Seven Days of Friday (Women of Greece Book 1)

by Alex A King

  * * *

  “So what happened, Mom?”

  Eleni’s too busy frowning into the refrigerator to answer. So, Vivi attacks the subject from a different angle.

  “Greek coffee or American? How about a frappe?”

  “Greek,” Eleni says. “Strong.”

  Greek coffee is always strong. It doesn’t know how to be weak.

  The recipe is easy.

  One demitasse cup of water per person. Pour the water into a briki – that’s a small pot with a long handle. Sit the briki over the gas flame and dump in one heaping teaspoon of Greek coffee per person, and two spoons of sugar to help this particular medicine go down. If you don’t like your coffee sweet, leave out the sugar and . . .

  Good luck.

  It won’t take long for the coffee to boil, the foam to rise. Nothing left to do at that point except pour and wait for the grounds to sink to the cup’s bottom. Then sip – sip until you hit sludge.

  Which is exactly what these two women do at Vivi’s rough kitchen table, with its straw-seat chairs.

  “I am glad to see you – ”

  “Bah! You have a strange way of showing it. But you never could express your emotions properly, so I do not take it personally.”

  “ – but if you left Dad, why come here?”

  “I wanted to visit my favorite daughter and granddaughter. To make their lives miserable, of course.”

  Fact: Eleni has one daughter, one granddaughter. But Vivi lets it slide.

  “When did you leave?”

  “Yesterday. But your father, he left me first.” Eleni pokes holes in the air with her index finger.

  Whoa! “Dad left, too? Where did he go?”

  “Nowhere. He is still at the house. But he wants to leave. I can feel it in my marrow. He spends all his time out in the garage making things.”

  All Vivi’s life, when Dad wasn’t at work, he was in the garage building stuff. Sometimes he made chairs, sometimes clocks, sometimes dollhouses. Sometimes he would sit out there and look at the wood and build nothing.

  So in a nutshell, this is nothing new.

  But saying that isn’t going to win any wars, and anyway, Biff’s muttering at the front door.

  “Somebody’s here.”

  She wants it to be Max, but she knows it’s not. He won’t be back, she thinks. A repeat of last night is only going to lead to problems that can’t be unraveled.

  Staggering up to the house is Thea Dora, a sack of angry groundhogs wobbling inside her dress. That much sweat, she could use an open fire hydrant.

  “Vivi!” She waves. “Vivi!”

  “Thea! What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing!” Her aunt crosses herself, heaves her bulk onto the porch. “I just saw Melissa. She tells me your mother is here! Where is Eleni? Eleni, are you here?” She recoils at the sight of Biff, drinking out of her sweat pool. “Mother of Christ, is that creature still here?”

  “Why didn’t you drive?”

  “I wanted to get here fast.”

  The door opens and out comes Eleni in her polyester separates.

  “Hello, Sister. I am here.”

  Thea Dora leaps to her feet. “My God, Eleni! I thought I would never see you again! You have come home! When did you come? Why do you not come to see me, eh?”

  “It was late. Too late to go visiting.”

  “Bah! You live in America too long! Here we are civilized. We have siesta, remember? No one goes to bed before ten. Come, let me kiss you.”

  The women hug. Thea Dora zeroes in on Vivi’s feet.

  “Vivi, my love, put some shoes on. Bare feet are for the poor.”

  “Bare feet are for the poor,” Vivi mutters out of earshot.

  Let the sisters have their reunion.

  55

  VIVI

  NICE DAY FOR A walk.

  So Vivi walks – shoes on.

  Biff comes, too. He knows when (and where) he’s not wanted.

  She doesn’t take the road. Today she wants the thrill of exploration, the unbeaten (to her) path. So she cuts through the fruit trees and segues into the olive jungle.

  There’s nothing friendly about an olive tree. They’re all arthritic fingers and tough bark. And those not quite green, not quite silver leaves make her uneasy. Trees designed for Halloween.

