*Beans, Birthday, Bullshit*

The cord from the rotary phone in the kitchen stretched down the hallway. The receiver was in Mom’s hand as she called for Ted. Dad didn’t like to be kept waiting, and Ted ran from his room.

“It’s your father,” she told him, as if anyone else would call for an eleven-year-old Ted Mancini.

Report cards were two weeks out. Ted was nervous anyway.

“Hello?”

“What do you want for your birthday?” his dad asked. Ted’s stomach turned. He had been holding this in for months.

“I want to sponsor a child.”

“What?”

“A sponsor child.”

“You mean those fucking hungry kids on TV late at night?”

“Um, yeah.”

“You going to get a job and pay every month?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re ten.”

“Eleven,” Ted replied, his confidence building.

“No, Jesus. You are a fucking sponsor child. You and all the rest of your brothers and sisters. What else do you want?”

Danny walked past and bumped his shoulder into Ted’s. Ted flipped him off.

“Um…”

“Come on, already!” Dad said it in that monotone voice, which meant his teeth were clenched.

“A brush and a comb.”

“Christ,” Dad said, then paused. “Oh well, at least you won’t look like a ragpicker anymore.”

“Okay,” Ted answered softly.

“Put your mother back on.”

Ted could feel his eyes welling up. For seventeen dollars a month, he could feed a hungry child. But instead, there was a chance that in two weeks he’d be blowing out the candles on his Duncan Hines chocolate cake before unwrapping a fucking brush and a fucking comb.

“What did he want?” his mom asked.

“Just wanted to know what I want for my birthday.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked, noticing his face.

“And he wants to talk to you,” Ted said.

Danny was still in the hallway. If a shit-eating grin was a real thing, then he was rolling in a trough.

“Hey Marty!” Danny called out.

“Yeah?”

“Dad asked Ted what he wanted for his birthday, and Ted told him he wanted a brush and a comb, and then Dad said, ‘Well, you ain’t getting it!’”

“No, he didn’t,” Ted tried to assure him, holding in tears.

Apprehension hung in the silent spaces.

“Marty, did you hear what I said?”

Marty finally answered, “Well, ya ain’t getting it!”

Mom served hot dogs and beans at dinner for the second consecutive day. Ted was pissed, but more importantly, two days in a row meant it was the only thing in the house. That usually meant there was no money, which made it likely that Dad would come home pissed off.

Dad seemed somewhat jovial when he arrived, however. Ted’s oldest brother, Joseph, and his younger sister, Angie, soon joined him where he had parked in the den. Angie was discussing the cats, sharing observations she had made about some of them. The Mancinis had twenty non-spayed or neutered felines. Ted had noticed this habit his sister had started—warming up to their dad by acting as though she cared for each one of them. Soon, Joseph, who was fourteen, would tell Dad about a good grade he’d received.

At ten o’clock, Ted was still sitting in front of his beans. He had eaten his hot dog, even though it had touched the juice from the canned shit. His mom sat across from him, smoking a cigarette and reading a small booklet called “Our Daily Bread,” a subscription through the church. He had thrown some beans indiscriminately while she was doing dishes—a couple behind the fridge, one toward the back door. He tried to roll one under the fridge, but it didn’t make it, though he figured it would get dismissed as spillage.

“You gave me too many beans.”

Mom’s eyes didn’t leave her Daily Bread. “I gave you the same amount I always do.”

“Why do you give me any at all?”

“Your father and I tell you all the same thing. There are starving children in Ethiopia who…”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

He thought of his nonexistent sponsor child. Fucking hypocrite.

Angie popped into the entryway. Ted knew Dad sent people in to check whether he was eating his beans. Her smile was wide, again.

“Hi, loser.”

“Hi, asshole,” Ted shot back.

“Watch your language,” Mom said sternly, still buried in her Daily Bread.

Angie went to the cabinet, propping herself on the counter.

“Hey… there are cookies in here.”

Cookies going unnoticed in the Mancini kitchen had the same odds as a bear being overlooked in the same spot.

“Want one, Ted?”

He didn’t answer.

“Well, ya ain’t gettin’ it!”

