The Rich Part of Life

by Jim Kokoris

  “Well,” my father cleared his throat. “Well, the similarities abound really,” he said. “Both were superb military leaders, fighting for corrupt causes.”

  “According to my source, you imply that Rommel, a vital cog in the Nazi war machine, was morally superior to Lee.”

  My father stared at Otto.

  “I demand an explanation,” Otto said.

  “Colonel Jackson!” Sergeant Hardy interrupted. He had been pressing the cell phone close to his ear. “We must report to our battle positions.”

  Otto leaned forward in his wheelchair, his face set and determined.

  “Well,” my father said. “I simply stated that Rommel participated in the plot to kill Hitler, in effect, attempted to end the war, while Lee continued to fight in what was obviously a lost cause. He had the power to end the war months before he finally did. I didn’t make any moral judgments, none intentionally.”

  “I think it nothing but another contemptible attempt at grandstanding on your part. And I have officially resigned my post on General Johnston’s staff today in protest! I wish you well in your battle now. I know you spent enough on it. What’s next, Theo? Are you going to buy the Lincoln Memorial, drag it home with you? It might make a wonderful lawn ornament.” With that, Otto whirled the wheelchair around and rode off, bouncing into the overwhelming bright sunlight, the little red pennant, a black and disappearing dot.

  “Well,” my father said. He looked at me, embarrassed, his uniform soaking wet.

  “My, my,” Midas said.

  “Colonel Jackson!” Sergeant Hardy yelled.

  My father cleared his throat. “Dr. Hillcrest and I have quite a history,” he started.

  “Colonel! The battle is beginning!”

  My father was hesitant to leave. He sighed. “Well, Teddy, I originally came over to tell you that this is not how the battle really took place. They’ve taken a number of liberties, a number of them. We’re not on the original grounds for example, and there’s no creek, no Bull Run. Actually, other than the uniforms, nothing about this battle resembles the original, as far as I can tell.”

  “Are you going to flank anyone?” I asked. “Surprise and movement?”

  My father looked confused. “I’m sorry? Oh, flanking. No, I, we . . .”

  “Colonel Jackson!”

  “Well,” my father said.

  Then a cannon fired and my father marched off to war.

  THE BATTLE STARTED slowly, in a confused, halting way. The bluecoated Union troops advanced and then retreated several times, making their way back and forth across the field. Every so often a cannon would roar and some men would fall to the ground, flatten down to the earth, then rise up again. From where we were sitting, I couldn’t see my father. Midas told me that he was positioned on a small ridge behind the other side of the field near the bleachers where Aunt Bess was sitting.

  “We can’t see anything here. Let’s get some better seats,” Midas said as he started the golf cart.

  We drove around the perimeter of battle, near a number of small but brightly decorated food and refreshment stands that I noticed for the first time.

  “Sushi,” Midas said as we drove past. “Yum.”

  We were deep into the Union lines, weaving between the tents, when we came upon Uncle Frank standing by a huge smoking grill. He was holding a large fork in his hand, passing out food to a growing line of Union soldiers.

  “This is your third filet, for chrissakes,” he was saying to a fat Union soldier when we drove up. “This is a battle, not a buffet! Why don’t you go try to kill someone?”

  “Uncle Frank!” Tommy yelled.

  Uncle Frank turned to look at us. “What the hell?” Nearby a cannon roared. Then he looked at Midas Johnson and took off his white apron and threw it on the ground. “Get out of that goddamn golf cart.”

  THE UNION WAS clearly winning. The gray line of soldiers was disappearing back into the woods that lined the rectangular field. Watching the battle reminded me of the board game Stratego, with one color overpowering the other. I still hadn’t seen my father.

  The fighting was intensifying though, so I didn’t mind. The ground shook with cannon explosions and the air was thick with smoke. We were much closer to the fighting now and I could see the grim look of the soldiers’ faces, hear their grunts and screams, the rattle of their guns and swords, as they charged and swarmed each other, throwing their bodies wildly about. Few, if any, were drinking wine.

