The Rich Part of Life

by Jim Kokoris

  I tried again. Even though I didn’t fall, the ball only rolled a few inches before stopping in a patch of dry dirt. Mr. Peterson chewed on his curtain mustache for awhile. “You’ll mostly play defense,” he said.

  Just then Tommy broke away from Maurice and ran toward us and kicked the ball right between Mr. Peterson’s legs.

  “Tommy!” I yelled. I feared he might attract the attention of Benjamin, who had once again ignored me all practice.

  “Hey,” Mr. Peterson said, but he was smiling.

  Tommy ran around the field, kicking the ball. The other boys stopped practicing and watched him. As I feared, Benjamin did notice and looked annoyed. He tried to stop Tommy and grab the ball but Tommy kicked it around and past him and the other boys. He kept running and kicking until the ball landed inside the goal, silently against the net.

  “God, he’s fast,” Mr. Peterson said. “How old is he?”

  I was about to say, “Five,” but Maurice walked up behind me and put his arms on my shoulders and said, “He’s six and a half.”

  Mr. Peterson kept watching Tommy, who was making his way around the field again, a small, streaking meteor. He kicked the ball into the goal three more times. Then Benjamin crouched down like a goalie and said, “Okay, try it now, little man,” and Tommy kicked it past him twice. In between goals, he kept running and laughing. Finally, after another goal, he fell on the ground and looked up at the sky. I could see his chest moving up and down fast. He was breathing hard.

  “That little guy’s good,” Mr. Peterson said. “Real fast. Real fast. How old did you say he was again?”

  “Six and a half,” Maurice said.

  “Well, he’s old enough to play on our junior team then. It’s really too late, but I can arrange it,” he said. “Do you think he’d want to?”

  “I know he’d want to,” Maurice said. “He told me so.”

  “He did?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Maurice said. “He did.”

  ON THE WAY HOME, Maurice smoked his pipe. I sensed that some of his apprehension had left him and he walked loosely, with his usual easy stride. When we crossed the street, he hummed a little.

  “Looks like you played yourself onto a soccer team, Tommy Pappas,” he said when we reached the other side. “All that practicing you and I did paid off.”

  “You’ve been practicing with him?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir. In the afternoons, while you’re in school. Kept me busy. So he and I been kicking it around the playground a little. I could tell he was good. That’s why I made him six and a half years old. I hope you don’t mind being an old man, Tommy.” Maurice laughed.

  We didn’t talk for awhile. The evening was warm and dry and still. Under our feet, leaves crunched quietly, like the parchment paper we used in arts and crafts class. The light was fading and as we walked, I heard crickets and felt the night reaching for us.

  “Hey, you played pretty good yourself, Teddy,” Maurice said, patting me on the back. “You’re a player too.” We turned down our block. “My rookie season with the Bears, I didn’t play until the last game of the season. We played the Packers and . . .”

  Maurice grabbed each of our hands and stopped talking. Up ahead, parked in our driveway, was the red pickup truck.

  “Now what would that be doing there, do you suppose?” Maurice said. He held both of our hands with one of his and reached around and under his shirt for something with the other.

  “A gun,” Tommy yelled. I looked up at Maurice and gasped. He was holding a large black gun, its barrel sleek and terrifying.

  “Come with me,” Maurice said. We approached our house, slowly, Maurice’s hand still tight on mine. When we saw my father standing on the porch, Maurice put the gun away but held on to our hands.

  “Is everything all right, Mr. Pappas?” he asked.

  “Yes, everything will be fine, Mr. Jackson,” my father answered.

  Maurice hesitated before letting go of our hands.

  “Are you sure, Mr. Pappas?”

  My father nodded. He was standing perfectly still, his face obscured by shadows. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I’m sure.”

  Maurice finally let go of our hands and Tommy and I walked up the front porch steps.

  “Tommy, why don’t you run into the kitchen? Aunt Bess has a snack for you, I believe,” he said. He turned and faced me, swallowing hard. “Teddy, I would like for you to meet someone.”

