by Jim Kokoris
“Where are we going?” I asked, and when I stood up, I felt myself starting to shake from the cold.
“I don’t know. All I know is that I don’t have any money. It’s cold and I’m hungry. Let’s go.”
I followed him back to the van, walking around tombstones, my head down, my feet moving one after another. My stomach was hurting badly now and I was trying hard to keep from floating higher even though I was feeling strange and light.
When we got to the van, I saw someone standing under a light pole. A shadow, then a voice.
“Let the boy go,” my father said. He was holding something in his hand, down by the side of his leg.
Bobby Lee grabbed me and stepped back. “What the hell you doing?”
“Please, Mr. Anderson, I came for Teddy. If you wish to go, then you may go. I just want Teddy. You had no right to take him. No right at all.” My father’s voice was firm. I didn’t recognize it, didn’t know it.
“How did you find us?” Bobby Lee asked. Then he said, “Goddamn Carl,” under his breath.
“Give me the boy,” my father said and started walking toward us. It was then that the light caught the object in his hand and I saw that he was carrying Stonewall Jackson’s sword.
When Bobby Lee saw the sword, he pulled me back farther, holding me tight. A sudden surge of panic cut through my light-headedness. I knew that even with the sword, my father was no match for Bobby Lee.
“You think that just because you won all that money, you gonna win my boy. Bet you paid off that judge.”
“Give me the boy,” my father said. “I don’t want any trouble, Mr. Anderson. I gave your brother my word I would not involve the authorities. But if pressed, I said I might be forced to.”
“You took my wife. You ain’t getting my son,” Bobby Lee said. I felt his body tensing, and wondered where the black metal bar was.
“Let Teddy go,” my father said. He began to circle us, taking slow steps in a wide arc, pointing his sword at us with one arm. Bobby Lee and I turned to follow him.
“Put that sword down, old man, before I hurt you. Throw your car keys and your wallet on the ground too. I’m short on cash. Throw them both this way.”
“Let Teddy go,” my father repeated. “Let him go. You may leave here, if you wish, but let him go.” He kept circling us slowly, pointing the sword.
“Shut the hell up!” Bobby Lee yelled. “This boy’s mine. You listening to me? I said drop that thing and give me your money. You damn old fool. Before I take you apart.”
“Dad,” I yelled. “He has a metal bar. Please, do what he says. He beat up two men at the same time.”
My father kept walking, never taking his eyes off of Bobby Lee. “Things are going to be fine, Teddy,” he said calmly.
“You old stupid ass,” I heard Bobby Lee say. He tightened his grip on me, turning me in the direction of my father, who continued to circle us. “Stop goddamn moving and listen to the boy,” Bobby Lee said. “I ain’t telling you again.”
“And I’m not asking you again, either,” my father said. Then he put his sword down and sadly shook his head. “I’m sorry about all this, Mr. Anderson. But you gave us no choice.” That’s when I heard something behind us, the scrape of gravel. Bobby Lee and I turned at the same time to discover Maurice looming over us, his eyes wide, his fist raised high behind his head.
“What the hell?” Bobby Lee yelled.
When Maurice swung, he hit Bobby Lee square in the nose.
Bobby Lee let go of me, covering his face with his hands. “Goddamnit!” he yelled. “Goddamnit!”
When Maurice hit him again, Bobby Lee flew backward into the air, then fell to the ground in a broken silent pile. He stayed there without moving until the police came and took him away.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
UNCLE FRANK STOOD in front of the hallway mirror trying to straighten my tie, his hands moving quickly as he rearranged my collar and smoothed my shirt.
“You can make an entrance wearing a suit like this,” he said. “People respect suits. They’re like military uniforms. That was one of my problems in L.A., I think. I didn’t wear enough suits. Suits scare people.”
