Seven Days of Friday: Women of Greece, #1

Prologue

When the garbage disposal choked, eleven-year-old Vivi Pappas began planning her imminent funeral. A big Greek affair, with all the requisite wailing and coffin- hugging .

Elias, fix the garbage disposal! her mother yelled into the basement.

"I don’t have the tools

for

that

."

"You have tools for everything, but you do not have tools

for

that

?"

Back and forth, back and forth, went her parents.

Closed casket, Vivi thought. Definitely a closed casket. She’d be in chunks by the time Mom was done

with

her

.

The plumber showed up the next afternoon. Late. Dusty footprints across her mother’s glowing linoleum. Vivi sat at the kitchen table waiting to die, and her mother hovered at the plumber’s side, waiting for him to

screw

up

.

He didn’t screw up. Unlike Vivi’s father, he had the right tools for the job. And it wasn’t a big job. Within minutes (long, long hours to Vivi, who was mentally crafting her obituary) he had made a countertop collage of the asphyxiated disposal and its stalwart pieces. He looked down at the mess, scratched his shoulder.

I ain’t ever seen nobody put underwear in the garbage disposal before. Then: Heh. I guess someone around here really hates Fridays.

Eleni Pappas turned. She looked at Vivi – looked at

Vivi

hard

.

You better run, she said. "Because I am going to

kill

you

."

There was a reason for the Friday underwear. Not a good reason (in Vivi’s estimation), but still a reason.

Vivi is short for Paraskevi.

Paraskevi is Greek for Friday.

The name was a hand-me-down from her father’s mother, because that’s how Greeks name their kids. Paternal grandparents first, then Mom’s parents get a shot. No new name unless they run out of grandparents before they run out

of

kids

.

So Eleni Pappas (a.k.a. Vivi’s mother and part-time sadist) bought her daughter underwear with her name stamped on the front. Seven days of Friday. Easier to see which underwear was whose, she claimed.

Clever

,

no

?

No.

Not clever,

at

all

.

Riding a wave of fury and humiliation, Vivi fed all seven Fridays into the garbage disposal, banishing each one from her underwear drawer forever. The disposal didn’t mind – at first. They’re not known for being discerning, and usually only stop for silverware. But it gagged while gulping down last pair, and the water began

to

rise

.

Vivi scooped out the water with a tablespoon.

Why not put the Fridays in the garbage, like anyone else who wants to throw perfectly good

stuff

away

?

Good question.

For that there is a good answer.

Eleni Pappas goes through their trash – all their trash – looking for secrets.

She misses nothing, that woman.

Almost.

1

Vivi

The rake is in Vivi’s hand. She wants to slam it into

John’s

face

.

Vivi, John repeats. "I'm

leaving

you

."

Excuse me? A small headshake. Sorry, I was just fantasizing about your death.

My death?

Yes, your death.

You’re a strange woman, Vivi, he says. "I said I'm

leaving

you

."

"I heard you the first time. Leaving

me

what

?"

Leaving you. Leaving the house. I'm moving out. Vivi, are you listening?

Oh. I thought that’s what you meant, but I wanted to be sure. Vivi tilts her head. Her dark ponytail lurches right. Forever?

Yes, forever,

John

says

.

Okay. Don't forget to pack clean underwear.

"I'm not going to change my mind. This is what I need

to

do

."

"If you

say

so

."

I'm going tonight – now. I'll be back during the week to pick up my things.

"Okay. Do you think you could drop dead

before

then

?"

He shakes his head as though she’s the asshole standing on their manicured lawn. "Vivi,

come

on

."

His delivery sucks. He needs to work

on

that

.

Jesus, Vivi. Say something.

"I don't know what you want me to say, John. Some warning might have

been

nice

."

The rake falls. Vivi crouches, scoops a crunchy handful of desiccated leaves into a gaping black bag, before asking the only thing that really matters when a

relationship

ends

:

"Is there

someone

else

?"

The sound John makes reminds her of their neighbor’s old hairball-afflicted Tomcat.

"No. Shit. No, there’s no

one

else

."

Shifty eyes. Pretty, sky blue – but shifty.

