by Edwin Dasso
“I guess we’re both single now,” he said, smiling. “What do you think?”
A little pleasant anxiety bubbled up in Jill’s chest. She liked Mark, a lot. Enough time had passed since her breakup with longtime boyfriend Alex that it wouldn’t be a rebound relationship. It might actually have a chance.
“It makes me a little nervous,” she said, smiling at him. “But in a good way.”
“Come sit closer. This chair is so comfortable, I might have to fall asleep,” he said, snuggling down into it. She moved from the couch to the window seat. “Tell me about the chair. I’m sure it has some family significance.”
She told him about her grandmother Eleni and the ancient overstuffed chair with its faded slipcover of printed cabbage roses. Jill remembered when her grandmother had the slipcover made thirty years ago. An old woman came to the apartment on a Saturday afternoon and measured all of the furniture. Spread over the dining room table, she’d displayed her selection of fabric samples, the bulk of which were dull, dark woven upholstery fabrics popular during that era.
“What do you think, arnáki mou, little lamb?” Eleni had asked uncertainly as she picked through the samples. Jill moved a pile of remnants and pulled out a bright red piece of chintz. Printed with golden roses and, every foot or so, a very small blue bird peeked out from behind a sprig of bittersweet, it caught the eye of young Jill.
“I like this,” she said, holding it up. Eleni smiled, picking up one of the corners to help Jill view it with her.
“Oh, I do too.” She looked down at Jill and said softly in Greek, “What would I ever do without you?” Bending to kiss her granddaughter’s cheek, Jill would remember it as being one of the rare times Eleni kissed her.
Holding the fabric up for the woman to see, she repeated their decision. “We’ll take this fabric,” she said.
The lady frowned. “That’s a lotta red for a small room.”
“Be that as it may,” Eleni said. “It’s what my granddaughter chose, and I agree with her. It’s bright and cheerful. We need that up here in the winter.”
On the day the woman delivered and installed the covers, the family was excited at the huge difference the colorful fabric made in the dreary room. Slowly over the years, the slipcovers faded after many washings. Long after Eleni died, the old furniture was going to go to the curb. Jill begged Gus to store it for her; someday, when she was finished with college, she wanted it for her own apartment. All that was left after thirty years of washings was the faded chair and ottoman, the davenport having bitten the dust.
“Well, I love this chair,” he said. “It needs to be preserved forever.”
“Most people look at it like it needs to be burned, but I love it, too.”
“So tell me, why do Greek women have ESP?” he asked.
Jill chuckled. “Who said they do?”
“Come on,” he said.
“Okay, well, you know the story of the Oracle at Delphi, right? I mean, everyone knows.”
“Ah, no, I don’t think I remember that one,” he said, laughing. “I must have been absent that day.”
Jill shook her head, but she smiled.
“Well, myth tells of an oracle, a priestess who spoke for the god Apollo,” Jill replied. “Her father was a shepherd who fell into the spring at Delphi, and when he emerged, he had the gift of prophecy. People came from all over Greece to have their fortunes told by the oracle until his daughter, the priestess, took over. After Christianity, they considered fortune-telling to be a sin, so it was only done in secret, and the myth persisted: the Greeks have the gift of prophesy. You want more than that, talk to my dad.”
“Are you a priestess? I see your altar over there.”
“Good observation,” she said. “But no, I’m no priestess. But my grandfather used to call me Apollo’s other daughter.”
“Explain please,” Mark said, his interest piqued.
“Do you know the story of Apollo?”
“Isn’t he the god of the sun?”
“Yes, and music and medicine and a lot of other things. Apollo is also the god of prophecy. He and his wife Chrysothemis had his only daughter, Parthenos, who died young. Apollo was heartbroken, placing her among the stars as the constellation Virgo. So when my mother insisted on naming me Jill even though it’s not a Greek name, my grandfather used to say Jill was Apollo’s other daughter, and I inherited prophecy from Apollo.” She laughed and sat back against the window, looking out.
