“You will not shame me, bringing home a redheaded pregnant putana. She is just tricking you into marrying her so that she can get your money. Are you so naïve?”
Gus paused, holding the phone receiver in one hand and the bottle of whiskey in the other. He felt heat rising to his face.
“I know you,” she continued. “You believe what the pretty faces tell you. Remember what happened when that Sultana told you she was desperate for help? Her family home was in trouble and she had to save it?”
His mother was right. He had lost a lot of money that time. It was a source of embarrassment that he’d been fooled into giving her so much cash. It was supposed to be a temporary loan, but she’d left town the next day and he’d never heard from her again.
“You listen to me,” his mother said. “I want a Greek daughter-in-law and then I want a Greek grandchild—in that order. I don’t want you to bring home your mistakes and bring shame on the family. You understand?”
Gus could hear the water surging as his mother grabbed the chicken by the thigh and plunged it into the boiling pot of water.
“Yes, Mana.”
“Endaxi. I have to go now. I have a lot to do before the priest gets here.”
“Yes, Mana.” He had hung up the phone and examined his hands, the hands of a man defeated. Just then, Callie had entered his office, wrapped in the creamy sheet, and sat on his desk. She took one look at his face and the Johnnie Walker bottle. “Talking to your mother?” she asked.
Remembering Callie that way, slender and freshly disheveled from an afternoon in bed together with her beautiful blue eyes looking at him with understanding and desire, brought Gus out of his memories and back into the bedroom he shared with Callie, Manoli asleep in his arms. It all seemed so long ago. But the problem remained the same. He had decided to wait, to wait until whenever—to wait as long as he could. There was no good that could come from telling Callie about his conversation with his mother. No good in telling her that she and this child might never be accepted by his culture. How would this woman, this wonderful and carefree we are the world woman, ever understand the pressures he was under? How would he ever explain? He had broken the rules, for a woman who didn’t share his world. She wanted to, but she never truly could, could she? Could someone become Greek?
The question haunted Gus the rest of the night and all the next day while he was out scouting properties for clients. Now that he had Manny there was no turning back. He had to find a way to bring his two worlds together. Arriving home, he grabbed the mail from their box next to the steep staircase leading to the front door of his house. He slowly ascended the stairs as he shuffled through the bills and junk mail, looking for the letter from his mother he was hoping for but that never came. When Manny was born, Gus had sent his mother pictures of her new grandson, hoping that seeing the baby would melt her stony refusal to accept his relationship with Callie. He’d invited her to come and stay with them, both because he missed her and because he desperately wanted her punishing silence to end. He knew that he and Callie weren’t a perfect match, but they’d had a lot of fun in the beginning, and then they had Manny. And he was determined to be a good father to his son, a father that stayed.
He’d never forgotten that day when his father had left. He drove off in their old station wagon and never came back. Once in a while he sent a comic book or a new shirt for Gus. When Gus was fourteen, they got the call from the hospital that his father had died from a heart attack. He never knew what his father had been thinking. Why had he really left? Whether he’d left to get away from them or to get to something or someone better. Whether it had been worth it.
He rubbed his eyes and fit the key into the lock. On the landing outside the front door, he noticed a small box wrapped in brown paper and embossed with several colorful stamps. Picking it up, he realized that the writing on the box was very familiar, the strange looping twos, the extra round C, the ink pen firmly and carefully pressed into the package. It was the careful immigrant English handwriting of his mother. The waiting was over—she had finally written! Dropping his briefcase, he tried to rip the package open right there outside the front door, but the clear packing tape escaped his short fingernails over and over again.
He pushed the front door open and ran up the stairs into the kitchen where he searched for scissors. Unable to find any, he grabbed a ten-inch chef’s knife off the block and carved the brown wrapping paper open. Inside was more tape holding the box closed, and Gus shook his head and chuckled as he recalled Christmases growing up. His mother would use extraordinary amounts of tape to make it hard for him to open his gifts, finding his excited desperation amusing. “Always the same, Mana. You like to make it hard for me,” he laughed as he finally got the box open and the smell of Greece filled his nostrils.
