Cally's Way

by Jane Bow

  “Thanks for the dance.” Turning away, he pushed through the crowd toward the door.

  Not interested.

  There were no lights on the seaside promenade beyond the hotel, no bars, no people, just a line of tamarisk trees disappearing into the night, their graceful trunks curved by the winds, their delicate green heads tossing in a breeze off the sea. Waves roaring in to break on the sand looked bigger at this end of the bay.

  Behind her eyes a thundercloud was building. She should go back to her hotel, get into bed with a hot rum toddy.

  The breeze reached under her hair, played across the back of her neck. A lopsided moon was bathing the beach and the sea with silver. Behind them the mountain peaks were craggy black against the night sky.

  Should. Such a pinched, blinkered word. When would she ever have another chance to walk on a moonlit Mediterranean beach? Breathing the salt sea air might help her to sleep.

  Halfway along the promenade, down at the water’s edge, the moon was shining on the naked body of a swimmer. A head full of curls, his sinewy limbs braced against the breakers. The American. He had no tan lines. Beside him the little dog was digging, throwing up a geyser of sand. The man threw out his arms for balance as a large wave broke across his thighs, and in the light of the moon his curls and the limber lines of his body could have belonged to one of the gods in a book of Greek mythology. A minor one, she decided: Hermes, maybe, the messenger, a long distance runner.

  She turned back toward the hotel. Stopped.

  Damn it, why should she interrupt her walk just because he had decided to display himself to all comers? She stifled a sneeze.

  A wave slapped against the American’s stomach, knocking him over. Watching from just above the water line, his dog ran back and forth barking. The American got to his feet, his hair plastered to his skull.

  “Shut up, Wrecks.”

  He dove under the next roller, the sheen of his buttocks whitened by the moon, then, stroking out, turned over to float among the swells, his face a disk on the sea’s star-strewn surface.

  Another sneeze tweaked her nose. She pinched it.

  Never swim alone, didn’t he know that? What could a raggedy mutt do if he got a leg cramp or accidentally took in a lungful of water and choked? She was not the only fool out here tonight.

  Fingers of foam were reaching up the beach, close to the pile of his clothes. His dog had gone off, following a trail of smells, tail high. She slipped off her sandals and stepped down into the sand. She would move the clothes higher while no one was looking.

  Back along Plakias’ seafront promenade, the few early season tourists were still sitting sipping cocktails in the open-air lounges. Music from the dance club continued to beat the night air. Her hands were full of the American’s jeans, t-shirt, and both their sandals. The sand was warm in the spaces between her toes when an idea landed.

  No, Cally—

  Too late. She was ten years old again, stealing her brother Sam’s towel one night by the pool while he and a girlfriend were skinny-dipping. Tiptoeing up the beach now, she hid the clothes behind an old sailing dinghy someone had dragged up to where the sand met weeds and scrub below the promenade. Then she turned, skipping along in the line of sea foam toward her hotel.

  Out on the waves Aphrodite’s lovely head tilted, listening as Ares, god of war and her favourite lover, rode in on his chariot from the wild mountains to the north.

  The mutt ran past her, ears flapping, then turned in a flurry of sand and skidded to a halt, barking.

  A hand, cold as a dead man’s, closed on her upper arm.

  “Where’s my stuff?” The American’s face was in shadow. There was no mirth in his voice. She tried to pull out of his grasp.

  “It was a joke.”

  He appeared to let go of her but then his arms came around to lift her off her feet. He turned toward the sea.

  “No, wait!” His body against her was hard, strong. “My dress! It’s dry clean only!”

  “It’s a joke.” The water played around the American’s knees.

  She kicked, writhed, flailed against the strength of his arms, a thousand years of women’s rights charging a bolt of expletive-filled rage. The water licked her bottom, splashed her face.

  “Stop it! My dress, and I’m sick—!”

  The American put her down.

  “You can tell me what you did with my clothes or …” His lips twitched, mocking. “You can take off the dress.”

  Surf broke against her knees.

  She should call his bluff, pull the dress over her head, throw it up onto the beach, and dive out in her underwear. Two large rollers were coming in, one straight, the other on an angle, but she would come up on the other side of them. If she didn’t make a move, the American’s hand would find hers and pull her under, out of the way as the waves crashed one into the other, throwing up a fountain of spray. Underwater, tossed in the bubbling tumble, she would have no idea which way was up, but his hand would guide her and, sand under her feet, the sea would kiss her chin as a new swell lifted them both then, rolling on, gently set them down again. The silver path laid by the moon led out into the open water, beckoning—

  Slee would have ripped off all her clothes by now, would be leaping and diving like a dolphin into whatever came next. And look what had happened to Slee, whose beautiful name Celine had not survived Overhampton Elementary School: she got pregnant in her third year at law school. The father—one of her professors, lanky, gawky, not much of a talker, nineteen years older, divorced—had been delighted to marry her and then, just after she had started practicing in a Toronto law firm, a second baby had arrived. She had tried more than once to question Slee’s motives, but all she ever received from this razor sharp thinker was a sheepish, glowing, “Like I had a choice?”