“Do you speak for a god?” Mark said, teasing.
“I don’t speak for anyone,” Jill said.
“I still don’t understand why Greek women have ESP.”
“It’s not just Greek women, Mark.”
Rubbing his chin, he leaned forward. “How does it work?”
“I don’t like talking about it. As a matter of fact, talking to you like I am now, well, it’s never happened before.” Feeling compelled to tell Mark about how she discovered she could foresee events set a precedent of trust, and she told him as much.
“I’m honored,” Mark said sincerely. “I’ll never repeat our conversation, you have my word.”
Jill got up to go to the kitchen. “I’ll make tea first. It’s a long story.”
Mark got up to help her.
“The first time I remember there was something fishy going on in my head was in Sunday school.”
“Like church?” Mark asked. They took their tea back to the living room.
“Yes, now let me finish.”
He sat back, taking a sip of tea, trying not to make a face. He wasn’t usually a tea drinker.
“I was listening to the lesson, and all of a sudden I knew the teacher was pregnant. She was young and unmarried. It wasn’t something I’d ever encountered before.” She pulled her legs under her.
“After the class, I ran to my grandmother to tell her, but she wasn’t impressed. If I remember correctly, she may have punished me for telling such a story. But the next month the teacher left, and her news spread. My grandmother apologized and started to talk to me about what she called a gift.
“My mother was appalled,” Jill related sadly. “The church taught that ESP was a sin, and an archaic notion. So I had to hide it from her. My grandmother broke trust with my mother to talk to me about it.”
“Do you hear voices?” Mark wanted to know the how-tos.
“No, I don’t hear voices,” Jill said, exasperated. “I just know. Sometimes I get a bad headache.” She debated whether to tell him about an experience she had that summer, in which a searing pain through her ear knocked her to the ground. Suddenly, she knew a small child was in trouble. Later they found the child strangled. But as she remembered it, she knew she’d suffer if she repeated the story, either physically with pain, or psychically by guilt and sleepless nights, so she kept her mouth shut. Albert was the only person who knew the entire story, and when Jill confessed it to him, depression overtook her for weeks. She didn’t want to ruin the night.
“I have a little intuition myself,” Mark said.
“Well, there you go,” she replied. “That’s really all it is. Intuition. You can develop it if you want. Most people have intuition, but either ignore it or don’t recognize it.”
“I’m going to start listening and see if I’ve really got it. You know how you’ll think of someone and the next thing that happens is your phone is ringing, and the call is from the person you were thinking of? That sort of thing.”
“I love when that happens,” Jill said, then softly, “I read that when you are thinking of someone you love who died, it’s because they’re standing with you.”
Mark leaned forward. “No way,” he said worriedly. “That freaks me out.”
Jill put her hand over her mouth and started laughing.
“You laugh, but if that’s true, my dad is hanging around me right now.”
“Welcome him in,” Jill said. She felt like teasing Mark and could barely get the words out. “Speak to him.”
; “I’ll pass,” he said, frowning.
“Mr. Castro, welcome to my apartment,” Jill said. But she got serious, feeling compelled to go on reverently. “Your son is a decent man and a good cop. You would be proud.”
Mark sat very still. What had just happened, although having started out as a joke, filled him with emotion. Jill felt it, too. “I really think my dad heard you.”
Jill nodded her head.
They sat silently for a while. “I’d like more tea,” Mark said. “Why, I have no idea since I don’t drink tea, but for some reason it seems like the right thing to do.”
“When in doubt, drink tea,” Jill replied. He stood next to her while she rinsed out his cup and put a fresh tea bag into it. It was natural, being with her.
“Who said that?”
“No one. Me.”
“Just so there’s no misunderstanding, I think you should know I want to kiss you right now, but it’s only been five days since we met. I’m not sure you’d appreciate it.”