Shitty poker player, John. No bluffing gene. Anytime she asks what he wants for his birthday, Christmas, anniversary, and he says, Nothing, Honey, his eyes go epileptic. Now he gives her that look: the disapproving, nostril flaring look of a man who thinks he’s standing a rung higher on the social ladder.

He’s on a ladder, all right, except they’re called shoe lifts. In bare feet he’s five-ten, but he likes the boost.

Vivi says, "

Your

face

. . ."

"What

about

it

?"

It’s not doing that thing.

What thing?

She waves a hand over her own face. Moving, like you’re a normal human being.

It’s true, John’s face doesn’t move much. Thank you, Botox.

Business expense, he had insisted. It wouldn't do for the fastest-selling real estate agent in town to slap an airbrushed glamour shot on his business card. They want the real deal, an honest face, he said in his own defense, seconds before the doctor stabbed his forehead.

Speaking of honest:

Capped teeth. John has them in Arctic white. Sometimes, at night, Vivi thinks about tapping them with her fingernails, see if she can play Chopsticks in his mouth. She can’t play the piano, but what else is she going to do when she can’t sleep?

Anyway, Vivi knows there’s

someone

else

.

She knew something was up when John went in for his cosmetic overhaul, but she didn’t think, at the time, that it was

his

dick

.

That was the first (conveniently

ignored

)

clue

.

Clue number two (also conveniently ignored): What looked (and, okay, smelled) like spots of semen on the tie their daughter bought him for Father's Day, year before last. Since their sex life had devolved into a biannual affair, Vivi assumed John (like her) had been doing a hasty DIY in a private place.

Hopefully not in a park near an elementary school.

And now look at him, guilt splashed all over his sculpted, artificially

preserved

face

.

Let's be reasonable about this for Melissa's sake, John says, in a tense voice, like he’s trying not to shit his pants.

Let's be reasonable, she mimics, in a way she knows will drive him the bad kind of crazy. You don't want to be in this marriage, fine. You might have said something years ago. That would have been much more helpful.

"I didn't know then, did I, that it wasn't going

to

work

."

Okay, that’s fair, but Vivi doesn’t want to hear about fair right now. With the last of summer’s little jagged corpses in the bag, she knots the flaps and stalks to the curb. John follows.

She says, "Okay. You can fuck off and

die

now

."

Harsh words, but her tone is pure sugar.

Blatantly ignoring her serving suggestion: What about Melissa?

Her fingers fumble with the thick gardening gloves. What about Melissa?

Melissa, their fifteen-year-old, spends most of her time with her nose in a book. Probably she won't even notice her father is gone. She carries her books to every family meal, hiding herself between the covers, while she ignores

them

both

.

On nights he’s home, John drones on and on about sales figures and escrow over pot roast, or chicken, or some French thing he read about that Vivi has to cook. His eyes glaze over whenever she interrupts and offers some small detail about her day. As the years slip by, Vivi has been doing it less and less. Why bore someone to death when silence is easier on the

fraying

ego

?

We can talk about it later, I guess,

he

says

.

Silence.

"I have to

go

now

."

More silence.

I’m sorry, Vivi. I really am. Say something?

She ignores him until he

wafts

away

.

It’s cold, Vivi knows, plotting her husband’s sudden (yet simultaneously slow, painful, disfiguring) death, but it’s been sixteen years in the making. Tonight’s revelation is nothing more than canned icing on

box

cake

.

Her morbid fantasy plays out like a grisly scene from one of those old B movies they show near Halloween. Picture Vivi Tyler holding the rake, while John Tyler (handsome in that all-American golden boy way) bleeds. Mouth slack with astonishment. Arms

waving

.

Eyes

–

Yeah, the steel tines prevent his eyes from doing much

at

all

.

And near his end, she lifts her foot, puts it right in his middle and pushes.

Get off my damn rake, fantasy

Vivi

says

.

The (

Bloody

)

End

.

On the outside, Vivi is drama-lite. Which is why there’s simmering rage instead of homicide. Which is also why she doesn’t flip him off as he glides away in his status-mobile.

