Let Me Explain You (16 page)

Stavroula moved the straw in her glass. “No story yet.”

This morning, after agreeing to come, Stavroula showered and made sure her face looked bright. She took the tag off of a new shirt and settled on a shiny black belt that was the point of the outfit. She knew Litza was going through her own version of this at home. Stavroula wanted to look professional, not open for nonsense. Then, Stavroula called out of work. July picked up.

She hated talking on the phone, was awkward with anybody. At least if it were her boss, she could say one, two quick things:
John, I'm taking a few days
. And not feel so off about it. She had never taken a personal day before, and July answering made her feel like she didn't have the right to now. Like maybe July would judge her for someone who didn't follow through. Someone who flinched. She didn't want July getting the wrong idea. She said, “This has nothing to do with our conversation from the other day.”

“I know that. It's not really your style to avoid uncomfortable situations.”

Stavroula took a breath. July was joking, but still. What else was she thinking?

July said, tentatively, “You're just not feeling well?”

“Oh, I'm fine,” she said. “It's family stuff.”

Stavroula heard her switch the phone to her other ear. “Everybody OK?”

“Yes.” If OK was inheriting your father's last wishes, followed by your father going missing.

“Take your time,” July said. “We can cover you for a few days.”

“It's my father.”

July was quiet. She didn't know about the email, but she knew about Stavros from Stavroula's stories. The most recent one was about
smell my fingers
, which the kitchen staff had picked up delightedly, relentlessly.

“Is he OK?”

“Probably,” Stavroula said. “You can expect me tomorrow.”

“Don't come in tomorrow. We'll be fine.”

She was feeling a little braver now. “You wouldn't know what to do without me.” That came out of her mouth? She was awful on the phone.

They were hanging up, and July said—“Stevie? Call me, OK, if you need anything?” and she gave her, for the first time, her not-work cell.

Stavroula saved the number in her phone. Then told herself that she'd never use it. July would call her first, so. Not that she was being proud. Just that July giving her her private number was a kindness, a friendship, but July calling Stavroula, now that would be an intention. That would be something.

It was a mistake, that hope.

Maybe the real mistake was giving in to Litza in the first place.

Stavroula hadn't come to the diner because Litza called to say their father was missing, or because, as Litza explained on the phone, it was Marina who discovered he was gone. No, since she had seen Litza—was thrown by the sight of her in his office—Stavroula had been going over and over the email. Not the part addressed to her. Rather, the part she had purposely avoided before now.
Litza, you have problems. Litza, I can only do for you what I am done for you.
She could imagine her father writing, reading it back to himself; then Litza reading, speaking it back to herself. It was like being in a car accident with someone, your sister. And realizing that even though you are bleeding, she is bleeding much more than you are. Or maybe you are just shocked at her blood and realizing that your parent is behind the wheel.

“What are you two digging for? A map to your father's whereabouts?”

Marina's question, the knitting needles clicking. The story about the third cousin must have ended without Stavroula noticing. Stavroula explained, “No map. We found his money trail, and proof of the mistress. But it all stops the day of his disappearance, the trail runs out.”

Marina said, “Trust me, he is not with the girlfriend. That is over.” She got up, gave Stavroula a quick peck on the forehead to emphasize her point, and left the dining room.

Stavroula and Litza had been going through his stuff when Stavroula's phone, sitting on their father's desk, rang, vibrated. In their thrill, both she and Litza jumped for it. Litza got to it first. Stavroula snatched at it, but Litza held it just long enough to read Stavroula's expression. Bubbles seemed to float from Litza's fingers up through her body, until they popped in her eyes. She did not even say, “Who's July?” or something equally direct to demonstrate that the call was inconsequential to them both. She handed the phone over—was that a smirk on her face?—and kept looking through papers.

