich and lyrical, filled the room, smothering us. Her deep, resonant voice was also strange, mysteriously transforming from a friendly chipmunk’s to that of a large man. I leaned back against the couch, trying hard not to make contact with Benjamin, who was sitting next to me, and closed my eyes, waiting for the moment to end. I could not bring myself to look at my father. I assumed he was mortified.

  Mrs. Wilcott sang what I concluded were three separate songs, moving gracefully from one to the next with a slight smile and a quick glance back at us. As the minutes passed in slow agony, I became aware of my fathers head hovering just inches off my shoulder. I glanced up, just as his mouth was opening, about to emit the first of what I knew could be a series of sharp snores. I nudged him gently awake. He snapped his head and readjusted his position on the couch, just as Mrs. Wilcott finished the last song.

  “Wonderful, Gloria, wonderful,” my father said. “La Bohème. He made a brief attempt at clapping but quickly abandoned the effort when no one else joined in.

  “This sucks,” Benjamin said under his breath, but he said it too loudly and Mrs. Wilcott’s head shook the moment after he said it. She immediately asked him to help her bring in some drinks from the kitchen.

  “I’m afraid I had a bit too much wine,” my father said after they left. He cleared his throat. “Wine always has a tiring effect on me.”

  “Can we go now?” I asked.

  Tommy had started wandering toward the electronic keyboard. My father stood up and followed him. “In a few minutes. Why don’t you see if you can be of some assistance in the kitchen?” he asked. “Help the boy Benjamin. I’ll keep an eye on your brother.”

  I walked slowly through the living room and was pushing open the swinging door that led to the kitchen just as Mrs. Wilcott was slapping Benjamin hard across the face. She slapped him twice, her face red and her teeth bared. After the second slap, Benjamin smirked, then bailed his hand up into a fist and took a swing at her, missing her face by inches. I let the door swing quietly shut and stood there, unsure of what to do. I was afraid that if I was detected, they might refocus their fury and take turns hitting me.

  I was still standing there when the door swung open again to reveal Mrs. Wilcott holding a tray filled with cups and glasses. Her face was still red but her teeth were back behind her lips. She took a few steps back into the kitchen when she saw me, startled.

  “Oh, Teddy, I didn’t see you there. Can I get you something?” She was smiling but her eyes were studying me. I looked down at the floor. When I looked back up, Benjamin was standing next to her, holding a coffee pot. Neither one of them seemed any the worse for wear.

  “I’m okay,” I said. I turned and headed to the living room.

  “Benjamin? Why don’t you and Teddy watch TV for a little while?” she said. “Up in your room.”

  Benjamin said, “Shit,” as I followed him back up to his room, past the smiling pictures of Mrs. Wilcott.

  “Your dad better not try to screw my mom,” he said as he turned on a small color TV and laid down on his bed. “If he does, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

  “He won’t,” I said.

  Benjamin got up off the bed and walked over to me. His face was still red from the slapping. He pressed a finger deep into my chest like a gun barrel.

  “He better not.”

  “Okay,” I said, “okay.” Then I pretended to watch a football game that was on the TV until it was time to finally go home.

  A WEEK LATER, my father appeared on Access Wilton with Mrs. Wilcott. I watched it with the dog and Uncle Frank in the living room. Aunt Bess, who had returned from Milwaukee, watched it in the kitchen, on a tiny black-and-white television with a crooked antenna she had brought back with her.

  “He should have gone on Oprah,” she yelled over the sound of running water and pots and pans banging. “Why did he go on this rinky-dink show? I never heard of it. My God, look how short that skirt is! She’s making Theo nervous. His scalp is all red. He could have a heart attack or go spastic right on the show.”

  My father did appear particularly awkward, alternately bowing his head and clearing his throat before answering a question. Much to my disappointment, he did not discuss the lottery. Instead, he talked about footwear in the Civil War and held up an actual pair of Union boots that had been recently sent to him by a professor in North Carolina. When Mrs. Wilcott unexpectedly tried on one of the boots, the camera focused on her legs for a long time.

  “For chrissakes,” Uncle Frank said. “I’m sure she wishes there was a Civil War bra to try on.”

  Surprisingly, Uncle Frank watched most of the show, asking questions about how often and when it was on.

  “You know,” he said, his voice low, reflective. “You know, this might be a good place to try out Frankly Speaking. Test market it here. Did you ever mention that idea to your father? About buying airtime?”

  “No.” I had no idea what airtime was.

  “Well, I might just bring it up. It can’t be any worse than this.” After a few more minutes of listening to my father talk about hundred-and-forty-year-old insteps, Uncle Frank finally succumbed to the measured tedium of the show and fell asleep with his mouth open.

  I feared that my classmates, to whom I had casually promoted the show, were having the same reaction. I had implied that my father was going to discuss ou
r plans to build a new cafeteria and swimming pool for St. Pius, though they had seemed skeptical.

