Seven Days of Friday (Women of Greece Book 1) (21 page)

M
ama is like God
: her eyes are everywhere.

Back in the old days (cold days?) in England, he would jerk off in the dark under the bed covers so the fly on his wall wouldn’t see and report back to its Greek commander. So he’s not surprised when she calls again. Took her a while; gossip train must be malfunctioning, unloading the details one car at a time.

“This woman is a
xena
?” Like the word is shit-dipped.

He counts to five. “She’s a friend. Her daughter was my patient. And she’s not a foreigner, her parents are from here – which makes her as Greek as you.”

“She’s an American! A whore! A married woman who leaves her husband to cavort with my son! Anastasia will not marry you when she hears of this, the poor girl.

“Mama, you're overreacting.” That’s new, isn’t it? “She's alone in this country with a sick child. You raised me to help people and now you complain when I do?”

“I raised you to heal people, not take them out for dinner and walk arm-in-arm on the promenade! What is wrong with you, Max? What would your father say? This must stop. You and Anastasia must announce your engagement formally and set a wedding date. And you must never see that woman again.”

He makes a fist.

Why the hell can’t he stand up to one sixty-year-old woman?

She wants him to be a boy, not a man. But this man makes his decisions. He conquered university. He survived the brutal residency.

He put in the hours.

“No. This is my life, Mama.”

“Yes, Max. This is the way it will be. You will bring dishonor on this family – on me – if you keep seeing this whore. And if you don't marry Anastasia . . . Oh, the shame, after I made a promise to her mother! It will be the end of me. No beautiful grandchildren to show people. Who will carry on your father's name? Kostas? He is not a man. He is little more than a eunuch! That thing lies useless between his legs.”

“Mama, enough! Kostas is still your son and my brother. You will not insult him again or you will lose another son! Then you will be a woman with no sons and no grandchildren.”

End Call.

He stalks toward the cafeteria, veins throbbing.

A small boy is walking the halls with his mother. She’s wheeling the IV stand while he shuffles. The little guy waves, smiles.

Max stops to say hello. He pockets his anger with the phone. This isn’t the time, isn’t the place.

A
nother day
, another whirlwind
.

Vivi wants to sleep, but Dora is dragging them all over town, visiting family, showing off Eleni. She won’t shut up about how good Eleni looks with her dyed hair and Jane Fonda waistline.

Her mother looks like she’d rather be hanged. But she’s enthusiastic enough – eager to catch up on years of gossip, maybe knife a few backs while she’s at it.

The family wants to know everything about life in America. (How much is this? How much is that? How much does a house cost? Can you buy Greek food there?)

Beautiful afternoon under the trellis at cousin Effie’s house. Ice cold
frappe
, sweet and sour preserved cherries for dessert. Can’t complain. Every Greek home seems to have one room set aside for company. It’s always done up with fancy linens and too many shiny things. But not Effie’s house. If she has a room like that, they’re not allowed in.

Keeping the riffraff out.

“How was your flight,
Thea
Eleni? I hope you weren't too frightened on the plane,” Effie asks. As usual, she slapped on her makeup with a bucket and trowel. Looks like she’s auditioning for The Cure with that lipstick.

“It was good. Comfortable. The food is another matter. All that money I pay and what do they give me to eat? Cardboard. Whoever is responsible for the food . . . their mother should spank them.”

“Did you take off your clothes?”

Eleni blinks. “For who?”

“The security,” Effie says. “That is what they say on the news: that people in America are strip searched before they get on the plane, that everyone is guilty of some crime until they prove otherwise.”

“That is not true,” Eleni says.

“And they look in your ass for drugs and bombs.” (Vivi doesn’t dare make eye contact with her mother; she’ll lose it if she does.) “I saw this on the TV so it must be true.” She looks around and everyone else makes agreeable noises. “They do not lie on the news.”

Vivi can’t help herself. “They only strip search people who ask stupid questions.”

But it’s lost on Effie, who continues her interrogation in some weird game of one-upmanship only she understands.

“Why would they say it on the news if it is not true?”

“Television always lies,” Eleni says. “Anything to get higher ratings.”

Vivi nods. “Reality TV.”

“I couldn’t fly.” Effie is on a roll. Good thing she’s the perfect shape for it. “Planes are so small. How can people survive for so many hours in such a small space with no fresh air? I do not understand.”

“They're not at that small,” Vivi tells her. “In fact, a lot of them are huge. Imagine about fifty people lying end to end in the street here. That's about how long a 747 is.”

