The Rich Part of Life

by Jim Kokoris

  I finished my lemonade, my straw scraping the bottom of my tall thin glass. The casual but affirmative way Mrs. Wilcott referred to the Gala made me wonder if it had recently been established as a national religious holiday, like Christmas or Easter.

  “It’s a shame about Mr. Sylvanius’s foot. I hope he’ll be able to make it to our house for Thanksgiving,” she said. She turned to face me. “Benjamin is very excited about having you over. I’m baking a special apple pie for you.”

  I was surprised by this announcement. Uncle Frank’s birthday was on Thanksgiving and I knew Aunt Bess was planning a special meal for him. My father, though, didn’t catch my glance and continued to look out the window.

  “Mr. Sylvanius was also going to do a dramatic reading during the talent hour,” Mrs. Wilcott said.

  My father finally looked up at this, focusing. “I’m sorry? Talent hour?”

  Mrs. Wilcott smiled and rearranged a cloth napkin on the table, pressing down hard on it with both hands. “Yes, he had committed to participating. A handful of members perform every year.”

  My father nodded.

  “I’ve been asked to sing,” Mrs. Wilcott said. She looked at my father expectantly as if she had just made an important announcement, her proud but hesitant expression on her face managing to make me feel sad. I knew that she wanted my father to react in a certain way, to congratulate her, but he merely looked back out the window. I glanced away and tried to dig a last remaining ice cube out of the bottom of my glass with my straw. I didn’t want to see her disappointment.

  “It’s just two songs,” she said quickly. “Cindy Watson of the committee asked me. I haven’t sung in years. But she was very persistent. Very.” Mrs. Wilcott folded, then refolded the napkin.

  “Well. We’re looking forward to the evening,” my father said, unconvincingly. “Are the tuxedos necessary?”

  “Not for the boys. But you’ll have to wear one, yes. Especially since you’ll be sitting at the head table.”

  My father nodded and said nothing. I could tell that he was tired and wanted to be going. The late nights with the lawyers and the tennis lesson had done him in. I thought he might fall asleep at the table.

  Mrs. Wilcott didn’t seem to be concerned or even notice my father’s state however. For the next twenty minutes, she talked urgently about seating arrangements, agendas, menus and floral arrangements for the Gala, her voice picking up speed in the face of my father’s silence. Twice the waiter came and refilled our glasses and I began to swim in lemonade.

  “Oh, Theo,” Mrs. Wilcott said, as she sipped her water. A sudden transformation came over her and she looked strangely awkward and nervous. She folded the napkin again and fixed her eyes on my father. “I hate to pester you about this, but the committee is wondering if you’ve agreed to serve as honorary chairperson of the event. I mentioned it to you last month. You said you’d consider it.”

  My father had no reaction. He continued to look out the window, distracted. I finished another lemonade and this time tried to dig the ice cube out of my glass with my hand. When I tilted my glass, two melting cubes slipped out and onto the table.

  Mrs. Wilcott glanced at me, an unusual look of annoyance on her face. Then she stopped folding the napkin and leaned toward my father. “Theo? I said the committee asked that you serve as honorary chairperson. Nothing’s really required. You just have to say a few words.”

  My father finally turned to face her, a faint light of recognition flickering in his eyes. “I’m sorry? Oh, that’s right, the chairperson.” Fie grimaced. “Gloria, I’ve given it some thought and I don’t think I’d be right for such a role.”

  Mrs. Wilcott sat up straight in her chair and began to finger a small gold necklace that hung between her breasts.

  “Why not?”

  My father shook his head. “Well, as I’ve mentioned, I’m not even a member yet. We haven’t officially signed all the papers.”

  “That’s just a formality.” She leaned over the table. “Oh, Theo, you’d be perfect. You’re a well-known historian. A successful writer and a wonderful parent.” She smiled at me when she said this.

  My father exhaled slowly. I was surprised that he was putting up any resistance. He seemed incapable of independent thought where Mrs. Wilcott was concerned. I attributed this change to the strain of the past few weeks, a strain that seemed to be hardening him. “I don’t think I would feel comfortable,” he finally said.