  Rather than face their questions, I stayed home from school the next day, feigning a sore throat. Several times during the day, Aunt Bess checked in on me as I lay in bed, feeling my forehead in search of a fever. “Nothing,” she would say. She was clearly disappointed. Over the years, it had become apparent that she thrived on illnesses and the rituals involved in tending the sick. She enjoyed applying cool cloths to foreheads, smearing Vicks VapoRub on chests and dissolving children’s aspirin in spoons of water for Tommy and me to swallow. When she moved in with us, the first thing she unpacked was a plastic vaporizer that she diligently scrubbed with hot water and baking soda in preparation for use. Next, she unpacked a vast cough medicine collection that included an endless supply of old, sticky, half-empty bottles of cough medicine, which she called suppressants.

  After a lunch of chicken broth and plain toast, Aunt Bess took my temperature.

  “Nothing. Normal,” she said with disgust. “Does your throat still hurt?”

  “Yes,” I said. I coughed once to prove this.

  “We need to suppress that,” she said, walking off to the bathroom.

  A few minutes later, as Aunt Bess was giving me cough medicine, a cherry-flavored Smith Brothers, my father walked in.

  “And how are you feeling, Teddy?”

  I was starving. Aunt Bess’s meager meals just left me hungrier. “Okay,” I coughed and laid back down on the bed, pulling my sheet up tight around my throat.

  “Well, that’s good.” He turned to face Aunt Bess. “Aunt Bess, I won’t be having dinner at home tonight. I’ve been invited to the opera by Gloria.”

  “Who?” Aunt Bess looked alarmed.

  My father cleared his throat. “Gloria Wilcott. Mrs. Wilcott.”

  “Oh,” she said. “That Gloria.”

  “You’re going where?” Uncle Frank suddenly appeared in my room. He was wearing a black turtleneck and black pants and for some reason he was barefoot.

  My father kept his hand on my head longer than I thought was necessary. “To the opera. It’s a benefit. For the library.”

  “You’re going with that neighbor? That woman?” Uncle Frank asked, suspiciously. “That woman with the big—”

  “Frank, please!” my father said. Then he said. “Yes. Gloria Wilcott.”

  “Tonight?”

  My father looked down at the floor. “Yes.”

  They stood in silence around my bed, my father’s hand still on my fore head. It was then that I detected a peculiar smell coming from his direction, a not altogether unpleasant musky aroma, that reminded me of tobacco and lilacs and black earth.

  “What’s that smell?” I asked. My father quickly took his hand away.

  “What smell, what smell?” Uncle Frank asked. He started vigorously sniffing my father, his nose curling up into a ball.

  “You’re wearing cologne, Theo. You’re wearing cologne. Since when do you start caring what you smell like? You don’t even wear deodorant, for chrissakes.”

  My father cautiously sniffed the back of his hand. “It was just a splash,” he said, though he looked concerned.

  “The opera should be nice,” Aunt Bess said. Then she said, “You’re not planning on marrying this woman, are you?”

  My father ignored this comment and instead put his hand back on my forehead. “You feel quite cool, Teddy, quite cool,” he said, smiling one of his short tight smiles. And then he quickly turned around and walked out with Uncle Frank and Aunt Bess close behind.

  Later that night, after my father had left for the opera, I lay in bed and prayed that he wouldn’t have sex with Mrs. Wilcott. Because of the delicate nature of the issue, I worded my prayer carefully, asking God that my father return “without having sinned.” The fact that my father might actually perform a vigorous physical act was in itself worrisome; I wasn’t sure his anti-heart-attack pills were up to the challenge of Mrs. Wilcott. And the fact that I might have my head banged on the sidewalk because of it heightened my sense of concern.

  Downstairs, the muffled voices of my aunt and uncle mixed together, overlapping sounds of worry. I heard Uncle Frank say, “He’s flattered. It’s not like he’s Robert Redford or anything. Let’s face it, any time any woman has shown an interest in him, he falls.”

  “He’s changing,” Aunt Bess. “He’s confused. The cologne. The hair combing.” Then she started speaking lower and I could only make out a few words, like “tragic,” and “sad,” and “spastic bowel.”

  Lying in bed, it occurred to me that even if they had sex, Benjamin would have a hard time proving it. As much as Mrs. Wilcott seemed to like to talk, I didn’t think she would discuss this at home, at least not with Benjamin. Regardless, I was concerned. Benjamin might draw his own conclusions.

  As I waited for my father, I began to think of my mother. Since my father was possibly at that moment having sex with Mrs. Wilcott, I wondered what she would have thought. I couldn’t decide whether she would be jealous, disgusted, or angry. I knew she hadn’t liked Mrs. Wilcott, that much I was certain of.