Around midnight, it seemed everyone was asleep. Ted walked softly to peek in the den where Dad sat in a chair, typically dozing in and out of sleep until morning. He had faded off, and Ted took his beans to the back door and launched them into the yard.

Ted lay in bed. He often couldn’t sleep, and it felt like it would be one of those nights. Sometimes he would wake up, and his dad would call for him. It seemed like the only time they spent together. They would talk, but more often, they would watch television. It was years before cable was installed in the Mancini home. Most channels had “Off Air” or just static. One might feature a camp of skinny children with flies swarming them in some country in Africa. Eventually, they’d be eating bowls of rice, playing together, and smiling—all because of seventeen dollars a month from people who were not Ted’s dad.

As far as Ted was concerned, Dad didn’t give a flying fuck about any of them. Good mood or not, even if he was holding a Transformer and a bag of candy, Ted didn’t want to see him tonight. He slipped past again and turned the volume down on the black-and-white TV in the kitchen before turning the “on” button.  He saw a preacher on one channel in front of a large congregation. He searched the networks and UHF channels, only finding a man banging pots and pans together to demonstrate their durability. Ted snarled at him and tiptoed to bed.

One night, Dad brought home a box of Hostess cupcakes.

“Hey Teddyboy, you want a cupcake?”

Ted braced himself as Joseph, Danny, Marty, and Angie all rushed to get the line out before he could answer. “Well, ya ain’t gettin’ it!”

That phrase lived on. Years later, at Angie’s wedding, Ted brought a girlfriend. At the reception, Danny leaned in to tell her about the time Ted asked for a brush and a comb for his birthday. Ted can’t even type this shit.

“I think it’s adorable,” she told him. “I can totally picture it.”

“Yeah, that didn’t happen,” Ted insisted.

“Come on,” she teased. “It’s so you.”

When his birthday came around, they had a roast for dinner. It was the one non-holiday Ted could count on not being assaulted by cans of B&M baked beans. He knew there would be chocolate cake. He wondered about the brush and comb.

“Happy birthday to you… You look like a donkey… and you smell like one too.”

“A donkey’s ass!” Marty blurted, just before Ted blew out the candles.

“Marty, watch your language,” Mom said as she removed them.

As tradition went, the birthday boy got the first slice.

“Is that for us, and Ted gets the rest?” Dad quipped.

Everyone laughed. Dad always got laughs. A now-slim Ted will admit he had a belly back then, but he wasn’t fat. Not liability-in-gym-class fat. Not Darth-Vader-breathing-when-he-ran fat. Just a little pregnant-looking.

Dad was fat—and his fat ass was as comfortable planted in the couch denying help to starving children as it was doling out fat jokes.

The family devoured the cake and ice cream, and Dad slid an envelope across the table to Ted.

“Did he get money?” Marty asked, already jealous.

“No,” Dad said.

“There’s nothing in there,” Danny added, before Ted could open it. “You know why?”

Oh fuck, Ted thought. Here it comes.

“‘Cause you ain’t gettin’ it!” Joseph roared—a new delivery: coarse, loud, gravelly.

Ted opened the envelope. Not a brush. Not a comb. Not a Transformer. It was probably a letter explaining that Dad had no money.

“Does it say ‘you ain’t gettin’ it?’” Marty asked.

Ted quietly examined the note.

“Huh?” Marty pressed.

“What?” Ted mumbled, barely looking up. “It says you’re an asshole.”

“Language!” Mom scolded.

“Fuck you, Ted,” Marty shouted.

“Language!” 

The note read: Ted, we got your kid. It takes a few weeks for the information and other details to arrive in the mail. Love, Mom and Dad.

“What does it say?” Angie asked.

Ted looked at his dad with love falling from his eyes. He had been convinced Dad didn’t give a shit about him or about starving children getting rice and soccer balls. Sure, he had joined the “you ain’t gettin’ it” chorus, but behind the scenes, he had quietly sponsored a child. It hadn’t all been a joke.

“I don’t see a brush and a comb,” Danny said. “That means one thing…”

“Ted asked for a sponsor child,” Dad cut in.

