Seven Days of Friday (Women of Greece Book 1)

by Alex A King

  Well, Vivi’s not going to let them go alone, is she? Her curiosity is spiking into the red zone – proof that she’s Greek enough.

  Her aunt is just one person, but she’s surrounding the woman.

  “What are you doing here? You have no place here!” Thea Dora is saying.

  The woman looks unafraid, unperturbed. No expression but the one she’ll wear when she meets God. “I want to see Elias,” she says, repeating her earlier request.

  “Sofia, your business with this family is long over. You cannot be here!” Thea Dora says.

  “But I have to see him. She is the one who should not be here!” A finger stab at Eleni, who is stiff cardboard, knife in hand.

  “Would someone please tell me what is going on here seeing as this is my house and my tree?” Vivi says, to no one in particular.

  They ignore her.

  There’s nothing for her to do except stand on the porch and watch the play unfold. If a minor skirmish breaks out, at least she’s got this handy paper plate.

  Eleni is mobile again. “I could kill you where you stand, feed you to wild dogs, and no one would care that you are gone.”

  “Do it!” Sofia roars. “All you would do is prove that my Elias is too good for your black heart.”

  “Skasmos!”

  (Translation: Shut up.)

  Thea Dora grabs the woman's arm, pulls her to the gate. Pitting a sumo wrestler against a rag doll.

  Sofia breaks away.

  Pointless, really.

  Except she performs a mean windmill, arms spinning, wheeling toward Eleni. It’s a toddler’s pro move.

  But Vivi’s mother is smart – the woman survived two toddlers. She feints, lets the woman kiss dirt.

  The victory doesn’t last. Sofia snakes around, grabbing Eleni’s ankles, and Eleni teeters. Thea Dora bustles past her, into the house.

  Vivi can’t help herself. She’s angry as hell at Max and needs something to smash. She’s all over the woman, slapping with the paper plate, dumping leftovers in her face.

  Paper cuts. Lots of little paper cuts.

  Vivi straddles her chest, lets her have it.

  Eleni rallies. “You are my daughter, no question!” She sounds proud. So they’re – what? – bonding over a bitch fight?

  Stranger things have happened.

  It gets stranger when Eleni rips off Sofia’s shoes, tickles the woman’s feet until she’s squealing like a pig.

  Vivi stops. “Why are we doing this?”

  “Because she is a mad woman!”

  Good enough. Sofia’s a decent surrogate for Max, John, John’s boyfriend, and . . .

  Everyone, really.

  It lasts until the hand of God (Thea Dora, it seems, is omnipresent), drags her away. With her free hand, her aunt dumps a pitcher of water over Sofia’s head.

  Vivi falls back, panting.

  Fighting is better than:

  Zumba, yoga, Pilates, calisthenics, running, jogging, and spending an hour on the elliptical, loping to nowhere.

  It’s not over.

  The uncles are suddenly there, dividing the women into four spitting piles.

  Sofia’s not going quietly. This is her time. Her reckoning.

  “I curse you,” she screams. “I curse you and the children you brought into this world. May the devil take your souls and wash them in blood and fire for all eternity!”

  Very dramatic. Very Greek.

  The uncles load Sofia into the pickup truck and drive away.

  The three women stand there panting for a bit.

  “Well,” Eleni says. “Whatever she is selling, we certainly don't want any.”

  Vivi laughs, because the whole thing is a fucked up kind of hilarious. She looks at her mother. “So who is she? You kind of owe me – ”

  “As your mother I don't owe you anything except life. And I've already given you that.” Pretty much beheading Vivi’s snappy retort.

  Her mother stomps off. Thea Dora follows, pitcher swinging in her hand, and Vivi stands there wondering if the gods have painted a huge target on her ass.

  Apparently, yes. Because the next person out the front door is one of her cousins.

  “Vivi?” she says. “I think your toilet is broken.”

  69

  VIVI

  It’S A LAKE. A shit lake.

  “Lake Peepeekaka,” Vivi says.

