The Buses and Other Short Stories

by Dora Drivas-Avramis

  “No dear I’ll taste them on Easter Sunday.”

  Penelope did not argue with her mother. Was she too tired to put her foot down and make the old lady eat something or did she agree with her? She did not know. Nor did she know why she assumed Eva was the one who had something to do with Pete’s missing cross. Perhaps she had not been fair to the child, after all.

  The car’s windows were misty, but Penelope discerned the low, dark sky and the branches of the tall trees, on both sides of the road, yielding to the strong winds. No one walked on the sidewalk, and the wet pavement glistened in the darkness. Everything appeared gloomy, so gloomy that it forced Penelope to look back at her earlier life with nostalgia. And the more she scanned her whole past in memory, an anxiety oppressed her mind. She closed her eyes and all at once a light’s glow slowly intensified and transformed everything around her. Nature was decorated with the white and pink blossoms of the almond trees, and mimosas bursting into bloom; the earth smelled of chamomile, lemon blossoms, and laurel; red poppies encircled Penelope; and the balmy breeze warmed every pore in her skin. It was as if she, too, was a part of that whole, perhaps a small pebble of Greece’s earth.

  As much as Penelope recreated the blissful sunshine and the blessedness which it spread around her, she could only reflect on it from afar. The rain drops pounding the car’s roof were intense, its windows were still blurred; the dampness pierced Penelope’s limbs and her entire body trembled. The children in the back seat huddled against their yiayia. The tears rolling down Penelope’s cheeks were warm and for a brief moment her thoughts vanished. She couldn’t nail them to anything. What accounted for this secret sorrow which burdened her heart? Had she lost her courage to face the fact that she was in a different country?

  For now, she was certain of one thing: This was Holy Week, and true to her Greek heritage, Penelope wanted to observe all the Orthodox practices – prayer, fasting and vigils – associated with Greek Easter. These sacred practices bonded the generations together, and they mattered deeply to her. Together with her spirited mother, she had worked so hard to bake the traditional koulourakia (butter twist cookies) and tsoureki (Easter bread), to ensure everything went smoothly, right up to the celebratory Easter Sunday.

  But even to a faithful soul like Penelope, the aim was daunting. As much as she applied herself physically and creatively, she was sadly coming to the realization that it’s not possible to uphold all the Easter traditions in their entirety here in Toronto. And as much as she was reluctant to admit it, she had begun to grasp this reality during the last two weeks. A seamstress, who worked at Eaton’s alteration department, it was with a sense of trepidation when Penelope approached her manager for permission to take Thursday, Friday and Saturday off to prepare for the Easter celebrations. The three-day leave she requested was the week’s busiest for Eaton’s, Toronto’s famous department store. She feared for her job. The resistance from her children when it came time to change their school schedules and other activities to accommodate the religious holiday was distressing for her and the entire family. Her husband had to beg some of his colleagues to swap his day off at Molson’s Brewery. Deeply rooted in their new environment, all the members of her family had broadened their horizons now, and there was no turning back.

  Surrounded by her loved ones in the car now, Penelope felt alone. Guilt, coupled with regret, bordering on shame washed over her. And the more she thought of the day’s events, including the missing cross just a few minutes ago, she felt an inexplicable heaviness in her heart. A sense of loss added to her loneliness, because although she was physically in the heart of Toronto, her soul and heart were tied to a faraway country, a land where the Easter celebrations of long ago were completely different from today’s time and place.

  A host of heart-rendering thoughts went racing through her mind, and as soon as she tried to express one, another would immediately thrust it out of focus. Then, she lost her thoughts entirely and in her pursuit she crossed the Atlantic. Familiar images – lovely colours and scents – dear to her were taking shape. She ran in the colourful fields with so many other children on Palm Sunday, and her father helped her tighten the grip on the string, as the wind carried her red kite even higher. With both hands Penelope held on to the soaring kite, and she dug in her heels, dragging the soil in straight lines.