“What?” Joseph asked.

Dad explained that for seventeen dollars a month, plus “fucking taxes,”  Ted would be providing a hungry child food, shelter, and water. He even said it was very thoughtful to ask for something for someone else.

“So where’s the kid?” Marty asked.

Dad sighed. “I don’t know. Africa? Somewhere with no food.”

“Boy or girl?” Marty asked.

“I don’t know. I asked for a kid who was an asshole so Ted would have something in common with it.”

Everyone laughed. Ted laughed the hardest.

“Stupid present,” Marty muttered. “I’m gonna ask for money for my birthday.”

“Why don’t you ask for a dick, since you don’t have one?” Ted shot back.

“Ted!” Mom snapped. “Please.”

The mailman came either just before the school bus dropped the Mancinis off or soon after. Ted would check the box on his way home or wait for him. The guy never said a word. He’d hand Ted the mail without eye contact. The envelopes read BayBank or MCI Telephone. Nothing from Africa. Nothing from wherever those kids were.

Weeks passed. Ted grew suspicious. First, he suspected the mailman. Maybe he lost the letter. Perhaps he stole it, intrigued by the foreign stamps. He wondered if Dad had lied about the whole thing. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Dad once convinced Ted that the family was moving to St. Johnsbury, Vermont. Ted was ecstatic. He researched farming, horses, and chickens. But mostly horses. One night, after miscalculating Dad’s mood, Ted asked if they should grow hay for their horse.

Staring at the ceiling from the couch, Dad replied in a dead voice, “We have enough horse’s asses here.”

Ted pondered the meaning of that for weeks. Then, one Saturday, he was in the back of the station wagon when an 18-wheeler passed them. Along the side it read: ST JOHNSBURY.

During the day, the mailman was the prime suspect. Ted glared at him when they crossed paths, flaring his nostrils like he was ready to fight. At night, Dad was the prime suspect. By then, Ted just had no energy left to care.

One rainy afternoon, in a substantial delivery of mail, an envelope with red, white, and blue stripes along its edges shone among the others. Ted snatched it. The paper was soft, and it made him nervous to tear it open, so he took it inside. He waited for his siblings to settle into the post-bus drop-off, who-gives-a-shit, and went to the basement. The envelope had stamps he’d never seen—lots of them, bright and strange. It was addressed to Mr. Ted Mancin. It was the first time he had been referred to as Mr., and despite the misspelling, it made him feel like some diplomat.

The card had a picture of a boy who smiled with his whole soul.

Name: Maddalati Dudi

Age: 9

Country: Seriously, Ted can’t remember. 

There was a small letter inside, and Ted unfolded it so quickly it tore an inch or two in the center.

My name is Maddalati. I am nine.

I play soccer. I am the best

math student in my class.

I have three goats.

The butterflies in Ted’s belly flew away one by one. He looked back at Maddalati’s picture. His smile was warm and enthusiastic. Ted liked him. He had a nice collared shirt on, and Ted figured the seventeen dollars was well spent. A nice shirt, three goats, and possibly a soccer ball, along with the food and water as promised by the guy on television. He was proud.

Ted ran upstairs to get a pencil and paper.

“Mom, I need a pencil.”

“Don’t you have one in your school bag?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Well, why not?”

Ted stopped, annoyed, on his way out of the kitchen.

“Mom, how much is a goat?”

“A goat?” she said, finally looking up from her Bible.

“Yeah.”

“You going to the goat store?” she smirked, barely raising an eyebrow.

“Maddalati has three goats.”

“Who?”

“My sponsor child.”

“Oh,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “Well… money’s different in other countries.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m not E.F. Hutton.”

She laughed at her reference, clearly amused, a little too amused.

“Smith Barney,” she said slowly, exhaling smoke through a grin like she’d just nailed a punchline on a game show nobody else was watching.

Ted paused. There was something off in her eyes—glassy and faraway, like she was half there, half floating through a fog. She wasn’t drunk. She didn’t slur. But sometimes she’d get like this, loose and unfocused, like her wires weren’t all connected.

