Seven Days of Friday (Women of Greece Book 1)

by Alex A King

  Vivi gives her a look.

  The cash vanishes. “Whatever. I'll get the ice cream.”

  Vivi watches Melissa picking her way across the pebbled beach, towel wrapped around her waist, up to the kiosk, where she gets in line behind a couple of lobsters in Bermuda shorts and Birkenstocks.

  She’s not the only watcher on this beach. Some of the boys are also getting an eyeful of Melissa Pappas. They’re like birds, chests puffed out, whistling as girls walks by. Melissa’s all cool, ignoring them, keeping her eyes on the ground.

  Look up and straight ahead, Vivi wants to say. Don’t let anyone in this world make you look down.

  When Melissa gets back, Vivi says, “You have admirers.”

  Hair flip. “Whatever.”

  But she’s smiling on high beam, isn’t she?

  The ice cream disappears fast. Late spring, but the weather is hot. A benevolent breeze carries the sweat away as fast as they can make it.

  The question comes out of nowhere.

  “Mom? Are we ever going home?”

  Home – where’s that? There hasn’t been time to figure out if Greece is a waiting room or the end of the line.

  “I was hoping maybe this would be our new home. Do you hate it here already?”

  “No.” She says it in a small voice Vivi hasn’t heard since the boogeyman days. “I just don’t want you to decide without telling me.”

  “Honey, I wouldn't do that.”

  “You kind of decided to come here without asking me.”

  “Remember that day I told you?” Melissa nods. “I only thought of it that morning. As soon as I knew for sure, I told you. I gave you the chance to speak up.”

  “I said I wanted to stay with Uncle Chris.”

  “That wasn't an option.”

  “Maybe I wish it was.”

  “Mel, I'm not a dictator. But I’m the person who gets to make the hard decisions. Someone has to, for the good of the family. In time, if you’re seriously miserable here, we’ll go.”

  “Whatever.”

  “We can't just turn around now, Honey. We just got here.”

  “I didn't say I want to leave.”

  “I don’t get it,” Vivi says. “You’re as clear as mud. You hardly speak, and most of the time you’re sulking. We need to work together. I’m not psychic. If you’ve got things to say, say them.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Is this about your father?”

  “I . . . said . . . forget it.”

  Vivi jumps up, starts gathering their stuff as though a tsunami alarm is screaming, telling everybody to get high. “Grab your things, we're going.”

  “McDonalds?”

  She’s got to be kidding. “Back to Thea Dora’s house.”

  “But her toilet sucks.”

  Yeah, it sucks. But it’s better than an outhouse – right? Maybe she’ll offer to replace the thing. She’s done it before. She can do it again.

  “Well, you're just going to have to get used to it for now.”

  “But, Mom – ”

  “Don’t like it? Go outside.”

  24

  VIVI

  EXTRA CRISPY. THANK YOU, Sun.

  Underneath her Oregonian pallor, Vivi’s got olive skin. Thing is, her melanin has been taking a lifelong nap. It’s sluggish, slow to react. It wants to turn brown, but . . . It’s a good thing Vivi looks great in neon pink.

  Better enjoy the pink now, because red is coming and it’s going to kill.

  On their way back from the beach, Melissa is dawdling. But that’s okay. Vivi loves her girl more than anything, but sometimes teenage Melissa is hard to like, with her claws and fangs and that razor tongue.

  But then Vivi has her own sharp edges, too, doesn’t she?

  She wants to fast-forward to the Julia Roberts part, to the Diane Lane part, to the ending where her character is rebuilt, her soul restitched.

  It’s fairytale bullshit, but a woman can dream like a girl – right?

  Real world, there’s nothing to be done except live through it and see what shape she’s in when life spits her out the other end.

  Nearly noon. Mass exodus, everyone migrating back to their houses for lunch; main meal of the day. In Greece they eat, sleep, then it’s back to work-ish.

  Vivi and Melissa swap greetings with every passing body.

