Lily and the Lost Boy

by Paula Fox

  “Paul. Tell us,” his mother pleaded.

  “I am!” he cried out.

  “All right … all right … calm down,” muttered Mr. Corey. Paul looked at his father as though he’d said something unbelievable. “Jack and I gave the little kids rides,” he said. “Then Jack took Christos. He went on the embankment path. I saw the bicycle skid. Jack fell. The bike, with Christos on it, went over the side.”

  “The doctor come but he can’t do nothing,” Mr. Kalligas told them.

  “It was dark,” Paul said. “Jack rides better than anyone. But it was so dark …”

  “Do the parents know?” asked Mr. Corey.

  “Nichos went to get them.”

  “I want to go home,” Hanne Haslev said. Mr. Haslev took her arm, and they went down the hall and out the door. Mr. Kalligas stayed on, following the Coreys into the kitchen, where Mr. Corey began to wash up some coffee cups. Paul went to stand by the table, pressing one hand down on its surface and staring at his fingers spread out like a starfish. Mrs. Corey moved distractedly about as though in search of some object. She turned abruptly and stared at Paul. “Go and wash your face,” she said shortly.

  Mr. Corey shook out the cloth with which he’d dried a cup and hung it carefully from the lip of the sink. What a fussy thing to do, Lily thought.

  “Go where?” Paul asked in a bewildered voice. “We wash up here—in the kitchen.”

  Mrs. Corey gave a nervous, quick laugh. “Yes … yes. You’re right. I forgot.”

  “You were warned, Paul,” Mr. Corey said grimly. “You were told it was dangerous to ride anyone on the handlebars.”

  “Boys do dangerous things,” Mr. Kalligas declared. “My own son, too. He nearly fell off the acropolis. Now he is grown and works at his job in Germany and doesn’t do no more dangerous stuff.”

  “Where is Jack?” Lily asked. They all turned to look at her. She wondered if they were as startled by her voice as she was. She hadn’t spoken since before the play began. So much had happened after the first beat of the drum that had separated day from night. In the play there had been a death that had taken place out of the sight of the spectators. Another, real death had happened down the hill from the theater. Her thoughts ran wildly in all directions, and most of them were questions she didn’t believe anyone could answer.

  “That boy—he run away,” Mr. Kalligas said.

  “Does his father know?” wondered Mrs. Corey.

  “I think he is in Thessaloniki. That’s what he tell Giorgi yesterday—that he must go there.”

  “How terrible!” exclaimed Mrs. Corey. “Jack will be frightened, alone.”

  “Not that one,” declared Mr. Kalligas.

  Jack had stayed with the Coreys the last two nights. Since he didn’t speak about his father unless it was to boast about him, nobody in the family ever knew where his father was.

  “The police will want to talk to him,” Mr. Kalligas said. Paul flinched and timidly asked, “Why?”

  “Because the police always have to ask questions when an accident happens. Also, they like to make everything their business,” Mr. Kalligas replied.

  “How do you know he ran away?” Lily asked. “Maybe he’s somewhere in Limena.”

  “I know,” Mr. Kalligas said. “I hear shouting. Mrs. Kalligas say to me, go see what has happened. I walk down to the quay and I see Jack—running—running—on the Panagia road. I called out, ‘Hey!’ but he didn’t look, just run on.”

  “Paul?” questioned Mr. Corey.

  “The last I saw him,” he answered dully, “was when the doctor was sliding down the bank to where Christos was. He just disappeared.”

  Mrs. Corey, her eyes filling with tears, said, “Those poor people … the mother and father …”

  Mr. Kalligas shook his head. “This is a terrible night,” he said. “For Costa, his children are like two little birds.” He made a sheltering gesture with one of his hands over the other.

  “Could he have gone back to Panagia?” Mr. Corey directed his question to his son. Paul shook his head. “He never stays where they live if his father’s away. He told me his father had gone to Salonika.” Paul hesitated a moment, then said in a rush, “It’s to get a check from a lawyer there. Jack’s mother sends them a check every six weeks. She’s rich—and all they have to do is stay away from her. That’s the deal, Jack’s father said.”

  Lily saw her parents exchange glances.