“Jesus Christ,” Ted muttered, turning to go.

“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain!” she snapped, suddenly alert again, as if that part of her still had fight in it.

Finally, after Ted scrounged up a pencil, he returned to the basement and began to write. The butterflies flew back.

Hi Maddalati. I am Ted. I am eleven.

I don’t play soccer, but I play football.

I suck at math. Ha ha. Well, I guess I do suck

At math I mean.

Ted crumpled up the paper. He decided to try again after supper. He hid Maddalati’s letter—that was his. But he took the card with the picture upstairs and placed it on the mantle above the fireplace. He wanted his dad to see it.

He stared at his new friend, the card open at the mantle’s center. Then Marty appeared beside him, also looking at the card.

“Hey, Dickhead,” he said to Maddalati’s face.

“Fuck off.”

“Hmm. Doody. Good name. He kind of looks like he’s taking a shit.”

“You mean he’s taking a you?”

Marty paused, trying to sort it out. His eyes lit up. He grabbed Ted’s arm, stiffened his own, and twisted Ted’s into what professional wrestling called an arm bar. Ted dropped to a knee and grabbed Marty’s leg. He was determined to put his brother into a figure-four leg lock.

“Dad’s home!” Angie called out.  Everyone scrambled to assume positions that looked industrious. Ted and Marty split with whispered threats of mutual destruction.

The front door groaned in its frame, then popped. Dad cleared his throat and set down his briefcase. His steps moved to the kitchen. A chair slid. Another throat clear.

“Hello, hon,” his wife said, her voice trying too hard to sound casual.

Dad didn’t answer.

A long minute passed. Angie ventured in.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Tell everyone to get in the living room,” he said quietly.

She delivered the message like a verdict with no further explanation needed. One by one, they filed in like mourners. Joseph, Angie, and Danny sat on the couch. Marty, Ted, and their mother sat on the floor. The wingback chair—Dad’s throne—remained empty until he entered.

He came in fast and planted himself. His teeth were clenched. His eyes scanned the room, each kid dropping their gaze as he landed on them. He lingered the longest on Mom, who rocked slightly with her arms crossed, eyes red, a half-smoked cigarette smoldering in the tray beside her.

“Look,” he said. “I know you guys are turning on all the lights when I’m not here. You’re wasting food. Wasting money. None of you do shit around here.”

No one moved. No one responded. It was understood this was about income and not expenditures. Whether or not their father believed they were running around the house flipping on light switches just to spite him was a mystery.

“So here’s my idea—fuck you. You need ten bucks for basketball? Fuck you. Need sneakers? Go barefoot. I’m done with this shit.”

He stood.

“No pizzas. No McDonalds. No Twinkies. No Ding Dongs. Fuck it.”

He stomped off, but stopped mid-stride. His gaze snapped to the mantle.

He picked up Maddalati Dudi’s card and scanned it. His brows furrowed.

“Maddalati, you’re fucked!”

He threw the card like a fastball, but it fluttered and landed softly, right in the center of the room.

Joseph smothered a laugh with his hand. Ted moved to retrieve it, but froze until Dad stormed off, slamming the bedroom door.

Everyone scattered. Ted sat alone. He picked up the card and took it to his room.

Later that night, when the house was still, Ted lay in bed thinking about Maddalati. Would he still get rice next month? Could he keep the goats? Would someone tell him that Ted failed him and he had to leave his hut?

Maybe Dad didn’t mean it. Perhaps he was just mad. Maybe it wasn’t real at all.

He slid out of bed, crept down the hallway, and tiptoed into the living room. It was pitch dark. He felt along the mantle, found the center, and gently placed the card back.

In the morning, it was gone. No one ever mentioned Maddalati Dudi again.

Weeks later, a letter arrived for Ted. It was waiting on the kitchen table, unmistakable with its red, white, and blue border. He snatched it and took it to his room.

My name is Maddalati. I am nine.

I play soccer. I am the best

math student in my class.

I have three goats.

Ted flipped the page. That was it.

He stared for a long time, confused about many things. But in his haze, he did forge one certainty: He’s lying about those fucking goats.

***

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