by Jim Kokoris
Uncle Frank crossed his legs. The dim light from the desk lamp threw a shadow that covered half his face and made him look mysterious, and otherworldly “No one’s going to arrest your dad,” he said. “The FBI agent just had to tell us a few things. Your father should have cleared our little trip-back-in-time to Washington with the judge. But everything’s okay. Don’t worry about any of it. We have everything covered. This hick is going to go away soon and everything will be fine.”
“How come you’re not my father’s lawyer?”
“Well, I offered to help, but your father declined my services. Anyway, I haven’t practiced law in twenty years.”
“Did you know Bobby Lee was my father?”
“What? Yes, I did know that.”
I didn’t say anything.
Uncle Frank took a deep breath. “Listen. You can’t let this get to you.” He pulled his chair close to my bed and squinted his eyes, thinking hard. Then he looked over his shoulder as if he didn’t want anyone to hear what he had to say. “I’m not very good at giving advice, especially to kids, but you’re not a normal kid. You’re, well, like a miniature adult. Hell, I can tell that. You’re introspective. Your drawing and everything. Your grades. You don’t have many friends. You’re quiet all the time. You know what’s going on so I’m going to level with you. Some frank talk from Uncle Frank.” He pulled his chair closer, so close that I could see his nose hairs again. “Things are kind of a mess right now and until we clean this mess up, my advice to you is insulate yourself. You know what that means?”
I shook my head.
“It means kind of cover yourself up, protect yourself. You got a good imagination, so pretend that you have an invisible blanket and cover yourself with it, just cover yourself up and no one can hurt you. Think of it like a magic blanket. When you have it on, you can’t get hurt.” He sat back in his chair, spent. “With that, I just summed up about forty years of very expensive therapy.”
“What’s therapy?” I asked.
“It’s like a doctor’s office except for your mind. You go somewhere, tell them your problems and they listen and then they tell you how to fix your problems. It’s like going to a mechanic if you were a car.”
“Do you have a lot of problems?”
He shrugged. “Only one—my life.” He leaned farther back in the chair and put his hands behind his head. “You know, not being a Pappas by blood has certain advantages. Maybe you won’t have the melancholy and sense of despair that every Pappas greets the new day with.”
“What?” I didn’t understand what he was talking about.
Uncle Frank shook his head. “Never mind. Let’s just say that maybe you’ll escape certain things that come with being a Pappas. By nature, Greeks are depressed people. We worry about everything. We’re not all Zorba.”
I propped myself up against my pillows and considered Uncle Frank’s comments. I understood that he was trying to make me feel better, but his talk of melancholy, despair, therapy, and imaginary blankets was falling short.
“Were some men trying to kill you and Sylvanius because you owed them money?” I asked.
He didn’t seem surprised by my question. He just nodded his head. “I owed some people some money. I don’t know if they would have killed us though. They weren’t quite those kind of people.”
“Would they have broken your knees?”
“Well, they weren’t too specific on what bones they were going to crush. Let’s just say that something definitely was going to get broken and I don’t think it was going to be my heart. But thanks to your father, I don’t have to worry about that anymore.”
“Did he pay them the money you owed them?”
“He did indeed,” he said. He crossed his legs and started picking some lint off of his stockings. “Your father is a generous man.”
“Are you going to make any more movies?”
“Nooooo. I’m finished out there. Kaput. El fin. I’m dedicating myself to the book now.”
“About the human condition?”
“Yes,” Uncle Frank said. “About the human condition.”
“What about your talk show? The one you were going to do on TV?”
Uncle Frank waved his hand, then wistfully shook his head. “I don’t think America is ready for that type of, well, that type of forum yet. I think I’ll have to flesh a few things out, tweak the concept. Right now, I got that on the back burner. In the meantime I’m going to focus on my writing. I’ve never written before, it’s harder than you think, turning thoughts to words. Words that make sense, I mean. That’s key.”
He fell quiet again. Outside, I heard a police siren grow close, then drift away.
