The Rich Part of Life: A Novel

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

THE DAY WE WON the lottery I was wearing wax lips that my father had bought for the Nose Picker and me at a truck stop. We were driving back from my great-aunt Bess’s house in the old Buick and we stopped for gas at a place called Ammo’s along the interstate, where my father bought the lottery ticket along with the bright red wax lips.

It’s been thirty years since I’ve seen wax lips, my father said in his tired way as he reached into his pocket for money. My mother had died in an accident one year earlier on the same interstate and ever since then my father had seemed defeated like one of his Confederate generals that he read so much about. When he walked, he pitched his shoulders forward and bowed his head in a sad, thoughtful way that reminded me of grieving nuns. Earlier that day, I had heard him tell my aunt that he hadn’t been sleeping well.

My God, you shouldn’t be driving then, Aunt Bess had said. She had insisted on our staying overnight at her house in Milwaukee but my father had refused. Instead, he stopped for coffee at Ammo’s, and for the second time in a year, our lives changed forever.

Ammo’s was a dirty, loud place that stank of gasoline and oil. When the Nose Picker and I went to the bathroom, we breathed out of our mouths and didn’t bother to wash our hands in the small, stained sink. Once we got back in the Buick, we rolled up the windows to shut out the screeching and whining of the large trucks and to escape the smell of the bathroom that we were sure was following us.

Are your seat belts securely fastened? my father said as he got into the car, balancing his coffee on the dashboard.

Yes, I said, though mine was not buckled. I knew my father would not turn his head to check. He frequently had a stiff neck and kept head-turning to a minimum.

Tommy’s too?

I looked over at the Nose Picker and then helped him fasten his belt. Yes.

All right then, he said as he turned the key. We’ll be home in an hour or so, I imagine.

IT WAS EARLY EVENING in August, the time of day when the fading light and growing darkness hang in balance. While we drove back to our home in Wilton, a suburb of Chicago, I drew pictures of the white clouds in the sky, large and soft. The clouds hung high and I imagined my mother living inside them, floating quietly and humming like she did when she used to draw with me. The Nose Picker hated it when I drew. He became restless and then angry. He chewed noisily on his wax lips.

I want a crayon, the Nose Picker said. I want to draw too. I handed him some paper and a green crayon whose tip was well rounded. I never gave my brother a crayon with a sharp tip for fear he would stick it up his nose.

His interest in his nose isn’t normal, Aunt Bess had told my father. It must be some type of reaction to the death.

My father had not looked up from his latest Civil War book. He picked his nose before the accident. He’s only five years old. I’m confident that he’ll grow out of it.

Are they seeing a psychiatrist? Aunt Bess had asked. My father hadn’t responded, though. He just sat hunched over in a chair in Aunt Bess’s living room, reading about the life of Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, a Civil War general.

Later that night, when we returned home and were getting into bed, I asked him about the book even though I generally found his discussions about the Civil War dull and wanted instead to study the wax lips in more detail. The only thing my father showed any interest in, however, was the war and I wanted him to show interest tonight. He had been very quiet the past few days.

He seemed surprised by my question. Well, it’s about General Chamberlain, he said, clearing his throat. He held the Union flank at Gettysburg. He was silent for a moment and I could tell that he was thinking. It’s probably best that I diagram his maneuver. It was really quite remarkable. He pulled up my desk chair and reached for the pencil and paper that were on my desk. Chamberlain was supposed to hold the Union position at a place called Little Round Top at Gettysburg. Not only did he hold it, he performed one of the most extraordinary counterattacks in history. He split his men like this, like an L and swung half his regiment over like a door shutting. He routed the rebels.

At this point I realized that I had underestimated my father’s interest in Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain and, as a result, feared a major discussion on the war was taking shape. I had expected and hoped for a brief lecture, just enough to revitalize him, but judging from the tone of his voice and comfortable way he was arranging himself in his chair, I knew a lengthy dissertation on maneuvers and strategy was looming.

