Traveling Light (31 page)

“I can help,” Eleni offered.

“Ma, you’ll pop out your back. I’ll go get Rick.” They walked outside as Eleni chattered in half-Greek and Paula went to the outdoor aviary to retrieve the two foster dads. Putting on a thick glove, she approached one. “Come on, Pops, time for a little exercise.” She took hold of the leather jesses with one hand and the eagle hopped onto her gloved forearm. She brought him into the flight room and then went to fetch the second. Eleni studied each of the birds with fascination.

Just after Paula had moved all three of the eagles, Rick showed up with the woman.

“I’d like you to meet Kate Larson.” Tall, willowy blonde with great jewelry. Paula hadn’t expected that caliber of earrings from a country girl.

“Oh, hi, I’m Paula.” She extended her hand.

“Hi, Paula. Rick’s told me so many good things about you.” The woman had the new season’s Louis Vuitton bag on her arm. Paula also noticed that Kate had the smallest nose that she’d ever seen on an adult woman; plastic surgery or nature, she couldn’t tell.

“And this is Paula’s mother, Eleni, who’s visiting from New York,” he continued. “Kate Larson’s a friend from the Cities.”

They chatted about New York, Minneapolis, while Kate joked about her fear of birds and overall dislike of bugs, crawly things, as she called them, and made jokes about how she wasn’t a big “nature” person. And while Paula was fully prepared to despise her, she didn’t. “I’ve tried to get her into a kayak,” Rick said. Kate turned to Paula and rolled her eyes.

“Well, nice to meet you,” Kate said without an ounce of malice as she and Rick left arm in arm.

Outside, Paula heard the couple talking about restaurants as car doors shut and the engine started. The sound of tires on gravel reminded Paula she’d forgotten to ask for help.

“Shit.” She rested her face in her hand.

“Don’t be jealous,
kukla,
” Eleni said from behind the screened wall.

Paula stopped. “What? No, Ma, I’m not. I’m pissed. I forgot to ask him to help with the deer.”

“Yes, you are, you’re jealous.”

“Ma, what the hell are you talking about?” Paula bent over, her frustration mounting, annoyed with having been so distracted. She then opened the back door. There it was, the carcass. Placing both hands on her hips, she sized the thing up. It might be easier to move than she thought. Bending over, she grabbed hold of the rib cage and yanked. It budged only a few inches, far heavier than she’d estimated: at least a hundred pounds. “Damn.”

Eleni appeared next to her. “Let me help. With the two of us…”

“Forget it, Mom.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Eleni said, pushing her aside as she bent over and grabbed the rear legs, staring at Paula. “Close your mouth or you’ll catch a fly. Now come on.”

They dragged it partway and rested.

“See? A few more times, it’ll be there,” Eleni said. They worked up momentum and pulled it over the floor before stopping. Paula gauged the placement.

“Good enough,” she pronounced. She looked at her mother. “Is your back okay?” Paula hurried back to shut the door before the birds got away.

“I’m fine.” Eleni made an about-face and walked across the flight room, keeping a close eye on the eagles. “I still think you’re jealous,” she called, and waved her hand over her head. “I know you.”

“Well, if you did, you’d remember that I’m married,” Paula called back before pivoting the carcass.

“So what?” Eleni called from across the room. “Married people get jealous all the time.”

Paula was angry now. “Ma, you’re so far off base it isn’t even funny.”

“Yeah, well, keep saying it, maybe it’ll be true.”

All three eagles watched from the highest rungs as if deciding who to believe. “Come on, you guys. After all that …
eat,
” Paula said. Each glanced at the other and then back at her. It felt eerie to be watched so intently.

“But don’t worry,
kukla,
” Eleni said. Her voice echoed off the metal walls of the building. “They’re just fuck buddies.”

“Mom, will you stop!” Paula coughed in exasperation, feeling she could laugh and cry at the same time.

“What? You’re shocked I know such things?” Eleni said. “I know a lot you don’t think I do. I hear them talk: the cutters, the finishers; I hear the guys who bag up the furs, I hear it all, things you probably never even heard of.”

Paula ignored her mother and peeled off the latex gloves. Sometimes when she didn’t have an audience she’d stop.

“I even know what a rim job is—”

“Okay, Ma—you win a medal,” Paula cut her off, her hands slapped down at her sides.

“Oh, look at this, my daughter’s so delicate,” Eleni said to an imaginary person. She seemed giddy.