Stavroula made an excuse about needing to contact some of her father's vendors, because she did not want to endure her sister's scrutiny. It would come, invisible but unmistaken, like the burn of onions. She went out to the dining room, drank a glass of ice water. She tried her voice—it was even. She redialed July. She got her boss; what July had been calling about was her approval for some menu substitutions. Stavroula's heart had leaped at nothing, she had betrayed herself in front of Litza for no good reason.

Now Litza was in front of her, sliding into the booth. Their booth. The clatter of nearby silverware was so loud, the rubbing of knife, fork, knife in her chest. Stavroula trained herself not to look away from Litza's gaze.

Litza said, “Check this out.” She pushed a paper in front of Stavroula.

It was a deed. The proprietors of Tolley Cemetery exchange for good and valuable consideration, the receipt of which is acknowledged, so on. Address and other fields filled in. Plus,

(1) That the Plot of
Stavros Stavros Mavrakis
shall be used for the burial of the dead;

(2) That the Plot of
Stavros Stavros Mavrakis
shall not be enclosed in any manner nor shall be divided;

(3) That the Plot of
Stavros Stavros Mavrakis
may be adorned by one monument or stone memorializing the dead;

(4) That no tree, shrub, plant, or flower be planted on the Plot of
Stavros Stavros Mavrakis
without permission of the proprietors.

“He's got a burial plot?” Stavroula asked.

“Yeah, but people live their whole lives with a plot. It's real estate.” Litza pointed to the date. The purchase had been made years ago, not two days ago. Not because no one came to the Last Supper. “It's probably the only thing he's held on to since his first marriage, other than us.”

Stavroula read 1 through 4 again, looked up. She tried to take in what Litza was saying. All she could hold on to were the words “burial of the dead” and “stone memorializing the dead” and “without permission.”

Litza leaned over and helped herself to some of Stavroula's Nescafé. Not gingerly, not politely. She drank from the glass as she might have in the past, when they took sips of one another's beverages.

We enter as if this is a tomb that does not have death in it but will soon—or into the house of an innkeeper who sweeps out lamentations daily and discovers that it is children, children he does not recognize as his own, who have been leaving behind their lamentations. And he eats the children and picks his teeth with their lamentations. We look again for the will, but it is gone. We decide to look for something else. We find years and years of credit card statements. She knows where to look; I do, too, even more so, but I let her go first. We read where the money, for years, has gone (not to us!). We see it goes to Atlanta, though we know no one in Atlanta. We discover there was a monthly subscription for an interracial dating service—We laugh. We imitate his voice—stupit
eediot!
We say, black women? We say, Remember him refusing to sit in his gray recliner for an entire day because our boyfriend Ricardo sat in it? Stupit
eediot!
We laugh, we laugh. We flip through the credit card statements as if they are a flip book of animations, and they are. We feel the Saturday-morning feeling of choosing our own entertainment. We feel the disoriented minutes of sibling companionship, free of gravity, before a parent returns to remind us we exist in zero sum, thus biologically and domestically programmed to root for each other's demise. We forget we were exiled to different worlds. We laugh. We search and share the next ridiculous artifact. Did you know he liked the movies? we ask. Did you know he ate brunch? We become a single, excited chatter born out of exploration and the revelation that someone, your father, is not who you thought he was: So how can We be who We think We are?

The text from Litza said—

That there was punctuation meant she edited before sending. In the past, messages from Litza were unbridled boxes of dense text without periods or commas, often screeching and incensed. She had told Stavroula yesterday—when they seized their father's records—that she was going to see the funeral director. Stavroula had been reluctant to confirm she'd go along for the visit. It was only Litza's text, late last night, which said that convinced Stavroula, ultimately, to come.

Stavroula wrote back—

Litza knew not to suggest that they drive together, so.

Stavroula was about to dial Mother, to inform her of their father's disappearance, to invite her to accompany them. She didn't. Why didn't she? She was pretty sure Mother and Ruby didn't know he was MIA. Should they know?

Stavroula hit every red light on the way to the funeral home. She drove past the Harwain, the theater that, when they were kids, charged $2.50 and that Stavroula stopped going to once Litza left to go live with Dina. She passed by the water-ice stand that they used to visit on scorched days in June.

