The Rich Part of Life

by Jim Kokoris

  I looked out the window and felt an emptiness I had not felt since the day my mother died, a terrible hollow feeling, a realization of being alone. I knew that if Aunt Bess wasn’t there watching me, the emptiness might overwhelm me and blow me to bits.

  “Don’t cry, honey,” she said.

  “I’m not.” I quickly wiped my face.

  “It’s okay if you do, though. Crying is good sometimes. It lets things out.”

  “I don’t want to. I’m not.” As we sat there, I thought about things, about Bobby Lee, my mother, my father, about who I was and who I might have to be. I held on to the edge of the bed as all these thoughts ran through me. Mostly though, I thought about my father not being my father.

  I sniffed and wiped my nose with the back of my uniform sleeve. “Have you had any more dreams?” I asked.

  “What? Oh, dreams. I’ve had a few.”

  “What were they about?”

  “Trees blowing in the wind. I think that means that things are changing. Wind always brings changes. I think that’s what it means.” Then she slowly sat up and looked at me. “But I think the changes will be good. I think things will change and everything will be all right. You’ll see,” she said, reaching for me. “You’ll see.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, when we got back to the airport in Chicago we saw a picture of my father on the front page of the newspaper, standing in front of the hotel in his Stonewall Jackson uniform. He looked hopelessly confused, his mouth open, his eyebrows halfway up his forehead. Directly underneath the picture, there was a story with the headline, LOTTERY WINNER ACCUSED OF CHILD ABDUCTION.

  “Jesus Christ,” Uncle Frank said.

  Aunt Bess bought the paper from the newsstand and studied it. “Oh my God, Theo,” she said. “Your zipper is down.”

  While we were waiting for our luggage at the baggage claim area, a tall man approached us and smiled. “Professor Pappas? My name is Keith Frandsen. May I ask you a few questions?”

  “Get the hell out of here you son-of-a-bitch. Leave us alone. You people are vultures,” Uncle Frank said. “You goddamn reporters are vultures.”

  Keith Frandsen looked down at my uncle and smiled briefly. He was very tall and had sharp blue eyes that I was sure had the power to burn holes through things.

  “I’m sorry for this inconvenience, sir, but I’m just doing my job.”

  “Just doing your job,” Uncle Frank sputtered. “You people are heartless vampires.”

  “He’s a vampire!” Tommy yelled.

  “Be still now,” Maurice said, taking Tommy’s hand. He was looking at Keith Frandsen very seriously.

  “I’m not a vampire, little buddy,” the man said, smiling down at Tommy. “And I’m not a reporter either.” He then took out a little black wallet and flipped it open to reveal a photo of himself and a badge.

  “I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Mr. Pappas. And I need to ask you a few questions It you could just step this way we can make this brief.”

  My father just stared at the FBI man, motionless and disbelieving. Fie looked stricken.

  Uncle Frank took my father gently by the elbow. “We’re coming,” he told Keith Frandsen. “We’re coming.”

  MY FATHER WAS standing in the middle of my bedroom looking like he was about to break into a thousand pieces. Outside, I could hear Tommy laughing and yelling as he played soccer with Maurice on the front lawn, his voice a foreign sound, high and happy, without weight.

  “I met your mother while I was attending a conference in Memphis,” my father said, clearing his throat. “I was giving a paper on Bedford Forrest. He was a Confederate calvaryman and he was from Memphis. But that’s not important,” he said quickly. He put his hands behind his back and began pacing.

  “After one of the sessions, we all went out for a drink. Some of the other professors and I, we went out which is something I never did, or do. But it was my birthday, you see, and, well, they insisted, especially some of the younger professors, and we ended up at a nightclub where I met your mother. The others made her dance for me. I should say that your mother and I met and danced together.”

  Sitting up in my bed, I stared at my father. I couldn’t imagine him dancing, even on his birthday.

  “Well, you see, one thing led to another and we struck up a conversation and consequently I went back there every night I was in Memphis—I was there for a week—and I talked to your mother and we became friends. I was flattered that someone as attractive and young as your mother would have any interest in someone like, well, me, you see.”