My father’s interest in the war had been the cause of many arguments between my mother and him. A few weeks before the accident, my father had begun planning a family vacation to Shiloh National Park. He was explaining to me why the battle was important when my mother walked into his study, saw the maps and brochures spread out on his desk and erupted.

Are you nuts? Why do I want to go there? There’s cemeteries twenty minutes from here, she yelled. It would be different if you had fought in the stupid war. Then maybe I could understand your obsession.

No, my father quietly said, I did not fight in the war. If I had fought in the war, I would be more than one hundred and fifty years old.

You act one hundred and fifty years old, my mother said. She picked up a brochure and then slammed it down on his desk. We should go some place fun like Las Vegas, she said. It’s very family friendly now.

My father looked hurt, his forehead pinched tight, his eyes faraway and resigned. It was a look that I would come to know well. Family friendly, he repeated.

Sitting on my small desk chair now, his legs crossed at the ankles, his hands in his lap, my father prepared to launch into a new discussion that could last indefinitely. He was an average-sized man, sagging and soft in the middle, with thinning white hair that stood out in small tufts on the sides of his head like cotton candy. His small, narrow eyes were offset by a strong and hard chin that jutted out in a way that incorrectly suggested confidence and pride. Leaning forward in my desk chair, I saw his eyes take on a rare bright and eager look as he scanned distant horizons, probing the rebel lines, searching for a weakness, a direction to charge. Gettysburg, Antietam, Chancellorsville, Bull Run, Atlanta, Lookout Mountain, my father was a veteran of them all. He had ridden in the mud with Grant, stood his ground with Jackson, maneuvered brilliantly with Lee, burned cities with Sherman, and died many times with Lincoln.

Daddy, my nose is bleeding, the Nose Picker said, walking into my room.

The blood was a startling bright red that dripped down Tommy’s chin onto his yellow pajama top. Despite its redness, I wasn’t concerned. Tommy had frequent nosebleeds, messy but harmless, and they required nothing more than a cold washcloth and a pat on the head to set things right.

My father, though, was concerned. Dear God, he said. Jumping up, he grabbed Tommy and disappeared down the hallway. Ten minutes later, when he returned to my bedside, I pretended to be asleep in a manner that I had perfected: mouth open, head thrown back on the pillow. I heard my father sigh and felt him readjust my sheets. Then I heard him walk out. That’s when I took the wax lips out from under my pillow and studied them.

They interested me, as most odd objects interest eleven-year-old boys. They were smooth and light and had a tiny ridge on the backside that slid between my teeth in a precise and perfect way. Putting them on, I imagined myself kissing Miss Grace, my soft and sweet teacher, full on the lips as we danced around her desk.

Teddy, she would whisper, holding my face in her hands. Teddy Pappas. Where did you get those lips?

After my vision of Miss Grace faded, I quietly took the case off my pillow and wrapped it around my head like a turban, then grabbed a blanket and threw it over my shoulders and wore it like a cape. With my wax lips firmly in place in my mouth, I then crossed the hall and entered the Nose Picker’s room, intending to wake and terrify him, something I occasionally did when the mood struck me. A few weeks earlier, I had hid under his bed and made vague growling noises until he screamed.

The Nose Picker’s room was small and so cluttered with toys and clothes, that it took some time before I could safely navigate a path to his bed. Once there, I hovered close to his face to check his nose for blood, something I knew my father would forget to do. Finding it clean and dry, I began to lightly moan through the wax lips, hoping to wake him. I did this for awhile, waiting for him to stir. When he finally did roll over, however, I stopped moaning. In his hands I saw a blue and pink sweater. It had been my mothers.

I stood there and watched him hold the sweater. I hated and loved my brother in a way that only brothers can and worried about him and his strange behavior. I knew he missed my mother fiercely and had heard him crying many times in his sleep. Yet, this was the first time I had seen him holding her sweater.