One by one he removed the objects from the box: a bag of oregano, some of his favorite cookies, moustokouloura made from grape molasses, and down underneath a layer of crumpled paper a pair of hand-knit baby booties with a letter rolled up into one of the feet. “My dearest Manolaki, please tell your father that I am coming to visit you on June 15th. I would like a ride from the airport. Love, Yiayia.”
“She’s coming. She’s coming!” Gus yelled out into the house. “Hey, Callie? My mom is coming!”
Callie came bounding down the stairs from the bedroom, Manny in her arms. “What’s going on? You scared me.”
“My mom is coming! Manolaki, your yiayia is coming to see you!” Gus hopped around the kitchen.
“Wow. I’ve never seen you so excited.” Callie giggled. “When is she coming?”
“June 15th!” Gus said loudly and grabbed Manny from her. He kissed the baby’s cheeks. “Yiayia is coming!”
“June 15th?”
“June 15th! In seven weeks!”
“Don’t you have a real estate seminar in the wine country on June 15th?” Callie asked.
“Screw it. I can go next year. We have to get ready!” Gus laughed.
“Well, at least one of his grandmothers is coming to visit him,” Callie mumbled as she tugged on her tube top. “You know, I’m not even sure which commune my mom is at right now?”
Gus stopped smiling. “Maybe we shouldn’t mention the communes while my mom is here, okay?” The last thing he needed was for his mother to decide Callie was some weird cult hippie.
“Well, what if it comes up in conversation?” Callie asked.
Gus started making a mental checklist of topics to avoid while his mother was visiting. He was going to have to get Callie to go along with it. There were so many things she’d need to learn if she was ever going to win his mother’s approval.
“Cal? Seriously, we have to get ready.” Gus grabbed Callie’s arm. “We have to get ready. You have to get Greek right away.”
“What?” Callie stopped smiling.
“You know, learn to cook all the Greek dishes, learn some Greek phrases like, ‘welcome, how are you,’ etc.” Gus was getting nervous. “And maybe get some new clothes, you know, respectable lady kind of clothes.”
“What do you mean, Gus, ‘lady clothes’?” Callie’s tone was becoming terse.
Gus looked her up and down. She was wearing a tube top, short denim cutoffs, thongs, and her hair plaited into two braids pulled back behind her ears. “Oh you know, a little more respectable?”
“I thought you liked the way I dress?” Callie said wrinkling her brow.
“I do, babe. You’re totally hot.” Gus realized suddenly that this visit might be harder than he expected, carefully balancing the egos and desires of Callie and his mother. “I was just thinking that, you know, to make a good first impression, that maybe you could wear something a little more traditionally . . . mother-like?”
“Would you like me to get some high-waisted jeans, a pink polo shirt, and a short, carefree haircut? And some granny panties? I bet you’d like that,” Callie huffed.
“Hey babe. Please don’t take it that way. You know how long I’ve wanted my mom to come visi
t,” he said in a pleading voice. “I really want it to go well.” Gus knew that he was asking a lot of Callie, but in that moment he felt like an earnest little boy missing his mother, and he needed Callie to help him. Callie softened her stance, reaching out to run her fingers through Gus’s curly hair. “I want it to go well too. I’ll try my best, Gus. And I’ll buy a new dress or two. Respectable ones.” She smiled.
“Thanks, Cal.” Gus drew Callie into his arms and held her close to his chest. Manny chortled at the group hug, and Callie smiled as she tickled his chubby cheeks. “Maybe she and I will hit it off. We could really click, you know.”
Gus thought about his stubborn traditional mother and her insistence on things done “the right way,” and thought, This is going to be a disaster.
The Vision
In the dark predawn hours, in the liminal space between dreams and reality, I kneel in an eastward-facing corner of my bedroom, before a low table where I have carefully arranged my sacred objects. I lift the lid of the golden incense burner and light the black charcoal. As I drop a rock of livani onto the heat, an ancient scent perfumes the air. I carefully arrange the flowers cut fresh from the garden into a small crystal vase. The roses droop under the weight of their velvety red heads, and the jasmine emits an insistent and seductive fragrance. I light the wick that floats within the chalice of life-giving olive oil, mesmerized by the undulating flame that adds one small source of light to the darkness. My bare knees press into the rough carpet, and the sensation of pain keeps me centered. Everything is in place. I make the sign of the cross and, staring up at the icon of the Madonna and child on my bedroom wall, I pray.
