Call Me Athena

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Call Me Athena Page 18

by Colby Cedar Smith


  to leave Maman.

  I sit by her bedside.

  Try to feed her

  spoonfuls of soup,

  small pieces of bread,

  like she is one

  of my patients.

  She refuses

  nourishment.

  It feels like she is trying

  to die.

  Maman is burning

  and she’s talking

  in a language that no one

  can recognize.

  The doctor arrives.

  He touches

  Maman’s forehead

  and applies his stethoscope

  to her chest.

  There is not much

  we can do

  except wait.

  I wish my father were here.

  I call for my aunt,

  Sister Marie-Thérèse.

  She arrives wearing

  her traditional habit:

  black tunic

  white wimple

  and black veil.

  She hugs me fiercely.

  Drops down on her knees

  next to my mother’s bed.

  Now, she is in God’s hands.

  My aunt and I

  pray together.

  She holds the cross

  around her neck

  and presses it

  to her forehead.

  She prays to her Lord,

  her Husband, and her Keeper.

  I pray to my father.

  Papa,

  if she walks

  down the tunnel

  toward that loving light,

  tell God

  and Saint Peter

  waiting at the gate

  to put his golden keys away.

  Tell them to please

  send her back to me.

  My God

  doesn’t listen.

  The coroner comes.

  He places a black blanket

  over my mother’s body

  and lifts her

  onto a stretcher.

  They take her

  through the front door

  and load her

  onto a wagon

  pulled by six

  black horses.

  My God

  turns the sky gray

  and opens up the clouds.

  My God

  rains down

  on me

  with the thunder

  of sorrow.

  My God

  has made me

  an orphan.

  Mary

  Detroit, Michigan

  1934

  Letter #19

  November 8, 1918

  My Petit Oiseau,

  If I had all the money in the world, I would buy you a house and fill our gardens with roses.

  I would feed you almonds and olives, and we could sit on the porch and stare at the clouds.

  We could walk around our town—any town we chose as our home.

  I would be proud to be your husband. Proud to call you my wife.

  Your loving and loyal,

  Loup

  There’s a Ford in your future

  On the first day of his new job,

  my father gathers

  with all the new employees.

  The workers fill

  the factory floor.

  They wait

  for the initiation ceremony

  to begin.

  It is simple.

  The employees

  wear

  their native costumes

  from all around

  the globe.

  Embroidered vests from Poland.

  Kaftan coats from Russia.

  Sarape ponchos from Mexico.

  My father wears

  his fustanella—a traditional kilt,

  a white billowy blouse,

  and black vest

  from Greece.

  They walk together

  into a huge

  melting pot

  large enough to fit

  ten men.

  When the cauldron tips,

  all of the men

  walk out

  wearing the same

  Ford factory

  uniform.

  Americans. 29, 30, 31

  Mama wants us to be presentable

  She twists and ties

  my hair

  with strips

  of cloth.

  All night,

  I struggle

  to climb

  the hills and valleys

  poised

  on the top

  of my head.

  I wake

  in the morning

  angry.

  My head hurts

  but it’s full

  of bouncing

  curls.

  I avoid the mirror.

  Remember

  the story of Medusa?

  She was transformed

  into a monster

  because of her vanity.

  We tour the foundry

  It’s red.

  It’s hot.

  It’s dangerous.

  The floors are covered in sand.

  White eyes

  peek through

  layers

  of black soot.

  I walk the line.

  The noise

  coming from

  the machines

  sounds

  like music

  rising up

  from the depths

  of hell.

  Each day

  my father stokes the flames

  on the factory floor.

  Shovels pig iron scrap,

  hammers and drills.

  Pours viscous

  white heat

  into the cauldrons.

  When he comes home,

  he smells

  of sulfur and coke.

  We hold our noses and shriek

  as my mother pushes him

  toward the backyard shower,

  where he washes away

  the dirt and grime

  of a hard day’s work.

  He puts on a clean shirt.

  We sit down to a simple meal

  of bread and butter

  and tomatoes.

  He places both hands over his eyes

  and says to all of us,

  Thank God I have a job.

  On Saturday

  my father puts on a suit

  and his best hat

  and walks out of the door.

  My mother follows after him.

  Where are you going?

  He looks over his shoulder and says,

  Mind your own business, woman!

  My mother sulks all day.

  She worries that he’s sick

  or, worse,

  he has found

  a younger woman.

  The truth is

  even though

  Modern.

  American.

  Women.

  choose their husbands,

  they still

  have to serve them.

  And they are tied

  to their houses

  like an eagle

  held by its master’s tether.

  We hear frantic honking

  in front of our building.

 
When we go outside

  we see my father

  with his hat tipped

  up like a schoolboy.