  He kept walking around the room, opening and closing his hands, like he did that night when he first told me about Bobby Lee.

  “Your mother told me about herself. She told me that she had a small child, that was you of course, Teddy, yes. And she told me that she had been, or was, in a bad relationship with a man. An abusive relationship. That person was Bobby Lee, you see. Well, to make a long story short, actually, it’s not that long of a story really, when I went back to Chicago, to Wilton, she and you came with me. Shortly after, we were married.”

  “Then why does Bobby Lee say you kidnapped me?”

  He paused and looked at the floor. It was late afternoon and the fall sunlight was filling my room at low angles. I watched my father’s shadow move against the wall as he started walking again.

  “Well, you see,” he said. “You see, your mother failed to tell me that she was married to Bobby Lee, Mr. Anderson, at the time. And that they were living together, as husband and wife. Apparently, according to him at least, he came home one day and she and you were gone and according to him, once again, he never knew what happened to you. Until now. And now he says he wants you back. He’s also claiming that your mother and he never were actually divorced. Legally divorced. You see, it’s all complicated. Though I’m sure he’s wrong on that last point.”

  “Does he want some of our money?”

  My father stopped walking and turned to face me. “Yes. Yes, he does. He did, I should say.”

  “Why don’t you just give it to him?”

  “Well, I initially intended to. That was my inclination. If we thought he would go away forever, we would have agreed to that. But the lawyers believe that he would never really leave us alone until we resolved the matter, legally. We also thought that somehow it might someday be construed as an admission of some wrongdoing on our part. The lawyers think that it would look like we were well, buying you, Teddy. We have a very good case. We have very good lawyers. So we decided to settle this once and for all.”

  Outside I could hear Tommy yelling, “Kick it here, Moe Man, kick it here, dude man,” and laughing again.

  “Teddy, I have something else I have to tell you now too. This may come out in the papers, in the course of things, so I must tell you now.” He cleared his throat and I hung on to the side of my bed, bracing for yet another storm.

  “When your mother died, she was in the process of seeking a divorce from me. We had had problems, you see, difficulties, and she was . . .” He stopped here and shook his head as if trying to rid himself of something. ”She hadn’t gotten very far, the process wasn’t very far along I should say.” He straightened up a bit. “This could complicate things further.” He let out a deep breath. “So,” he said.

  “Why did she want to get a divorce?” I asked. My father’s announcement hadn’t surprised me. In some unspoken way, I knew my mother hadn’t loved my father.

  “There was the age difference, of course,” he said. “I think we entered into the marriage for different reasons. Your mother was escaping an old life and I, well, I . . .” he stopped and shook his head again. “I guess we weren’t very compatible. I guess I’m not a very compatible person.” His smile looked like pain.

  My head began to hurt, so I lay down on the bed and looked across the room at my father. The sunlight was almost gone now and he seemed to be vanishing. I watched him pace the room, walking in and out of shadows, then watched as he walke
d over to my bed and stopped. For a moment, I thought he tried to reach out for me, his hands slow and uncertain, but I wasn’t sure because the sun was gone and the room was without light and my eyes were half-closed.

  “Teddy?” he asked. “Teddy, do you want to stay here with me, with us?”

  I sat back up. I couldn’t believe he had asked me that question.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes.”

  He straightened up again, his chin lifting. “Good,” he actually said, as if he had been uncertain of the answer. “Good.” Then he cleared his throat. “I have some things to do then,” he said. “Things to do.”

  I DIDN’T GO to school the next day. At breakfast, I made the mistake of mentioning my headache so Aunt Bess insisted I stay home and rest while she furiously worked on a variety of cures, ranging from chicken broth to blueberry pie.