Jill turned to him. “If my face wasn’t bashed in, I’d kiss you first.” She pointed to the thin line of black sutures that disappeared behind her lower lip.
“Oh no. Damn,” Mark said. “I hope you’ll still feel that way after your stitches come out.”
“Come back out to the living room, and tell me about your father,” she said.
“I haven’t talked about him in a long time. The mention of his name sends my mother into depression and my grandmother cries, so I keep my thoughts to myself around the family.”
“Oh, that’s sad,” she said compassionately. “What happened?”
“He died five years ago. I was patrolling then, and he worried about me. Every morning he called me before I left my apartment. ‘Hijo ten cuidado hoy. Be careful today, son.’ On Friday he called, and we said I love you to each other, and then he went to his convenience store, which was in the process of being robbed. He was murdered when he tried to defend his employee.”
Jill scrambled to remember, and the story came to her. It wasn’t her case, but everyone knew, devastated because the victim was a cop’s father. While he talked about how it destroyed his family, Jill felt their anguish and sadness as he shared the experience.
“My mother has never recovered. She sold the store within a year and moved to Florida near my aunt. But I can tell she is still suffering. It’s as if she’s waiting to die. My grandmother kept her food truck, but she says it is a constant reminder of my dad. ‘My son died before me, so I must continue as though he were alive.’ She says that everyday.”
“What was his name?” Jill asked.
“Ronnie,” Mark said. “I thought it would be a purge talking about it, but now I really feel like crap.”
“It’s from holding it in all the time. I think if we talked about it more often, we’d get used to it.”
“You’re probably right,” he said. “Tell me about your mother.”
“She died when I was eight,” Jill said, reluctant to talk about it too, but thinking it might help him move on.
“How awful. I’m so sorry,” Mark said passionately.
“It’s okay,” Jill said. “I never felt much grief at the time. Maybe it’s waiting to come out and will destroy me later. But at the time, her life revolved around my brother who lives in a group home in Plymouth. She drove there to see him every day and was killed coming home one afternoon. My grandmother and father were raising me anyway, so it didn’t feel different. I missed her, but life went on. God, that sounds cold.”
“No, it doesn’t. How does an eight-year-old mourn?”
Shaking her head, she didn’t know. They talked until midnight about milestones and setbacks. Finally, Mark stretched his arms over his head.
“I guess I better get home. Seven comes around too early.”
“Stay,” she said. “Stay the night. You can sleep in my bed, and I’ll be right here on the couch. I’ve been sleeping out here anyway; I love the tree lights.”
Mark leaned forward in the chair again. “Really? I want to stay.”
“Well, stay, then,” she said, laughing.
“I’m going to accept. I don’t feel right about the bed, but I’m exhausted,” he admitted. “I don’t know if you’ll be safe with me here.”
“I’ll sleep with my gun,” she answered, and they laughed. “You can put your clothes right in the washer so you don’t have to go home in the morning,” she said. But he had a change of clothes in the car. It was a hazard of the job, sometimes being away from home for a day or two. He was always prepared.
Taking him back to her bedroom, she pulled the covers back. “Clean sheets,” she whispered mysteriously. “Like I knew you were going to sleep here tonight.”
“Now you’re really freaking me out,” he said.
“I’m in control of our relationship,” Jill said, deadpan. “You are under my spell.” But she burst out laughing.
“I wasn’t sure if you were teasing me again or not.”
She moved past him, backing into the bathroom, enjoying acting out the combination of titillation and ridiculousness.
“I’ll brush my teeth, and the room will be all yours,” Jill said, sweeping her hand to the bed.
“I think you should join me,” he said softly. “I promise I won’t touch you.”
“Yes, well, I’m not sure I could promise you,” she said, closing the bathroom door.
Mark went out to his car for the overnight bag while Jill got ready for sleep. She made up the couch and was tucked in when he returned, locking the door behind him.
She looked up, and he was standing at the back of the couch. “What?”
