priest’s voice droned on.
On a plastic chair beneath the oak tree, Grandpa’s great friend Nikolas sat alone. He clutched a small bouquet of flowers picked from the orchards—white-petaled marguerites, wild orchids, yellow poppies—their stems wrapped around with a crumpled paper bag. The poppies had lost their freshness and were wilting. Theo went to shake Nikolas’s hand, but the old man in his loss seemed not to know him.
From the doorway, Aunt Sofia beckoned, pale in widow’s black faded with too many launderings. Below theuneven hem of her home-sewn skirt, the pale-green lace of her nylon slip showed bright against the once-black serge. They had given her a tray to collect the glasses the whisky-drinkers were done with. As he approached her, she grasped his forearm.
“Theo,” she said, urgently, “they’re nearly finished. They’re nearly ready.”
As she spoke, they heard the final words—
Eternal be thy memory, dear brother
—and a chorus of light coughing as the women, released from head-bowed prayer and pious attitudes, cleared their throats of candle smoke and incense.
“Collect the glasses quickly, then, Aunt,” he said. He turned his back on her and, making his way amongst the men, he placed his hand on the shoulders of the four who were to help bear the coffin.
“Time,” he murmured. “It’s time.”
Smiling, always smiling, Aunt Sofia moved amongst the men, offering them the service of her tin tray, until the tray was heavy with empty glasses; and, because the slack, under-used muscles of her thin, aged arms complained, she, afraid of the mess, the rumpus there’d be if she let it fall, balanced it on a chair where no one sat.
The women filed out into the street. Aunt Maria’s eyes fell on Aunt Sofia, pink-cheeked, hand on her delicate heart, resting. Aunt Maria’s fat jowls wobbled. She marched across to where Aunt Sofia stood, and snatched up the tray. A glass fell; as it shattered, all the mourners turned to stare at Maria, at the shards strewn across the lane.
Aunt Maria’s face turned red.
“I was afraid that would happen,” said Aunt Sofia, timorously. “That tray’s very heavy, isn’t it, Maria?”
“Look what you’ve done!” hissed Maria. “Look at the mess! Go and get a broom and get this cleaned up!”
Aunt Maria laid the tray down on its chair. The pallbearers ground out their cigarettes and went into the house; the undertaker, carrying a hammer and a small Nescafé tin rattling with nails, followed them.
Uncle Janis brushed the tears from his cheeks. Michaelis was flushed with whisky, and the sting of the bitter wind. The focus of his eyes drifted, to Theo, to the men and women gathered at the doorway.
“Are they ready for us?” asked Uncle Janis.
“Yes, Uncle. It’s time.”
His uncle clapped him on the back.
“You’re a good boy, Theo,” he said. “Your grandpa’s favorite.”
“He’s everyone’s favorite,” said Takis. At the foot of the orchard wall, the thistles were high, and dense; he pitched his empty bottle there, and it fell silently amongst them, unbroken and hidden. “Our own Saint Thodoris.”
Michaelis moved to cuff his ear, but the alcohol made him slow, and Takis bent out of range.
“How dare you?” Michaelis’s words were slurred; their endings ran into their beginnings so none of them were clear. “How dare you take that name in vain on such a day?”
“Leave him, Mikey,” said Uncle Janis. “He doesn’t mean it.”
Cousin Lukas had a reputation: he always spoke the truth.
“He means it,” he said. “He’s jealous.”
“Jealous!” scoffed Takis. “Why should I be jealous of him?”
They gave him no answer. Heads lowered, they walked together to the house.
In the parlor, the first nail in the coffin lid was hammered home.
T he church of St. Thanassis glowed with the light of candles; the flames drew long shadows from the unlit corners, and made skulls of the carved faces of the long-dead saints.
On a plastic chair beneath the oak tree, Grandpa’s great friend Nikolas sat alone. He clutched a small bouquet of flowers picked from the orchards—white-petaled marguerites, wild orchids, yellow poppies—their stems wrapped around with a crumpled paper bag. The poppies had lost their freshness and were wilting. Theo went to shake Nikolas’s hand, but the old man in his loss seemed not to know him.
From the doorway, Aunt Sofia beckoned, pale in widow’s black faded with too many launderings. Below theuneven hem of her home-sewn skirt, the pale-green lace of her nylon slip showed bright against the once-black serge. They had given her a tray to collect the glasses the whisky-drinkers were done with. As he approached her, she grasped his forearm.
“Theo,” she said, urgently, “they’re nearly finished. They’re nearly ready.”
As she spoke, they heard the final words—
Eternal be thy memory, dear brother
—and a chorus of light coughing as the women, released from head-bowed prayer and pious attitudes, cleared their throats of candle smoke and incense.
“Collect the glasses quickly, then, Aunt,” he said. He turned his back on her and, making his way amongst the men, he placed his hand on the shoulders of the four who were to help bear the coffin.
“Time,” he murmured. “It’s time.”
Smiling, always smiling, Aunt Sofia moved amongst the men, offering them the service of her tin tray, until the tray was heavy with empty glasses; and, because the slack, under-used muscles of her thin, aged arms complained, she, afraid of the mess, the rumpus there’d be if she let it fall, balanced it on a chair where no one sat.
The women filed out into the street. Aunt Maria’s eyes fell on Aunt Sofia, pink-cheeked, hand on her delicate heart, resting. Aunt Maria’s fat jowls wobbled. She marched across to where Aunt Sofia stood, and snatched up the tray. A glass fell; as it shattered, all the mourners turned to stare at Maria, at the shards strewn across the lane.
Aunt Maria’s face turned red.
“I was afraid that would happen,” said Aunt Sofia, timorously. “That tray’s very heavy, isn’t it, Maria?”
“Look what you’ve done!” hissed Maria. “Look at the mess! Go and get a broom and get this cleaned up!”
Aunt Maria laid the tray down on its chair. The pallbearers ground out their cigarettes and went into the house; the undertaker, carrying a hammer and a small Nescafé tin rattling with nails, followed them.
Uncle Janis brushed the tears from his cheeks. Michaelis was flushed with whisky, and the sting of the bitter wind. The focus of his eyes drifted, to Theo, to the men and women gathered at the doorway.
“Are they ready for us?” asked Uncle Janis.
“Yes, Uncle. It’s time.”
His uncle clapped him on the back.
“You’re a good boy, Theo,” he said. “Your grandpa’s favorite.”
“He’s everyone’s favorite,” said Takis. At the foot of the orchard wall, the thistles were high, and dense; he pitched his empty bottle there, and it fell silently amongst them, unbroken and hidden. “Our own Saint Thodoris.”
Michaelis moved to cuff his ear, but the alcohol made him slow, and Takis bent out of range.
“How dare you?” Michaelis’s words were slurred; their endings ran into their beginnings so none of them were clear. “How dare you take that name in vain on such a day?”
“Leave him, Mikey,” said Uncle Janis. “He doesn’t mean it.”
Cousin Lukas had a reputation: he always spoke the truth.
“He means it,” he said. “He’s jealous.”
“Jealous!” scoffed Takis. “Why should I be jealous of him?”
They gave him no answer. Heads lowered, they walked together to the house.
In the parlor, the first nail in the coffin lid was hammered home.
T he church of St. Thanassis glowed with the light of candles; the flames drew long shadows from the unlit corners, and made skulls of the carved faces of the long-dead saints.
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