I watched him for what seemed a long time. His thick black hair was pushed back off his forehead and his mouth was open. He looked small and still and young. Taking the wax lips out of my mouth, I bent down close to his ear and whispered the Hail Mary My mother had always said this prayer with us at bedtime and my saying it then was as much for her sake as Tommy’s. When I finished, I returned to my room, my cape, a blanket again, dragging behind me. I was tired.

A while later, after I had fallen asleep, I was awakened by the sounds of sobbing. At first, I thought it was the Nose Picker but then, as my head cleared of sleep, I recognized the crying to be my father’s. This frightened me. I had only heard him cry once before and only briefly at my mother’s funeral. Fearing that he was hurt or sick, I carefully made my way into his bedroom where I found him sitting on the edge of his bed holding the lottery ticket that he had bought at Ammo’s. He didn’t notice me at first, so I stood and watched him cry, his shoulders shaking, his eyes wet and red.

Why are you crying? I finally asked.

He looked up and quickly wiped away his tears, embarrassed. The television, I just heard. I was watching the news on the television downstairs, he said. Then he looked down at the ticket, then back up at me. I think we won quite a bit of money, Teddy, he said quietly. Dear God, I think we won an awful lot of money.

CHAPTER TWO

WE WERE RICH in a way that I couldn’t understand. My father didn’t seem to understand it either for he went about his daily business of researching the Civil War with a heavier than usual grimness, a silence that deepened as time passed. Weeks went by and still he did not claim the ticket.

From time to time, news of the lottery would filter into our house, overheard bits and pieces from the television and radio discussing its size and speculating why the one winner who had purchased the ticket on the Illinois–Wisconsin border was not coming forward to claim the winnings. My father instructed me several times not to discuss the lottery with anyone and the unusually urgent and direct way he asked me ensured my silence and kept me from asking too many questions.

One night though I could not resist. Are we going to get the money? I asked as he passed my doorway on his way to his study.

Yes, he said. Then he said, I have to organize things first though. I have to take care of some things, and was gone.

As the days passed, I felt a growing excitement, a low heat simmering that warmed my skin, making it jump and tingle. The lottery and its mysterious winner were chief topics of conversation during those late summer days at my school, St. Pius, and my heart would leap forward whenever I heard it being discussed. Theories on why no one had claimed the ticket ran from the absurd (an alien had purchased the ticket) to the possible (the person had died immediately after learning he or she had won). My father, neither an alien nor completely dead, kept mum on the subject.

One day after school, I went up to my room and began making my List of Things, items I wanted our family to buy when my father finally did get around to claiming the ticket. While I was old enough to recognize that we already lived comfortably, my father was a professor at a major university and had written a very successful book on the Civil War, I wanted things that only the lottery could buy.

My list started slowly and predictably, with the usual computer games and art supplies such as paints, markers, colored pencils, easel topping it. The list developed a momentum of its own, however, as I progressed, expanding in different directions. Three new television sets were added since our old Zenith (bought, according to my father, when Richard Nixon was president) provided an unhealthy, greenish tint to every scene. I thought we could replace the Zenith in the family room with one of the new sets, then put another new television in my room and the third in my father’s room. The Nose Picker would get the old Zenith since he was still too young to realize that people’s faces weren’t necessarily the color of peas. I also included a VCR since I was sure we were the last people in America who did not own one, a fact I kept hidden like a rash.

Three new bikes were then added, one for the Nose Picker and two mountain bikes for me. I reasoned I should have two bikes in the event one was lost, stolen, or forgotten in a place that was inconvenient for me to retrieve.

I then added a large farm in Wisconsin. When we visited Aunt Bess in Milwaukee, we would sometimes drive up to Green Lake, a resort town an hour northwest for lunch or dinner. It was during those drives that I would admire the numerous farms we passed, their bright red barns and gleaming white silos clear and clean against the pure blue Wisconsin sky. I was particularly impressed with the size of the farms, their wide rolling expanses wrapping around the earth, hugging its edges. I thought we could use such space. I imagined idling away long summer vacations riding horses and fishing in our own private lake surrounded by gentle black-and-white spotted cows and salty but kind hired hands.