  Before we went inside, my father turned back to Maurice, who was still standing in our driveway. “Thank you, Mr. Jackson,” he said. “We will see you tomorrow.” Maurice just stood there, looking like he didn’t understand something.

  “I’ll be right outside, Mr. Pappas,” I heard him say, “In case you need anything.”

  My father said nothing. He just closed the door.

  Uncle Frank was sitting on the black couch in the living room next to the man with the blond hair. They both quickly stood up when I walked in and the man smiled at me, a long, slow grin that stretched tight across his thin face.

  “Teddy,” my father said. “Say hello to Mr. Anderson. Robert Lee Anderson.”

  “Bobby Lee,” the man said. “Hey, son. What do you know?” He wiped the sides of his pants with his hands and smiled at me again.

  I nodded hello. Uncle Frank coughed and I wondered where Sylvanius was.

  “Mr. Anderson was a friend of your mother’s,” my father said.

  “A good friend,” Bobby Lee said.

  “Apparently, he is going to be in the Chicago area, actually has been in the Chicago area for awhile, and has decided to pay us a visit.”

  “I heard a lot about you,” Bobby Lee said. He examined me with a long, steady look. “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Eleven.”

  “Eleven years old. Hell. Eleven years old,” he said. Then he said, “You look like Amy.”

  I didn’t say anything. Amy was my mother’s name and I wasn’t sure I liked Bobby Lee saying it. I wasn’t sure I liked Bobby Lee.

  “Your mother and I grew up together,” he said.

  “In Memphis?” I asked.

  “Yeah, in Memphis. Went to the same grade and high school. She was a lot smarter than me though. Always got good grades,” he said with a short laugh. My father and Uncle Frank didn’t smile.

  Bobby Lee started walking around the living room, his hands jammed into the front pockets of his tight blue jeans. “Nice place you have here. Nice place. Hell of a lot nicer than where I’m staying.”

  “Where are you staying?” Uncle Frank asked.

  “Here and there,” he said. “I stayed at a hotel called the Mark Twain when I first moved to town. Ever hear of it? It’s in the city. Near Rush Street where the action is. Cost me forty-three dollars a night though.”

  “Never heard of it,” Uncle Frank said.

  Bobby Lee kept walking around the living room, picking up pictures and books, pretending to look at them. He was thin and wiry and had a dusty, out-of-place look about him that made my stomach tight and my throat feel small again. His nose was hooked and his eyes dark bullets. He reminded me of a suspicious bird searching for something. “Chicago is a nice city. Lots of things to do, lots to see. Never been here before. Never been north of Louisville, I guess.” He looked over at me. “That’s in Kentucky,” he said. “I used to go there once in a while.”

  I stared at the floor and wondered how long I had to stay in the living room.

  Bobby Lee kept walking. He stopped at the fireplace mantel and picked up a picture of my mother.

  “She used to have longer hair,” he said, putting the picture back. “Used to go all the way down to her shoulders.”

  My father and Uncle Frank were silent. Off in the kitchen, I could hear Aunt Bess’s voice but couldn’t understand what she was saying.

  “Are you related to Robert E. Lee, the Civil War general?” I asked. I hoped that my father might start talking if the War was being discussed.

  “Hell, I
wish. Probably some money in that family somewhere. No, there ain’t no relation that I know of. Hell, everyone’s named Bobby Lee where I come from.”

  “Why have you been following me?” I asked.

  “Following you!” Bobby Lee laughed. “Hell, I ain’t been following no one. Just been driving around. I knew Amy lived here, so I thought I might check it out. A little too expensive for my wallet though. I didn’t win no lottery.” He laughed again, a short, high sound. My father looked back down at the floor.

  Bobby Lee walked over to the front hallway and looked upstairs, then back at me. “So,” he said, staring at my sneakers and shorts. “You play a lot of soccer?”

  “No,” I said simply.

  “When I was eleven years old I fished a lot. You do any fishing?”

