by Alex A King
“Remind me why we care about this old crap,” Melissa mutters.
“Because it is history,” her grandmother says. “One day someone might be looking at the ruins of your house, wondering how you used to live and what sort of person you were.”
Melissa is pulling her sheet of hair into a tight ponytail. “It's creepy if you ask me.”
“Then you should leave them something good to talk about, eh?” Eleni says.
Vivi pays for the tickets. Melissa’s technically a child so she gets in free. The cashier passes out electronic guides with numbers corresponding to each pile of rocks.
Thea Dora is moving slow. Vivi hangs back to keep an eye on her aunt.
“Thea, are you okay?”
Sweat rolls down her face, a river looking for the sea.
“It is hot, and that hill . . .” She waves at the landscape.
Not much of a hill – more like a pimple. But in her aunt’s condition it may as well be Kilimanjaro.
“It's steep for me, too,” Vivi says. “Let’s take it slow. Leave the rushing to the fools.”
Short stone teeth jut from the ground – ancient pickets. Other stones sit stacked in gray and brown layers. To the west is the Mycenaean settlement with its big tourist draw: a tholos tomb cut into the hill. Curvy walls, base wider than the top. The beehive roof collapsed centuries ago, and the tomb’s thirty-five-hundred-year-old occupant is long gone.
Chances he walked out alone are slim.
The Neolithic ruins are fading from the hill’s memory. Scraps of five circular walls and several single-roomed dwellings. Nothing left of them but foundations.
Vivi squints and tries to invoke the past. No television, no fast food, no cell phones. Peaceful in a way the world today isn’t.
“Vivi.” Thea Dora drags her back to the present, with its iPods and McDonald’s and constant static. “Who is this girl Melissa sees?”
They pause for a moment on the hillside. Further up, Eleni is snapping a photograph for a couple of tourists.
“Olivia? Her family is Canadian, that's all I know.”
Listen first; speak later – after her aunt shows her hand.
“Is it a good family?”
“I don't know. Why?”
“The girls have been seen in the company of some boys.”
“Isn't that normal? Teenage boys and girls go together like teenage boys and girls. Is there some problem I haven't heard about?”
No way is she about to mention the incident at the train tracks. That stays between the two of them. Anyway, no one gets a say in how she raises Melissa – except John, and he’s not here, is he?
“Girls that age should have a chaperone.”
Vivi says, “A chaperone? How last century.”
“I do not think she should keep company with the boys. One of them, Thanasi is his name, comes from a very bad family.”
“What, are they Turkish drug lords or something?”
* * *
Turkey and Greece are longtime frenemies. They go way, way back to the 15th century, when the Ottoman Empire snatched up bits of Greece and stuffed them in its bulging pocket. In 1821, Greece waved bye-bye to its overlords, had a bit of a war, gave themselves a public holiday to celebrate. After that, Turkey and Greece spent forever bickering over custody of Cyprus and swaths of the Aegean Sea and its airspace. Raised their fists a couple of times – in the eighties, in the nineties – but never came to blows.
Now they’re in time-out, each country back in its corner, glaring across the ring.
* * *
“His great-grandfather and your grandfather were friends. Best friends. They were inseparable, those boys. Every year they would dive together for the cross on Epiphany. Do you know how cold the water is here in January?” No waiting for an answer. “Then one day his great-grandfather stole from your grandfather. After that everyone knows they are a bad family.”
Small-town Greek logic.
“So let me see if I've got this straight. Because Thanasi’s ancestor took something from Melissa's ancestor, it means this boy is no good?”
“Yes. Very bad blood.”
Oooookay.
“What did he steal?”
“A chicken,” Thea Dora says.
“A chicken? Like, one chicken? Not all the chickens?”
“One, yes. She was a very good egg producer. It was a great loss to the family during the war.”
Vivi can die now, because she’s officially heard everything.
“All this is about a chicken? I'm supposed to chaperone my daughter, out in plain sight, because of a chicken?”
“Who knows what this boy is capable of with the blood of a thief in his veins?”
Vivi thinks about it. “Melissa doesn’t have a chicken.”
But from the set of her aunt’s lips, Vivi knows she’s thinking cherry trumps chicken.
The older woman continues. “Do you want Melissa to have a bad reputation?”
“Why would she have a bad reputation? None of our relatives were donkey thieves, were they? Did they sell black market firewood?” She’s trying not to sound indignant, but it’s happening anyway.
“Vivi, my love, do not be naïve. Reputation matters in a town this small. People talk. You do not want your daughter to be the focus of their gossip. You and I know what a good girl she is, but not everybody knows her like we do, eh?”
Vivi looks to the rubble for wisdom, but rocks don’t say much.
“Do you suppose these people gossiped about each other for no good reason?”
Thea Dora puts an arm around her shoulder. “Of course. It is the way of all people. We enjoy a story where someone else is suffering for a change, instead of us.”
“Hurry up,” Eleni calls out. “We are going to the tomb.” She and Melissa wave frantically. Vivi waves back with a lead hand.
Chaperone? Melissa will hate her.
Correction: Melissa will hate her more.
But what choice is there? Keeping Melissa safe – from harm and gossip – isn’t optional.
