One and Only Sunday

by Alex A King

  Kiki looks at her sister. Soula is a shadow of a woman in the darkness.

  "It's not like you to be so pessimistic. Are you okay?"

  "I am a realist, that is all. Name one great love in history that survived."

  Kiki thinks. It takes a while. Every candidate is quickly knocked down by divorce or death.

  "You can't think of one, can you?" Time stretches. Soula stares into the darkness. "Me either."

  "Are you in love with someone, Soula?"

  Soula laughs. "When have I ever fallen in love?"

  Never … and every other week. Soula has only ever done love-lite, the commitment-free, limerence version of love, that withers as it ages, until she kicks it out of her bed.

  "What's stopping you?"

  "I am," Soula says.

  Two floors down, somebody screams. Yiayia.

  "Snakes," Kiki explains. "Mama put snakes in Yiayia's bed."

  "Again?"

  "Mama is not a woman of great imagination."

  "I am not like Mama," Soula says. "And I do not want you to be, either."

  66

  Leo

  Leo phones home from a tired, old payphone, but nobody's answering. There's a cold rock sitting in his stomach as he dials his father's cell phone.

  Nothing.

  Smells like stale beer and souvlaki in this plexiglass stall. Nothing to eat in hours, and the stink only exacerbates his vague nausea. On the bright side, if he pukes, he won't be the first guy who puked in a phone booth.

  Next, he calls his brother. Socrates is sixteen, which means he and his phone are conjoined. Sometimes they're attached at the ear, sometimes at the hand. You almost never see a phone in a teenager's pocket.

  "Yeah?"

  "Hey, Socrates." He pronounces it the Bill and Ted way: so-crates. "It's me."

  "Leo?"

  "Yeah. What's going on?"

  "When are you coming back?"

  "Soon."

  "How soon?" A hint of panic in his recently deepened voice.

  "Why? What's going on?"

  That rock in his gut is turning to ice, and it's spreading. No more nausea. No more anything except that frozen water.

  "Mom has pneumonia. They moved her to the ICU. Dad's with her."

  That explains Dad not answering his phone. ICU means no cell phone.

  "Where are you?"

  "At home. We had a gig tonight, but I bailed."

  His brother is in a band. Guitar. It's a high school thing, but the kids are good. They play a lot of parties.

  "Are you okay?"

  "What do you think?"

  Leo thinks his brother is anything but okay, but boys are men waiting to happen. After a certain age, tears aren't something they make unless the wall breaks down. Leo knows about the wall—he has a strong, tall one of his own. Even Tracy couldn't put her fist through that sucker.

  "Leo, you have to come home."

  "I know. I'm trying. I have to go—okay? I'll call again later, I promise."

  Soc doesn't say anything, but Leo hears the nod anyway.

  "I love you," Leo says. "Tell Mom and Dad I love them, too."

  "Yeah." His brother's voice crackles. "Okay."

  * * *

  He wants to punch a wall. Not just one wall—all the walls.

  Starting with the Parthenon. Maybe if he punches a few ancient statues in the face, the gods will come down from Mount Olympus. Then he can swap his liver or his soul for a ride home.

  He doesn't punch a wall.

  He doesn't punch anything.

  Because the man part of his brain knows what the animal part doesn't: punching leads to cops. Leo doesn't want to be a signal on their radar. He needs to go invisible.

  He checks into a hotel, but only for the one night. Cash. Today he's on leave, but tomorrow he'll be a wanted man. Doesn't seem smart to wave his credit card and say, "Here I am!"

  Once he's back on base they'll have him so hogtied there won't be time to chase his paperwork. And chances are good they won't let him know there's a phone call with his name on it, if it comes at all.

  Six weeks. Too late.

  Nine weeks. Unacceptable.

  Leo isn't one to shuck responsibility, but family trumps all.