  I didn’t eat anything though. I just lay in bed and drew, aimless, incomplete pictures of clouds and planets. Most of the time I thought about Bobby Lee and considered what it would be like to live with him in Memphis, Tennessee, and be a banjo-playing hillbilly. On numerous occasions, I had overheard Uncle Frank describe my possible life using this term and the convincing, matter-of-fact way he referred to banjo-playing made me wonder if someone would actually take the time to teach me the instrument or if the skill would inherently come to me once I moved to Tennessee.

  When Aunt Bess came in my room around lunchtime, I pretended I was asleep.

  “Are you asleep?” she whispered. After she felt my forehead, I peered out from under my eyelids and watched her put a sandwich and a piece of pie down on the desk and leave. Then I really did fall asleep. When I woke up, Sylvanius was sitting at my desk alternately eating the sandwich and pie.

  “Oh, I am sorry,” he said. “I presumed you weren’t interested in this food. So I took the liberty.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, sitting up. I was happy to see Sylvanius. Despite a vague fear of him and his shoes, I found him interesting.

  “Your aunt asked that I look in on you,” he said. He pretended to look worried. “Flow are you feeling?”

  “Okay,” I said. I was still tired. My nap had not refreshed me and my head felt soggy and full of sand.

  He looked at me and swallowed a burp.

  “Well,” he said, wiping his mouth with the napkin, “is there anything I can get for you? Anything you need? Some type of medication? Your aunt has quite a selection.”

  “No.”

  “Well, I want to say that I feel for what you are going through. I truly do.” He tried to keep from burping again, but couldn’t. “I too had a traumatic childhood. A difficult childhood.”

  “What happened?”

  He waved his hand and then continued to eat the pie. “Dear God, I don’t know where to start. My parents were very insensitive, distant people and my sister was also very remote, almost a stepsister really. It was unsettling to say the least. I left home as soon as I could. I fled.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Twenty-seven. I went to New York and got a job in a hotel as a bellboy. Bellman, I should say. Still it sustained me and helped shape me. Until the theater rescued me.”

  ”Have you ever been to Tennessee?” I asked.

  “Tennessee. Tennessee,” he repeated, his mouth full of pie. “The state? Yes, I think I have. I’ve been most places.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “What? Oh. I don’t recall much. I remember that it had hills, or mountains in parts of it. And a river.” He stopped eating and put his fork down, his eyes suddenly somewhere else. “Yes, yes, I remember a river outside my hotel room, or near my hotel. It must have been the . . .”

  “The Mississippi River,” I said.

  He looked at me and nodded his head. “Yes, of course, that river. It was brown, I remember. Very dirty looking. The whole town was dirty. Memphis, I was in Memphis for a production. That’s right.”

  Pleased with his ability to recall Memphis, he sighed and ate more pie. Some crumbs fell on the floor, but he didn’t seem to notice or care.

  “What were the people like there?” I asked.

  “The people? Oh, people are people. One thing I’ve learned is that everyone is more or less the same regardless of your location.”

  “Did you see a lot of hillbillies down there?”

  “Hillbillies? Yes, some. From a distance, I believe I made out a few lurking by the river and alleys. Most of my knowledge is from two Huckleberry Finn traveling tours I did, however.”

  “What are hillbillies like?”

  “What are hillbillies like?” Sylvanius repeated while he finished chewing. “Well, they hunt quite frequently, it seems. And they have quite a desire for catfish, but I may be getting that from your uncle. Well, anyway, they smoke little corncob pipes and what teeth they have are in very poor condition, if they have any at all. According to the adaptation of the play I was in, teeth seem to be in very short supply, a commodity.” He took a sip from my glass of 7-Up. “They are not particularly ambitious people, I suppose.”

  “Why are they called hillbillies?”

  Sylvanius crossed his legs, his monster shoes on full display. “What? Oh. Well, I suppose because they live in the hills.”

  “Why are they called billies then?”

  Sylvanius chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “I’m not really sure,” he said. “That’s an interesting question. I understand the hill part, but I can only imagine how they came up with billy. It might possibly be something biblical, some reference to Satan perhaps. I haven’t read the Bible in years.”