  The morning of Good Friday was a highlight for young Penelope as she attended church with her sisters, mother and grandmother. When the priest took down Christ’s icon from the cross, wrapped it in linen and placed it in the great casket, she enjoyed decorating, along with the others, the casket with flowers symbolizing Christ’s tomb. Then, that evening the sepulchre was carried through the town, with the priest leading the procession, and everyone lamented Christ’s death. It was a solemn occasion. But its poignancy heightened the congregation’s holiday spirit because the night glittered outdoors and the motionless air was redolent of spring and festivity. Late in the evening on Holy Saturday, everyone flocked to church carrying with them unlit candles, the lambades. At midnight, when the priest chanted Christ’s resurrection Christos Anesti, everyone lighted their candles with the Holy Flame, embraced and kissed each other and asked for forgiveness. Then the impressive fireworks lit up the sky to commemorate the joy of the Resurrection. After this, everyone went home for the traditional meal.

  It was Easter Sunday though, which delighted young and old alike, but especially the young, when the aroma of the lambs roasting on the spit wafted everywhere. Bright and early the grills were red hot and the spits turned the customary main attraction, the whole lamb, representing the Lamb of God. With her siblings, relatives and friends, Penelope gathered around, carved mouthwatering chunks directly off the spit and devoured them. All kinds of drinks flowed freely with the traditional meal and the dancing afterwards continued into the streets well into the night.

  III

  Inside the car, Penelope shuddered with the images of her youth in the Greek countryside. Her eyes were dry, and at times she felt them fixed in the void, in the past which rolled in her veins. The long yarn of her memory placed her into a lonely, pensive state, and when her eyes clouded over again, she buried her face into her hands.

  The car’s sudden jerk brought her back home, and as Gus moved the gear shift in the ‘parking’ position, he announced with a hint of pride, “Well, we made it and the rain has stopped.” When no one commented, he turned to Penelope and asked, “You OK?”

  “I’m fine, thanks, let’s get going.”

  “You sure? Your eyes are bloodshot.”

  “Yes, truly. All’s well. Please look after the children and I’ll walk with mother. Thank God we don’t need these umbrellas now.”

  Gus held the Ekklesia’s oversized oak door and the Lekas family stepped into the foyer. The golden pews were packed, and the familiar fragrance of incense and the burning candles warmed their hearts. The bright iconography and the brilliant chandeliers enchanted their eyes. The cantor’s chanting inspired their souls and filled them with the beauty of contemplation. Penelope unfastened her coat and walked reverently in the familiar holy site. When she lighted her candle, it flickered and dimmed slowly. She waited. Just as the candle’s flame was about to go out, it reversed course, its brightness gradually grew in strength; the flame stopped wavering completely and stood erect resembling the shape of a cypress tree. Along the row of the lighted candles, Penelope planted her own—golden, warm and full of life, all the candles stood unswervingly, one after the other like the days in front of her. It was comforting.

  Briefly, she glimpsed the next row of candles, the shorter ones, which were snuffed out, cold and melted; some were still smoky—all formed one sad line of life past. Instinctively, Penelope looked away from this row. The lighted candles attracted her; she fixed her glance on their glow. At that moment, she sensed a tug at her coat. It was little Eva with pleading and anxious eyes, motioning her mother to help her light her own candle. Penelope’s motherly instincts overpowere
d her; she lifted her daughter and they lighted the candle together. At that moment Penelope wrapped her arms around the little girl’s frame and whispered in her ear: “I love you so much, my darling. Don’t worry about Pete’s missing cross; it’s bound to be around the house somewhere. Tomorrow… tomorrow we’ll look for it together.”

  Misplaced Duty

  When Peter Pappas stole the funds from the Hellenic Humanitarian Fund, commonly called the “Fund,” the scandal disgraced his entire family; it consumed the parish of the St. Paul Greek Orthodox Church in Toronto and changed it forever. Pappas confessed to taking the money, an act which surprised every member of the congregation, but the details as to why he did it were sketchy.