  Paul was looking up at Mr. Kalligas. “Will they do something to Jack?”

  “What you mean?” Mr. Kalligas asked. “Who? The police? Costa? No, no. The boys been riding like that before you came, even before Jack came. The police warn them. They don’t do nothing. And the man who rents the bicycles—he’s lazy and greedy. He knows he shouldn’t let them. He knows he should get new bicycles. But he takes the drachmas and he drinks the retsina and he doesn’t think about it anymore.”

  Was it one person’s fault? Lily asked her mother when Mrs. Corey came in to say good night to her.

  “It’s everyone’s fault, I guess,” Mrs. Corey said. “The police who didn’t really make them stop, the bicycle man, Jack, Paul, all except little Christos. He was too little to understand the danger—maybe I mean he was too little to believe in the danger.”

  “But if all the others understood, why did they do what they did?”

  “Understanding can be fitful,” Mrs. Corey said. But her voice sounded uncertain, and even by the dim glow of the shadeless floor light Lily could see how troubled she looked.

  When Lily walked into the kitchen the next morning, her mother was asking her father to let Paul sleep. “He was awake during the night,” Mrs. Corey said. “I found him in here and asked if he wanted to talk. He only shook his head. He feels very bad.”

  Lily had heard Paul, too. She had been lying awake, imagining Jack alone somewhere, in the acropolis or among a grove of olive trees.

  “I’ll get the bread and eggs,” she said. Her parents were sitting at the table looking intently at each other. They seemed not to have heard her.

  “Could he get into serious trouble?” Mrs. Corey asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Mr. Corey said. “People tolerated all that wild riding around on the bikes. Of course, that will end now. You could say Jack was being generous, giving a little kid a ride who couldn’t afford to rent his own bicycle.”

  “You could,” Mrs. Corey said. “But I don’t think anyone will.”

  “I walked over a railroad bridge over the Susquehanna when I was a kid,” Mr. Corey said. “My parents would have gone mad if they’d seen me, stepping on railroad ties, the river rampaging below. The other kids thought I was a star. I could have killed myself … or caused some terrible accident.”

  “And his father always away,” Mrs. Corey said, “leaving him alone. He’s never said a word to us about all the nights Jack’s stayed with us.”

  “Mom! I’m going to get breakfast,” Lily said loudly. They stared at her in surprise as though they hadn’t known she was there in the room with them.

  The village lay quiet, sun-struck, and the whirring and clicking of insects seemed unusually loud to Lily. Perhaps she could hear them so clearly because there were so few people about. She met Mrs. Kalligas walking down the slope. She was carrying a covered plate.

  “The poor little family,” she said to Lily. “I’m going there now to take some food. My husband has been there all night.”

  “Can I go with you?” Lily asked impulsively.

  “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Kalligas responded. “They’ll be glad if you come.”

  How, wondered Lily, could Costa and his family be glad of anything?

  It was certainly true, she observed, as they walked through the village square, that there were far fewer people around than she had ever seen in the morning. When she mentioned it to Mrs. Kalligas, she told Lily that it was because people were so unhappy about the death of Christos, and that many men and women and their children were visiting Costa’s hou
se, taking food to the family and sitting with them to comfort them.

  Mrs. Kalligas led Lily down a lane where a small group of people were gathered in front of a house and were speaking softly among themselves. Lily saw Stella and Mr. Kalligas. Walking slowly away from them was the village priest, whom Lily frequently saw hurrying down a street. He was called the pappas. He wore a long black habit and a tall round hat that was like a stovepipe. His thick beard curled like a bramble bush, a long silver cross hung from his waist, and his dark eyes seemed to bore through people to something inside only he knew about.

  The door to the house was open. A ray of sunlight struck the stone floor at the entrance. The rest of a long narrow room was dark. When Lily followed Mrs. Kalligas inside, she saw a row of people sitting on benches along the wall. At the very back Costa and Nichos were sitting on either side of a small, plump woman whose hair was loose and disheveled. Without making a sound she moved her head constantly, her hair swirling about her white face. The three of them looked very small, like children. They were huddled together as though to protect themselves as best they could against a bitter cold wind. From one of the women on the benches came a low, steady sound of weeping. Mrs. Kalligas put down her plate on a table loaded with other dishes covered in mesh or cloth to keep the flies off.