She and her rake go back into the garage. John doesn’t do yard work. No time, no inclination. Vivi picked up his slack years ago. She’s the reason he doesn’t need a scythe to get to

his

car

.

All done in the same hour, her marriage and the yard work. Only one of those feels good and satisfying.

Now she stomps back inside, where all her loneliness resides.

Beautiful house, the Tyler house. Gleaming planks, fashionable furniture,

no

soul

.

John’s choice. Cold and expensive. Vivi has never loved it the way John does. Her hands shake as she curls her fingers around the kitchen counter’s granite rim. White-knuckled, she wills her knees to stay steady, to never fold. A tsunami of grief slams against her heart, leaving her gasping.

John

is

gone

.

Nothing can bring him back; it was in

his

eyes

.

Fucking asshole.

Not even five minutes later:

The phone nags. It only nags when her mother calls. Anyone else and it just plain rings.

Snot travels down her nose into a tissue. A second tissue catches tears. She needs a quick fix-it before she snatches up the phone.

I can't talk right now, Mom. Sounds like her face met Mike Tyson.

What, you do not say hello to your mother? Screech, screech, squawk – in thickly accented English. That is no way to answer a phone. You have a cold? Your nose sounds stuffy.

For the record, Vivi didn’t major in disappointing her mother (not a single college in this country offers those classes), but it always feels that way. She rubs her forehead, waits for the genie to pop out and offer wishes.

Now’s not a good time,

she

says

.

Always too busy to spend five minutes talking. Maybe I have something important to say, but you would never know it because you do not have time to listen.

Eyes closed, Vivi conks her head on the polished counter. So then talk already!

No, no, you are in a bad mood. I should call back when you are not menstruating . . .

This – this is what she has to

live

with

.

. . . But then why spend good money on phone calls when I already have you here? Dinner. Saturday. You are coming. Not a request. "And put some rubbing alcohol on your chest. It will fix

your

cold

."

I –

Click.

An Eleni Pappas click is louder than any other. That woman ends a call like she

means

it

.

Vivi should have told her mom about John, but she figures it’s much more fun to play the emotional masochist, torture herself by dragging it out until she’s in a deranged neurotic frenzy.

Shouldn’t

take

long

.

Food processor. Now that would be a cool story to tell at John’s funeral.

Poor John, he slipped in the kitchen and fell into the fancy processor he just had to have. All his limbs gone. The mortician tried, but . . . Closed casket, no choice. Poor, poor,

tragic

John

.

Vivi’s all foggy on the inside.

She pulls out a chair and embraces the cold. Over the cherry dining room table, with its mirror shine, she weeps. Then she wipes the tears away with a sleeve, because John would have a fit if he saw his precious table

all

damp

.

Look at this house, filled with things John loves. But she isn’t one

of

them

.

These shaking hands, they’re all about John, but not the crying. It’s been years since she shed a tear over him. A broken marriage is awful, so is the idea of Melissa being shuffled between two homes. And she’s an idiot, because who doesn’t move when they see a derailing train smashing its way closer?

(Vivi Tyler,

that’s

who

.)

So her stupidity is a semi-decent excuse for this river she’s sourcing.

But the banks are flooding, going pre-1970s Nile, because of her mother.

Her inevitable gloating is going to drive Vivi insane. Eleni will throw an I Told You So party, with a special You Should Have Listened to Me and Married a Good Greek

Boy

cake

.

And Vivi

loves

cake

.

2

Melissa

Melissa Tyler doesn’t care if he is the most popular guy in school; Josh Cartwright is the biggest jerk-off in the universe, which is really saying something, because the universe is (allegedly) infinite .

"Your dad's a cocksucker, Tyler. I bet you take after him. Come on,

show

us

."

Josh Cartwright and his posse of dickless friends didn’t care that they were in the gym and everyone was listening. That was kind of the point. Everything those guys do is for show; you can’t be important and popular if no one is watching.

How come you never told us your old man's a faggot? I'm pretty sure he was checking my ass out when he sold my folks our house.

Bite me, she had said, volleyball in hand, the rest of her team waiting on her to serve. It was so like Josh to make up bullshit to get a reaction.

It’s true, he called out across the gym. I saw your dad blowing some homeless guy in Midland Park last night.