  In the beginning, the worshippers and the Fund’s committee spoke compassionately of young Peter. They remembered the altar boy who volunteered tirelessly to ensure the success of every church event; as the Fund’s treasurer, he had always produced sound reports. And given their favourable impression, it was all the more difficult for them to comprehend why Peter compromised his position.

  Eventually, the more the crime was discussed, the parishioners’ merciful attitude hardened. The chitchat within the church turned cruel and in due course, the gossip mill spared no one. The deeds of every member of the Pappas family were scrutinized by Peter’s shameful act. Some recalled the young man’s late father who had been charged with tax evasion, and his father before him was a gambler. Others talked about the uncle who had been accused of wife abuse, not to mention the sister who had married a good-for-nothing rake. Yes, the entire present and previous Pappas clan was shaken up.

  When the rumours spread to other parishes within Toronto’s Greek Community, the Fund’s committee members called a meeting in a desperate attempt to see what could be done to bring an end to the unpleasant business. One by one, the twelve members climbed the steep oak staircase of St. Paul and entered the board room on the second floor. The dimly lit room had a dark oak table, centered evenly on a heavy crimson carpet, and glass-enclosed displays. Miniature statues and other articrafts decorated its walls. Around the big table, the simple, hard-working men who made up the committee had come from all over Greece, from the slopes of Mt. Olympus to the shores of Crete and Cyprus. Their callous hands showed the crushing labour they had endured as seamen, who battled the rough seas, scrubbed decks, and mended sails; as farmers who had ploughed hard fields, dug around the citrus trees, and pruned the vines. Their dark, weather-beaten faces reflected Greece’s blistering hot sun and its raging north winds.

  The conversation at the meeting started off in a loud and heated manner. After much debate and soul-searching, some members proposed that the committee should collect enough money for Peter’s airfare back to Greece for about six months until the entire scandal blew over. Specifically, young Pappas was to go to Molae, a city about forty kilometers south of Sparti in the south-eastern part of the Peloponnese peninsula. The money Pappas had stolen was intended to buy an ambulance for that city’s hospital. They hoped that if the lad saw in person the need for the ambulance there, he would be much more contrite. Almost everyone agreed. And that’s how the entire matter would have been solved, if an important figure had not complicated the plan, and created a delicate situation.

  Father John, the priest of St. Paul was chairman of the Fund’s committee. An exceptional man, with a short frame and a dark face, he had a bristly beard and bulging eyes which gave him a severe expression. He rarely spoke, except to command or criticize. Father John felt that Peter Pappas should be prosecuted and he took it upon himself to persuade the rest of the committee that it had no other choice but to report the incident to Toronto’s police.

  As God-fearing men, the committee members had never questioned the decisions and judgements of Father John. Religion was not just a matter of faith, but their daily life, their culture and heritage—and the priest’s opinion was God’s word. But they were also men with integrity, compassion and values, and the idea of young Pappas being turned over to Toronto’s police did not sit well with them. One after another they expressed their views. “The poor lad!” “He’s terribly sorry now.” “He deserves another chance, Father.”

  “But my fellow Christians, young Peter committed a crime,” Father John snapped. “We have laws in Canada which must be obeyed, and those who break them must be punished.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, Father,” old Nicholas Bailis replied, who was the Fund’s vice chairman and acted as the spokesperson for the committee. Tanned, with a vigorous countenance, he had thick snow-white hair and below his silver eye-brows, blue childlike eyes. His lips bore a fixed smile, spared by the storms of seventy years. “Perhaps, indeed, Father; the young man did make a terrible mistake, but shouldn’t we forgive the poor sinner? Shouldn’t we offer our hand to this fallen person, who is a pitiful sight? Is it wise to give him another blow just when he needs us the most? And besides, why should his poor mother suffer, yes, his poor mother, a widow, who slaves from morning till night at the Embassy Cleaners to put food on the table?”

  “Yes, indeed, Father! The woman works her fingers to the bone, week in and week out,” old Alexander, the Fund’s secretary, corroborated.

