Traveling Light

by Thalasinos, Andrea

  “You sure this right house, lady?” one of them asked

  She’d nodded at him—what a strange thing to ask.

  “This look like hoarder live here.”

  “What?” She wrinkled her brow.

  They covered their mouths with their hands and stepped outside, their heads shaking.

  “Place is full,” one of them said. “No space.” He’d motioned like an umpire at a Yankee game: You’re out.

  “This was his parents’ place,” she’d said. “We’re combining multiple households,” she’d explained. “You know, from two into one, getting married,” out tumbled the excuse.

  “You probably see this every day.”

  Their expressions worried her. Different from when they’d loaded up her things, joking, trading jabs as they’d packed up her old apartment. Her nature always put people at ease, especially immigrants. Paula’d never forgotten that Vassili had been a waiter, Eleni a seamstress.

  One of the movers pointed to the space between the front window and the wrought-iron fence bordering the sidewalk. “We unload you here.” He pointed. “Your husband help you move later, okay?” he said, looking at his watch.

  “No, wait—tell you what.” Paula looked up at the swollen rain clouds. “It’ll take me a second to clear a spot—I swear.” She lifted a finger. “Please wait—it’ll take me a second,” she assured.

  She stepped inside and quickly began moving boxes; shoving piles of cartons onto other piles, she heard the clanking of bone china, the chiming of a pendulum clock. She tripped over a pile of folded Oriental rugs to clear a footprint for the contents of her life.

  She’d had no furniture except for a couch she’d purchased just before meeting Roger; everything else she’d tossed. “You can build a whole room around a couch like this,” the home décor specialist had advised.

  Paula and Roger would decorate and remodel the kitchen and bathrooms, make it “Our Home,” Paula’d glowed to Eleni and Celeste, turning her cheeks pink in a way no one had ever seen. A girly happiness she’d finally allowed herself. “This is the real marriage,” Eleni had sworn to Celeste during the bridal shower, pointing to goose pimples on her forearm. “See? It’s a sign. This one’s gonna stick, you better believe it.” Even with Paula, a forty-year-old bride, Eleni had bragged, “The older the hen, the thicker the juice.” And she had stood to dance as the priest’s wife popped in a CD of Greek music.

  It had all seemed too good to be real. Your stars align, the right people are there and your time has come. But according to the Old Ones, that’s precisely when the Moirai come hobbling along to crack open the book of your fate. So went Paula’s longing for a loving home. Lovely, elegant wedding, not a dry eye in the house—Roger’d cried; she’d cried; they’d all crooned, “After all she’s been through, at last she’s found love.” She’d felt absolutely transcendental as the Greek priest placed one floral wreath upon her head, the other on Roger’s, connected by a satin ribbon to symbolize eternity.

  It took little time for the movers to pile Paula’s boxes on the spot she’d cleared. They’d balanced her couch up on one end, propped it against a pillar in the foyer where it would remain for a decade.

  One of the movers was on the verge of speaking up when the other tapped him and motioned with his thumb to the truck. In the time it took for Paula to pull out an envelope of cash for a tip, the men had left. She’d stood on the porch with money in her hand, wondering why they were in such a hurry to leave.

  She’d planned the entire wedding that summer in Roger’s absence. “Do whatever you want,” he’d say. “I know it’ll be beautiful.” And while she found his confidence reassuring, it felt a little like she was marrying herself.

  * * *

  From the curb in front of the hotel, Paula waved down the Escape the minute she spotted it, followed by a dealership car with advertising stenciled along its sides. The driver pulled over and parked, handing over two sets of keys and a packet with a car manual, certificate of insurance and registration. “Any questions?” he’d asked.

  Temporary license plates had been affixed to both front and back bumpers. She was legal enough for now. On the passenger seat lay the GPS manual and a road atlas with a red bow and a note from Alex. “Have a great trip,” he’d written in quasi-Cyrillic script. It made her smile; she hadn’t thought to buy a map.

  She lowered the backseat, tucked it down flat as she’d seen Alex do and then unrolled Fotis’ bed. “Kano.” She patted the bed. Fotis jumped up. She rolled down the window just enough for him to stick out his head.