Everybody turned around and stared, like Josh was talking

about

her

.

You're full of crap,

she

said

.

No way. I couldn't make that shit up if I wanted to. He appealed to his grinning buddies. Hey, the homeless need blow-jobs too. Your dad's not a just fag, he's a fucking humanitarian.

Josh, language, Mr. Hector

called

out

.

Josh flipped him a peace sign. Think about it, Tyler. Was your dad home last night around nine? He held a fist up in the air, jerked it. "Guess you're living proof homos can

have

kids

."

And you're living proof that a person can talk through their asshole.

Melissa flipped him off just as Mr. Hector

looked

over

.

Tyler, detention!

And that's the main reason Melissa hates Josh's guts. The others rate way lower

than

that

.

Josh is cute, but he's got rocks in his head, Tonya said when Melissa caught up with her in the library. He's projecting his latent homosexual tendencies onto other people.

Tonya is Melissa’s best friend, so she’s supposed to say stuff like that. But Melissa could see she had doubts, like she was trying to convince Melissa Josh was lying, without really believing it herself.

Which is why Melissa is typing gay parents into Google. That and she’s quietly freaking out. Josh was right about one thing: Dad was out late last night. And Mom and Dad aren’t exactly the smoochy types. Some kids are always half bragging, half repulsed because they caught their folks pretending to wrestle on a Saturday morning.

Not Melissa. She’s never seen her parents do more

than

peck

.

Weird, right?

Tonya's parents are always chasing each other around the house; Melissa has even seen Tonya’s dad slip her mom the tongue. It was weird but also kind of cool, in an Ewww, look at the sweet old people! kind

of

way

.

Thousands of results pop up in the browser, but Mom’s done with the yard work, which means she might be coming this way. Dad is gone, too – but not really. From her window she can see he’s parked a few feet back from the STOP sign at the end of their street, talking into his phone.

The front door slams. Melissa’s search history goes bye-bye while she thinks about what to do next. They were arguing on the lawn, and when Mom and Dad argue, Dad always leaves. Paperwork is always his lame excuse, but now she’s thinking about Josh effing Cartwright.

She has to

work

fast

.

Melissa’s bedroom has two windows, one at the front of the house and the other overlooking the side. It's totally Hollywood, but there really is an old oak tree in the yard, with fat branches that brush against the siding. Her mother is always nagging Dad to trim them, but he never does. They creep along the walls, scratching with their nails, when it’s windy; make Halloween noises when it’s dark. The tree’s sounds used to scare her when she was little, but now she hardly ever hides under the bed on a windy night.

After shimmying down the tree, it’s a breeze to get her bike from the shed and ride down to the huge bush on the street corner. Five minutes later, Dad inches past in his silver Lexus, barely pausing at the

STOP

sign

.

Good thing it’s November and the sun goes to bed early. A month earlier, no way she

could

hide

.

Melissa peddles hard, churning fast enough to make her lungs sting. Sidewalks fly by. She keeps her eyes on the silver sedan.

Then the car signals right. Dad turns down a side street. The Lexus drops to cruising speed. Sweet (lung) relief.

Dad maneuvers the car up a short sloping driveway that leads to a neat beige house, a whole lot like chez Tyler. She hunkers down behind some bushes across the street. Dad must be selling this house.

Josh is wrong. Her parents love each other. So what if Dad works late a lot? Loads of

parents

do

.

Right?

Dad gets out of the car, ear to his iPhone. Face all lit up like a Christmas tree, his walk ten years younger. She’s watching a stranger, some thief who pick-pocketed Dad’s face. He hardly ever

smiles

now

.

Does he hate them so much that he can’t smile?

The front door yawns. It’s a deep, shiny black. Her saliva dries up, her stomach goes sour. A man steps out, younger than her dad, but dressed in a similar suit. Another real estate agent? As the men approach each other, she’s dead certain they’re going to shake hands, all businesslike. But she’s totally wrong.

Hug. No handshake.

Her skin is flashing hot and cold, pulse banging pots and pans in her ears. Their lips are moving, but she can’t hear them over the sound of her horror.

