One and Only Sunday

by Alex A King

  "I didn't know."

  "Who thinks of tobacco when they think of Greece? Most people think of Santorini and other white islands, olives, beaches, and—now—our economic problems."

  "Mention the word Greek back home and people think college."

  She shoots him a confused look.

  "Fraternities," he says in English. He gives her the abbreviated version of how Americans do college. Doesn't explain to her the other meaning of Greek in America. That's a show thing, not a tell thing.

  Kiki shakes her head when he's done. "We go, we learn, we socialize. But it's not party, party, party until we're sick."

  "Why teaching?"

  "I like kids. Why veterinary medicine?"

  "I like animals." His gaze coasts from the curve of her ankle all the way up to her dark hair. "And I like you."

  A chuckle erupts from behind him. "Do not mind the man in the back seat. I am sleeping."

  Leo laughs. "How long until we reach the border?"

  "Not long," Kostas says. "About an hour."

  Not a big country, Greece. From end to end it's about a twelve-hour drive—if you drive the American way. If you drive the Greek way, file off a couple of hours and set aside a few euro for speeding tickets, unless you know a guy who can pull the old my-uncle-is-the-law trick.

  An hour.

  And then it's goodbye.

  85

  Kiki

  An hour until goodbye.

  Her foot launches a protest on behalf of her heart by easing off the gas just a little. Good thing her head cuts in, shoves that rubber square back where it belongs. She likes Leo, which means the best thing she can do for him is drive as fast and safely as she can.

  The second best thing she can do is say goodbye and never look back.

  Not even to wonder: what if?

  * * *

  "Turn here."

  Kostas is awake now, alert, watching everything. He touches Kiki's shoulder and follows his gentle instruction with a nod in the right direction.

  The border is about a couple of kilometers ahead (about a mile, if you're American), but now she's jumping off the main road, onto a smaller stream that trickles to the right.

  The road turns to dirt. She eases off the gas to shrink the dust cloud on their tail.

  "A little further," Kostas says.

  Leo looks cool, but his hands are balled into fists on his thighs.

  "It's going to be okay," she tells him.

  "Listen to Kiki," the priest says. "She is one of my smarter cousins."

  Kiki reaches back, gives him a half-hearted slap on the head.

  Leo swivels to look at them both. Small car; it's a short trip. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate your help—both of you. Whatever happens …" He hands a piece of paper to each of them. Printed on both is his family's address, phone number, email address. "If you need anything—ever—name it and it's yours."

  Kostas claps him on the shoulder, nods. "We're here."

  86

  Leo

  He can see the border from here. No road, but there's something about the trees that suggest their allegiance has shifted. Those straddling the border look confused. Are they Greek? Are they Turkish? They don't know.

  Leo doesn't know, either. Not about the trees, but about himself.

  Kiki kills the gas near a guard shack. A couple of guys outside—soldiers, or guys doing a Hollywood imitation—slouched in chairs, weapons resting within reach.

  One of them gets up, swaggers their way. He and Kostas slap hands, then the soldier nods at Leo."Is this him?"

  "He's the one," Kostas says.

  "Greek?"

  "Greek-American," Leo says.

  Stone Face looks him up and down. No movement, just his traveling eyes. Then he shrugs, spits on the ground. "No problem. You have your uniform? Put it on."

  * * *

  Kostas and Stone Face stand in their own huddle, swapping whatever it is they have to swap. Promises, prayers—who knows?

  Leo has questions, but he doesn't stop to ask them. He does what needs to be done, and he does it fast.

  Kiki watches him strip. He watches Kiki watching him strip.

  Turnabout is fair play. He's seen her naked, hasn't he?

  He'd like to see her naked again. But he'd settle for fully dressed, like she is right now. The woman is just plain good company.

  Pants up and buttoned. "I like you," he says.

  "I like you, too."

  "I'd stay if I could, maybe see what this could be."

  She shakes her head, waves at her dress. "Leo, this is my life for the next two years."