  So why was she still standing here?

  Because no one on the planet knew what she was doing right now and this man might be crazy. Because above her the sky was covered with more stars than she had ever seen. There was the Big Dipper, Orion, pointing his bow at the Dragon’s Head, and the Seven Sisters. Because pinpricks of starlight were rippling, breaking apart, dancing like pixies on the night sea. Because—

  The American’s hand found hers.

  “It’s getting cold, and you’re sick, remember?”

  She led him to the dinghy, pretending not to look at his nakedness. The little dog bounded around them, his outsized tail wagging his whole rear end, then he flopped down into the warm sand at the top of the beach and started rolling in it. The American laughed then spontaneously followed suit, coating his torso, his sodden hair, his face with sand. Standing again, he walked stiff legged toward her.

  Stucco Man. Funny–Scary.

  She backed away, laughing, wanting so much to lie down too, to let the sandy warmth tangle her hair, to give in to a gritty arousal so that when he knelt over her—

  He turned away, bending over to shake the sand out of his hair, and then grinned back at her.

  “I’m Oliver.”

  “Cally.” She gave up trying not to watch as he used his T-shirt to wipe the sand off his face and chest and legs.

  “Kelly?” He stepped into his jeans.

  “No, Cally, short for—”

  “Callisto?”

  “Yes! How did you know that?” The words scraped on a cough.

  He smiled. “You have long shiny dark hair, so maybe you’re Greek?” His accent was American but the cadence of his words was odd, as if he were not used to speaking English.

  “And Callisto was one of Artemis’ virgin hunters, who would let no man touch her—”

  She laughed. “That’s right, until Zeus seduced her—”

  “So you are Greek?”

  “No, I got the name from my mother, who got it from her mother—”

  “Who was from here?” He was bending over again, using his hands to comb more sand out of his hair.

  “From Crete, yes, but I don’t know where—”
/>   Tilting his head, he looked up at her, puzzled.

  “I never knew my grandmother.” She looked away, up at the dark mountains. “And my mother died a month ago.”

  “Oh.” Oliver picked up his sandals. “I’m sorry.” He said nothing more, and trudging beside him along the beach, Cally was grateful.

  How to explain a mother who had never spoken of her past? How to explain anything, for that matter?

  The morning after their mother’s funeral, while eating cereal at the kitchen table with her brothers, Sam and Johnny, she had shown them the brochure and rings.

  “You should go now,” said Johnny, “before you start in New York. God knows you deserve a break.”

  Sam, whose mouth was stuffed with Cheerios, had nodded, pointing at the rings.

  “Put them to some use.”

  “But—” She looked around at the kitchen cupboards, still full of dishes, cooking pans, and food.

  “We can have the house ready for sale in a week.” Dear Sam, six years older, dark and quick and unpredictable, messy, disorganized, funny. One of her very first memories was of him lifting her off her feet then twirling her round and round, faster, faster until they both fell down, laughing so hard. Everything with Sam was in the “So” category. Only he dared to argue with their mother, parrying criticisms, pointing out contradictions, both of them shouting while Cally and Johnny looked at each other. Their mother never yelled at the two of them like that. Then Johnny would plug in his headphones or hook himself up to a video game down in the recreation room. She would go over to Slee’s house. Their father was away on a business trip, then gone altogether. It had not taken Sam long to leave, first school, then for Australia. He picked up the brochure. “Johnny’s right. Go. The timing’s perfect.”

  “Nonono. I don’t have any of the right clothes.” How could she go all the way across the world all by herself? It was too much, her life suddenly revved into too high a gear. “Anyway, why should I go? Why, for that matter, should I even go to New York? I might be better off staying right here, taking some time—”

  “To do what?” said Sam, “Rot? You need a job, Cal.” Her mother’s outstanding debts would eat up the value of the house and its contents, but the rings would cover the cost of the cruise to Crete. “And tomorrow we’ll go shopping for some cruise wear and work-in-New-York clothes.”

  Two weeks later, brothers gone, Slee discovered Cally in bed in the living room, on a mattress salvaged from the auctioneers.

  “You’re depressed,” the doctor had said. “Take these.” Prozac, guaranteed to make her strong and well enough to honour her mother’s last wish then start her new job. Slee had contributed a sexy silk-and-lace brassiere and thong, just in case (fat chance), and driven her to airport. Cally had thrown the pills overboard the second day at sea. She was twenty-five, for God’s sake, too young to live inside their buffered dullness.

  Down at the other end of the beach, reflections from the restaurants rippled on the surf. Inland, high up, two separate clusters of light looked like ships suspended in some extraterrestrial world. She stopped to gaze.

  “That’s the village of Myrthios.” Oliver pointed to the closer one. Behind it, the mountains were sawtoothed sentinels silhouetted against the moon-blue sky. The second village, nestled on the shoulder of the next mountain, was Sellia. “They’re rivals. Every Easter they see which village can build the biggest midnight fire to burn the effigy of Judas.”

  “Cool.” The real Kríti.

  The dance club music grew louder as they approached the promenade. Oliver stopped outside her hotel.