Aunt Bess had wanted us to wear our Confederate uniforms to her wedding but my father convinced her otherwise, saying they would be inappropriate. Earlier in the week, he took Tommy and me downtown and bought us each a blue suit, red tie, and white shirt. When we came home and showed Uncle Frank the dark conservative suits, Uncle Frank said we looked like Secret Service agents and asked my father if we had been assigned to guard the president’s motorcade. The next day, after school, Uncle Frank took us back downtown and spent several tedious hours, going from store to store, considering dozens of suits until finally deciding on two double-breasted, jet black suits he thought appropriately stylish.
“Dress for success,” he said on the way home. “I don’t make the rules.”
The wedding had been hastily organized. Sylvanius had asked Aunt Bess to marry him just the week before, falling, very gradually, to a knee one night at dinner after drinking an entire bottle of red wine. Speaking in his melodious voice, his words sloshing like water against the insides of a bucket, he asked Aunt Bess to make him the happiest man in the world. Despite Uncle Frank’s objections and demands for an airtight prenuptial agreement, my father quietly approved the marriage, smiling broadly after Aunt Bess accepted, and shaking Sylvanius’s hand. “I know this is what she’s wanted for some time now,” he said to Sylvanius. “And I’m happy for you both.”
“We got to get the hell out of here,” Uncle Frank now said, taking Tommy by one hand and opening the front door with another. “We’re going to be late. Not that that would be such a bad thing.”
“Why is Aunt Bess marrying the old monster?” Tommy asked.
“Because he asked her,” Uncle Frank said.
“He’s going to make her a vampire.”
“That’s highly possible.”
Maurice was waiting for us in the driveway by the car, hands in his pockets, pipe in his mouth. It was snowing and large wet flakes hit my face, clinging to my eyelashes.
“Goddamn snow. Who would’ve predicted this?” Uncle Frank said as we got into the old Buick.
Maurice opened the back door for Tommy and me. “I don’t think it’s all that unexpected,” he said. “It is January.”
Uncle Frank scowled up at the sky, the time of year no excuse. Snow piled up on his toupee, frosting on chocolate cake. “Well, hopefully this weather will delay things for a while. For a couple of years if we’re lucky.” He got in the car and adjusted his seat, moving it forward. “You got enough room there, Maurice? Move the seat all the way back. The kids don’t need any space.”
“I’m fine,” Maurice said. “Does everybody have their seat belts on? Tommy? How about you, Mr. Pappas?”
“I don’t wear seat belts. This car is indestructible.”
“That can be dangerous,” Maurice said.
Uncle Frank started the car. “I live on the edge.”
I spent a week in bed after my journey with Bobby Lee, sleeping and talking to my father, Aunt Bess, and Uncle Frank, my strength returning, my fever and the floating feeling slowly then finally disappearing forever. During that period, we were once again overwhelmed with phone calls from TV and radio stations, all hoping for interviews. Both my father and Maurice refused the requests, saying they had no interest in discussing private family matters. Disregarding my father’s pleas however, Uncle Frank appeared on show after show, telling our story with moving sincerity and drama, attributing everything that happened ultimately to the human condition. He proved so interesting that he had recently been offered a job as temporary host of Night Chat, a late night radio show in Chicago that he immediately renamed Frankly Speaking. He seemed happy and talked grandly at breakfast about taking the show national and eventually expanding into network TV and challenging “the big boys.”
“Did you hear my show last night?” Uncl
e Frank asked Maurice as he stopped at a red light. “We had that astrologer on. The one that predicts things.”
“I’m sorry, I missed that,” Maurice said.
“I’ll send you a tape.” Then he said, “You know, my invitation still stands.”
“Thank you, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable talking on the radio.”
“Well, if you change your mind,” Uncle Frank said. “I could use the ratings. My deal ends in six weeks.” The light changed and the old Buick lurched forward.
It was snowing heavily now and we slipped and skidded as much as drove to Wills where Aunt Bess was waiting to begin her new life in a nearby condominium my father had bought her as a wedding gift. She wasn’t getting married in a church because at the very last moment, Sylvanius remembered he was Jewish.
“This whole thing is depressing,” Uncle Frank now said as we pulled into the parking lot. “This whole thing. I blame myself. I brought that guy into our family. She’s going to spend her last years giving him foot rubs.”