Chaperone. Even the word pisses her off. She wants more freedom for Melissa, not less.
Vivi doesn’t want Melissa to grow up to be her.
75
VIVI
TAKIS IS UNDER THE tree with his ass.
“Xena, you are just in time.”
Vivi won’t make eye contact with the donkey. “Let me guess: You're making more feta and you want me to help?”
“No, I need someone to brush my donkey. My knees hurt. It will rain tonight, I think.”
“He looks fine to me.”
“Do you want to learn about olives or not?”
“Does he bite?”
“Only if he's in a bad mood.”
Vivi asks, “Is he in a bad mood?”
“He is a donkey.”
Takis gives her the brush, rolls a new cigarette with his two free hands.
“Does he have a name?”
“Eh, I call him Gaidaros.”
Creative, that Takis, naming his donkey Donkey. He crouches on the ground, smoking, watching Vivi brush. So far the donkey is cool, happy enough to let her brush him with long strokes. His tail is tangled up in twigs and leaves, but he seems okay with Vivi’s attention there, too.
What the hell is she doing here?
Not dragging Zeus-knows-what out of a donkey’s tail, but here, meaning in Greece. Peeling away the layers, there’s nothing underneath except a thin, selfish hope that they could be happy here.
She goes all tough love, tells herself what she did was the expensive, grownup version of running away from home. Yeah, she ran – far away from her problems. And her problems were cool with that. They knew a fresh batch of their foreign cousins would be waiting here for Vivi.
Problems: they’re the Interpol of the psyche.
If she had any stones she’d pack them up, move back home, deal with her problems like an adult. Set up visitation with John so Melissa can have her dad around. Fi
nd a job, go back to school. Night classes. Do something she’s always wanted to do. But what? That MBA is flopping around in her résumé like a dying fish.
Donkey is sick of her. His rear hoof shoots out, nails her in the thigh. Vivi’s whole world explodes in a mixture of fire and glitter. She cries because goddamn.
“That was just a tap.” Takis rolls another cigarette. “What have you learned?”
“Never stand behind a donkey?”
“Greece is a donkey. She will kick you if you try and catch her from behind. You must always come from the front!”
Vivi is hopping around on one leg, eyes throwing wet streamers down her face. “Really?”
“No, I just make that up.”
Great joke, from the way he slaps his thigh, rocking back and forth, cackling. Not so funny from the splash zone.
It takes a while, but the pain loses its bright edge and her woes start slamming into each other, jockeying for attention. And suddenly she gets it: every time Melissa cut herself she was purposely standing behind a metaphorical donkey, because physical pain is a hog. It’s not big on sharing. A cut, a kick, a slam (choose your own flavor of self-harm) elbows its way to the front of the line and demands immediate attention. Mental anguish has no choice but to skulk to the back and wait its turn.
She goes back to the donkey. This time she stands off-center.
Brush on, brush off.
76
MAX
WORK IS GOOD, BUSY.
Life is okay.
He doesn’t have Vivi but he has his health.
July comes along and every day is the same. Hot, hot. Lots of sun. The tourists are happy: this is the Greece they paid for.
July’s new moon means it’s festival time in Agria. Fisherman’s Night, they call it, but it’s two nights not one. Locals, visitors, tourists, all of them welcome to dance, sing, eat fish soup and anything else the fishermen catch that day.
Good times.
Max doesn’t want good times, he wants busy times. Can’t keep his head on straight unless he’s too busy to think.
But Anastasia says they’re going. So . . .
They’re going.
77
VIVI
THE COTTAGE SHIVERS. IT’S earthquake proof (Greek regulations call for concrete and rebar), but building inspectors don’t care if a house can withstand teenagers.
“That went okay,” Eleni says. She’s by the phone waiting for Vivi’s father to leave for work. How can she leave a message if he’s home?
“Understatement of the year,” Vivi says. “I’d call it spectacular.”
“Is the door broken?”
Vivi shakes her head. “Not this time.”
“Well, there is always next time.”
78
MELISSA
WE’RE GOING TO THE festival, Mom said.
It’ll be fun, Mom said.
You have to stay with your grandmother or me. No wandering off on your own, Mom said.
Melissa slams the door with her foot.
Mom’s new rule S-U-C-K-S. She looks for the loophole, but there isn’t one big enough to shove her whole body through. Mom says she has to be chaperoned – and that’s that.
Olivia is going to laugh herself sick. Melissa can hear her now, gloating about how her parents let her do whatever.
An hour later she’s telling Dr Triantafillou all about it. Painting Mom black, a halo circling her own head.
The shrink (red dress, red espadrilles with red ribbons) takes it all in. When Melissa’s done ranting, she says, “If you want freedom, you have to prove you can handle it. What have you done to show your mother you’re an adult?”
“Why are you taking her side?”
Arms folded, legs crossed. Melissa knows she’s closed for all reasonable business. But so what? Whatever side she’s on, she’s always standing there alone.
“I’m not here to take sides. Amongst other things, it’s my job to help you reason your way through challenges, in a healthy way.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. So she says.
But what has she done to show Melissa she’s a rock steady shrink?
