The Buses and Other Short Stories

by Dora Drivas-Avramis

  But Theodore couldn’t sleep. An unbearable dullness crept into his days and passed into his blood; the repetitiveness of the daily routine irritated him, restlessness seized him and kept him sleepless. The nagging questions of belonging would not go away. Theodore felt like a stranger in his place and a stranger among his own people. The words of Kyrios Lukas, the schoolteacher, echoed in his mind all over again: ‘you Diaspora folks are strange.’ And perhaps this was the truth, the truth that he had felt inside him recently. Now that he admitted it, he felt calm and resentful: calm because everything that troubled him up to now took its place within him, and resentful because he was and would remain a mixed person—a Greek-Canadian.

  Theodore wondered whether 1976 was the best year for him to have visited Greece, when Canada was the focal point of the world with Montreal’s Summer Olympics. He was so sorry to have missed the opening ceremonies. He was also disappointed to have missed the CN Tower’s opening to the public, an event all Torontonians anticipated. He longed to see Gunsmoke, his favourite television program, and to turn on CBC radio and hear Foster Hewitt’s dramatic play-by-play of hockey. But most important, Theodore missed The Elmwood’s bustle; he longed to be busy and serve his customers again; to chat with Bobby and Russell, his two buddies, the postmen who dropped by for bacon and eggs every morning. Would his partner Pete remember to be courteous to Miss Harriet who came daily for her apple pie and milk? And he missed resting on the bench at the nearby park, feeding the birds after the hectic lunch hour.

  After only six weeks in Greece, Theodore informed his parents he had received word from his partner that he was urgently needed at the restaurant. He would be returning to Toronto in three days. His decision to return relieved him. And the more he reflected on it, he was comforted with his Papou’s saying: “Theodore, my boy, you can never step into the same river twice.”

  Making The Old New Again

  “Look, Mom the snow on the sidewalk has melted completely. The winds have lost their anger.” Then my daughter raised the window higher, stuck her head outside and sniffed the air. “Toronto is beautiful this time of the year! Its greenness smells of spring. It smells of Easter, Mom. When can we start our preparations for the big holiday? Can I help you with all the baking again?”

  My daughter’s boundless enthusiasm made her blue eyes sparkle and the freckles on her nose and cheeks accentuated the freshness of her velvety skin. In her eagerness to welcome the new season, there was impatience in her voice, the impatience she displayed as a little girl when she stomped her feet on the floor.

  “Well, will we start soon?”

  “Yes, we will, darling.” My voice sounded dull, somewhat lifeless and I wondered about it. Perhaps my langour reflected my old age. Then, I remembered all the upcoming arrangements for Easter: the endless shopping, the baking, the egg decorations, the midnight masses and on and on. The same old, same old, like every other year.

  “Of course I’ll help you with the spring cleaning first, and then I can’t wait to help with the Easter cookies, Mom. Oh, I do love the coming of spring and all the changes it brings. I mean all those things that change and become new.”

  I didn’t answer. But I felt the wide gap between us. All the things that were becoming new for my young daughter, year in and out were for me ever so old. And yet I did not want to grow old. As if it was possible for me not to age. And suddenly I remembered my aunt’s words: “Old? Do you find me old? When the mind is still sound and the body maintains its vigour, no one is old, my dear niece.” She was my mother’s older sister Cleo. “Well, do you find me old, my dear niece?”

  “You, old?” I started to laugh. You, my dear aunt are as young as me.”

  “As young as you? What do you mean, dear?”

  “Well, look we walk together; we could run a marathon.” My mother heard it and chided me, “you’re full of nonsense, child.” But my aunt turned her head, laughed and said, “I know what you mean.” Maybe back then I didn’t know quite what I meant, but now, as my hair begins to whiten, I know only too well.

  Suddenly, my daughter’s keen voice interrupted my thoughts. “Mom, I can’t take it anymore. I’ll get my bike, ride around the block and maybe afterwards, walk in some trails in High Park.”

  “Be careful, darling, and please return before it gets dark.”

  “I will.” She threw her jacket on her shoulders and took off like a carefree butterfly.

  My daughter’s mention of High Park turned my thoughts to when I was my daughter’s age and my mother and aunt strolled in the park. Surely my dear aunt would be laughing if she were here now. Perhaps she would even tell me the same thing she said to my mother back then: “Goodness, Anne, pick up your step, show some spirit in your walk, so you can keep up with your daughter.” This remark annoyed my mother and she would get back at my aunt by accusing her of never having amounted to much, that she spent too much time reading, painting and looking after the garden. Regretfully, my mother concluded that my aunt would die an old maid in that ridiculous room of hers whose walls were covered with paintings.

  Full of light and colour, that silly room was the most beautiful I had ever seen. With the exception of a few portraits, young and old figures in bold colours, most of the paintings on its walls depicted outdoor scenes. There were images of plants, a variety of trees, flowers, insects and fruit. And when the sun pierced the panes of the oversized window, the outdoor illustrations glittered and transported one to the nearby High Park. It was there where my aunt derived her inspiration and spent countless hours painting.