  Soon she can’t see the house. She panics a bit, grabs onto a trunk while the odd feeling of vertigo or disassociation or whatever it is she’s feeling passes. The bark is warm under her palm. Alive. Its cool aura is a trick.

  Time stops, but the tree’s pulse beats on.

  The branches are heavy with green-skinned fruit. How long before they reach maturity and their skins blacken?

  Vivi owns this land, but she knows nothing about it.

  And it knows nothing about her.

  56

  MAX

  MAX CAN COUNT THE number of times he’s wallowed on one hand.

  But today?

  He’s wallowing.

  * * *

  Mama calls . . .

  And calls . . .

  And calls.

  Times ten.

  When he answers, she goes Vesuvius. Max waits until she’s done spewing, then he says, “You chose my wife, but I choose my friends.”

  “Friend? A man is a friend to another man. A woman is not a man’s friend unless she is his wife. If she is not his wife, she is trouble.”

  “It’s not 1950, Mama.”

  “Maximos – ”

  Goodbye.

  57

  VIVI

  GREAT PLACE FOR AN ax murderer to hide. Or a chainsaw killer.

  She’s God knows how far from the house now. The ground is so foreign, with its sticks and stones and pockmarked dirt. She’s creeping. Watching each step before she takes it.

  Biff doesn’t care. He’s a dog. Here, there, all over the place. Running, peeing, bounding back to Vivi’s side as though they’re attached with elastic. He’s soaking up everything with his nose. Can hardly lift his head from the ground, he’s so busy.

  To her heathen nose it’s all wood and dirt after a heavy downpour. Which isn’t bad.

  Now there’s a dull tinkling, the sound of imminent goats.

  The trees break, revealing a chain link fence. It’s playing nanny to a several dozen goats.

  The goats storm the fence. New faces, got to scope them out.

  Beyond the goats, there’s a cottage. It’s hanging around, doing nothing much, letting time have its own way. Grime on the windows, dandruff flaking off the shutters, a roof that saw better days some twenty, thirty years ago. Nearby is a shed. Nothing to it but corrugated iron and a concrete slab.

  There’s a car, rusted old thing, doubling as a jungle gym for the goats. Two of them are standing on the roof, playing king of the world.

  Vivi walks the length of the fence, looking for life signs. The house is a dump, but the goats are in excellent health, all of them clear-eyed and plump.

  Someone cares.

  She’s being watched, and not just by the goats. Under a sprawling fig, a donkey is knocking blowflies out of the air with its tail. Two fingers to her lips, Vivi whistles.

  Donkey doesn’t care – she’s not hay.

  Metal creaks and groans. A leather face and one of those giant handlebar mustaches rounds the corner of the shed.

  “Take your gypsy curses somewhere else.” The old man sounds like a handful of gravel tossed on broken glass.

  Hey now, her outfit is colorful, but it’s far from the latest in Romani fashions.

  “I’m Vivi Tyler, your neighbor.” She points in what she hopes is the direction of her house.

  His head vanishes. Bye-bye.

  Not for long. The shed door bangs open and the old guy steps out.

  He stands around watching for a moment, while his thick, calloused fingers roll a cigarette. He takes a long, medicinal puff, then ambles over to where she’s standing.

  “So you’re the xena.”

  She�
�s getting used to the foreigner label.

  “Yes, but my family is from here.”

  He takes his sweet time nodding. “I know who your family is.” Then it’s back to the shed, coughing up a lung as he goes. “I am Takis. Come, I’ll show you something. Gate’s over there.”

  She really hopes show-and-tell doesn’t involve his privates.

  “Can my dog come too? He won’t hurt your goats.”

  Biff is licking a goat through the fence.

  Takis nods. “Goats can take care of themselves,” he says. “They might eat the collar off his neck if he sits long enough.”

  “I can always buy another one.”

  His face splits in two. Lungs rattle like the reaper’s shaking him down for loose change. “You say that now. Come, we don't want the milk to burn.”

  Milk?

  Greece is weird, but she’s intrigued.

  She lets herself through the gate – Biff, too. The dog karate chops the air with his tail, then gets busy doing dog stuff. You know, the usual: peeing on inanimate objects.