  "Could be you're worth waiting for."

  She laughs. Again with the head shaking. "Leo, look at you. You're not a man who needs to wait. Men like you do very well out there."

  Ouch. "You think I'm a player?"

  "No. I think you're very handsome and very single. And whether a man like you wants them or not, a lot of opportunities will come your way. I'm just one Greek woman in a tiny nothing of a village, with nothing to offer you but wasted time."

  "Is that how you see yourself, as a waste of time?"

  She bends down, picks up his clothes. Folds. "No. I'm telling you I'm a waste of your time. There's a difference."

  He shrugs into the shirt, leaves it hanging open while he rolls the sleeves, until they're sitting neatly above his elbows.

  She's eating him with her eyes—no shame. It's turning him on, her lack of shame. He figured that was a Soula thing, but it's also a Kiki thing.

  And he likes it.

  She drops his folded clothes on top of his bag. Then she's in front of him, up close, fingers dancing over his buttons. Her breath is a small puff of hot air on his neck.

  "I can do buttons," he says.

  "Yes, but do you want to?" Husky, warm, no ambiguity.

  Perfectly still. "No."

  "Karas, you ready?"

  Leo looks over his shoulder, sees his immediate future waiting.

  "Ready," he says.

  87

  Kiki

  Kiki falls away. One second changes everything. Present to past in a heartbeat.

  "Email. Write. Call. Anytime," Leo says.

  "I will."

  His fingers curl around her wrist, reel her in. "Promise."

  "I promise."

  Then the man who is never coming back kisses her. He keeps her close, one hand behind her neck as he goes deeper.

  First kiss, last kiss in one.

  Normally when she kisses a guy, they're on their way to naked, but Leo is on his way to dressed and gone. She wants to go up in flames with him, but there's no time for their bodies to burn.

  "Karas!"

  "Let them have this one moment, eh?" she hears her cousin say.

  Then it's Leo who falls away. "It's time."

  And she's not sure if he means it's time for him to go, or if it's time who is the other woman standing between them.

  "Go," she tells him. "And be careful. Turkey is not Greece."

  He joins the other soldiers, jumps into the back of a Jeep.

  She watches them bounce away, destination: Turkey. Leo's gaze stays on her until trees swallow the slow-moving vehicle.

  "Good guy," Kostas says.

  Kiki says, "I know."

  "So?"

  "I'm in mourning and he's gone."

  "You will not always be in mourning, and he can always come back."

  She shakes her head. "Once he crosses that border, Greece and I, we will be forgotten."

  He puts one black-clad arm around her shoulders. "Kiki … You and Greece, you are both unforgettable. Have a little faith."

  88

  Kiki

  Kiki crawls toward home, metaphorically speaking. Figuratively, the Mini is moving at a good ten kilometers below the speed limit. A car zips out from behind them, cuts in front of her just in time to miss an oncoming tour bus.

  Kostas says, "He will be back."

  Yeah, vaca
tioning with a wife and kids.

  * * *

  Mama's not so much cooking as she is playing percussion in the hot kitchen.

  "Where were you, Kiki? I was worried sick. Your father was worried sick."

  "I was worried sick," Yiayia says.

  A wooden spoon points its scoop the old woman's way. "You will impress me more if you are worried dead."

  Yiayia doesn't flinch. "Is my snack ready, yet?"

  "A snack before lunch! In a minute, Mama. I am trying to yell at Kiki."

  "If you are trying, very good, you are successful. Everybody in Agria can hear you."

  Mama slits the candy wrapper, dumps the entire wafter in the blender, hits the red button. Brown and tan dust fills the jug.

  "You cannot just leave without telling anyone," she shrieks over the mechanical whirring. "I thought you were in a gutter, dead. Or maybe alive and in a Turkish harem."

  "Do they still have harems?" Yiayia asks. "I would not mind being in a harem."

  "With all those women?" Kiki asks.