  “Maybe she does work hard, but she obviously failed to instruct her offspring; she should have taught young Peter the Ten Commandments, and instilled God’s teachings in him,” the priest retorted.

  “Perhaps that’s true,” Nicholas agreed, “I can’t argue with you there, Father, but why bring pain on the boy’s uncle, Philip—the poor man who works twelve and fourteen hours a day at the family’s restaurant?”

  “Or his cousin, George?” old Gregory, the Fund’s senior fundraiser, asked.

  “Yes, poor George, you know, the one who walked for miles to collect funds for the establishment of our church,” old Basil, another key fundraiser, agreed.

  “Please, Father, you must see, Nicholas continued. “We cannot embarrass the rest of the family and bring it trouble. You cannot argue against us.”

  “Can’t I?” Father John grew cross. “What are you all talking about? What does this business have to do with the rest of young Peter’s family, please tell me that?” He crossed himself in a nervous manner. Clearly, he had not expected this resistance; he fixed his eyes on them and a scowl formed on his face.

  “Now, Father, we don’t want any bad feelings here; you know we don’t want a quarrel. Let’s all try to discuss this matter peacefully. Let’s not think of the young man and his entire family, but let’s think of our parish or for that matter, the entire Greek community. You must see Father that we want to go about our business holding our heads high. And how would it sound to our children and our community members if they heard on CBC Radio or read in the Toronto Star that ‘so and so in the Greek Community was charged for stealing?’”

  Father John crossed himself again and appeared puzzled by the committee’s determination. His eyes flashed angrily and red spots surfaced on his temples. As he stood before them dumb with emotion, he failed to notice the profound humanity of these men, who understood just how much of a good comes from love and goodness in this world. They had seen life’s great things and had lasting memories of pain, the kind that pierces the mind. Having lived under oppression and occupation, they knew about death, hunger, fear, thirst and deprivation. They lived with the unwritten code that the suffering, misfortune, and yes, the shame of their friends and neighbours were also theirs. And for this reason, they couldn’t turn their back on young Peter’s misconduct.

  “Look, Nicholas Bailis and the rest of you, I don’t want any trouble either, but you listen to me and listen well. This is not about our community, nor is it resentment against young Pappas. This is all about my duty, and believe me, I know my duty and I’ll execute it despite all of you!” shouted Father John.

  “Your duty is to lead people to God’s bosom, and you’ve done the opposite, Father.”

  Father John sprang to his feet and rushed towards the door of the me
eting room, turned back, frowned at them and stormed off. In his passion, as he scuttled down the stairs, he saw an image of Peter Pappas and thought of how he disliked the lad. Yes, he had a grudge against him. He remembered that, unlike the other altar boys, young Pappas refused to kiss his hand as a sign of deference for his spiritual leader; and, come to think of it, he didn’t come to church all that often. And when he did come, he always asked the most difficult questions. The priest found everything about the lad abnormal; with his long hair, he appeared to be a typical chap one would notice in Toronto’s Yorkville area, perhaps California’s beaches, but definitely not in his church.

  Upstairs the committee members remained at a loss. They feared Father John’s position and threat. They knew him as a stubborn man who raised every trifle to the level of a problem, who attacked the wayward ways of youth with their long hair, loud music and short skirts. They recalled his biting tongue and mercurial position regarding politics, a topic he always managed to incorporate into his sermons.

  “Why just this past Sunday he praised Prime Minister Trudeau’s decision in sending troops into Quebec; he called it a courageous act to keep Canada united,” recalled Basil.

  “But two weeks ago he attacked Trudeau’s government, claiming its wayward spending and its deficits were ruining this blessed country,” Alexander said. No, they all agreed that Father John was fickle and they couldn’t oppose him openly; but on the other hand, they wanted to save the young man and avoid a scandal. Oh, what a dilemma!

  After a number of thoughtful suggestions, they agreed to create a sub-committee that would canvass the parishioners for contributions to recoup the money that young Pappas had stolen. This would end the messy business.