  Uncle Frank drove the golf cart right into the heart of the Union headquarters camp, where we found Dr. Field peering intently at a map, holding his monocle with one hand and a chocolate-covered strawberry with the other. He was standing in front of a large green tent that had an American flag hanging crookedly over its entrance. Nearby, three wounded men lay on the ground, holding their stomachs in bloodless agony, moaning for water. One was trying very hard, it seemed, to cry.

  Dr. Henry Hunter rode up on a fat white horse with bloodshot eyes and a dirty brown mane. He dismounted slowly, his foot catching for a moment in the stirrup. When the horse took a few steps, he had to hop along with it until he was able to free himself. He was dressed similarly to Dr. Field except he was wearing snow-white gloves that matched his spotless white hat in which a red feather was stuck, growing it seemed.

  He approached Dr. Field, readjusted his feather, and saluted.

  “General McDowell,” he yelled. Nearby, a bugle sounded, piercing the air. Tommy covered his ears.

  “General McDowell,” Dr. Hunter yelled again, saluting once more.

  Dr. Field put the strawberry in his mouth and smartly returned the salute.

  “Mr. Custer,” he said, swallowing. “How goes the good fight?”

  “We’ve flanked them, sir, now we must finish them.”

  Dr. Field shook his historic head. At this news, other soldiers quickly emerged from the nearby Starbucks tent and gathered around him. They stood in silence around the map, waiting, blowing on hot cups of coffee and cappuccino. Dr. Field surveyed the group and filled his chest with air.

  “Is Colonel Jackson in place?” he asked.

  “Yes, I believe he is.”

  Dr. Field returned to the map, tracing some unseen line with his finger. The other generals drew tight, heads drawn to the map.

  “Hell,” Uncle Frank said under his breath. “I didn’t know they had a Starbucks here.”

  Dr. Field, with great practice and deliberation, took off his stiff hat and placed it over his heart. “May God have mercy on us all,” he said. Then he placed the hat back firmly onto his head and raised his fist in the air. “Commence the attack!” he yelled.

  “Oh, this must be the final scene,” Uncle Frank said, backing up the golf cart. “This could be good.”

  We drove around and past some more tents and onto the edge of the battlefield where a large number of Union soldiers were massing, standing side by side, checking their guns. A man on a horse was in front of them, waving a sword, his face fiercely red, his voice hard and bloody. Behind him, on the field, I saw another cannon roar and a group of Confederate soldiers who had been trying to advance, disperse, falling to the ground. The man’s horse kicked up in the air at the sound of the explosion.

  “Men, the rebels are beaten!” the man on the horse yelled. “That secess scum got itself an ass-whooping courtesy of the U.S. Army of the Potomac.”

  The group of soldiers, which was getting larger, cheered and hollered. One threw his hat in the air.

  “Let’s run those rebs back to their mammies,” the man on the horse yelled.

  The men cheered again.

  “There’s one more brigade, holding out back by that ridge, that needs to be reminded who they’re fighting against. Let’s teach those boys a lesson.”

  “Stonewall Jackson,” a soldier yelled.

  The men cheered again.

  “Yes. Mr. Jackson must be dealt with,” the man on the horse yelled.

  Uncle Frank started up the golf
cart. “Let’s go tip Theo off,” he whispered.

  “Hey, where are you going with that golf cart?” the man on the horse yelled as we drove onto the battlefield. His eyes were on fire, his face a beet. “You can’t take that on the field.”

  Uncle Frank violently turned the steering wheel and stepped on the gas pedal. “Go to hell,” he yelled.

  WE DROVE AS FAST as the golf cart could go, me, Tommy, and Uncle Frank in the front seat. All around us on the battlefield, men were shooting, screaming, and dying. The air smelled like pepper and dirt and I felt an electric current humming through me as Uncle Frank maneuvered around dead soldiers.

  I cupped my hand to Tommy’s ear. “This is all make-believe,” I shouted over the din, as much to calm myself as well as him. Tommy just clapped his hands and started screaming.

  When I looked over my shoulder, I saw the man on the horse riding toward us, followed by a long blue line of running Yankees.