“He seems to make her happy,” Maurice said as the car pulled to a stop.
“She’s seventy-seven years old. She’s too old to be happy.”
“You’re never too old to be happy,” Maurice said, opening the door.
SYLVANIUS AND MY father were waiting for us in Will’s new banquet room, which Gus had built primarily for funeral luncheons. Sylvanius rushed to greet us at the door, resplendent in a light blue tuxedo, complete with a pink and white bow tie that reminded me of peppermint ice cream.
“Jesus Christ,” Uncle Frank said. “You look like Liberace.”
Sylvanius smiled, perspiration beading his forehead. “These are my winter colors,” he said. “Bess selected the entire ensemble.” He looked down at me and smiled, a serpent in love. “I must admit I am excited,” he said. “I haven’t been married in years.”
Quinn the lawyer and Mrs. Rhodebush were the only other people at the wedding besides our family. Mrs. Rhodebush smiled when she saw me so I could see that her false teeth were secure and operational. I hadn’t seen her in quite some time, since Halloween, and was happy she was here. “You’ve had quite an adventure,” she said.
The banquet room had two large windows that overlooked the parking lot, empty except for our cars. Gus had closed the restaurant in honor of the occasion, the least he could do, according to Uncle Frank, since my father had given him the money to remodel. I stood by the windows and watched the snow fall, the old Buick slowly disappearing in a delicate and dignified manner.
I watched the snow for awhile, then pulled out a worn note I had in my pocket. It was from my mother, written when she was my age. Bobby Lee had sent it to me that day from prison, along with the drawing, a startling picture of bright stars and planets against a dark backdrop: “The Galaxy at Night.” Written on plain paper in young handwriting I didn’t recognize, the note described the picture: “The Galaxy at Night, all the stars and planets in perfect place, safe and sound. Depending on each other until morning.”
“Very picturesque. The snow. Very pretty, don’t you think, Teddy?” It was my father.
“Yes,” I said. I put the note away.
Since that night when he and Maurice flanked Bobby Lee in the parking lot, he had been trying to spend as much time as possible with Tommy and me and though I knew it sometimes required an effort, things seemed to be getting easier for him. While he still wandered at times, his thoughts remote and elsewhere, I now knew he was close by and would always be so.
“I think they’re starting. We should probably sit down,” he said. I followed him to a short row of chairs that faced the window.
When Aunt Bess entered the room, wearing a long blue dress and holding a single white rose, she started crying and said, “Oh God.” Then she walked toward Sylvanius.
“You are a vision,” he said as she took her place next to him before the judge, a friend of Quinn’s. The service proceeded smoothly until Sylvanius tried to say a poem he had memorized and began stumbling over the words. When Aunt Bess said, “They’re waiting to serve the food,” he finally stopped and simply kissed her on the lips.
“I have one more thing to read,” Sylvanius said, unfolding a piece of paper. Uncle Frank mumbled Jesus Christ and Aunt Bess said something about the food again, but Sylvanius insisted. “It will only take a moment.”
He put on a pair of small glasses that I had never seen him wear before, looked around the room and smiled, stretching the moment. He then folded the paper back up and put it away.
“A man’s life is made up of people,” he began in his musical voice. “And if you are fortunate enough to find good people, people that you love, then keep them close. For together you will find things, together you will learn things. About each other and about yourself.”
When he finished, he kissed Aunt Bess.
“Those lines were from our last movie,” Uncle Frank said, looking proudly around the room. “From the last scene.”
We all stood there for a moment and watched Aunt Bess dry her eyes with Sylvanius’s handkerchief.
My father then turned to me. “Well,” he said after he cleared this throat. “Will you sit by me, Teddy?” Over his shoulder, I could see the snow swirling, doing a dance in the lights, falling like pieces of clouds and heaven.
“Okay,” I said as he took my hand and led me over to the table. “Okay”
Check out Jim Kokoris’s brand new book,
It’s. Nice. Outside.
You can read an excerpt here!
IT’S. NICE. OUTSIDE.
