One and Only Sunday

by Alex A King

  He's normally a giver of help, not a taker. So this doesn't sit all the right with him. Whether this all works out or not, he owes her—owes her big.

  But what do you give a woman who's giving you a shot at saying goodbye before it's too late? What do you give a woman who lost love herself?

  No idea.

  "What are you doing tonight?" he asks.

  49

  Kiki

  "Why?"

  The next words out of his mouth are about how he wants to take her out to dinner. As far as ideas go, it's a sweet one. But she can't accept.

  "Why not? You've got to eat, and so do I."

  "You've been away too long, and you've forgotten the way things are here. If we go out—it doesn't matter that it's a platonic thing—people will think it's a date. The same people who think I killed Stavros. It won't just be bad for me, but you also. And your family. A bad reputation smears everything, and everyone, it touches."

  "Is that how it is for you?"

  "That fight I got into last night with the Romani woman? Soula and I went to the promenade, but I had to leave because somebody spat on me. And before that, they were looking and talking. And they weren't doing it quietly. The smallest minds in town are attached to the biggest mouths."

  Leo gets up. Vanishes into her kitchen. She hears the refrigerator creak open.

  A moment later he's back.

  "Are you hungry?" she asks.

  "No. I just wanted to see if you're vegetarian or not."

  "Why?"

  "Because I'm taking you our tonight, Kiki Andreou—gossip or no gossip. But I'm not a madman or an asshole. I don't care about my reputation, but I want to protect yours. So we'll go somewhere that isn't here. And I'm cooking."

  50

  Helena

  Stavros stays home. His choice.

  "I won't be too long," Helena says. "I promise."

  He doesn't care about her promises.

  When did he become so cold? Her son was always a warm boy, a happy boy. Even as a baby he was sweet-tempered. Now he is as sullen as his father. The two of them watch her from the corners of their eyes, measuring her moods and sanity.

  Both men are waiting for her to act out a play of their choosing.

  She doesn't want to leave the house, but she must. Outside her gate, everyone looks. And like her husband and son, they pretend not to. They wave and smile as if she is not a strange thing moving amongst them.

  In the meat shop, carcasses dangle from arm-sized hooks. Whole sheep and pigs swing in the breeze. Behind the counter, the kreopolis slams his cleaver between the bones of a lamb. Between whacks, he shoves hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand. He's a small man who seems too delicate to swing a cleaver. Yet, every fall of the blade is heavy and true.

  For a moment, she imagines kneeling at the wooden block, resting her head on the smooth maple. After the blade's fall, how long would it be before her head registered the loss of its body?

  How long will it take if she fulfills her promise to her son.

  Those bloodless bodies sway …

  Gelid thread binds her mouth. When the kreopolis greets her, all she can do is shake her head and bolt out into the hot glare of the sun.

  "Kyria Bouto? Are you okay?" someone asks. She doesn't know who; they are just a voice to her.

  She's standing in the middle of the street, mesh bag dangling from one hand.

  "Of course I am all right."

  * * *

  She pulls the telephone into the bathroom with her. Dials the number on the card that lives in a secret corner of her handbag. She keeps it there where her son will not find it.

  "Help me," she says. "Please."

  51

  Leo

  The cupboard is bare, so Leo goes shopping. None of this supermarket business—two different shops.

  Tomatoes. Lettuce. Bacon.

  BLTs. Not very Greek, but very American.

  All he's missing is the bread. Thing is, the bakery (well, three of them now) are locked up tight. He's starting to get the feeling bread is a morning-only thing. Makes sense when the main meal of the day is lunch.

  "I need bread," he says to no one in particular. Two women scurry past the madman talking to himself. He goes into the dust shop—uh, market—where he bought the file, pokes his head in the door.

  "Do you sell bread?"

  A different person at the lone checkout this time. The old man looks like someone crumpled him in their filthy hand.

  "Does this look like a bakery?"

  Leo glances around. "No."

  "Then why would we sell bread?"

  Crazy, Leo thinks. He must be crazy. What on earth would make him think a market sells bread. "Where can I get bread at this time of the day?"

  "Volos. They are not so civilized there."

  * * *

  He could be a bowling pin, the way the woman knocks him down. She's a tiny thing, but the way she moves, she's designed for football.

  American football, not the kind with the black and white ball.

  Leo hasn't played soccer in years. Not since the last time he and Greece danced. For a while, after his family moved, he clicked from sports channel to sports channel, looking for soccer matches, but friends and sports bars made an American football fan out of him.

  The middle-aged woman's fight was for nothing—the bus is three-quarters empty. But she found herself a good seat up front, near the exit door. Now she's glaring at him, face sullen and creased and begging for whatever it is women slap on their faces these days to keep their skin soft. He smiles, flips her a wave, drops his coins into the conductor's hand.

  Then he sits at the back of the bus. Leo Karas: rebel.

  Never really a bad boy, but he knows he looks like one.

  A bad boy wouldn't be riding the bus into the city. And he wouldn't be riding that bus to buy bread for a woman's sandwiches. Especially not a woman who isn't his.