  “You will add quite a bit of credibility to the event. To the cause.”

  “The cause,” my father repeated. “I think there might be better, more appropriate . . .” He stopped and quickly picked up his glass of iced tea.

  Mrs. Wilcott studied my father for a moment, then smiled and leaned halfway across the table. I stopped sucking on my straw. Through her tennis blouse, I could clearly see her brassiere and the tops of her breasts as they pressed against it. Some strands of hair fell free across her forehead and when she moved her hand to slowly brush them aside, I thought she might very well be the most beautiful woman in the world.

  “All you have to do,” she said softly, “is talk a few minutes about the history of Wilton and the club’s role, then announce the totals collected from the silent auction. I’ll be onstage with you. You said you would do it when I first asked.”

  “Well,” my father said. He was about to say something else, but stopped. Instead he smiled weakly and leaned back, far away from Mrs. Wilcott, and looked at her for a moment as if he were trying to balance something. Then he did something that shocked me. He cleared his throat and stood up. Mrs. Wilcott sat back, surprised, her eyes a mixture of confusion and anger. As far as I knew, it was the first time he had ever ended a visit with her first.

  “We really have to be going,” he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MRS. WILCOTT WAS standing perfectly still as the curtains drew back to reveal her standing slightly off to the side of the stage. She had a happily expectant look on her face, as if she were about to receive good news. When the music began, she walked toward the center of the stage, moving with a casual grace in a slow, smooth walk that put the audience at ease. As I watched her in her short black dress, black stockings and high heels, I believed I was watching the devil’s wife herself.

  “Killer legs,” Uncle Frank said as he reached for his Diet Coke. “I’ll give her that. Killer legs.”

  When she reached the microphone she sat down on a tall stool next to the large white piano and surveyed the crowd one last time, a calm, almost holy expression on her face. She then nodded to the piano player, a small man with wire spectacles, and began to sing.

  Her first song was sweet and sad, a song I didn’t recognize about lost love. As she sang, she put her hand on her chest and when she reached what I assumed was the saddest part of the song, she closed her eyes and shook her head in a way that reminded me that Dr. Wilcott had abandoned her for a tennis pro. When she was done, she hung her head limply, her chin almost bouncing off her chest. The room filled with applause.

  She’ adjusted herself on the stool and smiled. “Now,” she said. “We’re going to lighten things up a bit.” When she crossed her legs, there was a silent sigh from every man in the room.

  “Raindrops keep falling on my head . . .”

  Uncle Frank looked across the table at me and shook his head. “You’re too young to remember The Gong Show” he said.

  “And just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed.”

  Listening to Mrs. Wilcott sing was less embarrassing than I had thought it would be. I had hoped for some mishap, forgotten lyrics, a collapsing chair, a ripped dress but, as usual, she was in command of the moment. That evening months ago when she sang for my family after dinner, her voice had been deep and bold. Tonight though, it was light and soft and entranced the room. Sitting onstage with her killer legs crossed, she seemed to be hovering a few feet above the rest of us in a special, reserved space. I looked over for Tommy’s reaction,
but he was sleeping, his head down on the table. I glanced my father’s way, but couldn’t see his face either because of the darkness. Resigned to my fate, since the Gala was at least an hour or so from being over, I sat back in my chair and lost myself in thought.

  The week prior to the Gala had been hectic. My father’s lawyer, Quinn, was frequently at our house working late into the night with my father. Despite his schedule, Mrs. Wilcott managed a number of visits, urging my father to accept the honorary chairperson position of the Gala. Her requests, and the timing of them, infuriated Uncle Frank.

  “Doesn’t this broad realize that you might have more important things to worry about right now?” he blurted out one night after dinner. “Hell, it’s pretty obvious what she’s trying to do. She figures making you the head guy of this party is going to force you into giving money. You’re her prize, Theo, her goddamn prize. She wants to show you off. Look, I bagged Mr. Moneybags. I still got it. She doesn’t give a shit about anything else. I know her type, believe me.”

  “I don’t think that’s the case at all,” my father had said quietly. It wasn’t until the ride over to the country club that he told us that he had agreed to be introduced as honorary chairperson and say a few words about the history of Wilton.