The afternoon following the Facebook dinner, Day 6—why was she keeping count?—Stavroula had stopped to see Mother at Starbucks. Mother was gleeful; she had just received word of a promotion. Stavroula brought lamb burgers and kale salad by way of congratulations. Over lunch they talked about the dinner nobody went to, Stavros's final wishes—all but his demands for Stavroula, which she skirted, which Mother let her.

“While your father was having one last pity party, I was celebrating,” Mother said. “What did you do?”

“Kind of the same thing.”

“He's so needy. That was always the problem with your father.”

“Yeah, well, I can't imagine being married to him.”

“I can't either, anymore.”

“You'd think he'd want to stick around,” Stavroula said. “There's a lot to celebrate these days.” She meant Ruby, which Mother understood but did not confirm. Stavroula did not ask Mother how she felt about the elopement. She did not want to debate Dave behind Ruby's back. If he weren't ready for marriage and fatherhood, Mother would make sure he got ready. The only thing she was more dedicated to than Starbucks was the idea of a grandchild. Stavroula knew if one came along, Mother would be like its second mother.

“Maybe your father's onto something,” Mother said. “Maybe we should all be writing our final wishes.” She smiled. “Mine would be a cruise just for us girls. How about you, Stevie?”

This was an invitation to be honest, because it was obvious Mother knew about Stavroula and had probably even heard about the July menu from Ruby. The letter was, if nothing else, an opportunity. But Stavroula wasn't sure how much of herself she was ready to share with Mother. Maybe she just hadn't found the right expression of herself. She was still a little raw, when what she wanted to be—aspired to be—was medium-well.

Stavroula said, “No final wishes. I'm too young to think about dying.”

Mother said she, too, had a new lease on life.

“If there's a funeral, are you gonna go?” Stavroula asked.

“If I'm not busy. You think your father will be there?”

“You kidding? Everybody, all in one place, paying their respects? It'll be like his birthday party.”

Then Stavroula brought up the will, nonchalantly. Did he have one? Had Mother seen it recently? They were divorced, of course, but was Mother notified of any changes? Did that happen with wills for, like, legal reasons?

“Why are you asking?”

“He's got to be thinking about it, right? Knowing Dad?”

She did not express that his will had been on her mind since she caught Litza in the office a few days ago, or that she and Litza had found the incomplete version of his Final Will and Testament but that it subsequently disappeared from the office, like he knew they were coming for him.

“Your father thinks he's a pharaoh, Stevie. He's going to be buried with his money. I don't need a will to tell me he won't leave behind a cent.”

Finally, Stavroula arrived at the funeral home, a building with columns and rosebushes and a sign on the lawn inscribed with gold lettering. She pulled up next to Litza, who had her window down, music off, and was checking her teeth in the mirror. Somehow she did this without looking self-conscious. Litza wore a pair of copper earrings, a light brown faux-leather jacket. It looked good on her, as usual: even Stavroula could admit that. Her sister had always been a brazen kind of pretty, just another way Litza confounded Stavroula. Stavroula could remember, when they were eleven and nine, Litza convincing a fifteen-year-old boy that she was older than him simply by how she hooked her legs around a railing, her hair trailing down her arm. Stavroula felt envious, though it had nothing to do with how the boy looked at Litza.

Litza's long fingers with their long red nails twitched as she spoke; they had a way of trembling when a cigarette was in them. Litza was flicking her tongue over her bottom lip, dark purple, as if feeling for a bit of paper. She was excited, Stavroula realized. Why? “At least this guy might be able to tell us something,” Litza said.

The welcome mat was woven out of something green and still alive. The door, unlocked. Litza wandered around the small lobby and peered into vases, rubbed a plant to see if it was real. Stavroula stayed on the red oval carpet intended for wet feet. The attendant did not come for some minutes, though Litza had an appointment scheduled and there were no services in session as far as Stavroula could tell.