Elliot Allagash

by Simon Rich

  “Look on your desk!” she told me. “Dad and I got you a birthday present!”

  I gave her a giant hug and sprinted breathlessly down the hall. I had asked for only one thing that year—NBA Slam ’98—and I felt pretty good about my chances. My parents didn’t like video games, but they had bought me NBA Slam ’97 the previous year, and in my opinion that had set a pretty firm precedent. I unwrapped the package slowly, mentally rehearsing the look of surprise I would treat my mother to when the game was finally in my hands.

  It was clothes. There was a brown belt, a dark-blue button down shirt with a stiff collar, and a strange pair of brown shoes that didn’t have any laces. I rooted around in the package for a while, in the hope that my mother had hidden the game beneath the clothes as some kind of practical joke. Eventually I gave up and shouted out as cheerful a thank-you as I could muster.

  I changed into my favorite Knicks jersey and went to the kitchen to dull my pain with some Yoo-hoos. When I passed my mom, she had a panicked expression on her face.

  “Aren’t you going to try on your new clothes?” she asked.

  It took me a few attempts to get the shirt to button evenly, but I eventually figured it out. By the time I went back out for my second Yoo-hoo, my parents were arguing about something.

  “No,” my dad was saying. “This was the one we were saving. The one from Italy.”

  “Are you sure?” my mom asked. “I thought we were saving the other bottle?”

  My dad laughed.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You already opened it.”

  He looked at me—and then back at my mother.

  “Are those new clothes?” he asked.

  • • •

  There was a movie that came out when I was little called The Jetsons Meet the Flintstones. In the movie, the two families get along almost immediately and end up working together to save the world. Maybe it was the fact that I had seen this movie so many times that made me so optimistic about our dinner with the Allagashes.

  Elliot and Terry entered in bowler hats. It clearly threw my father, but he recovered quickly and thrust out his hand.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

  “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you!” Terry said.

  He took off his coat and peered across the living room, craning his neck slightly. It took him a fairly long time to realize that no servant was going to take his coat and briefcase. Eventually, he draped them awkwardly over a chair. The grown-ups started talking about the weather and Elliot and I went into my bedroom.

  “What kind of rodent is that?” Elliot asked, gesturing at my pet mouse.

  “It’s a mouse,” I said. “His name’s Houdini. I’ve been trying to train him to stand and he’s almost got it.”

  “Show me.”

  I held a food pellet over his head and shouted “Up!” a few times. Eventually, after some deliberation, Houdini struggled onto his hind legs and grabbed it with his paws. I rubbed his neck and fed him an extra pellet as a reward.

  “Not bad,” Elliot said.

  “Do you have any pets?” I asked.

  Elliot stared at me for a moment.

  “Not exactly,” he said.

  • • •

  “I’m so glad you liked the cake,” my mother said.

  “It’s superb,” Terry said. “It’s a good thing I left room for dessert!”

  “I’m sorry you’re not big on hamburgers,” my father said to Elliot. “You still hungry? There’s a slice of brisket in the fridge, if you don’t mind leftovers.”

  Elliot stared confusedly at my father.

  “Left…overs?”

  There was a long pause. Eventually, Terry cleared his throat and smiled at my father.

  “Elliot tells me you’ve written a book,” he said. “Congratulations!”

  My dad laughed awkwardly.

  “It’s being shopped around,” he said. “It could easily end up in a drawer.”

  “He’s being modest,” my mom said. “There’s some real interest from two different university presses. One in St. Louis and another one in Canada.”

  My father sighed.

  “That’s wonderful,” Terry said. “I have some friends in publishing. Are you familiar with Bishop House?”

  “Yes,” my father said. “In fact, they were one of the first houses to reject me.”

  “They said it was too ‘academic,’” my mom explained.

  “Actually, I think the word they used was ‘boring,’” my dad said. “But hey, same difference. Are you sure you don’t want any of this wine, Terry? It’s a pretty good Italian one.”

  “No, thank you,” he said.

  My father poured himself another glass. I noticed that he was the only one drinking.

  My mother stared anxiously at Elliot’s untouched slice of cake. When it became clear he wasn’t going to try it, she poured out a large glass of milk and placed it hopefully beside his bony hand.

  “So Elliot,” she said, “I hear you’re quite the basketball player! I can’t believe how much the two of you have been practicing. You must really love it!”

  I shot Elliot a desperate look and he sighed wearily.

  “Yes,” he deadpanned. “My favorite sport is basketball.”

  “Well, that’s great!” my mother said. “That’s just great.”

  She topped off his milk, even though he hadn’t yet drunk any.

  “Between basketball and the asbestos club and being Seymour’s campaign manager, I don’t know how you have time for all your homework! How many extracurricular activities are you involved in?”

  “Many,” he said.

  My father held his wine glass to the light and rotated it slightly, squinting at the sediment that had collected in the bottom.

  “Are you a wine drinker?” he asked Terry.

  “Yes,” Terry said. “I actually went to a tasting earlier this afternoon. If it hadn’t been so comprehensive, I gladly would have joined you in a toast. But I’m afraid I’m just not up to it at this stage in the evening.”