For the past two years I have desperately whispered the same unanswered request into the dark silence. My prayer is simple, yet forged from a state of longing, an unsatisfied wish that pushes on my heart. The scents, the smoke, the pain, the years, my fervent prayers—all of it adds up to this moment of pure desire. I can only hope that this time God will see me, that He will see my devotion and answer my prayers.
I close my eyes and imagine holding my baby in my arms, as I always do. I hold my arms in a perfect cradle position and visualize my baby, with its soft, deliciously fragrant head nestled safely in the crook of my arm. I stay in this position until I notice my arm muscles starting to burn. But this time something is different. My arms are tingling and heavy. This time I can feel the warm weight of its body pressing against mine. This time I can feel it breathing! I hold my breath so that I can feel the rise and fall of my baby’s breath against my chest. With equal parts of terrible hope and fear I slowly open my eyes to look down into my arms. At that same moment the icon of the Virgin Mary is inexplicably illuminated in the darkness of the room. Her crimson and blue robes trimmed in gold reflect the light as she tenderly turns and tilts her head toward her baby, and then turns to smile at me. Trembling, I am overcome with unadulterated joy and certainty. I begin to swoon, and I fall to the ground, nearly losing consciousness. When I open my eyes I see her kneeling over me holding her hand over my belly. I see her lips move and I hear the words, “the right hand can perform miracles,” and millions of sparkling particles float slowly from her outstretched hand within a bright shaft of light toward my womb. I notice a slight pressure on my vagina, but rather than startle I relax and let myself open. I’m certain that the divine has entered my body and that at last my dream has come true. I, Xeni, am a pregnant virgin.
When I regain consciousness, I grab the box of pregnancy tests from inside of my hall cabinet. As I rip the plastic wrapper off of the test stick I can hardly breathe. I take the stick into the bathroom and carefully sit on the cold toilet seat. When I think I get it wet enough, I take it to my altar. I place it under the icon of the Virgin, between the lit wick floating in the chalice and the fresh flowers I picked this morning. It lies there, white and plastic and lifeless, next to my sacred objects. I will the pink line to appear. I kneel on the floor and genuflect three times before I kiss the icon of the Virgin. Did I really see her turn her head to smile at me? Did she really kneel over me? I felt something miraculous enter my body. I know I did.
But everything feels cold. The air is cold. The carpet under my knees is cold. The test stick looks like a sharp icicle. The flame flares and dies out, despite the generous amount of olive oil that it floats on. Even before I pick up the stick I know.
I run my trembling hands down my body, my breasts, my belly, my thighs. I search for the changes that will show me that God loves me, that dreams can come true. I am suspended in this moment, my breath gathered in my chest, eyes squeezed shut. But my breasts are not sore, my belly is just plain fat, and my thighs remain clamped shut. My nipples are dry and my throat is choking. There is no movement in my womb, neither slight nor impatient. I am dry and barren, a vine without flowers or fruit. A woman without purpose.
I am reminded each month when I bleed instead of growing bigger with child. My baby dream sinks and clots into a bloody pad that I reluctantly throw in the trash and cover with a soft tissue. My arms are interminably empty except for my Doll. She may be the only baby I will ever have. Maybe it’s best that way. She’ll never get sick or leave me. She’ll never hurt me. But she’ll also never learn to cook with me. I’ll never watch her grow up. And she’ll never be able to say, “I love you.”
I don’t know anyone who wants a baby more than me. But sometimes I doubt that God will ever listen to me. I don’t know, and so the rest of the time I try to think of ways that I can get myself a baby.
I wish I could just wake up and find a baby on my doorstep or an abandoned baby at the mall. There are always women with their babies at the mall. The mothers usually seem tired or absentminded. A lot of times they leave their babies in a shopping cart all by themselves while they go wandering down an aisle looking for something like a birthday card or a blouse. Sometimes, when the mothers have wandered a few yards away and no one else is around, I think about snatching the baby. I wonder if the child would cry. But, if it was meant to be my baby, I don’t think it would.