  Her family has vanished. Very clever of them.

  “Mom?” Melissa appears at her elbow, eyes donut-wide. “What happened?”

  “It’s nothing. Just a family curse.”

  Biff comes rolling in. The dog can’t believe his good fortune. He lunges at the bathroom buffet. Vivi’s fast but not that fast, and Biff gets his lick in.

  “Shit,” Melissa says, matter-of-factly.

  “And piss.”

  70

  VIVI

  CLEANUP TAKES HALF AN hour.

  Vivi rejoins the party wearing eau de lemon bleach, falls into a chair.

  A couple of cousins brought their bouzoukis (they’re like guitars, except not), one uncle brought an ancient accordion, and together they spin off one unfamiliar tune after another.

  She doesn’t know the dances, either. But she knows happy people when she sees them doing a Greek jig.

  Melissa kneels beside her, so Vivi knows there’s going to be a question.

  “Mom? We're going to the beach – is that okay?”

  How can she say no? Melissa’s cheerful and sweet, these days. Agria is good for her, and what’s good for Melissa is good for Vivi.

  It’s safe here. Eyes and ears everywhere. One foot out of line and she’ll know before Melissa steps through the door.

  The grapevine is a mother’s best friend.

  (And a woman’s worst enemy.)

  “You let her go this late?” Eleni asks.

  “It’s only three. The beach is a whole five minutes away. She’ll be fine.”

  “Humph.”

  “What do you want me to do, Mom? Put her in a plastic bubble?”

  “Eh, that is not such a bad idea.”

  Vivi flops facedown on the couch. She wants this party over, these people out. Find herself a nice hole and hide. Conduct a postmortem on Max’s permanent departure.

  Instead she’s playing starfish on the couch, while her mother keeps secrets and her cousin rifles through her belongings. Nosy cow.

  Speaking of . . .

  Effie asks, “Are you sure that is where Melissa is going?” She’s flipping through a thick book from Vivi’s shelves, looking at the pages like they’re pornographic. Probably never seen a book before, which would explain a lot.

  “Are you calling my daughter a liar?” Vivi asks.

  “I hear stories . . .”

  “What stories have you heard, Effie?”

  She shrugs. “Eh, she is your problem, not mine. Have you ever been here?” Effie waves the cover under her nose. British castles.

  Vivi lets it go; one catfight a day is sufficient.

  “Britain? No.”

  “Why you have the book, then?”

  “I like castles.”

  “Maybe you think you are royalty, eh?”

  “Yes, Effie, that’s it.”

  “You will not think you are so special when you go there and you can’t find your castles.”

  Vivi’s mind boggles. “What do you mean?”

  Effie shrugs. “I don’t understand why people go where they don’t speak the language.”

  “And I can't go to Britain because . . .?”

  “You speak Greek and American, not British.”

  Vivi’s head explodes. First Hawaii, now Britain. Effie is a one-woman chorus of stupidity.

  “Jesus Christ, Effie. Americans speak English. The British speak English. The accent is a bit different, but it's the same language.”

  The expression on Effie’s face says there’s no way she’s buying what Vivi’s peddling.

  “How stupid do you think I am? It is a di
fferent country with thousands of kilometers of water in between.”

  Pretty stupid. “And yet, we all speak the same language. It must be magic.”

  Effie is turning red. No – purple.

  “That's not true. I heard it – ”

  “Let me guess, on the television? Or maybe you read it in the coffee grounds. Because you sure as hell never heard it from any intelligent source!”

  “Thea Eleni?”

  Because Vivi’s word isn’t good enough.

  Eleni is trying hard to stay out of it. “Vivi is right.”

  There’s a minor commotion as Effie shoves the book back into place.

  “You know everything, don’t you, Vivi?”

  Then she and her butt wobble out the back door.

  “Was she dropped on her head at birth?”

  Eleni makes a face. “She is not a bad girl. She has not had your opportunities.”

  “Yes,” Vivi says. “Everyone needs a gay husband to turn them into a decent human being.”