“Do you know who the Chicken Man was?” I asked.
“What?”
“Spiro, the Chicken Man. Aunt Bess wanted to marry him.”
“Oh. Jesus, that old guy. I heard he’s still alive. He stunk. No matter how many baths he took, he had this odor about him. The whole neighborhood knew about it, I didn’t hold it against him though. He was a nice man. He married the Mole Lady. Maria. We all went to the same church. Hell, he was all right. She had all these moles. I don’t know what the hell their kids look like though. The guy looked like a chicken.”
“How long is Sylvanius going to live with us?” I asked.
At the mention of Sylvanius’s name, Uncle Frank grimaced, like he had just accidentally stepped in Stavros’s kitty litter. “Your aunt likes him. I don’t know why, but she wants him around.”
“It’s because he’s famous, probably,” I said.
Uncle Frank scowled. “He’s not famous. He’s a trivia question. He’s not going to stay here for long though. Sooner or later, your aunt is going to get tired of him. Right now though, he seems to make her happy and Aunt Bess should be happy. It might make her less miserable.”
He stood up and stretched his arms and then turned his neck to (me side and then the other. “I’m stiff,” he said. “I need some exercise. I need to do something. Anything.” I thought he might leave, but he sat back down.
“What was my father like when he was young?” I asked. I didn’t want him to leave. I was tired of being alone.
“Your father. Well, he was smart. Very smart. And quiet. I shared a room with him and a week would go by without him saying anything to me. I thought it was because he didn’t like me. It was years before I realized that I was right.”
“My father likes you.”
Uncle Frank didn’t say anything to that. He just shook his head. “Your father was quiet and smart. Everyone thought he’d go to Harvard, which he did. The rest is history, literally, in his case.”
I considered Uncle Frank’s assessment of my father.
“He is pretty quiet,” I said.
“Yeah, but don’t be fooled by it. Down deep he’s a tough old Greek. He’s tougher then he looks. Old Hillbilly Boy won’t know what hit him when this is over. Your dad is like one of his Civil War generals downstairs right now, going over the battle plans.”
“Like Stonewall Jackson?”
Uncle Frank laughed, a loud, unexpected bark. “Yeah, like Stonewall Jackson.” Then he laughed again. “Stonewall Pappas,” he said. “He’s goddamn Stonewall Pappas.”
THE NEXT FEW WEEKS were odd around our house, things sliding off-balance and in and out of place. My father’s behavior, which I monitored closely for clues, was erratic, swinging from surprisingly abrupt—I heard him once raise his voice on the phone to one of his lawyers—to predictably passive. A number of times I walked by his study and saw him staring numbly out the window, a lost and left behind look on his face and a pile of papers in his lap. Despite these lapses however, I sensed an undercurrent of urgency coming from him, an unfamiliar single-mindedness, and I did my best not to disturb him.
I knew that my fate was quietly being decided during the days while I was at school and at nights while I slept. I knew that somewhere meetings were taking place, arguments being won and lost. I was kept comp
letely in the dark on the specifics, though the strained look on my father’s face told me that a battle was being waged nearby and that the fighting was fierce. I did not ask questions, or seek reassurances. I just waited, knowing that sooner or later, things would find me.
“Now, how are you today, Mr. Teddy Pappas?” Maurice asked as he walked me to school. It was a few days before Halloween and most of the trees were bare now, giving Wilton a lonely, remote planet look. Tommy didn’t have kindergarten that day so it was just Maurice and I walking over and around the leaf piles when we crossed streets.
“I’m okay,” I said.
“Just okay?” he asked.
I looked over at Maurice. Ever since Manassas, lie had made a serious effort to talk during our walks to and from school, initiating conversation on a wide range of topics, from the weather to soccer. I knew it was his way of showing concern and sympathy over Bobby Lee and I appreciated his effort though, like most things now, it worried me
“I’m pretty good,” I said, though without much conviction. The night before, I had dreamt of my mother and of the colliding comets and when I woke up, my pillow had been wet, leaving me with that stranded, empty feeling again.