  He is smiling

  from ear

  to ear.

  Standing in front

  of a brand-new,

  shining black

  automobile.

  He drives us around all day

  in our new car.

  It feels like we’re traveling

  on the back

  of a giant

  black dragon.

  Shooting fire

  and flying above

  the long, gray roads

  that lead straight

  out of town.

  It takes my brothers a week

  before they learn to drive.

  Gus takes his friends

  to see a moving-picture show

  at the theatre

  on a Friday night.

  John chauffeurs my father

  to and from work.

  I don’t even ask.

  Good Greek Girls

  don’t drive cars.

  One night, my brother John

  comes home drunk.

  He’s swaying

  and can’t get up the stairs

  by himself.

  Don’t tell Mom and Dad!

  he hisses.

  I bring him his nightclothes

  and assure him

  I won’t tell anyone

  his secret.

  If he teaches me

  how to drive.

  The next day

  I get behind the wheel.

  The black leather

  feels soft and smooth

  under my palms.

  The road opens up.

  I can see the whole world

  in the windshield.

  I am finally in control.

  And I realize

  nobody is ever

  going to tell me to stay

  in one place

  again.

  Giorgos (Gio)

  Saint-Malo, France

  1918

  My stomach

  is in knots.

  I should have gone to the dance.

  Will she

  think of me

  while she’s out

  in the world

  having fun?

  I pray

  she doesn’t meet

  another person.

  A better person.

  Will she come

  to the hospital

  and wake me

  with a kiss?

  I wait for her

  all night

  and all the next day.

  She doesn’t come.

  I see Vera scurrying

  down the hallway

  with dirty sheets

  and a bucket.

  I ask her about Jeanne.

  Her face falls.

  I’m so sorry.

  I meant to tell you.

  Everyone is worried.

  Her father has died,

  and her mother is very ill.

  She looks like

  she wants to hug me.

  She lifts her feet

  not knowing where

  to place

  the sheets.

  She won’t be back soon.

  She’s taking some time.

  Vera turns and walks

  down the hall.

  Jeanne

  Saint-Malo, France

  1918

  We bury Maman

  in the cemetery on the hill.

  Two names

  on the tombstone.

  My mother’s body

  in the ground.

  My father’s body

  lost,

  in an unknown land.

  I kneel down

  on the grave,

  place my hand

  on the loose soil.

  I wish I could

  dig down

  and lie with her

  in the same bed

  just like

  when I was a child.

  I waited so long

  for Papa to return.

  Now I know,

  it is hopeless to wish

  for things

  that will never happen.

  I arrive at the hospital

  It’s a cool night.

  I pull my shawl tighter

  around my shoulders.

  I can’t stop

  shivering.

  What will Giorgos say

  when he sees me?

  I don’t know

  if I can even say the words.

  Both of my parents are dead.

  For a brief second,

  I imagine

  that he will ask me

  to marry him.

  I turn the corner

  and stop.

  Gio’s bed is empty.

  I search

  the other beds

  frantically.

  I look for

  his books

  his jacket

  his watch.

  Finally,

  I ask the head nurse.

  They shipped him out

  two days ago.

  Healthy enough

  to go back to the front.

  No note

  No goodbye.

  Did I imagine everything?

  I have no one.

  Who will love me

  now?

  Mary

  Detroit, Michigan

  1934

  Letter #20

  November 9, 1918

  A storm is coming.

  The wind sounds like the rumbling wheels of a freight train.

  From the window, I can see the giant oak.

  It’s been standing in this courtyard for three hundred years.

  Swaying with each storm but not going anywhere.

  Petit Oiseau

  You must have had dreams

  when you were my age.

  Didn’t you, Mama?

  She stops cleaning the dishes.

  Wipes her hands

  on her apron

  and sits down next to me.

  Sometimes

  the thickest dreams

  become just

  thin air.

  Then

  only the birds

  can use them

  to fly.

  A second meeting is arranged

  I can hear

  my parents talking

  and clinking glasses

  in the kitchen.

  I see my father

  peer around the doorframe

  to check on me.

  To make sure I’m behaving.

  Dimitris leans closer.

  He places

  his heavy hand

  on my thigh.

  A lion trapping

  a mouse

  under a paw.

  My skin shivers.

  My eyes turn green.

  Please, don’t.

  I try to move

  away from him.

  I wish there were a rock

  to scamper under

  and hide.

  His grasp tightens.

  You should feel grateful

  that I want you.

  It is at this moment

  that I decide.

  I am n
ot

  a Good. Greek. Girl.

  I am

  a Modern. American. Woman.

  There is nothing

  my father can do

  to make me marry

  this heavy-handed

  predator.

  I will do as I please.

  I stand from the sofa

 

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