  My father nodded and looked across the table at my mother.

  “I usually only have wine on special occasions,” he said. “For example, one of my colleagues brought me back a bottle of wine from his parent’s village in Italy. I was going to save it for the day I sold my book. But now I realize, hey, what if I don’t sell it at all? A failed book is no reason to waste wine, right?”

  Terry cleared his throat.

  “My goodness, Seymour,” he said. “I forgot to give you your present!”

  He stood up and pulled a package out of his large briefcase. It was wrapped in reflective silver paper and tied with thick gold ribbon.

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have!” my mom cried.

  The gift wrap was so elaborate that it took me a while to tear through it all. When I was finally finished and the gift lay exposed on the table, a hush settled over the room. It was a brand-new Sega Dreamcast video-game system.

  I had read articles in video game magazines announcing its arrival, but I had never actually beheld one. It was a beautiful machine, sleek and silver. When I lifted it out of the box, I let loose an involuntary shriek; there were more than a dozen games hidden beneath it.

  “Oh my God,” I said. “Oh my God.”

  I realized that I was standing up. I composed myself, sat back down, and thanked Mr. Allagash profusely.

  “You really shouldn’t have,” my mother repeated.

  Terry waved his hands.

  “It’s my pleasure!”

  “No,” my father said. “Really. You shouldn’t have.”

  I brought the gift into my bedroom and a short, handwritten note fell out of the box. It was hidden beneath the mountain of games and I hadn’t initially noticed it.

  Dear Seymour,

  Thank you for spending so much time with my strange, strange boy. What is it like? You must remind me to ask you sometime.

  T
erry

  I put the bizarre note in my desk drawer and went back out to join the party. But by the time I got there, it had broken up. Everyone was standing around by the front door—except for my father, who was still at the table, finishing his wine and staring at my pile of crumpled gift wrapping.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to stay and play a game?” my mother asked. “Charades? Pictionary?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Terry said. “It’s getting late.”

  He started to put on his coat.

  “We’ve also got Uno and Boggle?”

  “Thanks for offering,” he said. “But I think we’re just too tired.”

  My father set his glass down, loudly.

  “How about Monopoly,” he said.

  Terry stopped in his tracks.

  “Did you say Monopoly?”

  • • •

  Terry and Elliot sat on one side of the board, facing my father. My mother and I had gone completely bankrupt within the first thirty minutes of the game. That left just my father and the Allagashes, who had elected to play as a team.

  “Bedtime is ten o’clock,” my mother said. “So I guess whoever’s winning in five minutes wins!”

  “That sounds reasonable,” Terry said.

  “No three, four, or six,” my dad muttered, cradling the dice in his palm. “No three, four, or six.”

  He shook the dice some more, clearly stalling. The Allagashes had set up hotels on all three orange properties, and he was just one bad roll away from bankruptcy.

  “You know, it’s not too late to accept our trade,” Terry told him. “Thirteen hundred dollars is quite a generous sum for Pennsylvania Avenue.”

  “Actually, our offer was twelve hundred,” Elliot corrected. “But still, an excellent deal.”

  My father put down the dice and glared at them.

  “I already told you,” he said. “I’m not giving up my monopoly. Not for any amount of money.”

  Terry chuckled.

  “Suit yourself.”

  There seemed to be a lot riding on this game. Usually, if I offered my dad a trade, he would accept it automatically. But when I offered him a get-out-of-jail-free card for Short Line Railroad, he had flatly rejected me. My father rolled the dice and I held my breath as they skittered across the board. They collided with some Allagash hotels and eventually came to a stop by the Community Chest cards: a three…and a four.

  “Seven!” I shouted. “That’s Free Parking!”

  My father thrust his fist in the air and made a grunting noise.

  “Yes!” he shouted. “Yes!”

  I held up my hand and he slapped it, hard.

  “What time is it?” I asked. “Is it ten, Mom?”

  “Um…”

  “It’s ten!” my father said, waving his watch in the air. “It’s exactly ten! Game over!”

  He leaned forward and scooped up the enormous stack of money from the center of the board, while laughing and tousling my hair.

  “Congratulations,” Terry said, extending his hand.

  My father slapped it.

  “Don’t feel too bad for losing, Terry. I’m an economics professor, so this game is kind of my thing.”

  “You know,” Elliot said. “Strictly speaking Free Parking isn’t an official part of the—”

  Terry cut him off.

  “Thanks for having us,” he said. “We had a wonderful time.”

  • • •

  My father leaned back in his chair while my mother finished Windexing the table.

  “Did you see the look on Terry’s face?” he said. “When I rolled that seven?”

  My mother scooped some crumbs into her cupped hand and went back into the kitchen without responding.

  “It was great, Dad,” I said. “Really, really great.”

  “You’d think a business tycoon would know a little something about Monopoly! Especially a robber baron like Terry Allagash! Oh man…that family hasn’t been creamed like that since the Sherman Act!”

  I had no idea what he was talking about, but I laughed along anyway. It was the happiest I’d seen him since he’d handed in his book six weeks earlier.

