Seven Days of Friday (Women of Greece Book 1)

by Alex A King

  Melissa says, “What’s she carrying?”

  “Water. It comes down from the mountains. The water here is not so good, so we go to faucets around town and fill bottles with good spring water.”

  “Why don't you buy it at the store, like Fiji water?”

  Hands off the wheel, Thea Dora roars with laughter. “Why we want to give money for it when this way is free? Soon we go up to Makrinitsa. In the mountains you will drink the best water in the world. Like a spoonful of cold, wet sugar!”

  “Sounds like heaven,” Vivi says.

  “That's why God put it so close to the sky, so He can smile down upon it when He is having a bad day.”

  * * *

  Kids and young lovers everywhere. Holding hands, sharing ice cream, pausing to kiss.

  It hurts Vivi hard. She doesn’t miss John, but she misses all the frills she’s never had, the things lovers do because they have love.

  The wheel turns and they bounce around a corner. Now the BMW is crawling up a narrow street with concrete straight out of a war zone.

  This is not a postcard, but it has its own brand of . . . can she really call it charm?

  Stucco houses, pastel paint, flattop roofs. Red flower pots everywhere. Bright, dipped-in-paint red. Gardenias in some, geraniums in others. That’s just the plants she knows.

  The car stops at the top of the street, outside a white house with peeling iron teeth. The fence used to be blue, before it took a few thousand glances at the sun and gave up.

  There’s a view of the gulf, of the heart of an emerald.

  “It’s so quiet,” Vivi says in wonder.

  Her aunt slams the car door, shatters the silence.

  “It is siesta time. Everyone is sleeping. Wait until tonight, you will not find it so peaceful when the children come out to play.”

  Vivi looks over Melissa’s shoulder. She’s fiddling with her iPod.

  “So what do you think, Kiddo?”

  Shrug. “I don’t know. Thea, do you have cable?”

  The older woman raises her hands to the sky. “My doll, you are in the land of the gods. You won't have time to watch TV.”

  20

  MELISSA

  SHE’S DYING TO PEE.

  Being here is like . . . being here but also not being here.

  But if she’s not here, where is she?

  Nowhere.

  “Can’t we stay in a hotel?” she whispers to Mom. Thea Dora is busy making coffee and something she called finikia.

  “Shh,” she says with a weird look on her face. “Let's give it a chance.”

  A couple of minutes later, her aunt (great-aunt, if you want to get all picky about it) bustles back in carrying a big black tray. On top are three tiny coffee cups and three small plates.

  She kind of wants to throw up, because there’s a damp turd on each plate.

  Except it’s not a turd, it’s a kind of cookie, and the wet stuff is honey syrup.

  It’s pretty much the best thing she’s ever eaten. Way better than Grams’s desserts, for sure. Not that she would ever say that aloud, because Grams can turn people to stone.

  She nibbles the cookie while Mom and her aunt talk. She can’t hear a word they’re saying, so they look funny with their mouths moving out of rhythm with the music. She makes up a little play in her head, where Thea Dora is berating Mom for being the shittiest mom ever.

  What about Dad? Does he even miss her?

  Does she miss him?

  It’s complicated. She doesn’t miss him so much as she misses old Dad. Seeing your father French another guy changes things. He dumped them for Ian. He dumped her.

  Thea is staring at Melissa, lips moving. She wonders if Thea knows she’s got hair on her chinny, chin, chin.

  Mom tugs on the ear buds, and sound pours out. After the smoothness of music, speech sounds harsh and jangled.

  “So, Melissa.” Thea Dora says it like she hitched her name to the back of a car and dragged it a few miles. Meeleessaa. It sounds weird but she kind of likes it. “Are you good in school?”

  She looks down at the plate. Empty. If they were home she’d go get another one.

  “I guess. I don't love it or anything, but I do okay.”

  “You have lots of friends?”

  Shrug. “Just the one. But since we're here now, I guess I'm down to none.” Mom's mouth droops, but Melissa doesn’t care. “Thea, where’s the bathroom? I really need to go.”

