The Rich Part of Life

by Jim Kokoris

  “And hello to you, buddy. I already know who you are,” he said, turning to face me. I nodded. His eyes sparkled like his building and I knew that he had a deep laugh.

  “Great artwork, huh,” he said, motioning toward the pictures of the sheep and cows. “They were here when I moved in.” He rolled his eyes a bit. “I tried to get the former tenant as a patient, but he was seeing someone else.” He turned and looked over at Uncle Frank. “And you are?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” my father said. “This is my brother, Frank Pappas. He drove us down.” Uncle Frank pointed his jaw at Dr. Spiral as he shook his hand.

  “Oh, that’s right. Nice to meet you, Frank. I loved The French Maid Murders. Got a big kick out of it,” Dr. Hugh Spiral said.

  Uncle Frank’s eyes narrowed with surprise and suspicion. He looked over at my father, then back at Dr. Spiral. “Is that some kind of joke?” he asked.

  “No, I liked it. I really did. Camp horror. I like Ed Wood too.”

  Uncle Frank processed this information in silence mulling. Finally he said, “Camp horror, hey? Camp horror. Well, that was one of the effects I was going for. I was going to make French Maids Two, but then I thought, hey, let’s be realistic, how many French maids are there?”

  Dr. Spiral laughed. “Good point,” he said. Then he said, “Unless you two want to stay in this cell and look at barnyard animals, there’s a nice little restaurant on the fortieth floor with a good view. Why don’t you go grab a cup?”

  My father hesitated but Uncle Frank asked, “Do you think they have cappuccino?”

  When Dr. Spiral said, “I know they do,” they left.

  Dr. Spiral led me to a bright office in the corner that had a large, wide window overlooking Lake Michigan. I sat on the couch against the wall and watched fog drift over the lake, toward us. On the wall next to the window was a framed picture of four men in black suits, sitting on some steps.

  “The Beatles,” Dr. Spiral said, sitting down on the other end of the couch. “I saw them at Shea Stadium when I was twelve years old. I won a radio contest and my sister and I went to the concert and got to meet Ringo afterwards.” He pointed his finger at the picture. “He signed it on the bottom, over there, in the corner. I know it’s just Ringo, but it was still very, very cool.”

  I nodded my head and looked at the picture. My mother had liked the Beatles too and I decided to tell him this. I thought such information, being the son of a Beatles fan, might cast a favorable light on me. When I tried to speak though, I found my mouth pinned shut, unable to open.

  Dr. Spiral seemed to know this. He walked over to a small refrigerator by his desk and took out two Cokes and handed me one without saying anything. Then he asked me if I had a dog.

  I shook my head.

  “Ah, let me tell you about Ralph then,” he said.

  For the next half hour, Dr. Spiral told me funny stories about Ralph, his eight-year-old basset hound. I listened at first with great apprehension, convinced the story contained some hidden message related to my situation. I thought the dog might represent Bobby Lee or my father. But after awhile, my apprehension melted and I found myself laughing at Dr. Spiral’s stories about Ralph.

  Soon and without me noticing exactly when and how, we were talking about other things: my mother, father, Tommy. We talked for a long time, Dr. Spiral’s eyes soaking everything in like soft sponges. I told him about my mother’s accident, about Manassas, about Tommy starting the fire at St. Pius, things that made me feel like I led a full and interesting life.

  Then I told him that I didn’t want to live with Bobby Lee. I said this quietly but firmly while looking out the window at a distant point out on the gray lake. He didn’t seem surprised by my declaration, instead he just said, “So you want to stay put.”

  “I want to stay at home,” I said. “In Wilton.”

  He nodded his head and wrote something down on a piece of paper. Then he asked, “How does it feel to be a little rich kid?”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you feel people treat you differently now?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

  “Are people nicer to you?”

  I considered his question. “A little. A lady on our block keeps giving us pies.”

  “Pies,” Dr. Spiral repeated.

  “Sometimes apple turnovers.”

  “Tarts too,” he said. “How is the old man doing?”

  “Who?”