  The Gala itself had been predictably boring, with a series of speeches and toasts to the future of the Wilton Country Club filling the evening. The talent hour had been equally dull. Prior to Mrs. Wilcott, there had been a dance number, two husband and wife duets, a violin solo, and a painful comedy monologue by the teenage son of a prominent lawyer. It was during this monologue that Benjamin, who had been sitting at our table ignoring me, had disappeared to go play in the club gym.

  Despite my boredom, the evening appeared to be a success. Hundreds of people were there, drinks in hand, greeting one another with smooth faces, pats on the back and kisses on the cheek. The grand ballroom was suitably impressive. Large and dimly lit, with dark wood-trimmed doorways and cathedral windows, it reminded me of an immense funeral parlor. The floral centerpieces that Mrs. Wilcott had ultimately chosen were a spectacular combination of colors and sweet scents. Aunt Bess asked the waitress if she could take ours home.

  It was the women of Wilton that caught and held my attention though. They were beautiful in their short and shimmering dresses, their backs and arms naked and free for my inspection. Despite their outfits however, none came close to approaching the appearance of Mrs. Wilcott.

  She looked particularly beautiful, her dress catching the stares of both men and women as she made her way through the ballroom during the cocktail hour, touching people’s elbows and smiling in a way I didn’t believe. She seemed illuminated as she glided through the crowd, my father and family following her trailing light. Several people tried to engage my father in conversation as we walked about, inquiring about my situation and wishing us well, but he remained silent. He hadn’t said more than three words all evening and I wondered how he was going to manage his brief speech.

  “Thank God, she’s done,” Uncle Frank said.

  Mrs. Wilcott ended her song, and hung her head shyly again while waiting for the applause. The men in particular seemed to appreciate her performance. Dr. McDonnell, an orthodontist who was sitting at the next table, stood as he clapped.

  While people were still clapping, she made her way slowly back to our table, acknowledging the audience with a smile and a strange wave of her hand, her wrist turning slowly and mechanically to one side and back. When she sat down between Tommy and me, I could feel heat coming off her body.

  “Where’s Benjamin?” she whispered to me. Mrs. Wilcott remained convinced that Benjamin and I were friends, despite the fact that we had not spoken all night.

  “I think he’s playing basketball,” I said. I kept my eyes on the stage, where the piano player was furiously playing, the tempo quickening.

  Mrs. Wilcott didn’t seem to hear me. She kept looking around the room, smiling and offering small waves. I moved my chair away from her. Karly in the evening, when we first arrived, she matter-of-factly told me that I needed a haircut and new shoes.

  “Theo, we’re on in a few minutes,” she whispered across the table. My father nodded. It was then that I noticed his face. He looked stricken, his eyes glassy, his face chalk.

  “Gloria, I don’t think I’m up to this,” he said quietly, “I am sorry.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t think I can go through with this.”

  Mrs. Wilcott yanked on her gold necklace. “Oh, Theo, we’ve been through this before. All you have to do is say a few things. Your speech. Just say your speech. The one we practiced. You’ll only be up there for three minutes. I’ll be right beside you.”

  My father licked his lips and coughed once into his hand. “I don’t think I’m up to this,” he said again. “Not this evening.”

  “Are you all right, Theo?” Aunt Bess asked. “Is it your heart?”

  “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I just don’t feel comfortable speaking in front of crowds this size. I haven’t lectured in awhile. And even when I did, they were small groups, really.”

  “He can’t do it, Gloria,” Aunt Bess said. “He can’t do it.”

  “He has to do it,” Mrs. Wilcott said quickly, her voice flat. “It’s printed in the program. I promised everyone.”

  Immediately after saying this, she smiled and her voice once again sounded like a chipmunk’s. “I’m sorry, Theo,” she said. “If you’re truly not up to this, I guess I can do this alone. If you truly can’t do this.” Then she said, “But I wish you would try. It’s only a few minutes.”

  My father sighed and looked down at the table. “Well,” he said. “I might be able to manage.” But when he stood up, he wavered for a moment and grabbed onto the table. As I watched him steady himself, an unfamiliar feeling rose inside me, a growing anger.