  Inside the metal shed, Takis is busy stirring a vat of milk. The whole thing is sitting atop a gas burner.

  “Goat’s milk?” she asks.

  Takis shoves a chair at her. “Half goat, half sheep. I know a man with sheep, and he knows a man with goats. Sit.” He reaches down, throttles the gas flow to candle-sized flames. Then he hands her the long end of a long, long spoon. “My goats make the best feta in all of Greece. Stir. Slow.”

  She stirs. One tiny scorch will ruin the whole batch if she doesn’t stir from the bottom.

  Takis leaves. Probably to get the chainsaw to cut off her head.

  Vivi keeps on stirring. Feels good to do and not think.

  And he’s back, carrying a thick slab of white cheese on a bread chunk.

  Maybe the chainsaw is hidden in the cheese.

  One hand snatches the spoon, the other thrusts bread and cheese under her nose.

  “Eat. Tell me what you think.”

  So she eats. Like all good feta, this one has teeth. Sharp, deliciously salty, but with a definite – and unexpected – creaminess.

  She meets his expectant gaze and tells the truth. “You’re right, it’s the best.”

  “Of course it's the best! You think I lie to you?” He flicks the gas off, sits back in his own chair, legs crossed, foot swinging.

  “What happens to the milk now?”

  “We wait.”

  The bread and cheese vanish. Vivi is almost ashamed of her magic trick, but she was starving.

  “Good, eh? Some people they buy only the expensive foods. Bah! This is the best meal in the world. Maybe throw in some olives, and a piece of fruit, and you can eat like a king.”

  Speaking of olives, some of these trees have to be his. She has no real idea where her property ends and Takis’ starts.

  “Do you make your own olives, too?”

  Rattle, rattle, cough. “Trees make the olives. Don't they teach you anything in your American schools?”

  “Do you brine your own olives?”

  “Bah! I am old now. Too much work.”

  An idea happens. Maybe not a great idea, but it’s an idea. She has land; she has olives she can’t leave to rot on the trees. And she can’t spend her days dodging relatives, hoping Max will call.

  “Will you teach me?”

  All he does is grunt and reach for a plaid thermos. Once again he shoves the spoon at her. He pours slowly and she stirs slowly.

  “This makes the milk curdle. I make it myself from nettles.”

  “Stinging nettles?”

  “They don’t sting if you don’t touch with your bare hands, eh? If you boil the juice out of them they make good rennet. Cheap too.” He winks at her. “Tell me, Xena, why did you come to Greece? What is here that you could not find in your old home?”

  “Peace. Myself. Family. A new beginning. Third-degree sunburn.”

  “You could not find yourself in America? Maybe not. All those people, it's a wonder any of them can find themselves.”

  “Maybe,” she says. “I needed a change of scenery.”

  “Bah, what you see can change, but how you feel doesn't change unless you change it. You can't run away from yourself. You know, Xena, what it takes to grow olives?”

  “Good fertilizer and lots of water?”

  He waves a dismissive hand. “Fertilizer makes the olives weak.” Now he shows her a fist. “You need rocks and soil to make them strong. They pull their strength from the hard ground. You can't be weak if you want to grow olives. You must commit to them, the way you do a marriage.”

  He stops for a moment to pour a heart attack’s worth of salt into the vat.

  “Are you saying I'm not strong enough to grow olives?”

  “How do I know what you are? All I see is a very pretty woman who maybe ran away from something difficult. What do I know?”

  Anger crashes around inside her head, stomping the furniture, punching walls. She’s not some wayward child, pissed at her parents.

  And it must show, because:

  “You don't agree with me,” he says, smiling beneath the bushy mustache.

  “I think you're over-simplifying the situation.”

  Silence while he unfolds a large cloth square, covers the milk. Says, “We must wait again.”

  “How long?”

  “Half a day, maybe longer.”

  “So slow?”

  “If I put more nettle in it will go faster, but I like to do it slow.”

  He opens the door, pushes her out.