“You’d better go wash your hands after touching that thing,” Paula said, noticing blood on Eleni’s hand.

“He’s not serious about her is what I mean.”

“And so what if he is?” Paula lifted both hands in the air. “Who cares?”

“You care,” Eleni said.

Paula blinked in exasperation, looking for a place to toss the gloves. “What happened to all that crap about how I was ‘abandoning my husband’ and that I was ‘asking for trouble’ bullshit on the phone?”

“Mothers are obligated to say certain things,” Eleni said, taking out a tissue from her sleeve to rub off the blood. “I’m talking strictly woman to woman now.”

Paula turned away muttering, “You’re insane.” Then her eagle swooped down and landed on the carcass, not six feet from her. The whoosh of air startled her.

“Eh, you’re so stubborn,” Eleni concluded. “Never could tell you anything.” Her tone was as if she was declaring herself the victor. “Let’s go make spanakopita.”

Paula fumed as she followed her mother out of the flight room.

*   *   *

All afternoon long they layered and baked two pans of spanakopita, arguing incessantly about how many leaves of filo dough were needed between the spinch/feta mixture. They fixed one pan for the party and a second for “that nice Rick for taking you in.”

Paula’s anger rose to her mother’s over-sappy concern. “It’s an even exchange, Mom; I told you.”

“Still, he’s helping out my little girl,” Eleni said, as if talking about someone else’s daughter.

*   *   *

Eleni walked out of the bathroom dressed in the same clothes she’d traveled in. Her church outfit, though rumpled, still looked elegant. Black silk blouse layered over a black and white tweed wool skirt, stockings, heels and her trademark necklace. She wore the pearl earrings Paula had given her on her seventieth birthday. Eleni smoothed her skirt and looked at Paula in the mirror.

“Does this look okay?” Eleni asked.

It was a surprising question coming from Eleni, who never sought Paula’s advice on fashion matters. It was usually Paula on the receiving end of an unsolicited treatise on how dumpy she looked, how she should make an effort to look more professional.

“You look great, Mom,” Paula said. “You always do.”

“What about my hair?” Eleni fluffed her short copperish hair. “I didn’t have time to dye it before I left.” It was touching to see her so excited.

“It looks lovely. But you don’t have to get so dressed up. People here just wear what’s comfortable.”

“That’s okay; I want to look nice for my talk.” Eleni checked her reflection one more time and shifted the skirt on her hips. “You have any of your jewelry here, maybe a pearl necklace?”

“Sorry. Everything’s back in New York.”

Though the style was dated, her mother wore the skirt and blouse well. She still had enough of a figure to make the outfit look classic. Paula knew the other women would be wearing jeans and sweaters.

“I guess it’s okay.” Eleni eyed Paula again in the mirror for confirmation.

“Mom, you look great.” And while you couldn’t call her a beauty, in her time, Paula remembered, her mother was quite striking. She’d kept her figure all these years while those around her were losing theirs. She’d walk miles in a given day—to the subway and then again crosstown in Manhattan to Pappas’ workshop and back again, refusing to take the bus due to the expense and because she loved to walk. The words of her secret to keeping trim: “eat no bread and walk.”

“Okay then.” Eleni looked at Paula. “If you’re ready, I’m all set.” Eleni’s eyes had an unusual gleam, as if going on a first date. “You wanna grab the pans for me?”

“Got ’em, Ma.”

“The baklava, too?”

“Yep. Got ’em both.”

Eleni’s cheeks were flushed. Paula hadn’t seen Eleni so excited since her husband had been alive. Her eyes were bright but tinged by self-doubt. As she grabbed her purse, Paula felt like she could cry.

Paula had been to the Oklahoma Café other times with Maggie. Marvelline was in her mid-sixties, with a well-boned curvy figure, from the stock that had made the Oklahoma Land Run. A large woman with big hands, she’d kept slim with brisk daily walks out to Artist’s Point, the lighthouse and back again. She had tightly clipped hair that was frosted blond to blend in with the gray and a pixie face retaining a youthfulness that shone in her mischievous dimples. Whenever she smiled, her white, slightly buck teeth seemed to bring everyone in on the joke.

The Oklahoma Café had been a 1940s gas station and the roof outline still had a Sunoco-deco line to it. All three sides of the café had been opened with large windows, affording customers both lake, street and harbor views. The exterior stucco was beige, with the storefront sign lettered in the type style of the Wild West.