  “The trick is to control the board,” he said. “I knew I had them in the palm of my hand with those greens so I—”

  The phone rang. He answered with a cheery “Hey!”—but his smile quickly faded.

  “Yes…okay…I understand…”

  He took the phone into his bedroom and closed the door. My mother, who had been watching from the kitchen, sat down next to me.

  “What’s going on?” I asked her.

  She didn’t respond. She just kept her eyes locked on the closed door. Eventually, my father came out and slumped down beside us. His face was pale. He didn’t say anything.

  “What’s wrong?” my mom whispered. “Who was that?”

  “My agent,” he said. “They sold my book.”

  “Oh my gosh!” my mom shouted, throwing her arms around his neck. “I’m so proud of you! Oh, we need to celebrate!”

  She poured the last bit of wine into a glass and handed it to my father.

  “Which one was it? The St. Louis one?”

  “No.”

  “The Canadian one?”

  “No.”

  “Then…who was it?”

  “It was Bishop,” he said, forcing a smile. “They changed their minds. In the middle of the night.”

  He stared at the wine glass for a moment and handed it back to my mother.

  “Cheers,” he said.

  • • •

  My parents usually policed my television watching, but they were having some kind of argument in their bedroom and didn’t have time to deal with me. I sat on the living room couch for hours, watching old sitcoms, trying to make out their distant voices. Eventually, they came out of the bedroom and sat on either side of me. I apologized for watching TV so late, but I could tell they weren’t mad. My mom unbuttoned my shirt collar and rubbed my neck.

  “I’m sorry the shirt was so itchy,” she said.

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  “You don’t have to wear it again,” she said.

  My dad turned off the television, grabbed me a glass of water from the kitchen and sat back down next to me.

  “Dad?” I asked. “Are they going to make your book?”

  My parents shared a look.

  “Yeah,” my dad said, finally. “They sure are.”

  I hugged him.

  “Wow, first Monopoly and now this!”

  My dad laughed.

  “Anyone can land on Free Parking,” he said. “But thanks, kiddo.”

  My mom brought me my retainer and the two of them tucked me into bed, making sure to turn on the bathroom light on their way out.

  I was heading into a deep sleep when the phone rang out violently in every room in the apartment. I knew it was Elliot calling (who else could it be?) and that the ringing would wake up my parents. But I was too groggy to answer it immediately. By the time I crawled across the bed and grabbed the receiver, my mother was on the other line. She sounded disoriented. I don’t think anybody had ever called the house that late.

  “It’s okay, Mom,” I said. “I got it.”

  “Good night,” she murmured. “Good night, sweetie.”

  As soon as she hung up, Elliot launched into a monologue. He was speaking so fast that at first it was difficult to understand him.

  “Elliot, I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t talk about the election right now.”

  “This isn’t about the election,” he said. “It’s a completely new scheme. When I was sabotaging Douglas, I figured out a way to crack his final exam.”

  “Why do you need to cheat on that, Elliot? You’re good at history. You’re always reading those books about wars and stuff.”

  “Right—that’s history. Not Douglas’s parade of namby-pamby socialist fairy tales! I refuse to devote even one second of mental effort to figuring out which myth he wants me
to invoke! The melting pot? Susan B. Anthony? Sacagawea? Sacagawea? She was a servant girl!”

  “What?”

  “Listen to me. If Douglas thinks—”

  “Elliot, can you tell me about all this tomorrow? I’m kind of tired.”

  He kept on talking. Loud classical music was playing in the background and his voice was slightly slurred.

  “It’s so obvious!” he shouted. “Mr. Douglas writes his major exams over the weekend, so there’s no way to steal it from his desk. But if some higher authority demanded to see the exam in advance, Douglas would have no choice but to submit it! I know what you’re thinking: Which authority, right?”

  “Elliot…”

  “A fake one! I have James impersonate the head of a scholastic awards organization. He writes Mr. Douglas a letter on gilded stationary, with a wax seal. ‘Dear Mr. Douglas: We’ve been aware of your exam-writing talents for some time and would like to consider you for the prestigious Gladys Violet Award…’”

  “Elliot, listen…”

  “James asks him to send in his upcoming history final as a sample of his work. I memorize the answers, get a perfect score—and here’s the kicker! I write my test in purple ink! Get it? Gladys Violet? Purple? He’ll know I orchestrated everything! Of course, he’ll have no way to prove anything and even if he could he would be far too mortified to confront me. He might even convince himself that it was a coincidence and that he really had been nominated for some kind of teaching award. But deep down, the shame would fester in his heart, growing with every passing year, gnawing at his ego, driving him to the brink of madness—”

  “Elliot, listen, it’s late. I need to go to sleep.”

  “Absolutely not. We have work to do.”

  “I’m really tired.”

  “Trust me, you’ll want to witness this! Go downstairs. James will pick you up in five minutes, and you’ll stay the night.”

  “I have to wake up early tomorrow. My dad’s making waffles.”

  “You don’t like waffles. If you come here, James will make you a pie for breakfast, one of those disgusting ones you like so much, with the layer of sugar on top.”

  “I really can’t. But hey, I promise I’ll come over tomorrow, as soon as I can.”