  He stays up late. Can't sleep. Doesn't have it in him to go out into the night. The city is buzzing in the false day it makes with millions of lights. Usually he likes the night—it's shown him a lot of good times.

  But tonight he doesn't want a good time—he just wants time, and more of it. More sand—twenty years worth, at least—in the top half of his mother's hourglass.

  * * *

  Next morning, first thing, he plants himself on the Ministry of National Defense's doorstep again—the Public Enquiries office. When they come with keys, he follows them upstairs and takes a number. Today he's number one.

  And number two.

  All the way up to twenty.

  If one person won't help him, maybe someone else will.

  He goes from counter to counter. Hears a lot of bullshit about how paperwork takes time to work its way through the ministry's piping. Which is their way of saying, "That's not my job. I have no power."

  "Who's your boss?" he asks the last one. Yiannis and his super-cool mustache again.

  "Greece is my boss. I work for her."

  Enough of the existential bullshit. "Where's Greece's office? I want to talk to her."

  "Kyrios Karas, the only thing you can do is report for duty and wait."

  No can do. "Wait" is not an answer he can live with.

  67

  Kiki

  Kiki buries herself in Vivi's paperwork. At night, she buries herself in sleep.

  What she wants to do is walk in the sun, head held high.

  So she does … behind dark sunglasses, under a hat.

  Very brave.

  She's walking to Vivi's cottage when she hears the hum of an approaching vehicle. It's a police car, spitting dust. It pulls up alongside her.

  "Despinida Andreou?"

  She lifts her glasses. "Detective Lemonis."

  "I'm sorry, but you're under arrest."

  Blink-blink. Then his words sink in. "On come on. We both know I didn't kill Stavros."

  "Assault," he says

  She stops. Gawks at him. Is he kidding? Assault? Really? Hands on hips, she asks, "Who?"

  People wander out into their yards to watch the show. Kiki Andreou is good entertainment value.

  "A Romani woman."

  Kiki slaps her own forehead. Her sunglasses dive-bomb the ground. She stoops to pick them up, then goes back to staring at the detective in disbelief, because—clearly—he has lost his mind. "Are you insane?"

  "Did you or did you not have an altercation with a Romani woman the other night?"

  My Virgin Mary … "She started it!"

  "Started it how?"

  "She spat on me! Ask my sister. They spat on her, too!"

  Her feet are on the ground, but her voice is rising. If this continues she'll be well into shrieking territory. Kiki doesn't like shrieking; it reminds her of her mother.

  But the people? They're loving it. No pretending to sweep, to water the flowers, to call for their absent children who are playing God knows where. They're unabashedly enjoying The Kyriaki Andreou Show.

  Their enthusiasm lights a small fire inside her. So they want a show, eh? Why not give the people what they want?

  There's a bit of Soula in Kiki, a bit of their grandmother. That piece of her shoves common sense out of the way and grabs her wheel. Kiki leaps onto the cop car's hood, bounds up onto the roof.

  "Take a good look," she yells. Then palms facing each other, she points at her crotch.

  (A very generous Greek gesture, an invitation to partake in sucking one's male appendage.)

  Kiki doesn't have a penis, but she makes it abundantly clear she wants them to suck it anyway.

  Shocked faces. Kyriaki Andreou, formerly good woman, once-beloved English teacher, tellin
g the town to blow her. Who saw that coming?

  Nobody.

  But soon—very soon—they will say they always knew. Because nobody here wants to admit they're lacking insight into human nature or their neighbors' lives. At least now when they talk about her they can reference something she actually did, instead of making up stories based on nothing.

  Soula will be so proud.

  Done with telling them to suck it, she shows them the moutsa—flat palm facing out.

  (As previously mentioned, it means the recipient has a chronic, brain-mashing masturbation habit. But it also has a second meaning: to rub fecal matter in the recipient's face.)

  So many two-faced people, not nearly enough shit to rub in them.

  68

  Kiki

  Mama says, "I saw you on the YouTube."