  One day I asked her, “Why have you hung all your works on the walls, auntie? Mother says…”

  “What does she say? What? Come on tell me, my sweet. Why have you lost your voice?”

  “Mother says…, it’s the most joyous room which resembles a garden in bloom.” My aunt gave me a serious look and replied in a most refined voice, “oh, my sweet girl how fortunate that you have not inherited anything from her.”

  An inexplicable feeling took hold of me; it was as if an invisible thread tied me to her. We had become one and we could never lie to each other. I could sit by her side for hours and ask her all kinds of questions, questions that came naturally to me and needed to be answered sincerely. And she answered them in a heartfelt manner based on my soul’s needs rather than the wants of her own experience.

  “My dear aunt, why are you always changing this room? Yesterday your sofa was facing the window and now you’ve placed the armchair in its spot. You’ve replaced the burgundy curtains with the green ones…”

  “I’m making the old new again, my child. All that I have in this world and with these weary legs of mine I’m carrying on and on.”

  “And aren’t you bored, auntie?”

  “Come close to me, my child and let me whisper something in your ear. If you don’t want to feel old, you should walk as well. And don’t stop. Develop an interest in making the old new again, and keep it. Do you hear me? Don’t stop and don’t get bored.”

  I stared at her trying to make sense of her advice. She noticed my confusion and continued: “Some day you’ll remember me, surely you’ll remember.”

  And I do recall her words now. My aunt was young, very young. Her white hair and wrinkled face revealed her true age. But her eyes sparkled; they were vigorous. She could see far, even the dawned sun because she believed in it. And her belief had depth; it was as deep as the roots of her soul. And she wanted me to believe as well.

  “It’s important, very important, my dear, that you are able to see the rising sun as you grow old.”

  Perhaps I was around twelve at the time. I recollect running up the stairs in a huff, bursting into her room without knocking. With a feathered duster in hand, she turned abruptly towards me and gave me a puzzled look.

  “What’s all this? “What’s the matter, child?”

  My sobs erupted from the depths of my soul. The love within me was so heavy and my young body couldn’t carry it on its o
wn. I cried ceaselessly, for the pain and bitterness within my soul was too strong. Then I felt her hands pulling me affectionately in her embrace and caressing my hair ever so softly. “Cry, my little one, cry as long as you need to.” And I continued my sobbing until my heart lightened somewhat. Then, she took my hand and we walked towards a white pot, set on the window’s ledge and planted with red and yellow tulips. “See these beautiful tulips, they’re blossoming like you. I water them occasionally so that their roots can draw the light which will keep them warm during the winter’s dark nights. Now tell me why are you crying, dearest?”

  “Tell me, auntie, is everything a lie? The love we feel for each other, all the goodness and kindness, the truth… and, and the love between a boy and a girl… is everything one big lie…?”

  My aunt placed her hand on my mouth. “Hush, my child. Who told you this?”

  “Mother called me in her room today, I don’t know why exactly, but at one point she straightened my hair, then, pulled my dress down which she found tight around my chest. Then, in a serious tone she mentioned something about me having become a young lady now. And… and I had to be extra careful. ‘People are very bad,’ she said, ‘and men in particular are liars. Don’t trust anyone, my daughter. Love, intimacy and all that don’t exist; they’re all vile. Don’t believe in anyone and anything.’ She went on and on, but I don’t remember the rest. I couldn’t bear to hear any more and left the room.”

  I stopped talking and looked at my aunt anxiously, as I waited for her response. But she did not answer. She simply grabbed my sweatshirt which I had tucked under my arm and said, “Put this on, child and come with me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  Silently, we descended the oak staircase and exited our old stone house, located a mere two blocks from High Park. When we crossed the light at the curb, I realized we were headed towards it. It was a lovely warm day, the kind of day that puts a spring in your step. The bright sun made the greenness of our surroundings more intense and my aunt quickened her step forcing me to keep pace with her. Once inside the park, she rushed towards some wild flowers in mauve, rose and yellow colours, kneeled and practically hugged them. Then, as she turned left and right looking for other natural treasures, she hummed a song and dashed towards a bed of rose bushes that were full of buds.

  “Look, look around you and see what mother earth produces. Look closely, my dear niece and notice what springs up from the soil. Examine all these flowers before you. They’re all different, just like all the people!”

  She accelerated her pace, almost ran towards the elegant cherry trees. “Notice their beautiful fluffy pink and white flowers, my dear. Aren’t they gorgeous? Their flowers will last anywhere from four to ten days, depending on weather conditions. But please notice as well that straggling, climbing woody vine nearby.” And she pointed to the plants in the thickets with the reddish pointed leaflets. “It’s the poison ivy. Its leaves will turn green in the summer and become various shades of yellow, orange or red in the fall. It has the ability to give you an itchy rash if you touch it. So, train your eye carefully and learn to distinguish the beauty among the thorns. There are flowers everywhere, my sweet girl, in every season of the year, but you have to learn to find them.”