  “Pops, your dad. You know, the guy in the lobby who dropped you off?”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “He must be under an enormous amount of stress. How does he relieve it? Does he exercise?”

  “No.”

  “Does he drink?”

  “Yes. He drinks coffee.”

  “Does he yell and scream?”

  “No.”

  “Does he ever hug and kiss you?”

  “No.”

  “How does that make you feel?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Okay.”

  “Would you feel more okay if he hugged and kissed you and told you that he loved you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. I was starting to feel dizzy, like electricity was running through my arms and legs.

  Dr. Spiral scratched his elbow. “How did you feel when you learned that he wasn’t really your father?”

  I shrugged and looked down at the floor.

  “He is my father,” I said.

  Dr. Spiral looked at me a long time. “Do you love him?” he asked.

  I didn’t say anything. I had never been asked that question before and the direct way Dr. Spiral asked it startled me. If someone had asked me if I’d loved my mother, I wouldn’t have hesitated to answer. I loved her and I knew she loved me.

  Dr. Spiral stood up from the couch and walked over to the front of his desk and picked up a crystal paperweight which he juggled from hand to hand. “Do you think you love your dad, Teddy?”

  I watched Dr. Spiral toss the paperweight and thought of my father, saw his worried face, saw him sitting on his bed, holding the lottery ticket the night we won, the night everything started, his eyes rimmed red, his hair jumbled and confused. “I think I do,” I said after some time.

  “You think you do what?” Dr. Spiral asked.

  “I think I love him,” I said. Then I swallowed and said, “But I don’t think he loves me.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. The electricity was running through me hard and fast now, surging and searching for someplace to go. “He doesn’t talk much to me and do things with me.”

  “Are you mad at him ever?”

  “Sometimes. Not a lot though.”

  “Why do you get mad at him?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. I wanted to tell Dr. Spiral it was because he never hugged me or kissed me, because he was probably having sex with Mrs. Wilcott, because he was always so far away, even when I was standing next to him, but all I said was, “Because he won’t spend any of the money we won.” I looked up at Dr. Spiral. “We won the lottery.”

  Dr. Spiral threw his head back and laughed, a deep clear laugh that sounded like it was starting from someplace far underground. “I know that, Teddy. I think everyone in America knows that now.” He took a deep breath. “So you want your dad to spend some of the cash, huh. That would make you happy?”

  I shrugged again and looked back down at the floor. “A little,” I said. “Maybe. I just want him to do something with it.”

  “Well, Teddy,” Dr. Spiral said, leaning back on his desk, still holding the paperweight in one hand. “I’m going to let you in on a little secret. How would you feel if I told you that your father has been spending a lot of money lately? A lot.”

  I looked up at him, confused. “He has? What’s he buying?”

  “He isn’t buying anything. He’s giving it away.” He smiled again and scratched his beard. “Do you remember that little baby that was left on your front porch? Th
e baby you found?”

  I nodded. “Baby Girl,” I said. “He gave some money to Baby Girl?” This news shocked me. “How much did he give her?”

  “I don’t know specifics,” Dr. Spiral said. “But I’m pretty sure that little girl isn’t going to have to work a day in her life. He’s given money to other people too. To your uncle, to your uncle’s friend. To your school.”

  “St. Pius?” I had a hard time believing any of this.

  Dr. Spiral nodded and grinned. “He’s given a lot of money to charities too. Hospitals, shelters. I would say your father is definitely doing something with that money. He’s a very generous man.”

  I sat there, holding on to the arm of the couch as the fog moved close to the window. My world had shifted again, an unseen force had rearranged the order of things. I felt at once proud and deceived; my father, a generous man.

  Dr. Spiral laughed. “If you could see the look on your face, kiddo.” Then he put the paperweight back down on his desk and walked over to the window and stood, staring out. “You know, Teddy, on a clear day you can see all the way to Indiana and Michigan,” he said. “Not that I really want to see Indiana and Michigan, but it’s still impressive. Sometimes I imagine that I’m up here in this watchtower and that I’m watching over everything, watching over the whole universe.” He put his hands in his pockets and kept looking out the window. “I like to watch things,” he said. “You do too, that’s why you’re an artist, that’s why you like to draw.”