  I was about to ask another question about Tennessee and hillbillies when Sylvanius’s lizard eyes blazed as if just realizing something. “Come now, I know why you are asking about hill people, young man. We’ll have none of that. Your father and his legal team are quite brilliant, to say nothing of the depth of your father’s resources. I assure you that this whole situation will soon vanish like a bad dream and that you will once again return to your idyllic and rich young life.” Sylvanius pointed a long, bony finger at me. “I will not be party to any more questions on that topic. Your uncle has reprimanded me enough about saying and doing the wrong thing lately.”

  I watched him eat the rest of my sandwich, then carefully dab at the small corners of his mouth with a napkin. I wanted to ask him about his shoes, I was sure there was some history attached to them, but hesitated, unsure if it was too personal of a question. Instead I changed the subject to a more acceptable topic. “Were some men trying to kill you and my uncle?”

  He stopped dabbing at his mouth.

  “My,” he said. “You do know things.” He picked up a remaining piece of crust, and chewed on it. “No. I don’t think they were going to actually do away with us. I don’t doubt that they would have done some sort of bodily harm to us though, possibly more so to your uncle, who seemed to have quite an irritating effect on them. More than once they mentioned something about damaging our knees and legs. As for killing us, I don’t think so. But then again,” he sighed, “I have a tendency to look for the good in people. Well,” he said standing up slowly. “I will take leave of you. Emily is expecting me next door for tea. Why don’t you try to get some more rest? Sleep is the boon we all crave. And when you do come down, please make sure to bring the plate and glass down with you to the kitchen. Your aunt is very particular about certain things.”

  After Sylvanius left, I lay back on my bed and resumed contemplating life as a hillbilly. Images of hunting and fishing in my bare feet, of smoking a corncob pipe, and sharing a decrepit toothbrush with Bobby Lee raced through my mind. I envisioned my goodbyes to Charlie and my classmates to be full of tears, promises to write and in the case of Miss Grace, passionate kisses. I could not begin to envision my goodbyes to my family.

  Lying in bed, I tried to remember my mother’s stories about Tennessee. I remembered what she said about everyone having three names and I wondered what extra name Bobby Lee would give me: T
eddy Lee Pappas. Teddy Boy Pappas. Teddy Lee Boy Pappas, Jr. Then I realized that my last name might not even be Pappas anymore. That’s when my stomach started to hurt again, so I closed my eyes and eventually fell back to sleep.

  WHEN I WOKE UP it was dark outside and Uncle Frank was sitting where Sylvanius had been. He was drinking the last of my 7-Up and reading a newspaper.

  “Oh, you’re up,” he said. “Are you okay? Your father and aunt are worried about you. You’ve been sleeping a lot, I mean.”

  I nodded my head and sat up in bed.

  He folded the newspaper and put it on my desk. “Your aunt has some food downstairs. For you to eat. She wants you to eat the food.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Well, you have to eat something. Your aunt is going to call an ambulance if you don’t eat something. She’ll try to feed you one of her pies intravenously.”

  I didn’t say anything. I just looked at him. My head still hurt.

  “Hell, I’m not hungry either,” he said after some time.

  “Where’s my father?” I asked.

  “He’s meeting with some of his lawyers downstairs. He sent me up to check on you. Do you want anything? Some 7-Up?” He looked over at the empty glass. “I drank yours. It was just sitting here. That was rude of me. I shouldn’t have drunk your 7-Up. It was warm too.”

  “Is Bobby Lee downstairs too?”

  “What? No. He’s nowhere near here.”

  “Am I going to have to go live with him?”

  “No. Absolutely not. I’ll go live with him before that happens.”

  “You will?”

  Uncle Frank smiled. “I would do it if it meant that guy would leave us all alone. Son of a bitch didn’t remember he had a son for nine years. Then all of a sudden he wants to be goddamn dad of the year. Piece of shit.” Then he said, “Don’t tell your father I talk like this around you. He’s got enough goddamn problems.”

  “What did that FBI man want? Was he going to arrest my father?”