“I promise to behave if you want to sleep in the bed with me,” he repeated hopefully.
“No, I’m fine on the couch. And my rib and all…”
“That would be fine,” he said, teasing, but winced.
She didn’t want to sleep with him because it was available, as lonely as she was. She wanted it to mean something. How many men can I sleep with before it means nothing? They were not going to play house.
“Go to bed, Mark,” she said, laughing. “It’s not any easier for me.”
“Oh, all right.” He looked down at her. “But it’s going to be difficult knowing you’re out here.” Reluctantly turning away, he took the bag back to her bedroom.
She closed her eyes, listening to him changing his clothes, the sound of water running while he brushed his teeth and then the click of the light switch, the apartment dark except for the twinkling lights from the Christmas tree.
“Good night, Ma.”
“Night, Pa.” Within a minute, his snoring seeped out into the living room. She’d later say it was one of the best nights she’d ever had.
17
In Eaton Rapids, Liz and John Zannos were having yet another moment in their marriage. John was propped up with pillows in his single bed with the light on, reading a new book. Lying in the marriage bed alone, Liz was unable to sleep, anger for her husband growing exponentially. The past two days were almost unbearable. He was going to stay there in the house, ignoring her, and go on with his life. It didn’t bother him at all that she was nearby.
The previous night, the day after the deer incident, she caught herself going through the motions, preparing a meal for them both. Old habits were dying hard. She swung from thinking, What difference does it make if I continue to cook for us both, to, How dare he think I’m going to cook his meals!
A large pan of lasagna was on the counter with a big salad and garlic bread. Smelling the food, John came in with one of the four papers he read folded under his arm and took his place at the table. Reaching for two plates, Liz absently prepared both plates of food until reason caught up with her. She portioned out a heaping pile of lasagna on her plate and with one swift move, pulled the trashcan from under the sink and dumped what was left of the pan into the trash along with his plate. John saw her do it and gasped.
“Liz, what the hell are you doin
g?” He hadn’t used her name in weeks, and hearing him say it moved her to insanity. She picked up the bowl of salad and threw it at him; he didn’t duck in time, so the side of his head took the blow. Hearing the thud, she had a moment of concern, but it was a stainless steel bowl, not leaded crystal. He’d survive. It immediately defused her anger watching the mess, salad flying all over her immaculate kitchen.
“Fuck off, John. Pack your clothes today and get out, or I’m going to throw it all out on the lawn. Remember Paula? Yep, just like that. Gonna do it, so don’t tempt me.” Nick’s wife, Paula, had thrown the contents of his dresser drawers on the grass…but tried to pick it up before he returned from Greektown during a blow-out last summer. Liz remembered the shock she felt that her sister-in-law had stooped to such a low point. Now, she was in the same predicament.
“This is my house, too,” John whined.
“Well, I’ll buy you out. But you’re not staying here.”
“Where am I going to go?” He looked lost, and for just another second, Liz felt some compassion for him. But she fought it.
“Go to your brother’s place. Or to the summerhouse. But you’re not staying here. You are the one who doesn’t want a marriage, not me. So go be unmarried. I’m staying here.” She took her plate of food and threw it in the trash, not thinking about the twenty dollars worth of ground beef and fresh mozzarella. “And thanks for ruining my appetite, again.”
Now, three nights before Christmas, she was thinking of how intolerable the next days would be unless something changed. Murder crossed her mind, but they didn’t have a gun in the house. And she really didn’t want to spend the rest of her life in prison.
Throwing the covers back, she got out of bed and went into his room without knocking. He was sitting against the headboard with his knees bent. A tray with a small pot of tea and a plate of perfectly arranged cookies that she’d bought were on his bedside table. He had to look up but regretted it immediately. He saw a stranger standing in his bedroom door, wearing a diaphanous gown of white fabric leaving little to the imagination, and for a moment, he thought she might be coming in to attempt to have sex with him.