  I closed my eyes and held on to Tommy. “Uncle Frank,” I yelled over the roar. “Hurry up! They’re coming.”

  Up ahead I could see a hill, a small rise on the flat field. The golf cart was bouncing now, jerking violently from side to side, and I found myself fighting to keep from falling out. Several Union soldiers yelled at us as we passed, some even pounding on the cart.

  When another cannon roared and a small group of rebels fell in front of us, Uncle Frank swerved sharply and the golf cart tipped over.

  Tommy and I were thrown free of the cart, falling nearby on the hard ground. When I looked up, I saw that the Yankees were upon us, then passing us, advancing toward the hill.

  “Are you all right?” Uncle Frank yelled.

  “I’m okay,” I said. I sat up and searched for my hat. Tommy stood up and pointed toward the hill.

  “Daddy!” he yelled and started running.

  “Tommy, don’t!” I got up and ran, after him, surrounded by grunting and screaming men. Up ahead, Tommy ran, laughing.

  As we approached the ridge, there was a terrible scream from behind it, the full-throated yell of rebel men. Then there was a dense blast of noise and smoke, followed by a repeated banging and thumping. The ground shook again, and everywhere Union troops fell in apparent agony. The man on the horse died gloriously, waving his sword over his head before slumping in his saddle.

  I stopped running and stood there, swirling, caught in the moment. Then I started yelling too, raising my fist in the air, jumping up and down like a rebel.

  Nearby, a soldier who had been shot stood up, clutching his invisible wound in his chest, invisible blood leaking through his fingers. “Over there,” he yelled, pointing his sword. “There’s Jackson, standing like a stone wall!” I looked toward the small ridge and that’s when I finally saw my father. He was slipping down the hill, crawling really, on his hands and knees, struggling to gain balance. For a moment, he disappeared entirely, stumbling backward and out of sight. Then there was another blast and I fell on the ground and covered my face. All around me, I felt soldiers rushing past and heard more rebel yells and Yankee cries. When I opened my eyes, I saw my father standing solidly in the midst of all the smoke and noise, standing in the midst of everything. He was waving his sword, dying and fighting men at his feet, a defiant look in his eye. Standing impossibly tall, like Stonewall Jackson.

  CHAPTER TEN

  IN THE LIMOUSINE, on the way back to the hotel, my father wouldn’t stop talking.

  “As you know, Teddy, that was not an authentic reenactment of Manassas. That was really more of a, well, representative interpretation of a Civil War battle. If anything, it resembled Pickett’s Charge at Gettysburg with, of course, the Union and rebel roles being reversed. Still though, I found it interesting. Yes. The uniforms and weapons were remarkable and the quality of some of the drilling exercises, particularly the marching, was excellent. And did you see the southern footwear? It was very realistic. The old boots and shoes. Did you notice how many of them fought barefoot?”

  “We must have missed that, Theo,” Uncle Frank said.

  We had been among the very last people to leave the Blue and Gray Banquet that followed the battle. We stayed late into the night, my father reluctant to go back to the hotel. Throughout the evening, he had walked proudly around from table to table, almost strutting, his uniform splattered with mud, his sword sheathed at his side. Wherever he went, Union and Confederate officers congratulated him on his heroic stand, a job well done.

  “The food was very good,” Aunt Bess said. She looked exhausted and was leaning her head against the window. In her lap, Tommy slept deeply. “They had sushi. I never had that before. A little salty, but it was good.”

  “I hope you found it interesting as well, Teddy.”

  “I liked it. I liked it a lot,” I said. I had enjoyed the battle and was happy that my father was happy. My plan of coming to Manassas, and of impressing my father with my devotion to the Civil War, had worked to perfection. I was extremely pleased, as well as tired.

  When we arrived back at the hotel, Maurice was waiting outside by the front door. As soon as we got out of the car, I could tell that something was wrong by the look on his face. He quickly took my father by the arm and pulled him aside.

  “Mr. Pappas, I think we have a problem,” he said. But before he could say much else, a television camera appeared by our side. Soon there were four or five people surrounding us. I immediately recognized one of them as the photographer in the lobby. When my father turned to face him, his camera started whirring and flashing again, as did others.