  “Down the hall and second left,” Thea Dora says.

  She leaves and they keep talking. Probably talking about Melissa and what a screw up she is. Hey, it wasn’t exactly her idea to move here, to this . . . this . . . thriving metropolis. Heavy on the sarcasm.

  Metropolis. Cool word.

  That’s what she wants, to live in a metropolis filled with people. Blend in. Become invisible.

  Vanish.

  Second door to the left.

  She steps insides, closes the door and lets the darkness hide her from her own critical eyes. A temporary vanishing.

  How long can she stay?

  Not long. Too long and they’ll think she’s doing number two, and that’s embarrassing. So, she can’t stay forever.

  Say goodbye to the dark, Mel. On with the light.

  She blinks.

  Something is really, really fuc –

  21

  VIVI

  VIVI SAYS, “WHAT?”

  Her aunt is on the phone, chatting to someone in Greek. Something about Effie and soap.

  Melissa huffs.

  “I can’t hear you,” Vivi says. “You’ll have to speak up.”

  Melissa gives her the “But moooom” look, with fifteen years of exasperation dumped in those extra vowels. She tries again.

  “The toilet is broken. Remember that time you and Dad replaced the toilet in my bathroom and there was just that big round pipe underneath?”

  Vivi nods.

  Oh yeah, she remembers. She scraped away the gooey wax herself, and dragged the old toilet to the curb on her own, because John couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t risk messing up his manicure.

  “Well it looks like that. You know, a big hole in the ground.”

  “What – no toilet?”

  “Nope. Just a round hole.”

  This she has to see.

  In she goes. Light on.

  No toilet. Dead ahead is the hole Melissa described.

  Good news? It’s not broken.

  Bad news? It’s not broken.

  Vivi knows a hole when she sees one, and this once is surrounded by white porcelain. Two wavy foot-sized patches straddle the opening.

  She contemplates the physics.

  That’s not all. It gets worse.

  A small wicker trashcan sits within grabbing distance. No lid. Inside, small pieces of soiled toilet paper.

  Perfect, she thinks. Perrrrfect.

  Outside the bathroom, her smile goes back on. What the hell is she thinking, uprooting their lives, racing across the world to see what shade of green the grass is here?

  (For the record, the grass she’s seen so far is sparse and leans toward the brown spectrum.)

  Her marbles are gone.

  She looks at Melissa.

  “How hard can you cross your legs?”

  22

  MAX

  GOOD FOOD.

  Uninterrupted sleep.

  Satisfying sex.

  Most men need all three to thrive.

  Max has all three, but he’s not thriving.

  He watches Anastasia dress. First time she’s been over in three days and he just feels tired.

  Her lens is focusing, zooming. “Why don't you redecorate this place? It's so . . .”

  “Masculine?”

  “Boring. You don't even have pictures.”

  She leans forward, drops her breasts into the lace cups. He feels nothing. The urgency he felt earlier has evaporated, same as their sweat.

  “What for?” He rolls over, grabs his own clothe
s. “I sleep here, that's all.”

  “You should think about buying a house.”

  He thinks about the money rolling, rolling, rolling in his bank account for exactly that.

  “Maybe one day.”

  “How old are you, Max?”

  “You know how old I am.”

  Her cleavage disappears behind the shirt’s buttons. Only a promise remains.

  “What will you do when you get married?”

  When we get married, she means. He can’t miss the thin, whining undercurrent of Anastasia winding up for another fight. What he thinks is that she likes the arguing more than she likes the sex.

  “Then I guess my wife and I will buy a house to raise our children in.”

  “Your wife? Are you planning on making someone else your wife?” Pencil skirt next, thin belt through the loops. “Max, are you seeing another woman?”

  “I'm too tired to see anyone else.”

  True.

  Long days at the hospital. Long nights with Anastasia.

  She’s sucking the life out of him through his balls.

  And then there are the phone calls from Mama.