“I do not believe it. Something that large cannot fly! How does it get off the ground?”

“A 747 is seventy-six meters long, so believe it. Google it, for crying out loud!”

“Now here is some good news!”
Thea
Dora comes to the rescue. “Vivi is going to start her own business!”

Yeah, not a rescue. More like tossing a honey-coated Vivi into a bear pit.

Effie goggles. “Why would you want to do that?”

“There's this really neat invention called money,” Vivi says casually. “You can buy stuff with it. Been around for centuries.”

“So get a job or get married like other women,” Effie says.

Because that worked out well for Vivi, didn’t it? “Thanks but no thanks. I like the idea of being my own boss. Flexible hours, and I can choose who I want to work with.”

“You can't do this. What will people say?”

“Why would they say anything? Lots of women all over the world run their own businesses every bit as well as men,” Vivi says.

“Maybe in the rest of the world, maybe even outside Agria, but here it is different. Here women get married and raise families. That is a woman's work,” Effie insists.

Vivi feels sorry for her, because Effie’s got this desperate look in her eye, as though once upon a time, she had dreams but they turned to shit, and now here she is: a mother, a wife. Been nowhere, going nowhere.

“Look!”
Thea
Dora yelps, pointing at Vivi’s cup. “You spilled the coffee in the saucer!”

“I'll clean it up,” Vivi says. Eleni glares across the table at her. “Don't worry, I won't lick it.”

“No, no, leave it,” her aunt says. “It is a sign of good luck. It means that money will soon come to you.” She waves her hands in a hurry up motion. “Finish it. I will read the grounds for you.”

“Do not start with that hocus pocus, Dora,” Eleni says, but she knocks back the last drop of her own coffee, swirls the grounds, upends the cup on its delicate saucer.

Thea
Dora wags a finger at her. “Hocus pocus, eh? I remember one time many years ago when I read your grounds and warned you – ”

“Enough, enough. Always with the talking,” Eleni says. “Go on, read her grounds and make up something good, eh?”

“Bah! I make up nothing. The grounds tell the truth. Vivi, my love, swirl the cup, turn it three times counter-clockwise, and place it upside down on the saucer.”

She swirls, she dumps. “What now?”

“We wait for a few minutes for the grounds to harden. Eleni, give me your cup.”

Eleni slides the demitasse her way, taking care not to break the seal between cup and saucer.

Thea
Dora peers in the cup.

“The bottom of the cup represents the past,” she says for Vivi’s benefit. “The curved part where the bottom meets the side represents the present. And you will find the future near the top.” She looks up at Eleni. “What I once saw in your future is now in the present as well as your past. Strange.”

“That is impossible.”

Vivi asks, “What do you mean? Is it time travel? Because it sounds like time travel.”

They ignore her.

“How can it be impossible if I see it? You are here, are you not?”
Thea
Dora says. “Now, in the future – I think the near future because it is a little low – I see a doorway. You will have an important meeting with someone from the past.”

“So basically everyone here?” Vivi asks.

“Mock the grounds if you must, but believe in them, Vivi, for they hold the key to our destinies. Now give me your cup.”

Vivi doesn’t believe in fortunetellers or horoscopes, and she doesn’t want her destiny spelled out. What if it spells f-a-i-l-u-r-e?

Not cool.

What the hell, it’s just a bit of fun, isn’t it? The future isn’t really hiding in a dirty cup, waiting to be read by a superstitious aunt.

Is it?

“I see two men in the bottom – ”

Vivi thinks: John and Ian.

“ – and a line. A journey. Of course you are here, so there is your journey. I see a snake in your present.”

“Sounds ominous.”

“No, this is good. It means something you desire deeply will come to pass very soon.”

“What about her future?” This comes from a scowling Effie, who doesn’t look like she wants anything good to swing Vivi’s way.

Thea
Dora says, “I see a bridge. You must make an important decision soon. Only you can decide if you want to cross it or not. But there's a line through it. Something, or someone, will try to stop you.”

“Will I win?”

“Eh.” She shrugs. “Maybe. The cup does not say. We try it again another time.”

Effie thrusts her cup at her mother. “Do me.”

“Bah! I don't need to look in your cup to see your future, Effie. You have a husband and children, what more do you want to see? Old age?”

“Maybe you'll be surprised,” Effie says.

“Some people do not have surprises in them.”

T
here’s
a small bouquet on Vivi’s front doorstep. Wildflowers tied with yellow ribbon.

Eleni hovers at her elbow. “Who are they from?”

“No note.”

“Why no note?”