  “Mr. Pappas, is it true that you illegally adopted your son? That he’s not even your son?” one of the photographers yelled.

  We stood frozen as the cameras pressed upon us, a circle of flashing white and blinking red lights. I closed my eyes and saw spots and yellow circles, spinning and exploding. Then I heard Uncle Frank’s voice.

  “Get the hell out of here,” he yelled. When I opened my eyes, Maurice was trying to part the crowd with his long arms. “You all stand back now,” he said. “Just move back.”

  We made our way slowly through the lobby, the crowd following us close. All the way, with every step we took, people kept shouting questions. Once inside the elevator, my father slumped against the wall and held his chest. Uncle Frank kept pressing our floor’s button hard.

  “Damnit,” he said. “What the hell was that all about?”

  When we got back to our room, the phone was ringing. It was Mrs. Wilcott again, telling us that Bobby Lee had been on TV accusing my father of being a kidnapper.

  AUNT BESS lay perfectly still on her bed in the hotel room, her hands folded on her stomach, her eyes staring at the ceiling, unblinking. I stood over her silently, then poked her arm gently with my finger.

  “Don’t worry, honey,” she said. “I’m not dead.”

  After Mrs. Wilcott called and told us what Bobby Lee was saying, the phone started ringing in all of our rooms. Some of the calls were from my father’s lawyer, Quinn, but most were from television stations back in Chicago asking my father for a statement. “I’ll give them a goddamn statement,” Uncle Frank said, but my father refused to comment.

  “How do they know where we are?” Uncle Frank yelled. My father remained silent throughout the confusion, however, shrinking into his now baggy and shapeless uniform, a melting Stonewall Jackson.

  Before my father made me go into Aunt Bess’s room, Uncle Frank asked him about my adoption.

  “This was done by the books, right? You got papers, right? The right procedures were followed, right?”

  “Yes, of course,” my father said. “I believe so.”

  “You believe so?” Uncle Frank said. That’s when they made me go into Aunt Bess’s room.

  “Oh, honey, I wish I knew who to pray to,” she said.

  I sat down on her bed, watched her watch the ceiling.

  “Do you say your prayers, honey? Every night?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Tha
t’s good. I used to do that too, but I don’t now. God doesn’t listen to old people. He figures if we made it this far, we’re on our own. I don’t pray.”

  “I don’t always either,” I admitted.

  She sighed. “I should have gotten married.”

  “Who would you marry?” I asked. The idea of Aunt Bess being married intrigued me.

  “I don’t know. Someone. Anyone. Spiro the Chicken Man.”

  “Who?”

  “Spiro the Chicken Man. He had a meat store across the street from the bakery on the west side. He sold meat and used to give us chicken necks for soup. Before I moved to Milwaukee and got fat.”

  “You’re not fat,” I lied.

  “I’m enormous, honey. But Spiro liked me enough. If I had married him, I would have had my own children. My own grandchildren. But I didn’t like Spiro. I could tell his soul was not right. And he always smelled so odd,” she said. “Chicken blood.”

  “Did you know Bobby Lee was my father?” I asked.

  “Yes, of course I did. You were two years old when you came to live with your father. With Theo.”

  “Did you know Bobby Lee?”

  “No. I had heard about him though. But I didn’t know him. No. I knew he lived in the South. That’s all I knew about him.”

  “Why is he saying that I was kidnapped?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a misunderstanding. Everything will be all right though, you’ll see.”

  “Do you think I’ll have to go live with him?”

  “No, of course not. He just wants some of your father’s money.”

  “Is he going to give it to him?”

  “I don’t know, honey. I don’t know.”

  I sat there and watched Aunt Bess breathe, her large chest swelling and filling itself before easing gently downward. From the other room I could hear Uncle Frank and my father talking. I was hoping they were deciding to give Bobby Lee as much money as he wanted so I could stay in Wilton.

  “Money complicates things,” Aunt Bess said. “It should make things easier, but it doesn’t. It’s like a weight that you have to keep pulling around with you. Poor Theo. He’s not too good with weight.”