  I nodded my head.

  “But watching things is different than seeing things,” Dr. Spiral said. He turned away from the window and looked at me. “You’re a wonderful artist, your father showed me some of your work. He’s very proud.”

  This surprised me also. “He is?”

  “Yes. He showed me dozens of your sketches. You like to draw people, don’t you?”

  I thought about this for awhile before answering. “Yes,” I said.

  “I used to draw too, especially when I was your age. And I remember that how I drew things, especially people, depended on where I was drawing them from. From what angle. Are you following me on this?”

  I nodded my head even though I wasn’t really sure.

  “No, you aren’t.” Dr. Spiral smiled. “You’re not a good liar, Teddy. Okay, say I was trying to draw a house but I couldn’t get it right. The door, the window things would be out of balance. So, instead of giving up, I would just try to approach it from a different angle. Instead of drawing from the front, I would draw it from the side, maybe. Instead of drawing it up close, I would draw if from farther away and add some other houses to give it context. Do you know what I mean?”

  This time I understood. I frequently did the same things when I drew.

  Dr. Spiral walked back over to his desk and looked through some papers. “You watch your father all the time, don’t you?” He said this without looking up at me.

  I nodded. “I watch him sometimes.”

  “Did you ever think that maybe you’re not watching him, seeing him, the right way?”

  “I don’t know,” I said truthfully. I was watching Dr. Spiral closely now. I felt that he knew secrets, suddenly thought that he knew everything.

  He walked back to the couch and sat down. For the first time I noticed that the tie he was wearing had a little picture of Donald Duck on the very tip, Donald Duck holding an umbrella.

  “I’ve had the opportunity to meet with your father three times already,” he said. “Got a chance to know him a little bit. He has some things he has to work out. Things about your mother, about his life, and about you. Your father is a hard man to figure out, he keeps a lot of things inside. But one thing I know for certain about him is that he loves you.” Dr. Spiral smiled a smile I sometimes still see to this day, a smile that would sustain me in the terrible days that would soon follow. “Trust me, Teddy. He loves you more than you’ll ever know.”

  SYLVANIUS WALKED down the stairs slowly, his face chalky white, his lips a deep, disturbing red. His hair was wet and slicked back high, his lizard eyes black and cold. When he came to the foot of the stairs, he draped his cape over his shoulder and smiled, a cruel smile, then bowed deeply. I took Tommy’s hand and backed away. Despite myself, I was scared.

  “It is indeed my pleasure to make your fair acquaintance,” he said in a strange voice, thick and musical.

  “Oh my God, where’s my camera?” Aunt Bess said. “Quick, where is it?”

  It was Halloween and Sylvanius was a vampire once again. He had bought a cape and some makeup and was going to take us trick-or-treating. It had been his idea and his offer seemed to excite Aunt Bess almost as much as it did Tommy and me.

  “It is so charming to see you,” Sylvanius said again in his new voice. “You look so robust, so full of health.” He stopped and gazed at our necks. “So full of life.”

  “Sylvanius, look over here, over here!” Aunt Bess cried as her camera flashed.

  Sylvanius looked at me and Tommy and smiled again, his lips curling back. Even though he wasn’t wearing fangs, I moved farther away from him, toward Aunt Bess who kept clicking away.

  “I am a shadow,” he said. “I am the nightmare you are afraid to remember. The black bird outside your window watching. The stray dog in the woods waiting. The darkness in the night. Come dance with me in my death.” Then he started sneezing. “Dear God, this makeup seems to be causing some sort of allergic reaction,” he said in his own voice. “It’s not my usual brand.”

  “I always thought that speech was beautiful,” Aunt Bess said. She turned and faced me. “He always gave that speech before he bit someone.”

  “Yes,” Sylvanius said. “By my estimates, I recited that particular speech more than a thousand times during my tenure as the king of the undead of Lake Rohan. I actually memorized it. I referred to it as my soliloquy.”

  “You never really said anything else,” Aunt Bess said. “You were mostly in the background.”