  "I did not think about that. A harem would be awful. Dozens of women like your mother …"

  The idea of her mother in a harem is preposterous. Kiki closes her eyes, wards away the image by crossing herself, forehead to chest, shoulder to shoulder. She crosses herself a second time to banish the image of Yiayia shimmying up to a Turkish prince.

  "I was with Kostas."

  "Kostas Andreou? Your cousin Kostas?"

  "That's the one."

  Mama dumps the powder in a bowl, throws in a spoon. It lands with a crash in front of Yiayia. "Here is your chocolate, Mama." To Kiki: "What were you doing with Kostas? What took you so long?"

  "We were talking."

  "Talking!"

  "I was helping him tend to the poor."

  "Tending to the poor? If only that was true!"

  "I can't tell you."

  "Why not?" She slams a lid on the pot. "I am your mother. You should tell me everything."

  "Do not tell me everything," Yiayia tells her daughter. "I do not care."

  "No one is asking you, old woman." She gives Kiki a sharp look. She could cut steel with that intensity.

  What can she say? Not the truth, that's what. Because she will never—ever—hear the end of it. "We were helping someone, Mama. Leave it alone."

  "Helping. And while you were helping someone, I was looking for you everywhere. And not only could I not find you, but I could not find your sister."

  "Soula's missing?"

  "I'm not missing." Soula bounces into the kitchen in white linen pants and a turquoise top, bracelets dancing up her arms.

  Mama points a fork at her. "And where were you?"

  "Out."

  "Out where?"

  Soula leans over. "How old are we again?" she says in a stage whisper.

  Margarita slaps her across the back of the head. "Not too old that I cannot smack you. And not so old that I cannot worry about my daughters. If you were sons I would not worry, but anything can happen to a daughter."

  "Anything can happen to a son, too, Mama," Soula says lightly. "Look at Stavros. Being a guy didn't help him."

  The kitchen doesn't go still, it goes empty. Every bit of sound and air sucked away, through Margarita's teeth.

  It's like waiting on a volcano to blow. Mount Margarita. Her explosions are legendary, and they flatten whole families and turn enemies to salt. God and Zeus could call her for advice on that whole eye-for-an-eye thing. She doesn't just take one eye—she snatches out both and crushes them beneath her slippers.

  When Margarita speaks, it's with a strange calm. Trouble is coming. Big trouble. "Are you hungry?" She doesn't wait for an answer. She heaves the pot off the stove, leaves the blue ring of flames flickering. "Wherever you girls went I hope you worked up an appetite, because I worked very hard to make this." Then she upends the pot on the kitchen table.

  Hot lentil soup hits the Formica. What doesn't splatter, splashes, leaving the three seated women covered in brown-green soup.

  Baba pokes his head through the door, takes a long look at the scene of his wife's crime. "I cannot stay for lunch. I will grab a souvlaki, okay?"

  "Okay," Mama says brightly. "I hope you choke on it."

  "I will try." Then he's gone.

  Kiki gets up. Grabs three spoons. Gives one to Soula, to Yiayia, and keeps the last for herself. She dabs the table with a chunk of bread, shovels it into her mouth.

  "Thank you, Mama," she says with a full mouth. "It's delicious. Best you ever made."

  89

  Leo

  It's not a piece of cake, but close.

  Leo could die from the shock. The American Embassy spits out a temporary passport overnight.

  He's tough on the outside, Jell-O on the inside while he waits for the plane.The airport is crowded. Everything sounds harsh, jangled. At the same time, it's muted. Doesn't make sense, but sometimes the world is that way.

  He drops his bag on the ground, scoots it between his feet. Zips his credit card through the payphone's vertical mouth. Punches his Dad's cell number.

  "I'm on my way home," he says.

  "Thank God," his father says. "Thank God."

  He wants to call Kiki, but he doesn't have her number. Somehow the information swap got messed up before it was complete, and now he's slouched in an airport seat, staring sightlessly at foot traffic, wondering if she got back okay, if she's happy.