  “That is not what I mean and you know it, Vivi. Effie has lived here all her life. She left school at fifteen. She was married at seventeen. She knows only what she reads in magazines and hears from the television.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  “Do not judge her, Vivi. She is ignorant but she is still your cousin. Blood is important.”

  Vivi’s had enough. She looks for her purse, for her keys.

  “Where are you going?”

  She whistles and Biff comes running. He’s licking his lips, so she knows someone’s been feeding him.

  “Want to go for a drive, boy?” The dog pants. “Yeah, I'm going to check up on my daughter.”

  “You cannot go after her now,” Eleni says.

  “I can't let her go, I can't go after her. Will someone around here give me the rule book that isn't scratched in shifting sand?”

  Eleni’s mouth keeps moving, but Vivi doesn’t listen. All that blood swooshing in her ears is drowning out the world.

  Biff doesn’t mind. He takes shotgun with a grin.

  Any chance she can trade her family for five bucks and watermelon? Maybe sell her life on eBay?

  She feels like shit. Partly because her mother’s right about Effie, partly because she’s driving and driving, following the path the girls should have taken to the beach, and . . .

  Nothing.

  No sign of them on the beach. Or on the way to the beach. Or anywhere near the beach.

  Back and forth, back and forth. A few red bicycles, but none of them Melissa’s.

  Where the hell is she?

  Panic streaks naked through her veins. Her heart’s ramping up for bad, bad news.

  The VW hooks left. Next block. And the next.

  Nothing.

  In a minute she’s going to park, start pounding on doors.

  She’s thinking every way but straight.

  Melissa lied. Is it the first time? Vivi’s trying to be a good mom, trying to balance freedom and trust and age-appropriate caution.

  And what happens?

  She fails all over the place.

  Oh God, please just be in one piece.

  Blocks of nothing much. Flashes of bicycles that aren’t Melissa’s. Glimpses of girls who aren’t her.

  She’s going hot, going cold. Going crazy.

  Lucky break when she passes the old railway tracks. Vivi slams the brakes, burns rubber in reverse. Smoke everywhere.

  Melissa’s there. Olivia, too. With a couple of boys.

  Boys? Ha! Try almost men. These Greek kids have a way of looking older than they are. Vivi knows trouble when she sees it. Not when she marries it – but definitely when she sees it on someone else’s arm.

  Melissa’s gazing up at the blond kid like he’s Santa Claus.

  Santa Claus, her ass. The kid’s a predator. Look at the way he’s leaning into her, pants riding low, no shirt, following her with his eyes. Melissa giggles and he brushes the hair away from her eyes.

  Vivi’s going to rip off his dick. Maybe hit him with it when she’s done. Maybe throw it to Biff, let him use it as a chew toy.

  Olivia spots Vivi first. A sly look flits across her face and she nudges Melissa.

  I’m on to you, you little bitch, Vivi thinks.

  Biff at her side, she stalks across the tracks.

  Melissa looks like she wants to d-i-e. That can be arranged. “Mom, what are you doing here?”

  She’s panicking.

  Tough shit.

  “Wow.” Vivi glances around. “Funny, this doesn't look like the beach. You did say you were going to the beach, right?”

  The wheels turn. “We were just on our way.”

  “Did I miss the detour signs?”

  “Somebody's got menopause,” Olivia mutters. Because she’s the kind of girl who likes to act tough to make up for her own parents not giving too much of a shit what she does.

  “You’re not in this conversation,” Vivi tells her. “So stuff a sock in it.”

  Melissa tries a new angle. “What are you doing here, Mom? Is Grams okay?”

  “Nice try. Who are your friends?”

  “You already know Olivia.”

  Vivi gives her the you-are-so-grounded look.

  “Fine,” Melissa says, with every ounce of teenage exasperation she can muster. “This is Vassili and Thanasi.”

  Mr. Asshole with the blonde hair and twenty-something body is Thanasi.

  “Okay,” Vivi says. “Say goodbye. We're going home.”

  “But you said I could go to the beach,” she whines.