  “Jesus, Theo, you look like hell,” Uncle Frank said. “Sit down.”

  “No, I’ll be fine,” he said, though it was obvious he wasn’t. Mrs. Wilcott quickly stood up.

  “He’s fine,” she said.

  “No, he’s not,” I said. I found myself jumping out of my chair and moving toward my father. “Leave him alone. He’s not feeling good. Just leave us all alone.” I was now standing between my father and Mrs. Wilcott. I was vaguely aware that the music had stopped and that people were clapping. Mrs. Wilcott tried to walk past me, but I held my position.

  She stopped and regarded me in a peculiar way, as if she were examining a faraway object up close for the first time. I felt the heat coming off her body, could feel her self-restraint giving way, the bonds loosening.

  “He’s not feeling good,” I said again, but this time I said it quietly.

  “You be quiet!” she snapped. “Sit down. Sit down in your chair right now, young man. I’ve worked so hard on this event. You people are impossible!” Her voice sounded like it might break in half and that the raw edges would cut me.

  “You don’t talk to him like that,” Aunt Bess said. She struggled to her feet. “And what do you mean, ‘you people’?”

  “Jesus Christ, everyone sit down, we’re making a scene here,” Uncle Frank said. Fie glanced around the room which was growing quiet. A few people at nearby tables were looking our way. Dr. McDonnell turned completely around in his chair and stared at us, his mouth open. Then Uncle Frank said, “Hey, yeah, what do you mean, ‘you people?”

  Mrs. Wilcott fingered her necklace roughly, sliding her hand up and down the slight chain so hard I thought it would break.

  “Are you coming?” she asked my father quietly.

  My father looked directly at her and straightened his back. “No,” he said. “I’m not.” But his eyes were clear and he didn’t look sick anymore.

  AFTER MRS. WILCOTT presented the totals for the silent auction and thanked everyone for coming, Uncle Frank, Aunt Bess, Tommy, and I left. As planned, my father stayed with Mrs. Wilcott for dancing and drinks, though I assumed
he would be doing neither.

  “That woman is a solid gold bitch,” Uncle Frank said when we got into the old Buick. “She reminds me of Corky.”

  “Who?” I asked as I buckled my seat belt.

  “Corky Patterson. An ex-wife of mine, one of the many former aunts of yours you never had the pleasure of meeting. This one in particular was a special lady,” he said. “In so many ways, a special lady.”

  When we got home, I went straight to bed. I was exhausted. Tommy was asleep in minutes, breathing slow and loud. I tried to sleep, but found myself thinking of Mrs. Wilcott and my behavior. While I was embarrassed and surprised by what I had done, I wasn’t sorry. After her final presentation onstage, Mrs. Wilcott had ignored me and we left without saying good-bye.

  I was mulling over the evening, finally drifting toward the edge of sleep, when I heard my father’s voice.

  “Teddy? Are you awake?”

  I sat up. “No, yes, I mean. How come you’re home now?”

  He made his way to my bed in the darkness, stepping around Tommy’s clothes which lay in a pile on the floor.

  “I called a taxicab and left a little early,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll be missed.” He sat down on my bed. F’ven in the darkness, I could see how tired he was. The circles under his eyes looked like soft ridges. “Did you enjoy the party, the Gala?”

  “No,” I said. He sat there a moment, his shoulders rounding into an arch. “Are you feeling okay now?” I asked.

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine. I think I just, I think I suffered from a bit of stage fright perhaps. I used to get light headed when I first started lecturing. I hadn’t had that sensation in years though, that feeling that things were,” he paused here, “well, beyond me. Everything beyond me.” He coughed and cleared his throat.

  “I don’t like Mrs. Wilcott,” I said. I knew this comment might have ramifications, but it was late, I was tired, and I didn’t care. I expected a stern response, or at least surprise, but my father was silent.

  “Well,” he finally said. “She was very tense tonight. She had quite a bit of responsibility, organizing such an event. I never should have committed to speaking.” He sighed here. “Though she shouldn’t have spoken to you like that, in that manner. I told her that.”