  * * *

  The plane leaves the terminal, then it leaves the ground, and soon Turkey is patch of brown and green somewhere behind him.

  Closer to Mom, closer to home.

  Farther from Kiki. Or is it further?

  Doesn't matter, he left her behind.

  90

  Kiki

  She watches her world for signs. Not street signs—the other ones. Every day occurrences, meaningless to everyone but a mildly desperate person.

  Kiki's not desperate, she's …

  Yes, she is. May as well admit it, because it's true.

  Which is why she's careful that her shoes don't flip over when she slides them off. (If one ends up in the upside down position, she'll have to mutter "garlic" to ward away the bad luck.) And why when that crow flits past, she wishes it well.

  A good sign. She needs one. Just one that lets her know Leo made it home okay.

  It's not long before Vivi's paperwork is a solved and signed mystery, flitting away in its paper envelopes. Which means she's back to whiling away her afternoons with books and daydreams.

  Daydreams are dangerous things. They are where longing is born.

  * * *

  Kiki's not in a benevolent mood, which is why she leaves Detective Lemonis to fend for himself when he comes calling at the front gate. Let him suffer. Only the strong survive Mama and Yiayia.

  "What do you want, eh?"

  "Is Despinida Andreou home?"

  "Which one? I have two daughters."

  Mama knows perfectly well which one. Only one of her daughters is a murder suspect, but she enjoys being difficult. Kiki's okay with it when someone more deserving is on the receiving end.

  "Kyriaki."

  "Maybe. Last time I looked I was not her keeper. She comes and goes as she pleases without my permission. What do you want with her, eh?"

  "I am looking for answers."

  "What are the questions? Ask us, and we will tell you if we know the answers." She looks at Yiayia for confirmation.

  Yiayia shakes her head. "Why you want to ask young people questions? They know nothing. If you want answers, ask an old person. But not my daughter, because she is very stupid for an old woman."

  "I'm not that old, Mama."

  "Your face is not old, but inside you are a strigla."

  "Yes, yes, I am a hag. I get that from your side."

  The detective clears his throat. Looks like his patience is wearing thin. Good. Maybe he'll go away. "I want to know if Kyriaki had any lovers."

  Mama crosses herself. "Kiki!
" she hollers up at Kiki's balcony. "This one is your problem."

  Kiki jogs down the stairs to join them.

  "I am going," Mama says, crossing herself again.

  "Not me," Yiayia says. "You two talk and I will listen."

  "Mama!"

  "What? You will hide behind the curtain like a thief and listen. I am more honest, that is all." But it's an empty protest because Margarita grabs the wheel chair, rolls her inside.

  "I apologize," Kiki says. "My family …"

  "I have two sisters and a mother. And I'm the youngest child."

  "My condolences."

  It's a dry laugh, but better than nothing.

  She says, "To answer your question, yes. But not for a couple of years. Maybe a bit longer."

  "Leonidas Karas." Yiayia's voice trickles out the window.

  "Don't listen to her," Kiki says. "Leo and I are just friends. And he wasn't in the country when Stavros was killed."

  "Who else?"

  She laughs, because it's better than crying. "Detective, you're wasting your time with me. Unlike Stavros, I was discreet. Any men in my past are long gone. Not one was local, and I made my lack of intentions very clear at the time."

  In the kitchen, Mama gasps.

  "She thinks I'm a virgin," Kiki tells him. She turns around. "I'm not a virgin, Mama!"

  "That is okay," Yiayia calls out. "Your mother was not a virgin when she got married, either."

  A moment later, there's a symphony of screaming silverware.

  "Welcome to my life, Detective. If you want to find a murderer, you won't find one by picking at the bones of my life."

  Whatever she expects next, it's not his reaction. He drops down into one of the shaded chairs, rubs his head, eyes cast on a patch of sun that's made a heroic journey through the densely layered vine leaves overhead.