  There’s no ignoring your neighbors here. Huge breach of etiquette; Emily Postopoulos would have a conniption. Skip one wave, one hello, and you may as well pack up and leave town, because you’ll be on the town’s permanent shit list. A million “Hellos” won’t make up for that one you skipped that day when that other thing was clouding your mind.

  You’ll be the talk and talk and talk and talk of the village.

  If donkeys are Greek cars, gossip is Greek air. And if today’s gossip is on the dry side, they’ll add juice. Which is why Vivi hasn’t told her aunt about John and his penchant for penis – and never will.

  That story has way too much flair, already.

  It smells like a taverna out here, frying garlic and onions making perfume out of sea air. Vivi is drooling.

  “I’m hungry,” Melissa says. She picks up the pace, tripping on the pavement to catch up.

  “Me too, Kiddo. I could eat a whole what-ever-it-is.”

  Up at the house, Thea Dora is cooking a feast.

  “Look at you two!” she says. “You are the color of my flower pots. Why not fix frappe? Then we get ready.”

  “For what?” Melissa asks.

  “For the party! Tomorrow you meet your whole family. We will get up early and make lamb on the spit.”

  Vivi makes the frappe. Coffee, sugar, water into the shaker, with ice and a little milk. Could be John’s neck, the way she shakes it.

  Melissa props her elbows on the table. “But aren't you our family?”

  “I am just one aunt. You have many aunts and uncles and cousins.”

  “Are any my age?”

  Thea Dora wrings her hands on a hand towel. Exactly like Eleni.

  Vivi shakes harder.

  “Some are older, some are younger, but I believe one or two are close to you in age. How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “When is your birthday?”

  “August. I'll be sixteen,” Melissa says.

  “In Greece we would say you are sixteen already. We count ahead.”

  Melissa’s face shines. “Did you hear that? I'm sixteen. Only one more year until I can start dating.”

  Vivi breaks the seal, pours the coffee. Takes a long, long drink before she says, “Two years.”

  “But you said seventeen. That’s one more year in Greek years.”

  Tricky position to be in. Melissa is emboldened by her aunt’s presence.

  “We'll talk about it later, Honey.”

  Melissa’s not dropping this bone. “Mom, it's one more year. You said I could date when I'm seventeen.”

  “I was counting American years, not Greek. Two more years and that's the end of it or I'll make it three – four if you want to work in Greek years.”

  “Why do you have to be such a cow?”

  Melissa runs out of the room. A door slams.

  Vivi winces.

  She looks at her aunt, hoping for sage advice. What she gets is: “That girl has her grandmother’s temper.”

  * * *

  All three of them go to get bread – including Melissa. She wants Vivi to witness her sulk in progress.

  No way would this place pass a health inspection. There’s a cat in the filthy window, next to an upright basket of whatever baguettes are called when they’re Greek instead of French. The baker is dangling a cigarette on his lip.

  But who cares when it smells amazing?

  Like an addict in an opium den, Vivi inhales.

  There’s no counter, just a huge butcher’s –

  * * *

  When in Greece, don’t say butcher. Don’t ever say butcher during any conversation you want
to remain polite. If you’re a tourist, don’t ask for a butcher’s shop. Swap the b for a p, and you’ve got yourself a mouthful of slang for male genitalia. It’s meat, but (unless you’re vacationing in Mykonos) probably not the meat you’re looking for.

  * * *

  – block that fills half the tight space. The wood is rough and covered with a fine dusting of flour. A tall stack of brown paper sheets sits in one corner of the table, waiting to wrap each plump loaf before it’s carried away.

  All over Greece there are tiny neighborhood bakeries like this one, Vivi’s aunt tells her.

  The baker, in his faded blue coveralls and mutton chop sideburns, nods, but he doesn’t set aside the cigarette – he grunts around it. He pokes at the wood fire, at the baking loaves, using a wooden pole with a hook attached to one end. Silver scars coil around his arms, before vanishing up both sleeves.

  Melissa pats the cat. It’s happy for her to pay homage. While she’s doing that, a couple of elderly widows enter and wait while the baker shoves a long paddle into the fire and pulls out a bubbling dish.