  Have you proposed yet?

  No.

  Have you bought a ring?

  No.

  Why not?

  Yeah, Max. Why not?

  Because he doesn’t love her, he just loves fucking her.

  Anastasia zeros in on her handbag. She pulls out a severe black tube, wields the lipstick, the make-believe dagger.

  “That's not an answer, Max. That's avoidance. Do you know what I will do if I find out you are cheating on me?” Lipstick slashes through air.

  I don’t care, he thinks. Just hurry up and do it and go away.

  “Max?”

  He grabs her wrist, holds it still. “There's no one else. I promise.”

  She smiles, that bitch. “I know. I just wanted you to know how I feel.” Now she’s someone else, a smiling angel. “Let's go and get coffee.”

  He’s tying his boots when the phone beeps.

  “Sorry,” he tells Anastasia. “No coffee this morning.”

  Her cold gaze stalks him. “Always the hospital.”

  “Baby, it's my job. When we get married it will buy you lots of nice things.” When, not if. Is he trying to placate her or sabotage his life?

  “Promise?”

  “Of course.” And they’re out the door.

  Alone in his Jeep at last. He looks in the rearview mirror and sees a stranger sitting where he’s sitting. The other guy is holding up a noose.

  Don’t make me use this, he says.

  Then Max laughs, because what is he so afraid of? A life with a beautiful woman?

  Fool.

  * * *

  A child dies on his watch. Not because of negligence or lack of skill. It happens because sometimes it happens – and fuck you, God.

  He tells the parents, but they don’t want to know.

  He understands; he doesn’t want to know, either.

  * * *

  The ghost of Max gets away early, but not much. He and Anastasia have plans for dinner at a café near St Nicholas Square.

  St Nicholas, patron saint of sailors and children.

  Maximos Andreou, patron saint of nothing, wanders like a man lost. He looks at jeans. Skims titles in a bookstore. He stops at a jewelry store’s window, temporarily blinded by the glare.

  No price tags. What a racket.

  So, he goes in.

  Why? Because there’s no good reason not to. The store wants money and he has money to spend.

  Anastasia is winding his hormones around her pinky, but after today . . .

  Max doesn’t care.

  He wants a wife and family to come home to. He needs to see something warm after a day like today, his own child to distract him with play, a woman to curl up on the inside of his spoon.

  What would Kostas say?

  Not much. He gave his blessing as long as the choice was Max’s – Didn’t he?

  He could – should – cut Anastasia loose, let her find some other head to fuck with, but he doesn’t want to deal with the shit storm. He doesn’t have time to fight a battle on two fronts. The constant text messages from Anastasia and Mama, the non-stop phone calls – threats one minute, contrition the next.

  Breakups get bad enough when you’re dealing with one person who won’t disappear.

  He thinks about how their children might look – her golden eyes, his dark hair. Maybe after they marry the fights will slow to an occasional downpour.

  Maybe the sex will crumble, too.

  Doesn’t matter. He’s going to buy a ring, and when the right moment comes he’ll propose.

  Even tired and beat up from the day, Max looks like money. The saleswoman is tripping on her own feet to get to him, euro signs dancing in her eyes.

  Max doesn’t like to let a woman down, so he lays his plastic on the counter, points to the window

  “The one in the middle.”

  “A beautiful choice, sir.”

  Choice.

  Max chooses peace.

  23

  VIVI

  VIVI IS ON A desert island, knocking back pina coladas, when Melissa pokes her.

  She opens her eyes. Reality is made of pink walls and blue shutters.

  Bold choices.

  The sun is glaring through the thin gap where the shutters don’t quite meet. Every house has them here – practical, not ornamental. Shutters stay closed during the heat of day, and then they’re thrown wide at night so cool air can offer respite. Between shutters and marble floors, houses stay a bearable shade of sauna during daylight hours.

  Melissa is balanced on the bed’s edge, ear buds curled around one hand, watermelon wedge in the other. For once she’s not plugged in and there’s no book in sight. She looks worried.