  Mrs. Wilcott and my mother didn’t get along. It started with something Mrs. Wilcott wrote in the Wilton Doings while I was still in first grade. In her column, “Wilton Whispers,” Mrs. Wilcott criticized the lifeguards at the Wilton Pool, claiming that “some were too old and not in the proper shape to perform the duties of their position.” This upset my mother, who was a lifeguard at the time, having taken the unusual summer job out of boredom.

  “I’m only thirty-two years old,” I heard my mother yell into the phone when Mrs. Rhodebush brought the column to her attention. When my mother raised her voice, her Southern accent emerged, slicing through the air like a pocket knife. “It’s not like I’m in a wheelchair, watching the kids swim.”

  After the column appeared, my mother began writing letters to the paper, defending her position as a lifeguard and attesting to her physical condition. “My body is firm and hard,” she claimed in her letter that, once it was printed, was widely circulated around the neighborhood. Encouraged at seeing her opinion in print, she soon began writing other letters, all critical of the paper. She was particularly harsh on the columnists, taking issue on their—specifically Mrs. Wilcott’s—views on the annual village. Easter egg hunt (Mrs. Wilcott believed it should be restricted to St. Pius parishoners), to the opening of a shelter for stray cats (Mrs. Wilcott believed the cats should be shipped to another suburb). The letters, full of misspellings and grammatical errors, mortified my father, who pleaded with her to stop.

  “You must cease this crusade, or at the very least, begin using a dictionary,” he said one day after a letter appeared that began with the sentence, “The primordial thing a newspaper should be is fair.”

  “What’s wrong with that letter?” my mother yelled.

  “The word you wanted to use was ‘primary,’ not primordial. Primary, for goodness sakes, primary”

  After that, my mother began asking my father for help in writing the letters, but he always refused.

  “I will not be drawn into this suburban Shiloh,” he quietly said one day at dinner.

  Sometime during the letter-writing campaign, my mother smashed into Dr. Wilcott’s car at DeVries, the local supermarket. “Shit!” she yelled, when our car hit Dr. Wilcott’s in the rear. Then, when she realized whose car it was, she pounded on the steering wheel with both hands, and yelled, “Oh shit, it’s Mr. Tanning Booth.”

  To my surprise, Dr. Wilcott was very nice about the accident and my mother and he spent quite a bit of time examining the damage, then talking about real estate prices in the neighborhood. My mother was thinking about becoming a real estate agent, something Dr. Wilcott said she would no doubt excel at.

  “Well, he ain’t so bad,” she said when she got back in the car. Not long after that, one afternoon when I came home from school, I saw Dr. Wilcott trying to kiss my mother on the couch in our living room.
I remembered peering through our swinging kitchen door as he leaned over and tried to pull her to him and saw my mother swing her fist at him, hitting him full in the face. A moment later, while I was at the refrigerator getting a drink, I heard the front door slam.

  Thinking of my mother just made me miss her. She was pretty and she was funny in an easy and light way that drew people to her. I enjoyed simply being with her. She would tell me stories in bed at night about people she knew in Tennessee, stories that made me laugh so hard that my stomach would hurt and my mouth would feel stretched out and tired. “Everyone down there has at least three or four names,” she said. “I was lucky I got out with only two.”

  My mother also liked to draw. “You get your talent from me,” she used to say. She was an excellent artist. I would study her work long after she was finished and try to imitate her strong, flowing lines as best I could. She would tease me about how much time I spent drawing and how seriously I approached even the simplest illustrations. “It’s supposed to be fun, babe, you don’t have to work so hard at it,” she used to say. “Just let it flow.” But when I won first place and five hundred dollars in a Chicagoland art competition, she stopped teasing me. Instead, she started buying me markers and colored pencils.

  Despite her generally easy manner, my mother didn’t get along with my father. She grew quiet when he was around, her lips drawing tight and thin, curling around her teeth like a cornered alley cat. She would spend hours on the phone complaining about him to her friend Lillian from Memphis. She used to lean against the kitchen counter during these conversations, waving a Camel cigarette in the air, and tell Lillian that my father was incapable of human emotions. Whenever she noticed that I was within earshot, she would shoo me away with her cigarette hand, the smoke chasing after me like a tracer bullet. Then she would go back to complaining about my father. “He got me out of Memphis, but that’s about it,” I once heard her say. Then she said, “I thought that would be enough but it ain’t.”

  My mother was considerably younger than my father. At restaurants, waiters frequently mistook her for his daughter, causing the top of my father’s head to flash red. I wasn’t sure how they met. I was vaguely aware that their marriage had some unspoken history surrounding it, but I knew no details. When I once asked my mother, she casually put me off, saying it was a long story. Lying on my pillow now, thinking about my mother and father, I wished that I had been more persistent with my questions. I was growing curious.