  Lily stood in the middle of the room. No one spoke to her. After a moment she went back to the street where Mr. Kalligas was talking to Stella. Stella looked down at Lily. She reached out and very gently tugged Lily’s braid, then walked into the house.

  “You are well this morning?” Mr. Kalligas asked Lily as they went back up the lane. Lily nodded. “A dreadful day, yesterday,” he said. “I’ve been at Costa’s all night. Now that Mrs. Kalligas is there, I can go home.” He paused. “Your brother came, they were glad. Costa embraced him.”

  “Do people stay all the time?”

  “Oh, yes. When there is a death, no one is left alone. They will stay until the time Costa can go back to his work. He is too weak now. He can’t do anything. He can’t walk.”

  She and Mr. Kalligas were speaking in Greek. He had always until that moment spoken English with her. She hadn’t realized it until she had thought, how well he speaks! Of course, it was his own language! He was a different man in Greek, not comical at all.

  “Do you think Jack went home to Panagia when he ran away?” she asked.

  “Perhaps. This morning early, on the first boat from Keramoti, I saw his father when I stepped out from Costa’s to get some coffee. I ran to tell him about Christos. But he was already on his motorcycle and riding to the mountain like a devil. It doesn’t matter. Someone will tell him along the way or when he gets there. The island knows now.” Mr. Kalligas paused and looked up at the mountain. “The island knows,” he repeated.

  After they had parted, Lily went to buy a loaf of bread at the baker’s. She held it up to her nose. It had such a cheerful, hopeful smell. For a moment she forgot all that had happened since Mr. Kalligas had appeared on the balcony the night before.

  “I went to Costa’s house,” she told her parents who were still sitting at the kitchen table, much as she had left them. They hadn’t even known she was gone! She put the loaf on the table. “I skipped the eggs,” she said. Her mother touched the bread, then stood and embraced Lily. “I’m glad you’re back,” she said. At that moment Mr. Haslev walked into the kitchen carrying Christine on his shoulders.

  “Tell us about Costa,” Mr. Corey said. There was something new in his voice, as there had been in Mr. Kalligas’ voice when he spoke to her in Greek. Her father had asked her the question the way he would have asked a grown-up.

  She told them how it had been—the warm, dark cave, the woman weeping, the little family almost hidden in the shadowed corner of the room. Mr. Kalligas had seen Mr. Hemmings earlier, so at least he was back from wherever he’d been. Paul walked into the kitchen while she was speaking. Christine laughed and shouted his name. Paul reached out and wiggled her foot in its worn red sandal.

  “If Jack knows his father is back, he’ll go home, unless he’s already there,” Mrs. Corey said.

  “There’d be no reason for him to go home,” Paul said.

  “But if his father—” began Mrs. Corey.

  “There’d be no reason,” Paul repeated firmly.

  The afternoon dragged along. Through the hot, sticky hours Lily and Paul played silent games of cards, so distracted they would forget whose turn it was to deal. They both made mistakes, which neither of them made comments about. Mr. Corey slowly packed his books and papers. Mrs. Corey, saying they’d have to eat supper no matter what, and she’d have to shop for it but was too tired at the moment to think about it, went to lie down on her bed.

  Around six Lily heard footsteps in the hall. She and Paul went quickly to her door. Mr. and Mrs. Corey were across the way. Mr. Hemmings, leaning forward on his toes, was standing there. He looked at each one of them in turn, his heavy eyebrows drawn together over his eyes.

  “Is Jack here?” he asked abruptly.

  “No,” replied Mr. Corey curtly. “We haven’t seen him since last evening.”

  “You?” Mr. Hemmings asked Paul. Paul shook his head.

  “If he comes here, we’ll let you know,” Mrs. Corey said softly.

  Mr. Hemmings didn’t look at her. Deliberately, it seemed to Lily, he spoke only to her father. “Naturally, he’ll come home to me when he’s good and ready,” he said. “And he knows this island better than many of the people who live here. He couldn’t possibly get lost—not if he tried.” He turned from them and gazed back to the front door as though to measure carefully the distance between it and where he stood.