  “No.”

  Bobby Lee stuffed his hands back inside his front pockets and looked thoughtful. “Well, I guess there aren’t that many places to go fish around here. I used to fish in a little creek near my house. Use to catch rock bass. They fried up all right. You ever fished?”

  “No,” I said again.

  “Yeah, well, Amy never liked to fish either, I guess. Girls don’t on the whole, generally speaking.” He nodded at me and smiled. Off in the corner of the room, I heard my father cough, but my eyes were now fixed on Bobby Lee. I was trying to remember if my mother, in all of her stories about Tennessee, had ever mentioned him.

  “Say,” Bobby Lee said. “You got a little girlfriend or anything?”

  “What? No,” I felt my cheeks turn red. Bobby Lee’s questions were beginning to embarrass me. I glanced over at my father for help, an explanation. But he was miles away, standing across the room, hugging his chest.

  “Yeah, well, you’re smart to steer clear of the girls. They’re just trouble.” Bobby Lee smiled again, then the room fell quiet.

  “Teddy,” Uncle Frank finally said. “I think we’re about done here. Why don’t you go up to your room and do your homework. We’re done here, aren’t we, Theo?”

  My father mumbled something.

  “Homework?” Bobby Lee said. “Boy just got home.”

  “Yes, he has homework to do now,” my father said softly. “Teddy, why don’t you go up to your room.”

  “Homework, huh?” Bobby Lee said. He seemed stuck on the word. “Homework. Well, I guess you got to do that.” He let out a deep breath. “Well, I’ll be seeing you there, buddy.” He nodded and winked. “I’ll be back soon.”

  LATER THAT EVENING, after Bobby Lee left, we had a quiet dinner, no one saying much, not even Uncle Frank. We all sat in a strange silence that reminded me of those first, terrible days after my mother died, a stunned, hopeless hush. I was contused by the silence, uncertain of its exact cause, though I was sure it had something to do with Bobby Lee’s visit.

  “Well,” Sylvanius said, looking around the table and swallowing. “Everyone must be quite hungry.” Uncle Frank gave him a look from across the table, then reached slowly for his Diet Coke.

  “Everything is quite delicious of course,” Sylvanius said quickly. He lowered his head over his plate and cut up his pork chop. “Quite good.”

  I looked at my father for some type of clue or sign of what was or had just taken place. He was staring out the window, though, his food untouched. As expected, he was no help.

  Sylvanius tried once again to start the conversation. “Emily Rhodebush and I have been discussing the need for professional theater here in Wilton,” he said. He sipped his glass of wine, and peered out over the rim of the glass. “A suburb of this sophistication and resources should have an arts community that reflects its citizenry.”

  Aunt Bess covered her mouth with her napkin and started to cry.

  “My God, Bess, is it something I said? In no way did I mean to upset you. If you feel so strongly against professional theater . . .”

  Aunt Bess pushed her plate away and quickly left the table. My father surprised me by following her.

  “Is something going on here that I am not aware of?” Sylvanius asked.

  “Shut the hell up,” Uncle Frank said. Then he too left the table and went down to the basement.

  Sylvanius looked at Tommy and me with wide eyes. “My goodness,” he said! “There must be something in the air.”

  “Yeah,” Tommy said. “Vampires.”

  THAT NIGHT I lay in bed and waited for the discussion to start downstairs. I expected my father and Uncle Frank to talk about Bobby Lee but the conversation never began. Twice I went halfway down the stairs to listen, but heard nothing.

  I eventually fell into a thin, half sleep, filled with familiar voices and feelings. I dreamt I was standing on our helicopter pad, looking up, waiting for something to land. Off in the distance, coming down from the sky like rain, I heard my mother telling me about the colliding comets, a story she frequently told at bedtime. In her story, when the comets collided, they showered the earth with a magic that changed things; some things got better, some things got worse. Standing on the helicopter pad, my arms spread wide, my face turned up, I heard my mother’s voice surrounding me, heard her whisper that the comets were flying.