The younger guy pulls out of the hug. Now – now they'll break away. They're just friends.

But, no. He plants a kiss on Dad-who-isn't-Dad’s lips. Dad-who-isn't-Dad kisses back, like it feels good, like they’re on a date. Then, arm in arm, they walk into the house, an old married couple.

She shoves her coat sleeve down her throat, all the way to the dangly thing at the back, and murders her own scream.

3

Max

Twenty times .

Twenty-one. Not even noon and his phone is blinking an urgent red. He tilts the face until the numbers swim into focus.

Mama.

Again.

Twenty

-

two

.

Max’s parents gave him a boxful of fate while he was in the cradle, some thirty-four years ago. The cradle, passed down through the Andreou family line, had been his father's before his. Christ on His cross looked down from the carved headboard, keeping watch over Max’s mortal soul. He watched patiently and tirelessly while Max overcame colic and infancy.

The way Mama tells it, Max’s lungs were so strong, his screaming so loud, his father worried endlessly that his first son would become a pop singer.

Unacceptable.

Each week his father would light a candle, praying to Christ and the Virgin Mary that it would not be so; his oldest son would go to an English university, before returning home to become a doctor and raise a family of

his

own

.

Expectation is a heavy load to dump on a kid. Better men than Max have fought expectation and lost. Greek culture was built on the backs of children following their parents' word. The world has changed, but older generations are still stuck in

ancient

mud

.

Change, in Greece,

takes

time

.

Max is the good son. Mama loves to tell him this. He took his place at Oxford and began a love affair with medicine, according to the plan. His younger brother Kostas was more daring. He defied the plan, and chose the love of God

over

law

.

Then Kostas ripped out their hearts and shit on them when he entered the priesthood before he chose a wife, destroying any hope of grandchildren. Now the burden to continue the Andreou name is on Max’s shoulders. His younger brother’s strength is both an inspiration and a

steel

cage

.

But . . .

Life

is

good

.

Work is satisfying.

Max has money.

He dates lots of pretty women – some of them more than once. Sometimes they break his heart a little. Sometimes he breaks theirs.

Last night, the Fates snapped the leash. The three sisters, who measure the lives of all men and women at birth, shoved him to his knees with one voicemail.

Maximos, I have found you a wife, Mama crowed.

Delete.

He doesn't want or need a wife, and he doesn’t want or need Mama to find one

for

him

.

And now she’s calling him

at

work

.

She knows the rule: Never call while he’s on duty, unless it's a life or death emergency.

Q: But does

she

care

?

A

:

No

.

He ducks into his Spartan office, hits 2 on speed dial, waits for a connection he

doesn’t

want

.

Maximos, his mother says, before the phone completes its first ring. "There is a girl I want you

to

meet

."

A girl. Why not a woman? He outgrew girls a long

time

ago

.

Forget it, Mama. He peers around the door. Time for morning rounds and the other doctors are gathering outside the pediatrics ward. Last night he admitted a three-year-old with gastroenteritis, and he’s eager to check on her progress. "You can't call me at work

like

this

."

Mama is a bulldozer. I called last night and you didn't call back. And I thought, ‘Max is lying dead in a gutter somewhere.’ You have no idea how much a mother worries. When you have your own children you will understand. My heart, it can't handle all this worry.

She pauses for him to agree.

Mama, I'm too busy to meet anybody.

No! You must. Her mother is my very good friend. I promised her you would marry her daughter.

"Call her and tell

her

no

."

Oh, Maximos. After all we do for you? Your father and I sacrificed everything our whole lives for our sons. We survived earthquakes and the rule of that madman Papadopoulos so we could give you a good future, and how do you boys repay us? Kostas goes to the church to become lovers with Christ. He broke my heart. He broke your father's heart, and look how it killed him! It will be my fate to die alone with no grandchildren, and the family name will be no more. Every day I tell the Virgin Mary she should have given me daughters. They are much more obedient. Daughters would have given me many grand-babies!

She comes on like the hundred-handed Briareos commanding an ocean storm. Max is tired. His defenses are low. So, he folds.

He

owes

her

.

He owes his father.