Except be there.
79
MAX
VIVI IS HERE – SHE has to be. Everybody is here.
He wants to see her, but he doesn’t want her to see him with Anastasia.
(Asshole, Max. Asshole.)
Two shots. Maybe she’s coming tomorrow, not tonight.
Is that lucky or unlucky? He can’t say.
Anastasia’s clutching his hand like he’s a lifejacket, and all he can think about is shaking her loose. He’s tired of saving her from being single. Tired of the nagging, the tears. He wasn’t going to come tonight, but this morning it was stay and fight or get to the hospital on time. The hospital couldn’t wait, and he didn’t want it to, anyway. It’s where he gets to be him.
So he didn’t want to come, but here he is.
The waterfront street is alive. Lights everywhere, fresh seafood on display. Tourists are going crazy for a giant (dead) octopus. Great for photo ops, bad for eating. Much too tough without lengthy preparation. But they don’t care. They’re posing next to the dead cephalopod, “cheese-ing” into their cell phones.
The promenade is bulging with celebrants. Walking, talking, eating, drinking. The ouzo flows. Waiters dance across the street, trays of mezedes balanced high. Marinated peppers, grilled zucchini, dolmades, spicy bites of kalamari, keeping appetites satisfied, but not sated, until entrees hit the table.
The no-traffic zone stretches way, way past its usual end. A carousel marks the new stop. Workers have been busy all week, erecting the stage for dancing.
(Not that Greeks need a stage to dance. They dance anywhere, anytime. Even on a bus if the mood strikes. You could say life is their stage.)
Bumper cars, Ferris wheel, food carts. Something for everyone.
Speakers crackle. Time for dancing.
First up: traditional dances and traditional dancers.
Anastasia drags him that way, following the Rembetika folk music that (to him) is nails on a chalkboard. The diamond he bought her is cutting into his palm. It’s large and flashy on her finger. Fitting that the physical symbol of their union causes him physical pain.
He pulls her in a different direction, toward a cart where corncobs are grilling over hot coals. Anastasia makes a face when he asks for two.
“Max, I can't eat that, it will get stuck between my teeth. What if someone sees me that way?”
“Come on, corn is healthy. Lots of vitamins.”
“There you go being a doctor again. Can't you leave the hospital behind for one night?”
Max shrugs. He eats without mercy; the salty-sweet corn is out of this world.
“Your loss,” he says.
Anastasia being Anastasia, she’s suddenly penitent. “Sorry, my baby, I don't mean to be angry. When we are married I am sure we'll have other things to talk about. You won't want to stay so late at the hospital then.”
“Wanting to stay late and having to stay late are two different things. I can't control it.”
True – to a point.
Yeah, he’s been working later and later. Finding excuses to break their dates. His desk is clean, his charts organized. When there’s nothing left to do, he zips to the ER. He’s useful there. Busy.
“Forget the hospital, start your own practice.”
Round and round. Same old argument.
“I don't want my own practice. I love the hospital.”
“But that's where the money is.”
“Not everything is about money, Anastasia. I’d be bored working on my own. The urgency and rhythm of the hospital excites me. I’m not going to sit behind a desk and prescribe anti-fungal creams until I die.”
She steps back, away from him. “How will you support us when we have a family? All you think about is yourself.”
“I make good money now. It's not a fortune, but it's more than most people
have. A lot of people have raised families on much less – including our own parents.”
“I want more. We will have even less when I quit my job.”
Vivi is on his mind – again. (Did she ever leave?) That conversation they had about women and work.
Vivi, Vivi, Vivi. He hurt her – and himself – and for what? To appease Mama and Anastasia.
But they’re not worth it.
Too late now. He said what he said, did what he did, and now here they are. A man accepts consequences of his own making; otherwise he’s still a boy.
Someone taps his shoulder.
Is it – ?
No. His cousin Soula.
He throws one arm around her shoulder, kisses her shiny hair. “And now you’ve got corn in your hair,” he says.
She laughs. “It will be a snack for later. How are you, stranger?”
“Good. Where is your boyfriend?”
“He was boring, so I gave him back to his mama.”
Kiss, kiss. Both cheeks. She repeats the ritual with Anastasia.
Soula says, “Sounds like you're giving my cousin a hard time.”
“Men, you know.” Anastasia turns away, but Max knows she’s rolling her eyes.
Soula raises an eyebrow.
Max says, “It's nothing. Soula, you want corn?”
She pats her flat stomach to the tune of heavy bracelets jangling. “I’ve had two already and I’m getting ready for souvlaki. Have you seen Vivi? I wonder if she’s here . . .”
His face says nothing. “I haven’t seen her or Melissa.”
“Too bad. I think I might go up and drag her here. She would love this.”
Anastasia is suddenly attentive. “Who is Vivi?”
“A friend,” Soula says. “I sold her a house.”
Next: “And how do you know her?”
One wrong word and – say “Bye-bye” to your balls, Max.
“Her daughter was a patient. I introduced her to Soula because she needed a house.”
Eye rolling, eye rolling. “Enough with the patients already.” Moving on. “I'm going to touch up my lipstick. Soula, are you coming?”