  I woke up some time later, my forehead damp with perspiration. It was another warm night and I lay on the top of my sheets listening to Tommy’s deep breathing. Gradually, as the minutes passed, I detected a different sound, an isolated noise that I realized was my father typing. I got up and followed the sound. Suddenly, I needed to see him.

  I found him in his study, typing, the index fingers of each hand poised over the keys. He was unraveling, like a ball of string. His puffy white hair stood up in sharp angles to the sides of his head and his shirt was rumpled and halfway unbuttoned. When he saw me, rather than seem surprised or concerned, he merely cleared his throat and motioned for me to sit down as if he were expecting me.

  “Sit down, Teddy,” he said. “Please sit down.” I sat in the one chair in the room, up against the wall.

  My father paused and I heard him take a deep breath.

  “We should probably discuss this at another time, but my fear is that, well, my fear is that you will hear this from someone else and that would be unforgivable. There is never going to be an ideal time for this,” he said. “We should have told you about this sooner, but your mother and I never agreed on when to do it exactly. She kept saying that she would tell you, but she never did.”

  I looked down at the floor and thought about the story about the comets. I knew that somewhere up in the sky, somewhere behind the planets, two comets were approaching each other, two comets were getting close.

  “It’s because of the money,” my father said. “All of this. It has brought all of this upon us. I feared this from the start. The moment I won the lottery, this was my fear. That’s why I almost didn’t claim the ticket. You see, I made inquiries, I tried to locate him, but no one seemed to know where he was and in the end I thought, I decided that the money would provide for you and Tommy, you see. I was wrong, though. I made the wrong decision.” He said all this in a great rush, and seemed exhausted from the effort.

  I closed my eyes and heard my father clear his throat. When he started speaking again, his voice was soft and far away.

  “My winning it, the accident, well, it was all uncommon. Yes. It seems like the past year has been full of uncommon occurrences. You know, Teddy, your mother and I, we, we . . .” He stopped here and I opened my eyes. He was staring at his hands. “We were different from each other. Very different. Of course, I suppose I’m not like many people. At least that’s what your mother used to say.” He smiled for a moment, and shook his head. Then he looked out the window into the dark, into the night, into a thousand miles away and eleven years ago and said, “That man, Bobby Lee, whom you met today, he was once involved with your mother. A long time ago.” He looked back at me. I watched him open his hands wide, then close them into two fists. “That man, Teddy,” he said. “That man, well, he is, he is, your father.”

  PART TWO<
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  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE NEXT MORNING, after my father told me everything, I lay in bed and remembered my birthday party when I turned ten. True to her spirited nature, my mother had decided to have a surprise party for me. I knew about her plans, because I had overheard her discussing them with my father one night while they were getting ready for bed and thought I was sleeping.

  “I’m a bit hesitant about the surprise element, Amy,” my father said. “I don’t think it necessary. I believe he’ll be quite happy with just the party. It might prove too much for him. He’s only nine.”

  “What do you mean, too much?” my mother asked.

  “The surprise element, it could prove disorienting. It could, well, shock him.”

  “What do you mean, shock him?”

  “Scare him. Teddy doesn’t seem like the type of person who would like surprises.”

  “You don’t like surprises, you mean. He likes surprises fine. And he’ll like this one. Just leave it to me.”

  For the next week or so, I walked around our house in a constant state of expectancy, thinking at any moment a party in my honor could and would erupt. I made every effort to look innocent, keeping my face as expressionless as possible whenever I entered a room or opened a door.

  “What’s that look on your face?” my mother asked as I entered our kitchen the morning of my birthday. “What’s the big smile for?”

  I touched my hands to my face, probing my mouth like it was a large scab. “I don’t know,” I said.

  My mother went back to the magazine she was reading at the table. She was wearing a sleeveless white T-shirt, and her red hair was pulled back in a ponytail. “I thought we’d go somewhere for lunch,” she said. “It’s your birthday, you know.”