  After tossing in the duffel and shopping bags, she climbed in and adjusted the driver’s seat. The instrument panel lit up brightly in the dim morning light.

  “Bye, New York.” Her voice was a whisper as she put the car in gear. She lowered her chin. “See you in a few weeks.” Her stomach didn’t believe her. The rims of her eyes stung. Eonia I mnimi. She slipped on the knockoff Hermès sunglasses. Butterflies took flight in her stomach, a mix of sadness and relief.

  When Paula was eight years old watching her father’s casket being lowered, she’d remembered a joke. “Know how many people in there are dead?” her father would ask when they’d drive between the cemeteries that flanked Grand Central Parkway. Paula would shrug, though she knew the answer. “All of them!” Vassili would exclaim, snorting, wanting her to say the punch line with him. She’d marveled at the knife-edged precision of his grave, all sides looking more like rich brown velvet than dirt. The priest, in a black robe that touched his shoes, flanked in layers of gold-embroidered regalia, led the chant of “Eonia I mnimi.” She’d remembered the priest being aggravated by the November winds that kept blowing out the chunk of incense in the livanistiri, the golden jingling incense burner. It had taken two altar boys to prop her mother up through the ceremony.

  Paula sat in the Escape, waiting to calm down. A knock on the window startled her. The hotel bellman tapped again and gestured for her to clear the spot.

  Okay, she mouthed.

  “Bye, New York,” she whispered. “Eonia I mnimi.”

  Tapping the gas pedal slightly, she pulled away from the curb and headed west on Canal Street toward the Holland Tunnel, under the Hudson River, out of the City into Jersey and all points west.

  Paula touched the cover of Alex’s road atlas; she decided to take I-80, the northern route to Berkeley. She’d never been near the Great Lakes, the Dakotas and Montana, and she could cut south to Berkeley if she got bored. She’d planned to call Bernie’s office when she got to Pennsylvania, since there was a three-hour time difference. But she was too excited to wait; she’d leave a voice mail, hoping he wasn’t on vacation. During a traffic pause she searched her phone directory and punched Bernie’s office number.

  “You’ve reached the voice mail of…” It was someone else’s voice.

  “What?” Ending the call, she looked at her phone, surprised. She checked the directory again. Damn. That was his number. She’d just seen and spoken to him that past March in Montreal. He’d made jokes about retiring, but surely he’d have sent her an announcement.

  She looked at her watch, calculating Pacific Time. It was too early to call his home. She’d call the main sociology office later, when it opened. She’d be well into Pennsylvania by then or, if traffic kept crawling, barely into New Jersey.

  * * *

  Paula flew out of the Holland Tunnel into the early colors of the morning. Gas pedal depressed, windows open, her hair blowing, the faster she accelerated the better she felt. Getting up to eighty, then ninety, she thought maybe the wind would whisk her thoughts away.

  Jersey was a blur except for periodic traffic congestion; Pennsylvania went on like a past life. The faster she drove, the clearer the sense became that there was somewhere she needed to be. It wasn’t California or New York. It wasn’t a place. The map was nothing but lines, numbers, destinations. Wherever she was meant to be, she’d know it when she got there.

  At a McDonald�
��s in the middle of Pennsylvania Paula bought Fotis three burgers. She fed him all three in the parking lot and then offered him dog food. An obese woman wearing a housedress was sitting in the open door of a minivan watching.

  “You gotta eat this, too,” Paula said, holding up the bowl in a conciliatory way.

  “Hon,” the woman began. “Pardon me for butting in, but you know if you keep feeding him burgers he ain’t gonna eat his dog food. Make him eat the kibble first.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Don’t give him nothin’ till he eats the dog food.”

  Paula looked at her.

  “You just got that dog, didn’t ya?”

  Paula nodded. “Hon.” The woman smiled. “He ain’t gonna starve, you know. Just hold out until he chows on the kibble, then give him a burger.”

  “Thanks,” Paula said. “I’m Paula.”

  “I’m Evelyn. Good luck with your dog. He’s a cutie.”

  “Thanks.”