I next addressed our car, the old Buick forged, I believed, by ancient Egyptian slaves during the completion of the pyramids. It was so old that even my father, a savant with dates and presidential administrations, was unclear on its birth, saying it fell somewhere between the Ford and Carter administrations. My list replaced it with one of those sleek and sporty red Jeeps that filled most driveways in our neighborhood and I imagined my father, the Nose Picker and me riding high up on its leather seats, darting through the streets of Wilton with a precision and authority that always seemed beyond us.

Finally, I added a new house. Our brick two story colonial was in definite need of replacement. The upstairs shower leaked through the kitchen ceiling and during the spring, the basement flooded, forcing us to roll up the carpets and place important items on tables and couches away from the swamp. Our furniture had a respectable but faded look and smell about it that reminded me of the public library. The couch in the living room had two small puncture holes in it, the result of the Nose Picker sitting on it with a pencil in his pocket, and our small, round kitchen table was unbalanced, tipping unevenly from one side to the other whenever we ate.

Nothing would be unbalanced in our new house. It would be sturdy and bright with large windows that would let the light in at all angles. My bedroom would be spacious and airy with a skylight that would allow me to feel the sun in the day and study the stars at night with the aid of a high-powered telescope that would lower automatically with a quiet hum from a concealed compartment in the ceiling. My bed would be a water bed, I decided. Though I had never laid on one, or for that matter, even seen one, sleeping on water was an exotic notion that appealed to me. I also thought my room should have a small refrigerator, something in which to store my Cokes and 7-Ups, and a small robot to serve them to me while I gently rode the waves of my bed searching for undiscovered and unnamed galaxies.

I was sketching out additional details of the house when I heard footsteps approaching on the hallway stairs.

Teddy? It was my father, standing in my doorway, looking like a distant constellation. Teddy, please get your brother. I was unable to find a sitter so I’m going to have to take you with me downtown now. We have to do something, he said and then he was gone.

A FEW HOURS LATER at the press conference where we received the oversized check for a hundred and ninety million dollars, a woman reporter asked my father if he was married. Yes, I mean no, he said. I mean, I was married, but my wife is not with us any longer. She’s dead, actually. The reporters in the small, hot room in the hotel in downtown Chicago looked at each other and were confused. One man squinted his eyes and shook his head. Standing just behind my father on the small stage, I watched my father shift his feet.

I selected, I played her numbers, you see, he continued. Yes. I played her numbers, the numbers she always chose. They’re my oldest son’s birthday, actually. I guess that was a very lucky day for her, the day he was born. My father seemed to be saying this more to himself than to the reporters. She picked the same numbers every week for nine years, and . . . He stopped as if he just then realized that he was talking and cleared his throat again. No one said anything. Some reporters coughed but most wrote fast in their notepads. A TV camera light suddenly went on and I held on tight to Tommy’s hand.

When did your wife die? a reporter asked.

A year ago. A year ago today actually. Yes, today.

She’s up in heaven though, Tommy said. She’s up in heaven and we’re going to pay some money to get her to come back.

There was a stunned silence, a moment when everyone stopped thinking and breathing. As we stood there, I felt a wave of pity wash over my family, our lives suddenly a spectacle, a sad parade.

My father was slow to react. He stood with his shoulders hunched at the podium forever, his face blank and open. Then he finally stepped back and took Tommy’s other hand and mumbled something I couldn’t hear. More camera lights went on. A woman holding a pad and pencil wiped her eyes with a tissue.

Finally a reporter asked how my mother died, but someone from the lottery office took the microphone and said something about respecting privacy and reminded everyone that children were present. Everyone looked at Tommy and me and then everyone was quiet for awhile.

How does it feel to not have to work anymore? someone finally asked.