  “Come back tomorrow and I will let you drain the curd for me.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Vivi and Biff pop out of the grove almost exactly where they entered.

  Are her survivals skills good or what?

  The two sisters are still talking, only now there’s a mountain of food in the kitchen, all of it sugar-based.

  Vivi knows good baklava when she sees it. She grabs a plate and –

  “Where have you been?” Eleni asks.

  Her aunt says, “Who did you see?”

  Okay, so she’s a teenager all over again. Does Melissa find her this annoying?

  She gives them the Cliff’s notes, and her aunt says, “You cannot grow olives. This is a man’s work.”

  “That is the bull's shit,” Eleni says, punctuating the air with a wooden spoon. “My daughter can do anything she chooses!”

  58

  MELISSA

  OLIVIA SMACKS THE WATER. “Come on, Tyler. You know you want to.”

  She’s right, Melissa wants to. But the water is a murky green. Anything could be in there, waiting to bite off her legs. Or her arms.

  “Chicken,” Olivia says.

  “Am not.”

  “So jump already.”

  Melissa holds her breath, learns forward. Gravity does the rest. It drags her, stomach first, into the sea.

  And now her belly is on fire and she can’t. seem. to. breathe. Her oxygen is gone and there’s no refill handy.

  But it doesn’t kill her – not even close.

  Feet peddling the water, she slowly spins around in time to see Olivia hoisting herself onto the dock.

  “That was a crappy dive, but at least you had balls enough to jump in.”

  And she’s flying again, more graceful in her tiny red bikini than Melissa will ever be.

  The boys are impressed, too.

  Melissa’s pretending not to notice, but four of them are lined up further along the pier, watching. Every so often they jostle each other and laugh, but they never take their eyes off the girls.

  “It’s fun – right?” Olivia asks breathlessly.

  “It’s a rush!”

  They do it over and over, diving, swimming for a bit, diving again. It’s not so bad after the first time, after Melissa perfects her descent.

  The boys keep watching. They move to the edge of the pier, where the girls’ clothes are folded in neat piles.
They’re all super tan with messy hair and white teeth. Melissa feels full up with bubbles instead of blood.

  “Which one do you like the best?” Olivia doesn’t whisper. “And don't pretend you haven't noticed them. They're practically drooling on us. I bet they've all got hard-ons under those baggy shorts.”

  “Shh! Don't say that, they might hear us.”

  “So what if they do? We've got what they want. We're the ones with the power.” She swims over to the side of the pier. “Aren't you guys going to swim today? You should. It's hot, and my friend and me could use the company. I mean what if a shark bites us? We could drown.”

  “Then you should learn to swim faster,” the brown-haired boy says. They all laugh.

  “Are you American?” another boy asks. He has dark, nearly black hair. He’s cute, but not nearly as hot as the blond boy in the blue shorts.

  “Canadian.” Olivia hooks a thumb at Melissa. “Melissa is American.”

  “Me-lee-ssa. Do you taste like honey, Melissa?” he calls out.

  She’s not exactly sure what he means, but her skin does. It spontaneously combusts and she goes neon.

  “Melissa’s shy,” Olivia tells them. Melissa wants to tell her to shut up, but she doesn’t want to lose the only friend she’s made so far.

  Black hair jumps up. He points to himself first, then the others. “Kristos, Apistole, Vassili, and the loser on the end is Thanasi.”

  Thanasi. The blond one.

  He locks eyes with Melissa and smiles, and she glances away quickly because she’s a humungous wimp. She swims in the opposite direction, treading water near an orange buoy. Looking at him makes her feel too much of everything.

  The boys dive bomb the water, legs pulled tight against their chests.

  “Catch me if you can,” Olivia shouts, her arms cutting a smooth freestyle in the water. Not only is she bossy, she’s hogging all the guys for herself.

  Melissa doesn’t love it. Olivia is a flirt and she’s a shy, nerdy loser. No one is going to like her – ever. She’s a dropout from an 80’s teen flick. And she can’t seem to let go of the buoy.