  Truth is, he'd like to take Kiki on a real date, but she lost the man she loved, and there's no time for him to wait. Couple of days from now, he's either going home or going to jail. The dating options are dismal behind bars, and Leo's not a man who switches teams. And he's not about to do the long-distance thing.

  So he's doing this. Making sandwiches. Taking her to a gossip-free zone.

  Best case scenario, he'll convey his gratitude, and have fun looking at a beautiful woman while he's doing it.

  Who knows, maybe they'll wind up friends, lobbing emails at each other across the globe. Facebook friends, scrolling past updates.

  There are worse things than making friends.

  The bus bumps in to Volos. He gets off and the rock-faced woman stays.

  * * *

  Volos is a small big city. Fewer than two-hundred-thousand people. It's the newest of the port cities and number three when it comes to commercial traffic.

  There's some debate over how the city scored its name.

  It's been called Golos by some historian in the 14th century.

  (In the Michael Bay world, winners go home and fuck the prom queen, but in reality they go home and write historical non-fiction.)

  And Folos after some rich local guy.

  And Gkolos—

  Never mind. Who can pronounce that last one, anyway?

  The V was something the city picked up along the way. Nobody really knows how. None of us are that old, except maybe Larry King, and he's much too busy collecting ex-wives to divulge what he knows about history.

  Volos sits at the foot of Mount Pelion, clutching its three rivers. And it's home to one of the biggest cement companies in the world.

  For a good time, ask anyone.

  * * *

  Sure enough, Volos sells bread in the afternoon. Some uncivilized heathen sells him a loaf. She draws the line at slicing the thing, though. You want sliced bread? Go home, American.

  * * *

  Greeks cut their bread at the table in rough chunks. Then they pull each piece apart and us
e it to push food onto the fork.

  In English-speaking countries, this is a called a knife. Except a knife is sharp and doesn't crumble.

  If you go to Greece and ask for a knife with your meal, it's entirely possible they'll deport you. On the off chance they give you one, they'll lay it on the table. Not because you're the idiot asking for a knife instead of bread, but because handing someone a knife is bad luck.

  Best thing to do is just sit up, shut up, and pretend your bread is a knife.

  * * *

  On the way home, he stops at the other kind of bakery, the one that sells cakes and cookies. Sugar and salt are the matter and antimatter of Greece. Sell them under one roof and the whole country might explode.

  The sugar rush hits as soon as he walks in. They're having a sale on diabetes today. Leo wants to buy one of everything, but that's more boxes than he can carry.

  He leans against the counter. The woman jumps to attention. Leo isn't just a customer, he's an attractive customer. And she's around about the age when marriage gets important.

  For a moment, he considers asking if she knows Kiki, and if so, does she know what Kiki likes? But he's not going to make trouble for her. She's got enough of that.

  The door opens and two women are swept inside by the heat. They remind him of chickens, the way they're chatting.

  "All these cakes, I don't know where to start," he tells the woman behind the counter.

  "What do you like?"

  "Everything."

  "Everything?"

  His gaze dances from her eyes to her waist and up again. Nice. Pretty with her dark curls trapped in a barrette. If he was shopping for fun he might bite.

  He smiles at her. Friendly, but not inviting. He's about to tell her he likes chocolate when the other two women slice into the conversation gap.

  "… And she teaches children. A murderer! What next?"

  "They will have to find a new English teacher before school starts."

  Leo turns slowly. He looks them up and down, but there's no appreciation in the move, only disdain.

  They're too busy yapping to notice.

  "Give me two of everything on the top row." He nods to the middle cabinet with its tiny cakes and pastries. The other cabinets are filled with messier Greek desserts: the syrupy baklava and its cousin kataifi; Loukomades, fried sweet balls drowning in syrup (there's a trend here); finikia (semolina cookies, also swimming in syrup); kourabiethes (a shortbread cookie smothered in confectioner's sugar); koulouraki, one of the few Greek sweets that isn't overly sweet; and short mountains of loukoumi, in a half dozen flavors, including the omnipresent rose and pistachio. Greeks, he thinks, would have a collective heart attack if they knew Americans call loukoumi Turkish Delight. It's the kind of thing that starts minor wars. Greece and Turkey are always looking for an excuse to arm wrestle across the Aegean Sea.

  The woman's hands move quickly as she builds a cardboard box, but her gaze keeps flicking up to the other women. It's obvious she wants to jump in, but who wants to lose a customer?

  On and on they gossip, mouths outrunning their brains. Kiki's sins are confetti, and the women are flinging handfuls all around the shop.

  What's a guy to do when a good woman isn't here to defend herself? They're pissing him off, talking about Kiki like she's not a person.

  So yeah, he jumps in. Both feet.

  "Word on the street is that Stavros Boutos was screwing a lot of women on the side. Maybe one of them killed him—not his fiancée."

  The conversation doesn't lie down and die—it runs off a cliff. There's no death rattle, no gasping, no begging God for a window seat in heaven. Only silence. Because those two gossipmongers haven't thought up a Plan B. They're too busy renovating Plan A, building new sins on top of Kiki's old ones.

  Finally, one of the gaping fish says, in a voice straight out of a freezing January morning in Alaska, "Who are you?"