  "I know, Mama."

  "You told them to suck your poutso."

  "I know, Mama."

  "Then you rubbed skata in their faces."

  "I know, Mama. I was there."

  Margarita Andreou's finger pokes accusatory holes in the air. "I know you were there, Kiki, because I saw you on the YouTube!"

  "I know, Mama."

  "I thought I raised you better than that! What do you think they are saying about our family now, eh?"

  "I can only imagine."

  "And now you want me to bail you out?"

  Kiki takes a good look at her new digs. Boy, she's really going to miss this fancy place. "No."

  Mama's eyes widen. When she blinks, one of her false eyelashes is left clinging to her eyebrow. It's threatening to jump. "No?"

  Arm reaching between the bars, Kiki says, "Did you bring my purse?"

  Margarita holds it up, just out of range. "Yes, Kiki, I brought your purse."

  "Get my credit card out and give it to the nice policeman at the front desk. Well, what used to be the front desk."

  "Oh, you want me to give your money to the police, is that what you want?"

  "Yes, please."

  "Now you have manners, eh? Where were your manners when you were insulting the town?"

  "Where were their manners?"

  Hands raised to the sky, pleading for divine intervention: "What daughter is this You have given me?"

  "The same daughter the gods gave Yiayia?"

  Mama shoves Kiki's purse into her skirt pocket. "You want me to give them your card, eh? Want to pay your own bail?"

  "Yes?"

  "No! You stay there until you learn some manners!"

  * * *

  Being behind bars doesn't make Kiki feel tough.

  It's because of the distinct lack of prison tattoos. If she had those, she'd be strutting, instead of sitting knees-to-chin on what she suspects is meant to be a bed.

  It's hard to hide in the corner when you've got a scowling Jesus Christ inked on your chest, and blue-green tears streaming from one eye. She hums that old song about working on a chain gang, but the guys in Cadence did it better.

  For a while, she lies down, stares at the ceiling.

  Time in here is running on Greek time, which means it could be any day, any time. Too bad she doesn't have something to scratch markers into the paint.

  Eventually, one of the cops wanders in. He's fresh out of police school. One of the kids she used to teach. "How long have I been here?" she asks, running to the bars.

  "Two hours."

  "Two hours?" she wails. "That's it?"

  He shrugs. "Two hours. Can I get you anything, Despinida Andreou?"

  "No." She sweeps a hand at the cell. "I have everything I need. All that's missing is a roommate with crazy eyes. Preferably a drunk who hasn't bathed in a week."

  "My mother used to bath us once a week when we were kids. In the same water, too. Saturday. That was bath day."

  "How many kids?"

  "Five," he tells her.

  "Did you sleep together, too?"

  He nods. "All piled into the same bed in the kitchen."

  "No bedrooms?"

  "Two. My parents used one. The other they turned into a guest room."

  Kiki and Soula don't have guest rooms, but Mama does. It's set up with a big table, fancy chairs, embroidered cushions, and a hundred photos of the family. In that room she keeps her good china and other nice things children aren't supposed to touch

  Kiki and Soula used to touch them while Mama was out. They'd lick each decorative thing, then put it back in its place.

  That room has seen a lot of saliva over the years. It's crawling with bacteria.

  "Can I get you anything?" the boy cop repeats.

  "Out of here. You can get me out of here."

  "Sorry," he says. "Your mother said we had to keep you for your own good."

  Then he's gone.

  But she's still here, isn't she?

  This place smells like the end of a fire. No flames in sight, but smoke has burrowed its way into the walls. Even the rock-stuffed pillowcase reeks of stale smoke. Kiki sniffs her hair. Smoke

  Kiki doesn't want to think, so she sings.

  69

  Leo

  Does Leo take the bus back to Kalamata so he can report for duty?

  Hell no, he doesn't.