Maurice looked up at the low clouds that were hanging close, just inches it seemed, above our heads. “Gloomy day,” he said. “The TV says it might rain. Hope it’s dry for trick-or-treating though. Wouldn’t want all those costumes to get wet.” He paused for a moment. “What are you and your brother going as? What are you wearing?”
“Aunt Bess is buying our costumes,” I said. I had given no thought to Halloween, a holiday that used to consume me.
“Well, I’m sure she’ll buy the right costume. I know your brother wants to go as one of those Nintendo characters. You know, when I was a young boy, I once went as Wilt Chamberlain, the basketball player. I had an old Lakers’ jersey and carried a basketball around with me. Wasn’t much of a costume really, I just loved Wilt the Stilt though. Liked the way he carried himself. He was a confident man.”
“Do you think I’ll have to go live with Bobby Lee?” I suddenly asked.
Maurice’s head rose up slightly when I asked that question and I thought I heard him exhale. “No,” he said after a moment. He looked straight ahead and kept walking. “No, I think your father has things pretty much under control in that regard. In a little while, things will be back to the way they were. Things will work out.”
We crossed another street. Up ahead, I could see St. Pius come into view, the gray day a perfect backdrop for its brooding shape.
“Are you scared?” Maurice asked.
I waited a few moments before admitting that I was. “Yes,” I said. “A little. I don’t want to go live with Bobby Lee.”
“Your father’s doing everything he can right now. From what I hear, things are going well. It’s just a matter of time.”
Then I said something that I had been thinking, something that had been waiting and breathing just beneath the surface of my thoughts. “I don’t know why he wants to keep me,” I said. “I’m not his son. And my mom was going to divorce him. She didn’t want to stay married to him.”
Maurice looked down at me sharply. “Now where did you hear that?”
“My father told me.”
Maurice looked away from me, down the street. “Your father cares for you,” he said.
I didn’t say anything, I didn’t know if I believed him, didn’t know what I believed. But Maurice’s words and the soft way he said them opened something inside me and made me feel like crying.
“Things will be fine. Your father’s a smart man. You gotta have faith now.” Maurice put his arm around me and that’s when I finally did start to cry. Maurice stopped walking and knelt down and hugged me, his sweet tobacco smell surrounding and holding me close. “You just cry now,” he whispered. “You just cry.”
AS SOON AS WE got in line on the playground, Johnny Cezzaro told me that we should have Bobby Lee killed.
“Two shots,” he said, pointing his finger first behind his head, then on the side of it. “Here, then here. You gotta do it right. You don’t want to leave him paralyzed. He might still be able to testify. Then you’d really be screwed. Then you’d have to kill the shooter who messed up because he would know too much.”
I nodded my head. “That would be bad,” I said. I kept my eyes trained on the school doors, once again praying they would miraculously open and deliver me from Johnny. I was fresh from crying with Maurice and wanted to be alone at my desk and stare at Miss Grace for awhile.
“They could kill him and then leave him in the trunk of a car at the airport. That’s where most bodies are dumped now. Airports. My dad says they don’t use rivers anymore. You can’t drag an airport parking lot.”
“I don’t think we’re going to have him killed,” I finally said.
“You should, man. He’s white trash. My dad said he just wants your money. That if you weren’t rich, he wouldn’t even want you. Hey,” Johnny said, turning. “Here comes Wilcott.”
I turned around and saw Benjamin walking in my direction, his hands in his pockets, concealed weapons. Despite his general rough appearance—he currently was sporting a large scab on the end of his nose, allegedly the result of another fight—he didn’t scare me much anymore. Ever since Tommy started playing on the junior soccer team that Benjamin helped coach, his attitude toward me had softened. Rather than threats and stares, he now treated me with a benign indifference that bordered at times on the friendly. I concluded it was because he wouldn’t mind having Tommy as a little brother. I also concluded it had something to do with the Cezzaro brothers’ threats to kill him if he so much as looked at me the wrong way. For this protection, I was to pay Johnny $100,000 a year, Big Tony getting half.