“Here, let me pull out my psychic whodunit guide and I'll tell you.”

“I bet they are from that doctor.”

“No, Mom. They're not from that doctor. He’s unavailable. Maybe they're for you.”

“Okay, I will take them.”

T
he new
, new toilet
doesn’t break.

After it’s in place, Vivi trudges through the olive grove, back to Takis’s mansion. Biff comes along for the goats.

She wasted a lot of time last night, beating her thoughts into submission. Now she knows two things: Takis will teach her everything he knows about harvesting and processing olives, or she’ll pester him until he drops dead or files a restraining order.

The other thing is Max. She can’t see him again.
Ev-er
.

No way is she going back there, to that place where she can’t have what she wants. One sham relationship is enough.

There was love – there was. In a distant sort of way. She and John were shopping lists and renovation and a wan sort of friendship. But she wants shopping lists and renovation and friendship and fire.

Max is fire, but he’s not destined for her fireplace.

And Vivi isn’t an asshole.

She’s not like him – John’s boyfriend.

It’s a problem. No painless fix, either.

Yeah, they could be friends, she and Max. But what happens when he’s married and she’s in love?

She’s doing her best not to care. Melissa and olives are her future, not Max. And in the immediate future there is Takis and his cheese and his goats.

Vivi likes goats and cheese, and in time she might like Takis.

T
he goats are less
curious today, too busy eating stuff that shouldn’t be edible. Biff takes a long drink out of their trough, then goes to chill with his bleating peeps.

Takis is sitting outside the shed, hand-rolled cigarette bobbing on his lip, peeling an apple with a pocketknife. He’s wearing a shirt that was clean maybe ten years ago. Vivi is an optimist.

“You want?” Apple pinched between his fingers and knife, he offers the slice.

She wants. It makes her a child again, grasping a giant apple in her hands, teeth grazing the shiny skin. The apple slice is all juice and sugar.

Before she can bite again, Takis stands.

“Now we have work to do. I hope you're strong.” Sounds ominous. “First, go wash your hands and arms, over there. Use soap.” He points to the outdoor pump near the trough. A fat bar of soap sits in a plastic tub on top of the pump, up high where the goats can’t eat it. It’s covered in leaves.

The soap has an odd green tint.

Olive oil, maybe?

Olive empire expanding in her head (Vivi Tyler, a modern day Onassis), she goes back to Takis. He’s in the shed, slicing the curd into strips. When he’s done cutting one way, he gives Vivi the knife.

“Now you cut.”

She cuts.

“Smaller pieces!”

Smaller pieces.

“Now you mix – use your hands,” he says when she’s done cutting.

“What, all of it?”

A dull ache sets into her shoulder. Her neck muscles are starting to whine. Her body doesn’t like the burn, but her head does.

“Put your arms all the way in and break up the curd. It won't kill you. The wetness you feel in there is the whey. Soon we will drain it.”

That explains the cheesecloth and bucket nearby.

Takis presses the loosely woven fabric down into the large bucket, clips the overflowing edges to the side with clothespins. When he’s satisfied, he nods.

“I just scoop them in?”

“What else would you do? Sing them a song? Dance?” He slaps his thigh, cackling, coughing.

“Wise guy.”

Doesn’t take long. When only the whey is left, she looks up for directions.

“Pour it in. We will use it later for the brine. Feta becomes too dry if you do not keep it covered in liquid. Now, tie a big knot in the end of the cloth. Then take sieve, place it on the bucket, sit the cloth on top of it.”

It goes okay.

Exhausted, she drops into the chair. “Now will you tell me about the olives?”

Takis makes a sucking sound through his teeth. “You have a child?”

“A daughter. Melissa is fifteen.”

“Where is she now?”

“With a friend.”

“Girl friend or boy friend?”

“Girl friend.”

“Yes? Are you sure?”

“Melissa wouldn't lie to me.”

Would she?

“Bah! Children always lie. But at least children only lie to others. Men, women, they lie to others and themselves.”

Now she notices the black band he wears high on his shirtsleeve. Takis is a man in mourning.

“Do you have children?”

“Eh, three. And many grandchildren. They have their own lives. They do not come around so much since their mama passed.”

“I'm sorry. When did she pass?”

“Twenty years, but it still feels as fresh as that cheese.”

Drip, drip
. The curds slowly expel their whey.

“Pain doesn't get much fresher than that,” she says slowly.

He shoves her out the door. “Come back tomorrow.”

“Then will you teach me about the olives?”

“Eh . . . Probably not.”