  “You did, I heard you,” Olivia says. The little snot.

  “I said Melissa could go to the beach. Does this look like the beach to you? Last time I looked the beach wasn't two blocks away from the ocean and covered in grass and rail tracks.”

  “Mom – ”

  “Melissa, get in the car.”

  “But my bike – ”

  “How do you think I got it to the house in the first place?”

  The other kid – what was his name? Vassili – helps her out. Nice kid. Blondie is standing there looking equal parts pissed and amused.

  Basically, fuck that guy.

  But as they drive away, Vivi feels better. Melissa is safe and some of the pressure’s gone.

  “He’s cute,” she says.

  “He's okay.”

  “Do you like him?”

  Melissa shrugs, but she’s turning pink.

  “You can invite him to dinner at the house if you like.”

  “I don't want to.”

  “Fine.”

  Melissa swivels in the seat, gives Vivi a look that’s way too old for her face. “Are you pissy because Dr Andreou didn't stay for the party?”

  Ouch. The kid nails it.

  “No. This is about my fifteen-year-old daughter lying to me about where she's going.”

  “I hate you,” she says, sagging against the leather.

  “There’s a line. Take a number.”

  71

  MAX

  MAX GRIMACES AT THE piece of shit staring back at him in the rearview mirror. He’ll never forget the way Vivi looked as he drove away. Her in that white sundress with the blue flowers.

  He slams his fist on the steering wheel and nothing happens. It doesn’t hit back.

  Maybe they’ll meet again someday. In another life – it would have to be. They can’t be friends in this one.

  Not after today. She’s lost to him, now.

  It’s for the best. Vivi’s. Anastasia’s. Mama’s. He can’t love his friend the way he’ll never love his wife.

  He puts on that face where he looks pissed at the world.

  He could go to Anastasia, lose himself in her body for a few minutes, but she’s at that wedding. Right now he doesn’t want to touch her, anyway.

  He never wants to touch her again.

  Where does he go?

  * * *

  Kostas isn’t home.

  Max wan
ders the village alone, traipsing up rough steps cut into the rock, dodging goat herders and their flocks, trying not to make eye contact with the locals.

  Head down. Eyes down.

  See nothing and be seen by nobody.

  Until he spots Kostas drinking Coke in the town square. It’s a flat piece of rock, jutting out from the mountain’s face. Tree-canopied, perfect in summer. Tables around the rim, amazing view from every last one. In the center, peddlers hawk their wares. Business is good, busy. Lots of tourists looking to buy something – anything. Everything Made in China, or someplace equally plastic.

  As soon as Kostas sees his brother, he nods to the waiter.

  “I’m so fucked,” Max says, sliding across from him.

  “And a good day to you, too.”

  “I'm serious.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  The waiter comes back with two Cokes. Max dumps some bills onto the tray, tells him to keep the change.

  “I'm in love with someone who isn’t my fiancée.”

  Kostas says, “Vivi.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “You forget, Brother, I’ve seen you with a lot of women. Some you like for a while, but mostly you’re indifferent and you bore easily.”

  “Am I that shallow?”

  “Shallow? No. Sometimes it takes the right woman to open a man's eyes. Before that he is blind and a fool.”

  “Says the priest.” But he’s laughing because he remembers how Kostas used to be. The man didn’t come to the priesthood a virgin. “Shit. I should have met her sooner.”

  They drink, watch the view, say nothing for a while.

  Kostas says, “Under different circumstances you wouldn't have appreciated her.”

  The Coke is so cold and sweet it makes his teeth ache, and still it tastes bitter. It’s not the drink – it’s him.

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Break your engagement. You and Vivi can be together.”

  “I can't. I already told Vivi we can't be friends anymore.”

  Kostas slams his palm on the table. The wood shudders.

  “What the hell is wrong with you? You can’t allow Mama to control you! This is your life. She had her chances. She made her choices. Now it is your turn. She tugs on the strings she tied to you, and you jump around like her marionette! Be a man, not her little boy!”