My father, clearly shaken by Tommy’s comment, was confused by the question and asked her to repeat it.

Are you going to quit working?

My father shook his head. No. Well, I intend to continue working.

You won a hundred and ninety million dollars, someone from the crowd yelled. Give the money back then. Everyone laughed.

What do you do for a living?

Well, I am a teacher, a history professor.

Why did it take you three weeks to claim the ticket? another reporter asked. She was a short, squat woman with black hair that hung over her eyes. When she spoke, she pointed her finger at us as if she were angry.

Well, I’m not sure, my father said.

Three weeks is a long time not to claim a hundred and ninety million. What were you thinking? What were you doing?

My father moved back up to the podium and gripped its edges hard to steady himself. It would be some time before I truly learned the answer to that question. It was a bit much to comprehend, he said slowly. I was very busy. Making adjustments.

Three weeks though, the short reporter said again. She was about to ask another question when someone yelled, I hope you were shopping, and everyone laughed.

Yes, my father said. I was very busy. And then we walked off the stage and began what I thought would be the rich part of our lives.

ON THE WAY HOME after the press conference, my father pulled over on the shoulder of the expressway and began breathing loudly and holding his chest. He had had a heart attack before I was born and took medication, antiheart-attack pills as my mother used to refer to them, for his condition. Due to the uncertain state of his health, I was convinced that Tommy and I daily walked the fine line that separates children from orphans. So real was this fear, that I had recently looked up orphanages in the local Yellow Pages to prepare for the inevitable and was both disappointed and relieved not to find any listed.

After a few deep breaths, my father started the car again and we drove in silence to the cemetery.

I forgot the flowers, he said, as we pulled into the parking lot. I left them in the kitchen.

It was a warm day in September, summer was fading and on the tips of trees the first shades of color were appearing. As we walked to where my mother was buried, I wished I had brought my sketch pad and colored pencils. I would only need two pencils though—orange and red.

When we got to the headstone, we stood. Surprisingly, we did not visit often as a family. I suspected my father thought it might be too hard for us. I knew he came alone many times though, disappearing for hours after dinner while Mrs. Rhodebush, our neighbor, watched us at home. The Nose Picker, finally tired of standing, lay on the ground, facing the sky, looking comfortable. I wanted to lie next to him and study the trees, but I didn’t. Instead, I stood next to my father and stared at the memory of my mother.

Your mother was born to be rich. That’s what she used to tell me. ‘I’m born to be rich.’ Now . . . my father wasn’t able to finish. I thought he might cry but he didn’t. He just sighed and bent down to pull a weed that was growing near the tombstone. He stayed in a crouch over the grave, smoothing over the dirt where the weed had been with his hand, patting it gently like it was my mother’s hair.

Your mother always bought lottery tickets, he said. I never did. I’m fifty-five years old and my entire life, I never bought one. Your mother bought hundreds. We always fought about that. We disagreed about many things. Then he stood back up and said, We should be going now.

When we got back to Wilton, Aunt Bess was waiting for us on the front porch. I liked my great aunt, though I suspected her presence annoyed my father. She was an outspoken woman given to wearing capes and owning cats. She had tall, black hair that rose upward at a crooked angle like the Tower of Pisa and large, equally dark eyes that could look at once both angry and soft. Despite being the age when most women shrink and shrivel, she remained very large and appeared to be expanding at a healthy pace. She spoke frequently in Greek even though she was born in Chicago and lived in Milwaukee, where she used to own a bakery until it burned to the ground after an oven exploded. When I was younger, I used to think she was a witch. She believed in ESP and used to communicate with dead relatives and famous celebrities using tarot cards. Once she claimed to have spoken to President John F. Kennedy, though she never discussed what he told her. It’s very disturbing, she had said. And I don’t want to put you in danger.

Close to eighty now, she had lost a bit of her mystery, but none of her drama. When she saw us, she fell slowly to her knees on the porch and simultaneously started crying and speaking in Greek. When she was through, she looked up blearily at my father, who cleared his throat and said, So, I assume you’ve heard our news.

