The Icon by Neil Olson

him.”
    Matthew touched his shoulder, and when Andreas turned the boy handed him the paper cup of coffee. The old man’s stomach lurched, and sourness crawled up his throat. He placed the cup on the arm of his chair with his hand around it, warming his stiff fingers.
    “Your Papou has worn me out,” Alex announced. “You’ll have to leave soon.”
    “We’ll come back tomorrow.”
    “Your mother will be here tomorrow. She’ll get some straight answers. Who knows, maybe the next time you see me I’ll be at home.”
    “That would be wonderful.”
    Andreas rose then, too quickly, and touched the edge of the mattress to steady himself.
    “I’m worried about you, Babás.” Alekos’ voice was quiet. Andreas grabbed his son’s hand with sudden force and squeezed it. The face remained neutral but the hand squeezed back. The old man found his balance and straightened.
    “I am the only one here who does not need any worrying over.”
    “I should have called the hotel,” Andreas said at last. “I hope they have held the room.”
    Matthew accelerated down the empty avenue.
    “It’s absurd for you to stay in a hotel when Ma is all alone in that big house. She would be happy to have you.”
    “She would not refuse me, but it would be awkward.”
    “So you could stay with me. It’s not a big apartment, but there’s room. You would be a lot closer to the hospital.”
    “You will have to trust that I prefer it this way. Now please tell me what the nurse said.”
    “You never miss a thing, do you?” The light stopped them at Eighty-sixth street. “No prognosis, you have to speak to a doctor for that. She did confirm that they’ll probably send him home soon. She also warned that he might be right back there in a week.”
    That must be avoided, Andreas thought, but it would be Alekos’ decision.
    They were moving again, past the massive, spotlighted edifice of the Metropolitan Museum, columned and crenellated, bleached stone and huge, colorful banners. Matthew’s museum.
    “We must get him some morphine,” Andreas said.
    “They’ll give him something, I’m sure. He hasn’t been in a lot of pain so far.”
    “That may not last, and we cannot count on the compassion of doctors. I mean that we must procure some morphine ourselves. In case of need.” He felt the words sink in during the silence that followed.
    “Fotis could get it,” Matthew said.
    “No doubt. We will ask him, if we have no other alternative.”
    “You don’t like asking him for favors.”
    “We have a complicated relationship, your godfather and I. I try to make distinctions between business and friendship. No such distinctions exist for him.”
    “You know Dad doesn’t like him.”
    “I’m sure your father’s feelings are also complicated. I think he mostly mistrusts him. He feels Fotis may try to involve you in one of his schemes.”
    They turned east on Seventy-second street. Matthew did not respond right away, but Andreas waited him out.
    “I don’t think Fotis is doing so much scheming these days,” the younger man finally said. “He’s feeling his mortality. He wants to do the things that give him pleasure, wants to be with his family, which is basically us. I don’t think he’s looking to stir up trouble.”
    “Perhaps not.” He must be careful; the boy was very close to his godfather. “Trouble has a way of finding Fotis, however.”
    Matthew smiled at that.
    “He says the exact same thing about you.”
    “Yes? Well, I won’t deny it. We have both had difficulty avoiding trouble. We sought it out so often as young men that it has become friendly with us. I tell you, though, I was always the amateur. Fotis was the expert.”
    Matthew’s face was hard to read. Confusion or annoyance sat on his forehead and in the muscles around the eyes, or perhaps he was just concentrating on the right turn onto Lexington Avenue. They were close to the hotel now.
    “It will be on the left,” Andreas said. “A little further