JIM KOKORIS
PROLOGUE
I arrived at the hospital early and found a space in the garage near the elevator. Ethan was up, alert, and fussing. I heard him crying, a tiny muffled sound. Mary had wrapped him in blankets, and he was now angrily kicking free of them. When I picked him up and put him in the stroller, I dropped his pacifier and, not for the first time that morning, grew angry with Mary for not coming along. I shouldn’t have to do this alone, I thought. But our babysitter had canceled, and Mary had to stay with the girls. She would wait at home for the results.
I walked slowly, through the hospital, my shoes loud against the tile floor, trying not to look at the pictures on the wall: photographs of smiling children, laughing children, children running in fields, children flying kites. Normal children. In an hour I would walk back down this same hallway, knowing whether my nine-month-old son, my youngest child, was normal.
In the admitting room, I filled out forms, and then we were taken to an empty room where Ethan, who had fallen oddly quiet and wide-eyed, was medicated.
After the nurse left, I sat on the edge of the bed and watched my son fall asleep, forcing myself not to think.
The nurse was not particularly friendly. I thought, given the circumstances, she should be solicitous, nunlike, but she wasn’t. She was short, squat, and all business as she wheeled Ethan into the room where the MRI was to be taken. I went in with him and sat in a chair against the wall while the nurse and a young skinny male technician picked Ethan up and placed him on another bed. Then there was a loud noise, and the bed slid into the mouth of a cavernous machine where pictures were taken of my son’s brain. The whole process took less than ten minutes.
Afterward, the all-business nurse disappeared into an adjoining room marked RADIOLOGY. When she emerged a few minutes later, she was transformed, her face worried, her eyes avoiding mine.
“Why don’t we go back to the room and wait for the doctor,” she said. She touched me gently on the back and led us away, back down the hall.
1 NINETEEN YEARS LATER
The garbage pickers came on Friday evenings in Wilton. At twilight they emerged from shadows, silently trolling the streets in rusting pickups, dented vans, and sagging stations wagons, searching for remnants of other people’s lives.
The pickers, mostly stoic Mexican men, worked quickly and with purpose. They loaded the backs of their trucks and wagons up high, tying down the thin
gs they had chosen with ropes, chains. The chipped barstool, the old mattress, the stained rug—this was all precious cargo to them.
I stood in the driveway and watched a white truck without hubcaps slow then stop in front of our house. A man with a backward baseball cap and a bright orange T-shirt stepped out and sheepishly nodded at me as he circled the large tricycle I had placed by the curb. It was Ethan’s old bike.
I watched the man study it. He appeared confused, the knot of his brow tight.
“It’s for adults,” I called out. “You can take it. There’s something wrong with the handlebars, but you can probably fix them.”
He seemed hesitant, staring at the bike, his hands in his pockets.
“It’s not heavy. You want help?”
He finally glanced up at me, smiled, and then bent down, and in one quick move he lifted the bike into the back of his truck, positioning it next to a green filing cabinet. He nodded in my direction again, climbed back inside the truck, and drove off, his red taillights fading quickly in the growing dark.
I finished packing the van a few minutes later, wedging one last large box with a sleeping bag, the teddy bears, and the photo album into the back. Hoping to maximize every inch, I had started the process with a solid plan, arranging each box and bag like it was a piece of a jigsaw puzzle. But after an hour I abandoned this methodical approach and began randomly cramming things in. It was getting late, and we had to get going.
With the final box in place, I assessed the van, our home for the next two weeks. A 2013 silver Honda Odyssey. Sat seven. Less than twenty thousand miles on it. Brand-new Michelins. Fully loaded, or almost fully loaded, because it didn’t have GPS. The van was Mary’s, and she didn’t think we needed it because she said we never went anywhere. And she was right—we never went anywhere. Until now, of course. I stepped close and rested my hand on the hood and decided to give the van a pep talk. We needed to be on the same page here, work together. I whispered, “We’re going to be spending a lot of time together, buddy. A lot of time. We’re depending on you. Time to see what you’re made of. This is your moment. Make everyone back in Japan proud.”