  Sylvanius considered Aunt Bess’s comment, his head cocked to one side. “Yes,” he said. “I spent most of those years hiding silently behind doors, I’m afraid. Lurking really.” He sighed, lost in thought. “I was always after the writers to give me more lines. There was so much more I could have done with that part.” He sighed again. “Well, that was a long time ago. We really should be going now. I’d like to be back in time to watch The Larry King Show. Sophia Loren is on. I’d like to catch up with her doings.”

  “Do you have everything you need?” Aunt Bess asked us. “Do you have all of your costumes on?”

  “Yes,” I said. Tommy and I were dressed as vampires, wearing the thin plastic capes and white fangs that Aunt Bess had bought the day before at the supermarket. The costumes weren’t anything like the ones my mother used to make for us, but I didn’t point this out to Aunt Bess. She was proud of them and I appreciated her effort. My old love of Halloween had returned earlier in the day at the St. Pius Halloween party and I was glad we were going trick-or-treating, even if we were wearing cheap store-bought costumes and even if it was just until Sophia Loren filled us in on her doings.

  Maurice was waiting for us outside at the end of the driveway. As we approached him, Sylvanius bowed his head and said, “Good evening. It is indeed my pleasure to make your fair acquaintance.”

  Maurice looked at Sylvanius a long time before returning the bow. The look on his face made me think that he probably hadn’t watched much of Dark Towers. He puffed on his pipe and took Tommy’s hand.

  We stopped at Mrs. Rhodebush’s house first and found a basket of red apples on her porch with a sign TAKE JUST ONE! taped to the handle. When we walked back down her driveway, I saw her in the window, watching us. I held up my apple to show that I had only taken one. When she saw me though, she just pulled the shade down.

  “I’m afraid that Emily is not overly fond of holidays,” Sylvanius said as we passed. “Too many memories I suppose.”

  We made our way slowly up and down Sto
ne Avenue, causing a commotion everywhere we went. Most of the younger children who came to the door stared blankly at Sylvanius, frightened and, I thought, probably confused. He was by far the oldest trick-or-treater making the rounds in the neighborhood. Mrs. Hanrahan, who lived on the far end of our block and was close to Aunt Bess’s age, put her hand over her mouth when she saw us and said, “Well, I’ll be damned.” Then she asked Sylvanius for his autograph.

  When we got to the Wilcotts’, Mrs. Wilcott greeted us wearing a long white dress, with paper wings on her back that flapped helplessly when she walked. She was also wearing a shiny gold crown that had a red stone in the front that caught and reflected the bright porch light.

  “Can you guess who I am?” she asked when she opened the door.

  “My goodness! You’re a nurse!” Sylvanius said, snapping his fingers.

  Mrs. Wilcott smiled at Sylvanius, but her eyes fell a bit. “No,” she said slowly, making that one word seem like a full sentence. “I’m Belinda, the Good Witch of the West.”

  “Of course, of course, the wings,” Sylvanius said. Then he took a taffy apple that Mrs. Wilcott presented on a silver tray.

  “Teddy, this one is for you,” she said. “I made it special.” She handed me a large apple that had my name written on it with sugar icing.

  “Thanks,” I said, though it occurred to me that on two different occasions I had recently told Mrs. Wilcott I didn’t like apples.

  “Mr. Sylvanius, I have a request,” Mrs. Wilcott said. “I would love to take a picture of you for my column. Would you mind?” She opened the door wide.

  “A photo, of course, of course,” Sylvanius said. “I would be happy to accommodate you.”

  We walked in and waited for Mrs. Wilcott to get her camera. “Hurry up!” Tommy yelled. He wanted to visit as many houses as he could and fill his plastic trick-or-treat bag to the brim.

  Mrs. Wilcott posed us by the front door, Sylvanius standing between Tommy and me, a bony hand on each of our shoulders. Maurice waited out side on the front steps with his pipe. She took several pictures, moving closer with every flash, her paper wings bouncing behind her as she moved. I thought she was going to walk right into us, she was so close. “I want to get some head shots,” she said.