  "Leonidas," he tells them. "Leonidas Karas. And if you want to gossip about me, go ahead. I'll give you a list of all the bad things I've done. And I'll throw in a list of the bad things people think I've done. And man, it's a long, long list."

  "It's true," the saleswoman says. "Stavros had many women on the side." The women look at her. She holds up her hands. "Not me! But I can think of at least three names."

  "Who?"

  She wags her finger. "No. I will not tell you anything. But the police will not be looking at Kiki for long if they are smart."

  Leo nods his thanks. Then he and his cakes are out of there.

  52

  Helena

  "Stavros is not with you today?" Dr Triantafillou asks.

  Helena shakes her head at the window. The woman trapped in glass mirrors the move. Who is the lesser woman—the reflection or the Helena made of blood and bone? Their fingers touch, and still she cannot say which of them is real.

  "No. He does not know I came." To her ears, she sounds distant, absentminded. Barely here—or anywhere. "I had to sneak out."

  "He won't let you go out alone?" The doctor's reflection speaks. Like its original, it's in yellow jeans and shirt tailored to be their perfect accompaniment. Her shoes are flat, but still she seems tall, endless. It's not the psychologist's body, it's her spirit that seems all-encompassing.

  "No. I mean yes, he does not mind if I go out. But he does not like me coming here."

  "Why do you think that is?"

  "He thinks you want me to kill him."

  "And you, Helena, what do you think?"

  She and the mirrored woman both shake their heads. "I think he is already dead." Now she turns away from her other self. "But if that's true, why do I still see him? Why does he still speak to me?"

  "Helena, what you and Kyrios Boutos are dealing with is a parent's very worst nightmare. There is nothing natural about outliving your children, and your mind knows it. So be gentle with yourself. It is okay to feel …"

  "Crazy?"

  The doctor's smile is warm. "Not the best word, but yes. In time, sanity can come from what feels like insanity."

  "How do you know?"

  "Are you asking if I have experienced loss?"

  Helena nods. "Yes. What are your qualifications?"

  "I have lost, Helena. Not a child, but I have lost. And I know what it is to go temporarily mad."

  "How did you make it through?"

  "Who says I did?" Now Helena sees it, the sting in her eyes. "But every day I come here and I help people. Between my daughter and work, I find hope."

  "You help people. That is good. Useful. I do not know how to help anyone."

  "Start small. Try one little thing. You may find you like it. And if you help enough people, perhaps you will find some measure of peace. Not today or tomorrow, but in time."

  53

  Kiki

  Black is the new black. Lucky, because black is all she's allowed to wear.

  Kiki shimmies into a black dress. A different one. No heels for her tonight. She's aiming for comfort in flat sandals.

  Also black.

  Her underwear isn't black. It's the color of fire. It's not for Leo (this isn't a date—remember?), it's for her, in case she forgets she's alive. The dress is to remind everyone that Stavros is dead, so they can judge her behavior accordingly.

  She goes downstairs to wait for Leo. From their yard they can see a good chunk of the street. People wander past, on their way to the promenade, to parties, to the places people go when they're not at home. In the evening, those whose plans involve staying home sit in their front yards, greeting this small piece of the world as it passes by. Being social without being sociable. Each new passerby throws a new spin on the conversation, once they're out of sight. Some nights her mother does crochet, other nights it's needlepoint. Most of the time Yiayia is in one of her comas, but lately she's been part of the sedate festivities. Tonight she's defacing magazines, drawing faces on top of faces. One of Greece's most popular actors has balls swinging from his forehead. Anna Vissi, mega pop
star, is riding a broom.

  Kiki doesn't do needlepoint or crochet, and she can't draw. So when she's out front she reads. Tonight, it's something post-apocalyptic, written in English.

  The front yard is filled with questions.

  "Where are you going?" Mama asks. "Who are you seeing?"

  "Do you need money?" her father wants to know.

  "I don't know. Leo. And no thank you, Baba. I have a job—remember?"

  He's a good man, her father. Sturdy. Reliable. And he always asks if she needs money. Kiki hasn't needed her parents' money for years, but it's sweet that he still asks.

  "Leo Karas with the big penis," Yiayia explains, in case anyone forgot.

  "Jesus Christ," Kiki's father mutters into his newspaper.

  "It's not a date. He's just thanking me for helping him today."

  "Did you see his penis?" Yiayia wiggles her eyebrows, smacks her gums.

  "No! I helped him with paperwork."

  Yiayia elbows her son-in-law. "Paperwork."

  Mama drops her needlepoint. Stamped onto the fabric is a picture of the goddess Athena clutching a shield and spear. "Enough! Every time you open your mouth, Mama, I feel like Hera. You are my Hephastus, so ugly that I want to throw you off Mount Olympus!"

  Yiayia scoffs. "You are not Hera, you are the goat who raised Zeus. Every time you open your mouth, all I hear is 'maa-maa!' Katsika! You are the goat woman!"

  Either her mother is too disgusted, or she hasn't conjured up a good comeback, because her attention swings back to Kiki. "Where are you going with this man?" she demands.