Without explanation, she moved in with us that day, taking over the Nose Picker’s room. My father accepted this, as he did most things, without comment.

The next morning was Saturday and Aunt Bess made bacon and eggs for breakfast, walking slowly and with great effort around our table as she poured juice and coffee and buttered and rebuttered toast. Off in the corner of the kitchen, eggs fried and bacon popped on the stove, sending a spiral of salty smoke up to our cracked ceiling.

I ate my fried eggs in silence, intimidated at this early hour by Aunt Bess’s presence. Our kitchen, small and overflowing with the various baskets and vases my mother had collected, was overwhelmed by my aunt’s large size and loud voice. Stavros, my aunt’s oldest and favorite cat, lay motionless on the floor near the refrigerator. Even though Aunt Bess owned four cats, she brought only Stavros with her because he was partially blind and partially deaf and she wanted to be with him at the end, she said.

You look terrible in this picture, Aunt Bess said to my father as she handed him the newspaper. My father was drinking coffee in his peculiar and delicate manner, which used to infuriate my mother. Holding the cup with both hands, he closed his eyes and took two short sips before carefully returning the cup to the exact center of its saucer.

I’m sorry? my father said.

This picture, Aunt Bess said pointing to the photo of him, the Nose Picker, and me standing with the oversized check at the Marriott Hotel. You look like Christ on the cross. You don’t look like a man who just won a billion dollars.

It wasn’t quite that much, Aunt Bess, my father said, picking up the newspaper.

You could have at least pretended to be happy.

It was a poor photograph, my father said.

And you looked miserable on TV. Miserable. You looked mad, angry. You know what they’re saying about you on the radio this morning?

My father remained silent.

They’re saying, what’s the matter, is he angry he didn’t win more? They’re also saying you should buy a toupee. To tell you the truth, Theo, you looked very bald on TV. Well, not bald, but balding.

My father flipped slowly through the newspaper. I don’t think hair is on my list of, well, immediate needs, he said quietly.

Well, what is then?

My father just shook his head and said nothing. Since the press conference, he had said little, retreating into his remote space. He reminded me of a kite in the sky, flying higher and higher, getting smaller and smaller, with just a fragile string connecting him to the earth and to us.

Your brother called last night, Aunt Bess said, holding greasy plates walking over to the dishwasher.

Frank? my father said, looking up from the paper. There was an unusual trace of annoyance in his voice.

You have more than one brother? my aunt asked.

Why didn’t you tell me this last night?

Well, so many people have already called this morning, she said. She loaded the plates into the dishwasher. I can’t keep track. It’s craziness. People have been driving up and down the street all morning honking their horns and pointing at the house. I don’t know how you slept so long. I can hardly think. I called the police and complained.

My father looked startled. The police?

Yes. The police. They said they would keep an eye on our block. Personally, I’m glad Frank’s coming. Maybe he can keep those cars away.

Dear God. Frank is coming here? To this house?

He’s flying in from Los Angeles.

I detected an almost silent sigh from my father as he went back to his paper.

Frank can help you, Aunt Bess said. He’s an attorney. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing. You’ll need advice now. Besides, we have such a small family. All we have is Frank, really. Turning toward me she said, Your father and his brother Frank were inseparable growing up. Inseparable. They were the two smartest boys in the neighborhood. The two. Everyone knew they would be rich and famous. And now . . . she looked up toward heaven, closed her eyes and began mumbling in Greek.

My father looked at her and then nervously glanced over at me and said quietly, You’re going to frighten the boys.

I’m just giving thanks for being blessed with two genius nephews. Oh, your parents would be so proud. Geniuses.

Aunt Bess, please. I assure you, I am not a genius. I just happened to pick the right truck stop to buy coffee. And Frank, well. . . here my father stopped and carefully sipped some coffee.