Perhaps the time has come to settle down. Besides, what harm could it do to meet this girl? Worst case, they’ll hate each other on sight and there will be no wedding. Who knows, maybe he’ll find her attractive, and they can have some fun before going their separate ways. It’s been three weeks and counting since he

got

laid

.

Okay, I'll meet her. But I'm not making any promises.

You will like her. She is very beautiful and clever – a paralegal. She will be a good wife for you and you will make beautiful babies together.

Translation: she has two legs, all her own teeth, and can read without moving

her

lips

.

I'll try. But if the hospital –

Always with the emergencies! What happens if I die before I see my grandchildren? That is an emergency. It is bad enough that your father left us before he could see you married. Come, make an old, sick woman happy.

The woman isn’t sick or old. She’s as cunning as a fox and twice as manipulative as any politician.

This is

nothing

new

.

If you don't come home for the holidays, I'll die, she told Max when he left for Oxford. Mama’s toolbox is filled with what-ifs and veiled threats.

Time to compartmentalize.

He shuts the office door, and with it, their conversation. His boots squeak on the freshly waxed linoleum. Most days he doesn't hear it, but the ward is quiet after a busy winter of pneumonia and bronchitis.

A passing nurse smiles up at him. She’s cute. It makes him happy when women find him attractive, even when they aren’t attractive to him. There’s no sign of gray in his hair, and his skin, once pale from British gloom, is now a healthy light gold. He’s tall and he stays fit – a habit he acquired during his two years of compulsory national service. Finding a pretty woman for relief and fun has never been a problem.

But Max rarely shits where he eats, so he keeps the smile professional and grabs his patient's chart. Test results: E-Coli negative, which means it’s probably garden-variety stomach flu. He crosses himself, hopes she has improved overnight.

How is Toula today?

Better. He can see for himself, but he wants to hear it from her mother.

The tired young mother smiles. She's stopped vomiting.

He mirrors her smile, warms the stethoscope with his hands. The toddler's heart beats steady. Her lungs are clear. She giggles when he tickles her under the chin with one finger. A healthy flush has replaced last night’s pallor.

That's a lot of progress. It means the medicine is working. And the diarrhea?

"Not

since

dawn

."

Good. He makes his notes while he’s waiting for the nurse to take Toula's temperature. Almost normal. Keep up the ice chips, and when lunch comes give her a few bites and we'll see how she does. I'll be back this afternoon.

Next, it’s one of his regulars, a teenager with beta thalassemia. Kids like Vassili don’t make enough hemoglobin. Hemoglobin hitches a ride on red blood cells to make its regular oxygen deliveries. Symbiosis: hemoglobin needs red blood cells, which need hemoglobin. Less hemoglobin means fewer red blood cells, which means anemia, an enlarged spleen, increased chance of infection, and heart problems – if you’ve got it bad. Neither of Vassili’s parents has the disease, and none of his five siblings show any symptoms. He’s one of the luckier ones: no heart problems and no bone deformities. Regular blood transfusions are keeping his motor running.

Max sees them all the time, these losers of the genetic lottery. They’re scattered all over the Mediterranean.

The teenager waves when he sees Max. Hey, Doc, think the girls will like my new gear? He thumbs at the I.V. as the technician adjusts a bag of deep red blood.

Once again, Max warms the stethoscope between his hands.

The scars will impress them more. Girls like men with mysterious scars.

Heartbeat steady but rapid. All that damaged blood is a strain on his heart, and it’s gridlock in his spleen. "How do

you

feel

?"

Tired. But not too tired to check out a hot girl. He grins. Good looking kid; Max hopes he won't let the disease hold

him

back

.

That's normal before the transfusion, but you know that by now. Max straddles a chair. When was the last time he had just sat? Anytime his backside is in a chair, he has papers to read and files to update.

Doesn't mean I have to like it, Vassili says. I really want to finish the whole football season.

You planning on playing for the Superleague?

Hell yeah! If my body will cooperate.

Fingers drumming the chair, considering the options. "We could move your treatment up to three week intervals, see how

you

do

."

"What about

the

iron

?"

Most kids don’t read the literature the hospital gives them, and parents don’t always force the issue. The dark is a nice stress-free zone