  Paula walked Fotis around on the grassy areas, past the playground where children squealed and she let him sniff and lift his leg. He signaled her by looking and then half-dragging her toward the Escape, waiting for the door to open and then jumping up onto his bed, quickly getting settled into his position at the window. The glass was already smeared and dotted with dried drool.

  She drove for another hour and then decided it was time to call. It was nine in California. Pulling over at a rest stop, she sat at a picnic table and looked up the department number in her phone directory.

  The administrative assistant explained that Bernie had retired unexpectedly after the Montreal conference. The woman wouldn’t give any more details, but Paula did manage to wrangle a phone number.

  She dialed his number and sighed with relief when he answered.

  “Paula!” Bernie exclaimed. “So nice to hear from you.”

  “It’s great to hear your voice.” She felt his warmth.

  “Sorry about not being able to make your conference in New York.”

  “That’s okay; I’m not going to make it either,” she quipped.

  “What?”

  “I’m taking some time off.”

  “You’re missing your own conference?” He paused. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes and no,” she said. “How’s Jeannine?”

  “Recovering.”

  “Oh my goodness, from what?”

  “Didn’t you get my e-mail?” he asked. “She took a bad spill about a month ago on the bike, broke her ankle.”

  It was probably buried in the hundreds Paula had neglected to open.

  “Shattered a couple of bones. I figured it was time to retire anyway. She’s always hated Caly. It was time years ago. I’m just a stubborn old Canuck. So we came back to what we used to call our ‘summer house’ and now we’re staying.”

  Fotis was nose to nose with another dog at the next picnic table. Their bodies were stiff as they sniffed each other and then started to wag their tails.

  “How is she doing?”

  “The boot comes off in a few weeks. She had surgery, pins, but she’ll be fine. A bit of physical therapy and she’ll be back on that damned bike of hers.”

  “I’m so sorry I missed your e-mail; I would have called.”

  “We were just talking about your conference. We’re back up in Thunder Bay. Ontario. Followed our three kids,” he explained. “We’ve got seven grandchildren. We’re busy spoiling the heck out of them, turning them into brats to get back at our kids.”

  She could see it. Bernie always made her feel safe; he and Jeannine were like kin.

  “So tell me why you’re missing your own conference.”

  “Oh Bernie.” She felt about to cry. “I’m taking a bit of leave, don’t know for how long.”

  “I wondered how long you could keep up that pace,” he said. “You’re always running.”

  The words stopped her in her tracks. He’d never said anything like that before. How long had she been running? Her tears indicted her. Years she could never get back time spent striving for recognition, working tirelessly, when all she really wanted was Roger. It felt like she’d awakened to find that someone had died.

  She closed her eyes and rested her forehead in her hand. Fotis sniffed the top of her head. The words hurt. Bernie wouldn’t have known about Roger; he couldn’t have. Yet in one sentence he’d identified the core of her dilemma.

  “I think maybe you’re right,” she said, struggling to gain composure. “So I’m taking time off.” She paused. “Driving out west to surprise you and Jeannine, maybe look up Karen Richards and John Timmelman, too.”

  “Well, we’re sorry that we’ll miss you. Jeannine’ll be disappointed. You two always clicked,” he said. “It’s wonderful being back, though. Beautiful country up here, Paula; I’d forgotten. Who else are you planning on seeing in Caly?”

  “Uhhh, just really you.” She felt embarrassed and crushed.

  “Where are you?”

  “Pennsylvania. Just approaching the Pocono Mountains exits,” she said. “You know, honeymoon country.” She tried to make it sound funny.

  “Is your schedule flexible?”

  She laughed out loud at the question, thinking of Roger in France.

  “Very.”

  “Well, how ’bout coming up to see us?”

  “Really?”

  “When you get to Chicago, head north and spend some time with us.” She could hear the Canadian accent replenishing itself. “We’ve got plenty of room. Mind you, it’s a long drive—”

  “I’m already on a long drive, Bernie.”

  “Perfect. So it’s decided.”

  “Yes.”

  She heard Jeannine’s voice in the background.

  “Jeannine wants to know if you have your passport.”