  He suddenly shrugged his shoulders as though in response to some question he had asked himself. He turned back to the Coreys.

  “They tell me,” he began, “that Jack was the one who was riding the little boy on his handlebars. I find that hard to believe. He’s much too bright to do such a stupid thing. He was flying up and down hills when kids his age were still on tricycles. The Greeks are bound to lie to protect their own. It’s natural. After all, we’re foreigners.” Suddenly, he began to pace up and down the hall as though he were thinking. But Lily didn’t think he was. It was more as if he were on the brink of dancing, his steps rhythmic, his body so lithe as he moved.

  He turned to them again, keeping his distance from them. “He’s a free and independent kid,” he said then in a hard voice. “I’ve made it my business to see that he’s that way.”

  “He’s not free and independent if he can’t make choices about how he behaves,” Mr. Corey said in a voice as hard as Mr. Hemmings’s.

  “Anyone can have an accident,” Mrs. Corey said, taking a step toward Mr. Hemmings.

  “I saw him,” Paul said thinly.

  Mr. Hemmings lowered his head, looking up from under his brows at Paul.

  “How could you have seen him? It was dark,” he said gruffly.

  “He lifted Christos onto the handlebars,” Paul said, his voice rising. “And they rode off. There was the crash of the bike hitting the ground. Jack screamed.”

  “He didn’t,” Mr. Hemmings contradicted. “He never screams!”

  “He did!” Paul cried out. “It wasn’t completely dark. There were lights in the fishermen’s houses. The bike skidded. I saw the front wheel turn quick. It went over. Jack got himself off. One of his legs was up in the air a second. Then he was standing and Christos and the bike went over the edge—”

  He broke off and glanced at his father. Mr. Corey was silent. “He didn’t do it on purpose,” Paul said. “He couldn’t help it.”

  Mr. Hemmings covered his face with his hands.

  “He must be scared,” Mrs. Corey said. “But he’ll come home eventually.”

  “Jack is never scared,” Mr. Hemmings avowed, but for the first time his voice wavered. He looked at Mr. Corey. “He can make choices,” he said, but he spoke without conviction now. It almost sounded as if he were plead
ing for someone to agree with him.

  “Paul will help you find him,” Mr. Corey said.

  “I know some places he might be,” Paul said eagerly. “He sleeps in the acropolis—well, he used to, before he started coming here.”

  “And at the beach in the shack,” Lily offered. Paul looked at her, startled.

  Mr. Hemmings stood flat on his feet, unmoving, his shoulders slumped over. “I know he does that,” he said sorrowfully. “All right, then. It’ll be dark very soon. We’ll look for him at first light. We’d never find him now. I have to go see the museum fellow.” He stared at them all. Lily wondered if he hoped someone would tell him he didn’t have to go to see Costa and his family. When no one spoke, he said, “Yes. I’ll go there first.”

  “Shall I meet you somewhere in the morning?” Paul asked him.

  He nodded. “I’ll stay at Giorgi’s,” he said. “He’ll put me up.”

  But it was Lily who found Jack.

  NINE

  Lily had not slept a wink. She lay on her bed staring at the open window. It was like a small stage where first Agamemnon leaped into view, his painted warrior’s mask shining like the hard face of a huge, angry doll, then Mr. Hemmings, his face masked by his large hands. That afternoon, when he’d taken his hands away from his face, it had looked different, not so much softened as shapeless, his skin full of folds and pouches as though a screw at the back of his neck had been loosened by his worry.

  Sometime during those hours she had crept into her parents’ bedroom. Next to their bed, on the floor, was a small clock with a luminous dial, which showed her it was just after two a.m. She listened to their even breathing. One of them sighed, but she couldn’t have said whether it was her father or her mother.

  For a few minutes she sat on the balcony. Beneath a full moon the sea seemed to quiver. There was no wind. Her bare feet and legs were as pale as marble. She knew she was postponing what she had—at some moment—determined to do. In the kitchen she ate one of the English biscuits they had bought in Kavalla. She went to look in the sink to see if there were slugs curled in a heap around the drain. If she could look straight at them, it might give her courage. But there was nothing in the sink except a peach pit someone had forgotten to throw away.