“Hey,” Benjamin said as he walked up to me.
Johnny stepped between us. “What do you want, Benji?” he said, smirking. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Big Tony detach himself from a group of older boys and slowly begin to drift over in our direction.
“Hi, Benjamin,” I said. I tried to seem oblivious to the fact that Big Tony was rapidly approaching.
“I think that guy’s a real creep,” Benjamin said. “That guy who says he’s your father. He’s not trying to say he’s Tommy’s father too, is he?”
“No,” I said. “Just me.”
“That’s what my mom and I figured. He’s shit, man.”
I nodded my head. “Yes,” I said, “he is.”
“We’re going to make him go away,” Johnny said matter-of- factly. “Which is something maybe you should do.”
“I’m just talking to him,” Benjamin said, but then Miss Polk opened the doors and the line began to move forward.
While I was at my locker, Mrs. Plank summoned me to her office. Over the past few days, she had been issuing grave Catholic looks, peering out over her glasses at me in the hallways and in the lunchroom. I knew an audience in her office, the Dust Chamber, was only a matter of time.
Sitting in my now customary spot in the wooden chair in front of her desk, waiting for her to, once again, get off the phone, I allowed myself to study the Earless Jesus. He looked more worried than usual, his smile tinged with apprehension and concern. His eyebrows were arched up higher than I remembered and his Cheerio eyes had a sad and consoling look in them that I now found comforting.
“Well, Teddy,” she said when she got off the phone. “How are you holding up?”
“Okay,” I said. I looked down at the floor. Mrs. Plank looked particularly ancient this morning, her wrinkles rising up like waves on her face, her mouth a small pinched hole. On the other side of her dark office, tumble-weed stirred.
“Well, I know you’ve been through so much. It must be very difficult.”
I didn’t say anything. I started to feel like I might have to go to the bathroom.
“Teddy, look up, please. It’s not polite to stare at the ground. Don’t slouch.” I looked up at Mrs. Plank. “I just want
you to know that if things get too difficult, you know where you can turn,” she said. “Don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said automatically. “Jesus.”
Mrs. Plank looked surprised and I thought she started to say “Who?” but instead said, “Oh, yes. You can turn to us too, though. Miss Polk or me. Or Miss Grace. And Jesus too, of course.”
“Okay,” I said. I focused my gaze on a small area between her chin and mouth that didn’t look too wrinkled.
“Have you received any other communication from your friend, that person from Gabon? Your pen pal?”
“Ergu?”
“Yes, him.”
“No.” I hadn’t thought much about Ergu over the past few weeks. Between Manassas and Bobby Lee, I had more or less forgotten about him.
“I want you to know that we forwarded that letter you received to the proper authorities. They’ve asked that you keep us informed if he tries to contact you again. He shouldn’t have been asking you for money. We don’t believe a child wrote that letter.”
“You don’t? Who wrote it then?”
“Obviously an adult.”
“Oh,” I said. “Ergu isn’t a boy?”
Mrs. Plank’s mouth twitched once and she took her glasses off, then rubbed the bridge of her nose. “The person who wrote that letter wasn’t a child, Teddy. He or she was someone who was trying to take advantage of you and your family. The State Department believes it was someone who works in the American Embassy in Gabon. We have received, or intercepted really, a number of other letters from him. The last one was somewhat threatening.”
I nodded my head. The news that Ergu wasn’t Ergu, that he didn’t live in a mud hut and eat bark, that he wasn’t a good Christian praying for a short flood season, didn’t surprise me. Nothing was like it seemed anymore. I was now beginning to see things clearly, understand that people were always going to want things from me and my father. The Ergu Adult, Mrs. Wilcott, Bobby Lee, the Cezzaro brothers, even Mrs. Plank and St. Pius. They all wanted something. I sat back in the wooden chair wondering if this was what Uncle Frank meant when he talked about the human condition, everyone wanting something.