  They do this, Thea Dora explains, because who wants to bake at home in this weather when the baker will do it for cheap?

  “What kind of bakery doesn't sell cakes?” Melissa asks.

  “We will have to go to a zaharoplastio for that. There you will find all the cakes, ice cream and sweets you can eat.”

  Melissa looks at her mother, imploring. “Can we go there next?”

  In goes the paddle again, and the baker says, “How many?” Four tins come out; four perfectly formed loaves tumble onto the table.

  “Two,” Thea Dora tells him.

  He wraps two loaves in brown paper and drops them into her outstretched arms, all without putting the long neck of ash in jeopardy.

  “Yes,” she tells Melissa, “we will get some sweets for you to try. But first I need to get some needlepoint silks.”

  They leave with their bread and take a short walk to a store with a window display that looks like the world’s worst swap meet. Souvenirs, silks, statues, yarn, fabric, and jigsaw puzzles. Vivi can’t figure that one out. Anyway, it’s all covered in a light dust blanket. Also for sale, if what you want is in the window, she guesses.

  A small bell tinkles. The bald proprietor shuffles out from behind the counter.

  “Kyria Dora, how are you on this fine morning? And are these beautiful ladies your visitors from America?”

  (Kyria = Mrs.)

  The man doesn’t talk, he oozes.

  Thea Dora makes the introductions while the proprietor runs a long fingernail along the side of his chin. The nails on both little fingers are shaped into long points – but only those two fingers.

  “Yes,” he says after a moment. “There is a definite family resemblance.”

  Vivi asks if he knew her parents.

  “Everybody knows everybody,” he says cryptically.

  Fingernails (she didn’t catch his real name) eyes her while her aunt is busy showing him the list of colored silks she needs. He uses those cultivated talons to lift the correct skeins off their hooks on the wall.

  Yeah, he’s not at all creepy.

  Melissa is all wide-eyed over a squat figurine on a corner shelf. The thing is ugly, unremarkable apart from the huge phallus poking his chin.

  “Mel,” Vivi whispers. Melissa jumps away.

  Fingernails clears his throat. “If she wants the statue, we can work out a deal.”

  That’s a no.

  “They’re weird looking,” Melissa says.

  “Probably some kind of fertility thing,” Vivi tells her.

  Thea Dora says, “Like all Greek men, he is exaggerating.”

  Fingernails is watching the exchange. “You are not married?”

  “Technically, yes, I’m married,” Vivi says.

  His fingers close around the notes and coins Thea Dora dumps in his palm. “Interesting.”

  “Keep your hands away from her.” Thea Dora goes tsk. “That is Greek men for you – they all believe they are God's precious gift to women, and sometimes men.”

  The bell above the door tolls, high and childish, and a woman slips through the crack. Plain. Conservative in her skirt and sweater. Odd wardrobe choice for late spring.

  “Ah, now this is very interesting,” Fingernails says to nobody.

  This place is dense with secrets.

  “Dora,” the new arrival says.

  Thea Dora looks through her. “Sofia.”

  “Have you met our visitors from America yet?” Fingernails is about to piss himself with glee. “This is Kyria Dora's niece, and the girl is her daughter. Eleni’s daughter and granddaughter.”

  Thea Dora looks like she wants to wring his neck, but he finds this much too entertaining to stop.

  Chilly blue eyes meet Vivi’s. “You are Elias and Eleni's daughter?”

  “Uh, yes?”

  “Are they well?”

  “They’re great.”

  She strikes Vivi as a woman left behind, forgotten. A memory; a carbon copy of a more vivid original.

  “Do they have other children?”

  “I have a brother – Christos. Were you friends?”

  The woman’s gaze slides back to a scowling Thea Dora. Vivi’s aunt snatches up her silks, stomps to the door.

  “Come, Melissa!” she says. “Let us go and get those sweets I promised you.”

  The bell tinkles and they’re gone.

  Vivi stands there for a moment, wondering what the hell is going on. Then the door opens again, and Thea Dora barks, “Vivi!”

  * * *

  The sun isn’t even trying, yet they’re all sweating.