  Everything was back at Roger’s. But wait. Unzipping a compartment in her purse, she felt the sharp edge of the passport cover. She closed her eyes and sighed. Thank God she’d forgotten to give it to Roger after she and Eleni returned from Greece. Funny he hadn’t asked for it; Roger liked to keep all the documents.

  “I almost can’t believe it, Bernie,” she said, surprised by her good luck. “But I do—I have it.”

  “Good. Then you’ll come.”

  “Yes. Thanks. I will.”

  “Then it’s settled. Head north to Wisconsin when you get to Chicago. Call me if you get lost.” He chuckled. She’d spent years in graduate school driving around California, lost. A direction disaster, she used to call herself.

  “Drive through Wisconsin until you hit Lake Superior. You’ll know when you hit it because you’ll run out of land,” he joked.

  “Yuk, yuk, you think I’m some kind of city idiot, don’t you.”

  “You said it,” he teased.

  “I have GPS, Bernie,” she said, looking at the Escape.

  “Oh my, I don’t believe it,” he said. “Paula has GPS,” he called to his wife. “She says, ‘Thank God.’”

  “So what happens when I run out of land?”

  “Go west along the lake to Duluth,” he explained. “Follow the lake on Sixty-two all the way up the north shore. You’ll hit Two Harbors, Silver Bay, Grand Marais; keep going. Then up into the Boundary Waters and into Canada and we’re the first big city. Your GPS’ll take you right to our door. You can’t miss it.”

  Paula felt like she was going home. They’d feed her, take care of her; she’d tell Bernie everything.

  “It’s about seven hundred miles from Chicago,” he said. “Probably more than twelve hours. Now don’t try to tackle it all in one day.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Plenty of places to stay.”

  “Okay.”

  “That’ll give us time to get clean sheets on the bed.”

  “I’m bringing my dog.”

  “Ooo,” Bernie said. “Now that might complicate things at the border. You wouldn’t happen to have his current rabies vaccine papers, would you?”


  She looked at Fotis and thought of Theo. “As a matter of fact I do, Bernie.” Buried in the Vuitton duffel bag in the back of the Escape (she now felt worried about the “dusty” lining) were Fotis’ papers from the shelter, including the proof of vaccine.

  “Wonderful. How fortuitous.”

  “How fortuitous indeed.”

  “How perfect that you got a dog,” Bernie said.

  Paula smiled in a puzzled way. What a funny thing to say. And Bernie hadn’t asked about Roger. Getting back in the car, she braced herself and dialed Eleni’s number. Now was as good a time as any to explain.

  CHAPTER 6

  Black birds with massive wingspans soared above the tree line on either side of I-80. She saw Fotis’ profile in the mirror. “Ti vlepis?”

  Fotis had seen the birds, too. She reached back and scratched his cheek as he leaned into her hand.

  “Einai omorfos, neh?”

  The birds captivated her. She watched them bank off the wind; hand out the window, she angled her fingers trying to simulate how the birds used air currents with their wingtip feathers. With the slightest shift they’d plummet and then swoop back up, gliding in what she knew were thermal pockets. How huge they must be in order to be visible from so far away.

  Maybe they were eagles. Or maybe “just turkey vultures,” as Roger used to say. They’d see large dark birds circling on the drive to a Long Island beach house owned by one of his colleagues. Roger would say it as if belonging to their particular species was a bad habit rather than an adaptive niche. “You always know there’s carrion nearby.” He’d wrinkle his nose disapprovingly.

  Billboards along the Pocono exits portrayed dewy-eyed, giggling young couples clinking champagne glasses in red heart-shaped tubs. Paula thought of how Heavenly and Tony had gone to the Poconos. Maybe that had been the key to their happiness—they had the same sense of humor. “Fall in Love with Us!” or “Rediscover Each Other,” showing older couples (more champagne), with bleached-white teeth and salt-and-pepper hair. Their faces seemed to exclaim, Hey, we’re old, but damn it, we still know how to have fun in a heart-shaped bathtub!

  Paula pushed her platinum wedding band down to the end of her finger, goading it to slip off out the window. It was a reckless dare; she felt a strange mix of excitement and fear. Not trusting her mood and whatever sick little taunt was egging her on, she reached into her purse, unzipping the side pocket, and let the ring fall in.