  “Are you okay?” Vivi asks.

  “I’m okay. Are you okay?”

  “Sure, why?

  “Well, you've only been asleep for nearly two days.”

  Vivi hasn’t slept more than seven consecutive hours since high school. “Wow. What day is it?”

  Melissa shrugs – her new signature move. “Saturday. Thea took me to the store. And I met some of the neighbors. There's this really weird old lady across the street. She has these funny chickens and she let me pat them. Plus she kept babbling at me and I couldn't understand anything she said. Well, hardly anything. Just the bit about Grams.”

  “What about Grams?”

  Melissa shrugs (again). “Don’t know. Just something about her and Grampy.”

  Very mysterious. First the accidental mention of a scandal, and now this. Everyone seems to be in the loop but her and Melissa. Might have been nice if her mother had declared her baggage before Vivi rolled it across the world.

  Then there’s Dad’s box, the one that never existed . . .

  Outside a horn honks. Right on its heels, a megaphone crackles to life.

  “Watermelon.” The voice is chipped, broken. “Watermelon with the knife!”

  “Gypsies,” Melissa says. “You should see them. They wear all these really colorful clothes that totally clash, and their kids don't go to school. How cool is that? Thea says if you're not careful they'll put a gypsy curse on you. They're selling watermelon. You should try it, it's really good.”

  Gypsies. Watermelon. Curses. Oh my.

  “Romani,” Vivi says. “They’re Romani.” Sleep. She needs more sleep.

  “And,” Melissa continues, “you know how we buy those tiny bottles of olive oil back home and you’re always complaining about how expensive it is? Thea has a huge metal container of it on the counter. Do you suppose she drinks it? Because that's just weird.”

  “I don't think so,” Vivi mumbles. “Maybe it's cheaper to buy bulk.”

  “Mom?” Melissa hasn’t used this many words in months. “Can we go to the beach?”

  Best idea ever – and when she says so, Melissa beams.

  “And
can we go to McDonalds?”

  Thousands of miles from the USA, some of the best cuisine in the world, and her kid wants McDonald’s?

  “If there’s a McDonald’s, we’ll find it.”

  Melissa crams the buds back into her ears. Says, “Cool. Whatever,” before slinking out of the room.

  Now Vivi is alone in the false night.

  Once upon a time, she was a teenager. Doesn’t mean she’s qualified to raise one of her own.

  * * *

  Up close, the ocean is the color of a cool forest. Seaweed swishes its fingers through the warm, gentle water. Colorful wooden fishing boats bob to the same languid rhythm, while teenagers swarm the decks, laughing and diving from the highest points.

  Is anything better than sixteen?

  Is anything worse?

  “Can I – ” Melissa starts.

  Vivi is wearing her psychic mommy hat. “Forget it. I don't want you diving off those boats.”

  “Mom . . .”

  “Those boats belong to someone. Would you want a bunch of kids using your things?”

  “But everyone else is doing it.” She flops back on the towel, her life obviously O-V-E-R. “Don't say it.”

  “If everyone else was jumping off a cliff, would you do it, too?”

  “If it was fun, yeah. Maybe.”

  Jumping off a cliff is fun. Vivi knows – she did it, back in the pre-John, pre-Melissa, post-Eleni days.

  “Nice try, but do I look like Little Bo Peep?”

  Bodies back and forth, sunburned and suntanned and sunstroked. Every shape and age. The less-than-perfects own every inch of themselves. Good for them. Paranoia and hiding beneath XXL T-shirts is the American way.

  There’s a kiosk butted up to the beach, selling more drinks and cigarettes than anything else. They have ice cream, too.

  Vivi pulls out money, waves it in front of Melissa’s nose. Foreign currency, but her kid can smell cash a mile away. Must be something in the ink.

  She says, “I’m bribing you with ice cream, okay?”

  “Can I go for a swim afterwards?”

  “Sure. But take that watch off before you go in.”

  “It's waterproof to thirty feet.”