  “You’re here alone?”

  “Yes. I leave late tomorrow.”

  Oliver glanced up at the suspended villages.

  “There’s something you might like to see, then, if you’ve got time.”

  “In the middle of the night?” Beyond the hotel’s orb of light, the only world was darkness.

  “Put on something dry, pants if you have some.” He had a beautiful smile. “We’ll be back in a minute.”

  She watched him lope away into the night.

  The hem of her dress was heavy with sea water, ruined probably. Her underpants stuck to her bottom. She stripped them both off, put on her capris and a sweater. Her hair, in the bathroom mirror, was a mess of Medusa-like snakes. She tied it back into a ponytail and wiped black smudges, all that was left of her mascara, off her cheeks. There was nothing she could do about her glassy eyes and light-bulb red cheeks. Insane, clearly that’s what she was.

  His beat-up red motorcycle looked like a prop left over from a 1940s Hollywood movie. His mutt was sitting in a bullet shaped sidecar that had rivets along its seams.

  “You could ride here,” Oliver patted the saddle behind him, “unless you want a drooling dog in your lap.” Lifting the mutt, he extended one of its rust-coloured front paws in a mock handshake. “You haven’t officially met Wrecks. Spelled W-R-E-C-K-S.” He looked down at the mutt’s sand-matted fur. “For obvious reasons.”

  One of the dog’s ears, tufted at the tip, stood up, the other flopped. His tail thumped against Oliver’s chest, and she could have sworn that he was grinning.

  How could she not go?

  Apparently no one in Crete wore motorcycle helmets. She hugged Oliver’s back, watching over his shoulder as he gunned the engine up the mountain road, twisting around hairpin bends, the bike’s headlight cutting a swath through the darkness. The sidecar bounced along beside them, higher and higher through the sleeping olive groves until, turning west, the road ran along the side of the mountain. The lights of Plakias twinkled far below as he slowed through Myrthios, where people were still coming out of the tavérnas, going home to bed. He did not stop.

  The road curved back into the cleavage between mountains, out of the reach of even the moonlight, the motorcycle’s headlight sweeping across rocky cliffs close beside them, the mountains above them black on black, the stars so close, no human habitation anywhere. Fear curled into her chest.

  “Where are you taking me?” She had to shout over the engine. One moment’s decision, one terrible mistake, that’s all it would take. The man’s dog was named Wrecks, for God’s sake!

  Oliver turned his head.

  “Wait and see. We’re nearly there.”

  Veering back toward the sea, the road climbed the side of the next mountain, Plakias and the sea now thousands of feet below. Oliver slowed down, swerving to avoid a dog as they passed darkened windows in the village of Sellia, then threaded his way through streets too narrow for more than one vehicle. The edge of the tarmac fell away into the night. A well-fed cat watched from a patch of street light as the owner of the village’s tavérna put up his chairs. Then they were climbing again. She clung to his back as they crested a steep hillock on the seaward edge of the village. There was a church at the top. Sellia was sheltered below it, between this high point and the mountains behind.

  A great palm tree stood guard over a wrought iron gate. Inside, waist-high marble tombs decorated with crosses, angels, doves were lit by oil lamps in glassed-in shrines at their heads: rows and rows of tiny lights flickering under the moon and stars. Cypress trees at the top of each row, sculpted nearly horizontal by the mountain winds, looked like Japanese ink drawings against the sky. She had never seen anything like it.

  “Cretans like to build their graveyards as close as possible to God,” said Oliver.

  Beside the oil lamps inside the shrines, people had placed a few flowers, some fresh, others plastic, and a crucifix or a prized medal or a candlestick or a toy. Always a photograph, several in ornate silver frames just like the one she had found in Grampa MacIntyre’s desk.

  Something squeaked in the darkness above her. She looked around for Oliver but he was some way behind her.

  There it was again, a single squeak in the trees. A bat? Strangely, she felt no fear. Death, all around her, was beautiful in this nighttime world of flickering souls and answering stars. Removed from light, bright d
ay life, the departed connected with eternity, and were free to come alive. To be with you.

  Her mother had insisted on being cremated, her ashes disposed of by the funeral home, but where had she been born over here? Where had she lived her babyhood? Was there a cemetery home like this for her mother, Callisto, with urns of flowers by the gates and wreaths on the tombs? Parents were supposed to pass on their stories, take family trips to places that mattered, talk around the dinner table. Leave you with something. She looked up to the stars. But what would a soul who had never communicated in life have to say from the heavens?

  Oliver came to take her hand, drawing her to the graveyard’s outer wall. Far below them, Plakias was a string of colour at the back of the bay, the sea silver under the moonlight, the mountains behind it a place where gods and goddesses surely still lived. And spoke to her now in some inchoate, visceral language that had nothing to do with words.

  Back at the hotel, she opened her mouth to thank him, to say goodbye.

  “My room has a Jacuzzi,” said her voice, “if you want to warm up.”

  His smile was a gift, his kiss both soft and firm, but apparently Aphrodite and Ares had other plans for them tonight.