  Melissa wants cakes and desserts, cakes and desserts she gets. Clear wall-to-wall cabinets filled with sugar, in about a hundred different outfits. Pastry horns filled with cream and custard; baklava, and its wooly cousin kataifi, drowning in syrup; powder-covered shortbreads; koulouraki cookies; stacks of loukoumades, a close cousin to the donut hole, soaking up a honey and cinnamon bath. Then there are the cakes. Vivi doesn’t know what they’re called, but she knows she needs to shove a handful of the tiny confections into her mouth.

  Her aunt buys coffee to go and Vivi buys desserts for everyone.

  Shameless (and at home), they dive into the box. Who needs lunch when you have cake?

  Vivi stuffs down her chocolate cake, then pounces on her aunt.

  “Who is she?”

  “Who is who, Vivi, my love?”

  Like she doesn’t know.

  Vivi licks the goop off her fingers. No shame when it comes to chocolate.

  “The woman from the shop,” she says. “Sofia, I think you called her.”

  Her aunt sighs. “She is nobody.”

  “Is she a prostitute?” Melissa asks. “Because she didn't really look like one, but you never know.”

  Vivi stifles a laugh. “Mel!”

  Thea Dora’s face shutters. “There are prostitutes with far better reputations than that woman. I will say nothing more. Forget her.”

  Not going to happen.

  * * *

  The next morning, John calls in a frenzy because Vivi hasn’t called him. But Vivi knows she left a message, and she tells him so.

  He covers the phone.

  When he comes back he says, “Apparently I missed it. But you should have called back.”

  “It’s not my fault if your boyfriend deletes your messages.”

  “You don't have to be a bitch, Vivi.”

  “Neither do you, John. Do you want to talk to your daughter?”

  “Put her on,” he says bluntly.

  Melissa snatches up the phone.

  Her aunt follows her into the kitchen. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Vivi says.

  “It is not nothing. It is something or you would not be upset.”

  Vivi asks, “Who's that woman?”

  “What woman?”

  “The one from this morning.”

&nb
sp; Her aunt gets busy doing nothing in particular, mostly shifting things from here to there. “She is nobody. A nuisance. Nothing more.”

  An itch starts on Vivi’s shoulder. She reaches back to scratch and her nerves combust. “Ow, ow, ow!”

  Her aunt’s there with a plastic spray bottle of clear liquid. “This will help.”

  “What is it?” Vivi squints at the bottle. “It's not oil, is it?”

  “Vinegar.”

  The bottle squirts. Her aunt attacks her with it – Vivi’s a dirty shower stall that needs cleaning. And lo and behold, the pain fades.

  “See?” she says. “Vinegar fixes everything. For anything it will not fix, use rubbing alcohol.”

  “But you said vinegar fixes everything.”

  Thea Dora taps her on the back of the head. “You are too clever for your own good. See what happens when you stay in the sun too long? The sun is a snake. He bites if you stare too long.”

  * * *

  Melissa slams the phone down, then she’s gone.

  Vivi goes to find her. She’s on the bed, hiding behind The Fellowship of the Ring. The book is upside down.

  Vivi wonders what the hell John did this time. She puts arm around Melissa, but her daughter jerks away.

  “Why did you have to do that?”

  Vivi blinks. “Do what?”

  “Make me talk to him.”

  Vivi makes a hand signal: keep your voice low. Because she can almost hear her aunt shoving a glass up to the door.

  “He's your father and he loves you. If you have a problem with that you need to tell him.”

  “I'm not going to talk to him if he’s there. I'm not.”

  “He who?” Thea Dora asks from the other side of the door. She’s not even trying to hide her snooping.

  “Did Dad make you talk to Ian?”

  “No, but he was making comments in the background.”

  “Like what?”

  “Nothing.” Melissa turns the book right side up, flips a page.

  “Mel?”

  “God, why are you such a nag? Leave me alone, okay?”

  There’s a big, bold laugh on the other side of the door. “No doubt she is Eleni’s blood, even with that pretty blonde hair.”