One day at the grocery store I see a baby sitting in a shopping cart. He has a nice round head, red hair, and big brown eyes. I slowly walk by him in the cart filled with diapers, tofu, and kombucha. I look up and down the aisle, but his mother is nowhere to be seen. I even check the next aisle over. Then I see her—a tall, slender woman with long red hair bent over a pile of spinach, a wilted bunch in each hand. She’s talking to herself about something and not even watching her baby.
I reach out to touch his fat cheek. I need to feel the soft, plump skin of a real living baby. I just lightly graze his skin with my fingertips. It is as soft as black velvet. Like the black velvety horizon on an ultrasound screen dotted with white stars and the shape of a baby curled up in a deep sleep. I am so overcome with emotion that I turn my back and start to softly cry. I hear footsteps and I know his mother has returned. Her shadow blocks out the sun, the moon, and the stars.
An Odd Job
Callie strode through the supermarket pushing the shopping cart before her, talking to Manny, who was reclining in his infant car seat firmly wedged into the cart. “Daddy is so excited about your Greek Granny coming. I wonder what your Granny likes to eat. What do you think, little honey? Would Daddy like something Greek for dinner tonight? Maybe we can surprise him with something good!”
Manny pushed his fist into his mouth and gurgled, smiling with his eyes.
“I thought you’d agree.” Callie ran through a list of Greek dishes, not letting the fact that she didn’t know how to prepare them deter her enthusiasm. She’d eaten them all in restaurants that Gus had taken her to, and then sat and listened to him complain that they didn’t come anywhere close to his mother’s cooking.
“What do they say? It’s a good sign when a man loves his mother . . .” She paused under the fluorescent lights of the supermarket, trying to remember the exact phrase. Shrugging her shoulders she started walking again, making silly faces at Manny as he giggled. “I ca
n’t believe you’re already five months old!”
“So let’s see . . . there’s moussaka, there’s kabobs, there’s spanakopita—mmm, spanakopita. Let’s make that. Daddy needs more vegetables.” She chuckled as she turned her cart toward the green mounds of produce. “What do you think goes into spanakopita besides spinach? Cheese, filo . . . maybe there’ll be a recipe on the filo package. Or maybe we’ll wing it. We could improvise and add some interesting and new stuff. How about tofu—or cranberries?” Callie smiled and kissed Manny’s plump toes.
Callie stopped by the freezer section and found the filo. The recipe on the box was for a mushroom strudel. “Huh. Well, I was kind of counting on that spanakopita recipe, wasn’t I, as a guide . . .” Callie wrinkled her brow and checked a few more packages just in case they displayed different recipes. “Mushroom strudel, mushroom strudel, mushroom strudel. Crap. I thought for sure they’d have the recipe. Too bad Mommy forgot her phone at home. I could have googled it.” She put the filo back in the freezer and took a few steps away. Then she went back and grabbed the filo box. Then she put it back in the freezer. Then she grabbed the filo box again and put it in her cart. Then she pulled it back out and put it in the freezer again. Looking about, she was relieved to see that she was alone in the aisle with her confusion.
“What do you think, Manny? You think I can pull off spanakopita without a recipe? Maybe I’ll go look at the spinach first.”
Callie turned the cart again and headed toward the produce section. This time her walk wasn’t quite as sunny, her banter a little more subdued.
“Maybe we should have macaroni and cheese instead. That always makes me feel better when I’m grumpy.” But she knew that macaroni and cheese wouldn’t warm Gus’s stomach or heart. It had to be Greek. And it had to be good. Good enough for Gus and for his mother.
It was these thoughts that kept Callie up at night, unable to sleep in the unnatural stillness of the house, lying awake listening to the sound of baby Manny’s soft breathing. The night before she had turned to look at Gus, who lay sleeping on his back. “Hey baby daddy, are you awake?” She rested her hand on his chest and felt his heart beating beneath the surface. He stirred and turned away from her, his eyes still closed. His olive-skinned ribs caged his heart, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever quite reach him. Since Manny was born, she had found herself feeling alternately overwhelmed by the consuming task of being a mother and increasingly disconnected from Gus. She wanted to feel whole and settled in her new life and family, but in the quiet night hours she couldn’t deny that there was some soul connection missing. And she wasn’t even entirely sure what she wanted anymore.
The Feasting Virgin Page 3