  When it's time to rejoin the herd, he's riding the bus north-east instead. There's no going back to the Ministry's office until they've stamped his papers. He shows his mug there, he's going to wind up in a military prison.

  Leo has no intention of going to prison—military or civilian.

  He's going home.

  With a passport or without one.

  * * *

  Do-overs.

  The bus rattles into Volos, dumps him onto the hot sidewalk. Papou is there holding Laki.

  "Vision?" Leo asks his grandfather.

  "Vision. Laki tells me you are on the run."

  Leo slaps the old man's back. "It's true, Socrates. I'm a fugitive."

  "Eh, it could be worse. You could be a Turk or Albanian."

  * * *

  The following is an over-simplification of an over-simplification of an over-simplification.

  Albania is to Greece what Mexico is to the USA—minus the drug cartels and their passion for violence. The eastern European people flocked to Greece after Albania ditched its communist regime and the economy tanked, most of them tiptoeing across the border sans papers.

  Greece was—and still is—a country without jobs to give, yet there they were, close to a half-million Albanians looking for work.

  They're hard workers, but that's never the point, is it? Not when you've got people already looking for work.

  Time traveling further into the past, Albanians buddied up to the Ottomans and adopted Islam as their primary religion. Turkey's BFF and Islamic? Two strikes against them—if you're Greek and have an old-school leaning towards prejudice.

  * * *

  Leo isn't a Turk or an Albanian, but being a fugitive is bad enough. None of this sits right with him. He'd be okay with doing his service if not for Mom. He'd even be okay with coming back to complete it when—

  He doesn't want to think about that.

  He's not in denial, but why fixate on something he can't change?

  Leo chooses to focus on the problem he can solve.

  "How do I get out of Greece?"

  Socrates hands Laki to him, lifts his hair, scratches his balding pate. Then he drops his hair back into place and takes Laki from Leo.

  "Thirty years ago, I would have told you to sneak across the border. But now all the borders in Europe have more eyes than before. And the countries have agreements. Agreements! Seventy years ago we agreed on nothing, but we were honest. Now we pretend we are all friends."

  * * *

  Next thing he does is call his dad's cell phone.

  "Leo?"

  "It's me."

  "How are you?"

  "Okay. How's Mom?"

  "Eh," he says. "Better, I think."

  "Where are you?"

  "At the hospital. Your mother ordere
d me to go home and get some sleep, but I cannot—" The end of his sentence cracks, breaks away. "I cannot leave," he eventually says. "I will not leave her."

  Leo's staring at the blue wall, through hot, sand-filled eyes. This is the part where he's supposed to promise his dad that she'll make it, that he will be there soon to … to do whatever it is Dad and Soc needs him to do.

  But he can't, can he?

  Because Mom's not going to make it. And he won't be home in time to do anything except give her flowers she'll never see.

  70

  Kiki

  No office this time. Detective Lemonis takes her to an interrogation room.

  It's the room they save for company they don't like.

  Everything in the square box is metal. In this case, everything means two chairs and a rectangular table. On the smoke-stained wall there's a two-way mirror. She waves, because why not?

  "There's nobody on the other side," he tells her.

  The speaker above the mirror crackles. "Yia sou, Despinida Andreou."

  "Yia sou, Nobody!" Then she turns her attention to the detective. "Why am I here when that Romani woman isn't?"

  "She says you attacked her."

  "And of course she has eyewitnesses." Of cooooourse.

  "Quite a few."

  "And all I have is Soula. My own sister." Nothing from the man with the badge. "Did they tell you they surrounded Soula and me?"

  No comment. Not even a twitch. "Why don't you tell me how it happened."

  So she tells him, and he scratches words in his notebook that she can't see from the guilty side of the table.

  "They came out of nowhere?"

  "Yes."

  "You did not see them bothering anyone else?"

  "No. We didn't see them at all until they were there." She laughs, because who wouldn't? It's the summer of insanity. "I thought you were arresting me because of the fire."