His last movie didn’t do too well, Aunt Bess said.

I don’t think any of them have ever done well, my father said. Then he quickly added, At least according to Frank.

It was about vampires, she said. Vampire cheerleaders. She turned to look at me. Isn’t that amazing? Such creativity. Where does he get such ideas?

I nodded and finished my eggs. How come he just makes movies about vampires? I asked.

Aunt Bess picked up my plate and walked over to the dishwasher, considering my question.

Well, because they’re interesting. They’re interesting people, she said. Vampires.

Aunt Bess started the dishwasher, turning the dials slowly. Well, he’s done a lot of other things too. He made that one movie about all those pretty maids being murdered. Oh, I almost forgot, she said, turning to face my father. The man who owns the truck stop called too, a . . . She put on her glasses which had been hanging around her neck, and looked down at a long piece of paper on the counter where dozens of names and numbers were written. A Tony Ammosti. He wanted to thank you since he gets a percent of the winnings. He couldn’t make the press conference, he got the days mixed. He thought it was today, but he wished you a long, healthy life and said that you can stop by for coffee on the house anytime. She took off her glasses. Well, that’s very nice.

My father nodded silently as Aunt Bess put her glasses back on and glanced down at the paper again.

"Someone from People magazine called too, she said. They want to do a story on you."

My father looked over at her. "What’s People magazine?" he asked.

THE PHONE RANG early the next Monday morning. I got up and went down to the kitchen to answer it, something I had been instructed not to do by my father. He was in the process of having our number changed because people kept calling and asking for money.

Who’s this? a loud voice shouted over the phone. There was music in the background.

Who’s this? I asked back. Stavros, the cat, wandered gingerly into the kitchen and lay down under the table.

The Kink Man, the voice said louder. WROLL Radio. You’re on the air. Now, who’s this?

Teddy.

Teddy. You must be one of the rich kids. Tell us, Teddy, how does it feel to win a hundred and ninety million dollars?

Pretty good, I said, then hung up as soon as I saw my father make his way sleepily into the kitchen. He looked at me with small eyes and squinted. Then he cleared his throat and walked stiffly over to the counter to make coffee.

I stood next to him and quietly began making my cheese sandwiches for school, a responsibility I had undertaken since my mother’s death and would soon relinquish to Aunt Bess. I also made half a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich for the Nose Picker’s kindergarten snack and packed it away in his backpack. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched my father take his anti-heart-attack pills, listened to him cough, and assessed his chances of survival for that day.

Well, he said, after clearing his throat. I imagine you’re going to school today.

I nodded my head and carefully wrapped the cheese sandwich in wax paper, folding over the ends of the paper in the manner my mother had used. Upstairs I heard Aunt Bess’s heavy feet make their way to the bathroom.

Well, please, Teddy, remember what we discussed. Please be discreet.

My father had briefly considered keeping us home from school for a few days, thinking our presence would be a distraction. After some discussion, he had changed his mind and decided to let us go, instructing us not to discuss the lottery with anyone.

Don’t discuss it, he said again now at the counter. It’s really no one’s concern but ours.

Okay, I said and went upstairs to get dressed for school.

AS SOON AS I got to the St. Pius playground, Johnny Cezzaro ran over to me and began demanding ten thousand dollars in twenties and tens.

Come on, Pappas, I know you got the money. It’s just a lousy ten grand. That’s nothing to you. Your old man wipes his ass with ten grand.

No, he doesn’t, I said. The image of my father wiping himself with ten thousand dollars raced through my mind only to be quickly replaced by the sweaty head of Johnny Cezzaro, a short, wide boy with greasy black hair whom everyone disliked. Johnny was particularly despised by Mr. Sean Hill, the custodian who was almost a priest when he lived in Ireland. I had once heard Mr. Sean Hill tell Mrs. Plank, the principal, that "the good Lord should have just made another rat instead of Johnny Cezzaro. They don’t live as long and you can hit them with a broom