The tables and chairs were now arranged into one long banquet table—white linen tablecloth, flower arrangements. As promised, Marvelline provided wine, soft drinks, coffee and tea. She’d cleared out the stools and covered the counter with a long white tablecloth where the women had begun depositing their specialty potluck dishes.

“Welcome, welcome.” Marvelline stood at the front door in jeans and a silk fuchsia-colored top, glittering with Avon evil eye jewelry.

“Hi, Eleni.” Maggie walked out from where she’d been filling out name tags at a card table and introduced her to Marvelline. Eleni’s blue evil eye pendant sparkled in the restaurant light.

“Nice to meet you, Eleni,” Marvelline said. “Maggie’s told me so many wonderful things about you.” She paused to shake hands and then give Eleni a hug. “I’m so glad you agreed to be our featured guest.” She escorted Eleni over to the banquet table and introduced her to Barb Zimmer, the regional rep. A few of the women were the top local Avon sellers, including Maggie, and many were local women there to visit, do makeovers and buy jewelry, candles and makeup.

Paula set down the pan of spanakopita and baklava on the counter and peeled off the aluminum foil. As she did she watched Eleni, wondering if it might be too overwhelming for her. Eleni rarely even spoke to her neighbors, much less complete strangers.

“Hey, everybody,” Marvelline called, waving her hands to get the room’s attention. “I want to give a fine midwestern welcome to our guest of honor, Ms. Eleni Makaikis. I sure hope I didn’t just slaughter your name, darlin’.” Everyone chuckled and then clapped.

“You said it right.” Eleni nodded.

“Your English is perfect!” Marvelline said.

“Thank you, but it’s not perfect, just good enough,” Eleni conceded.

“Eleni has come all the way from New York City,” Marvelline said. “She’s going to talk to us about the story and the lore behind this enchanting evil eye jewelry we all can’t seem to get enough of. Plus she’s brought us some traditional Greek food.”

There was a rush of applause. Paula glanced at her mother. Rather than being mortified with embarrassment, Eleni smiled shyly and began shaking hands and chatting up the women. Ages ranged from the forties all the way up to Eleni’s age. Some introduced themselves as farmwives; others had been or were schoolteachers, librarians, nurses, artists, insurance agents or shop owners.

Eleni seemed to be blossoming. Paula watched astounded as a small group formed around Eleni and asked about New York, Greece and how old she was when she came to America. Some of the women were so fair that their skin was pinkish. Others were darker, with olive skin and Ojibway features like Maggie. Paula’s mother switched into a gear that Paula had never seen—it was like watching a stranger talking about her life.

By the time Paula had worked her way to the food, the spanakopita and baklava were gone. As everyone sat and ate, Eleni reminisced about her years of working with furriers, all the famous designers she’d met. Hermès, Yves Saint Laurent, Lagerfeld and, of course, the iconic Coco Chanel. They sat in awe, listening. Paula was in awe, too. The only part of the job she’d seen was the workshop. She had no idea how chummy her mother had been with these famous people.

Eleni fielded question after question, barely touching her food.

As Paula watched, she was struck with a new sense of respect—to have accomplished all of this without the help of family, a formal education and/or a husband. Her mother talked about how her father had been a shoemaker in Greece until shoes became mass-produced. And after his friends and neighbors stopped ordering shoes, he became the town tax collector, out of spite. The room had a good laugh. She talked about her “Husband Vassili,” who had grown up on the tiny island of Kos, where his father ran a
kafenio,
where Vassili remembered standing on a chair, washing out glasses, as a young boy.

The room was silent as Eleni talked; people couldn’t get enough of her stories. And from the calm, almost professional way in which she delivered her story, she seemed more like someone on the “talk circuit” than Paula’s mother.

Later the other women started talking about their histories. Maggie talked about the Ojibway as several women nodded. About the fur trade, dating from the 1700s. She offered to take Eleni up to the reservation and Grand Portage, about thirty miles west to the historic Fort, the meeting place for native people and Europeans.

Others began talking about great-great-grandparents from Norway and Sweden, stories they’d heard about homesteading. Paula thought of the Center for Immigrant Studies. Here was a living, breathing part of the American experience that she’d known little about—an unfolding narrative about the lives of immigrants who’d struggled on homesteads through the brutal Minnesota winters of the 1800s.