  My aunt pointed out the popular maple trees and the majestic black oaks with her usual boundless enthusiasm. “Just imagine my dear, how fortunate we are to have this opportunity to explore nature right in the city.” Periodically she stopped and asked me to look up and admire the rising sun, and take in as much of its energy as possible, because it would keep me warm in the dark wintry days.

  The more my aunt described the plants and flowers around us, her passion was contagious and I began to laugh and enjoy the beautiful flora and undergrowth. And in doing so, I forgot all about my mother’s lecture earlier in the day. It was definitely behind me and I started shouting, “Yes, auntie I see, I see!”

  Now as I lean on the window’s sill, I see the greenness around me that my daughter noticed this morning. She’ll return soon to tell me all about the shoots in the ground, and all the different birds, mammals and insects she had noticed in the park. I’ll listen to her with interest and show her the same attention I had displayed on that day when my aunt helped me discover the beautiful life around me. I’ll tell her about the importance of the rising sun. And I’ll even answer her questions about baking those cookies for the upcoming holiday.

  The Sunset Years

  The mind is its own place, and it can make a heaven of hell and a hell of heaven. -John Milton, Paradise Lost

  I was standing in the wide corridor when she appeared in the doorway of her room. Directly behind her the open window cut a piece of sunlight that silhouetted her tiny figure, with a slight hunchback. Frail, she moved slowly, in her fluffy brown slippers, with her reed-like limbs below her dark cotton dress. I noticed that she was guarding something with both hands, but at first I could not make out what it was. It looked like a package of some sort, or a tiny box. When she came a bit closer, I realized it was a tattered leather pouch, jam-packed with something. Holding it tightly to her chest, she approached, hesitant, closer to the doorway, looked right, then left and came and stood before me. She probably could not see me very well, for she stood on tip-toe and opened her eyes widely.

  “Nadia, have you seen, Nadia…, want to see her so much. You saw her, why hasn’t she come?” Her trembling voice and short breath caught me off guard.

  “I… don’t know…, no, I’ve not seen her, really I do not know,” I said in a confused manner. She then lifted her right hand and motioned me to wait until she came back; she went in slowly and reappeared with a framed photograph of a pretty brunette in a graduation gown. “My daughter, my Nadia,” she said in a warm and proud voice, as her illuminant eyes decorated her entire face.

  That’s how I met Mrs. Petakis, the old lady who gave me some insights about life’s humble, but most important things. She was in the Hellenic Villa, a care facility for the elderly, situated in Toronto’s west end. Built further back from the curb, and surrounded by trees, its location projected a park-like setting. The building’s light brick and colourful trimmings and its cozy balconies embellished the entire neighbourhood. Its imposing awning above the main entrance, triangular in shape and made of glass, gave it a presence just behind the circular driveway. Great care had been taken to beautify its interior as well. The high ceilings and large windows made the foyer and gathering place transparent, the ample sunlight that flooded inside created the sense that the garden itself was part of the main floor, all green and flowery.

  I lived in a house, almost directly across from the Hellenic Villa, and I know that my neighbours admired the facility; many participated in its fundraising activities and volunteered there. A big fan of the building (even though she had not stepped inside) was my next door neighbor Mrs. Souris, a petit woman in her late sixties, but in full vigour, with a dark complexion and beady eyes. From a small village just outside Sparti in southern Greece, she had come to Toronto in her mid-thirties. She now cared for her two grandchildren, a girl of about six and the three-year-old boy—her two ‘brats’ as she called them. With a broom in hand, Mrs. Souris stood frequently on her grey, wooden veranda, and gave the Hellenic Villa a long envious look. “How lucky all those old people are to live in lavishness,” she mused, “and for having loved ones who could afford such luxuries.” She said this often to me, but did not have the time to think through what she said. No, my neighbour did not have one minute to reflect on life’s important things. She sighed more than she talked. Mrs. Souris had everyone on her back and so many tasks waiting for her – all the cooking, feeding her brats, washing their clothes and cleaning the house – yes, her chores were endless.

  “They’re either crying or tugging at my skirt, they never leave my side these unpleasant children—always in mischief they are, and the little one here always stretches his arms fo
r me to pick him up. What am I to do?” Poor Mrs. Souris, how could she not wish to live in the Hellenic Villa? “Imagine,” she used to say, “those people up there have no care in the world, they nap when they feel like it and wake up at their leisure, and others prepare their meals. And they have all those nice doctors and nurses looking after them. As for me, I go to bed bushed every evening.”

  One bright spot surfaced in the dark cloud which hung over Mrs. Souris and that was her only daughter, Eugenia. A hairdresser, she worked long hours at a downtown beauty salon. She was talented as a hair stylist, but her customers were hard to please; indeed their fussiness had no bounds: when she cut one’s hair, it was not the right length, and, when she dyed another’s hair, she had not captured the preferred shade. This experience, combined with the endless bus ride home, fatigued her to the bone, but regardless of her tiredness, Eugenia always showed Mrs. Souris her gratitude and love.

  “You don’t know what it means to me, Mana to come home and find the kids all taken care of, and the food on the table no less. Thank you, Mana; I could not have done it without you my dear. What would become of me, a single mom, raising two kids on my own—no, I could not have done it without your support.”