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June 1973
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ARCAS WAS A busy man. His studies, his job, and his political involvement didn’t leave much time for a social life, but we couldn’t bear to be apart. As a solution, I began working at the bakery, not officially, but I’d show up most evenings after work, put on an apron, and make myself useful. At first, Helen and Petra, the other bakers, were suspicious of me, but they figured it out quickly enough and welcomed me with warm smiles and little pats on my cheeks. They were kind women who enjoyed seeing young people happy. The romantic atmosphere put everyone in good spirits, and they appreciated the extra help.
Even though Kosmos was a busy, commercial bakery, most of the work was done by hand and I discovered that patting and rolling, turning, and shaping sweet, yeasty dough was sensual and strangely arousing. The odors were intoxicating and the heat from the ovens, combined with the sultry night air that wafted in through the back door we kept propped open with a wooden chair, made us shed layer after layer of clothing until, once Helen and Petra were gone, we worked in nothing but our aprons, our hot, sweaty skins and, of course, the little gold necklace I never took off.
“I see the dough is rising,” I teased as I leaned into his erection.
“No, it needs more kneading. Knead it a little more,” he breathed into my neck.
So I did. We kneaded and kissed and rolled and rubbed and steamed in our own heat until we lay sated on the sacks of flour that cushioned our after-hour’s labors and for a moment I could almost forget everything and imagine that I was the carefree girl Arcas imagined that I was. I ran my fingers through the dark tangles of his hair and closed my eyes.
“You are crying again, koritsaki.” Arcas leaned over and licked the tears trickling down my face. “Do I make you sad?”
“Oh no, you make me happy. It’s something else.” I lay very still, listening to the thrum of traffic on the street.
“Then tell me what makes you sad. I want to know everything about you. I want to know about your family, the house where you grew up, where you went to school, why you always wear this little cat necklace and why you cry when we make love.”
I didn’t open my eyes. “Arcas, let’s pretend that I was born here, fully formed like Athena. Don’t ask me about anything before Toronto. I have a family, my parents are great, but I don’t want to talk about them. Is that OK? Can we still be friends?”
“Of course, koritsaki. I understand. Everyone has secrets.”
He was right, we all had secrets and I wasn’t ready to share mine. I was just happy to feel myself coming back to life, to be his koritsaki, a Greek term of endearment that means “little girl.”
That was our personal summer of love. Passion ran rampant and we fucked like gods in bed, in empty classrooms, in the ravine behind Winston Churchill Park, and of course at the bakery. Arcas was delicious and I couldn’t get enough of him. I don’t think either of us slept that entire summer. We were at Kosmos Bakery when the sun went down late in the evening and we were still there, sneaking out the back door laughing, talking politics, and leaning into one another’s exhausted bodies when the first pink glow of daylight rose over the roofs of the Indian restaurants, and small Korean groceries down the street.
Since Tom, Nancy, Arcas, and I all worked near one another, we met for lunch several times a week. Our favorite haunt was Spiro’s, a hole in the wall diner run by a PAK sympathizer. It had only four tables but the best gyros in the city.
Nancy arrived a few minutes late. “Have you been watching the Watergate hearings? There’s no way Nixon wasn’t involved. I don’t see how he can worm his way out of it.”
Tom crushed his cigarette in an ashtray that had a photo of Geórgios Papadopoulos, the junta’s leader, pasted beneath the glass. “He’ll never admit it. He’ll mount a coup of his own before he gives up power.”
“No,” I protested. “That’s not how things work in the US. We don’t do coups. We’re a democracy.”
Three sets of eyes turned to me with varying degrees of incredulity and pity. Arcas sighed but took my hand. “Germany was a democracy. Greece was a democracy, Chile was a democracy. Don’t kid yourself, koirtsaki. There are fascists everywhere.”
“Exactly, so you need to help with our newsletter, or do you two have other plans?” Tom grinned, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively like Groucho Marx. He and Nancy teased us incessantly like an old married couple amused by a pair of love- struck teenagers.
“Count me in if you need help with layout and printing,” I volunteered, glad they were done ragging me about my political naivete.
Tom took a big bite of his sandwich, dribbling tzatziki sauce onto his plate. “What about you? Can you help with distribution?” He turned to Arcas who was admiring the portrait of Nancy I’d scribbled on his napkin.
“Sure, of course.”
“OK, then, and as our reward, we’re all invited to go sailing on a yacht next Sunday. It belongs to one of Andreas’s supporters. Cool, huh?”
I blanched and put down my sandwich. Tom didn’t notice and Arcas was focused on his napkin, but Nancy didn’t miss a thing. She studied me with an expression of concern.
“I don’t know, what time are we going?” Arcas responded without looking up.
“Andreas just said Sunday. We’ll sail around the harbor and then over to the islands. It’ll be fun.”
Arcas handed the napkin to Nancy. “Amy really got you. She’s wasted in that print shop.” He squeezed my knee and turned to Tom. “Sailing sounds great, as long as we’re back by five. I have to work this Sunday.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t go.” My mouth was so dry that I could hardly spit out those few words. I picked up my glass and sipped iced tea in silence as the others waited, expecting an explanation.
“Sure you can,” Arcas cajoled. “You don’t work on Sundays. Besides, I want to see you in a bikini.”
“No, honestly I can’t go.”
“Why, are you afraid of the water?” Arcas was teasing me.
I stared at him open mouthed and speechless. There was no way to explain.
“Don’t worry, you’re with a bunch of Greeks. We invented sailing. I promise you won’t drown.” He grinned at me.
I could feel a tear wending its way down my cheek. I turned my head, brushing it away, but then there was another and another. I willed the tears to stop, but they kept coming.
“Shhh, shhh, it’s okay.” Arcas was no longer smiling. He pulled my chair toward his and put his arm around my shoulder as I tried to regain control.
Biting my lips, holding my breath, thinking of ice cream, nothing worked. Crying in public was humiliating and, of course, now they’d want an explanation. Arcas rubbed my back and sang something in Greek, probably a children’s song. Tom joined in and the two of them serenaded me as I continued to snivel. Nancy held out a tissue so I could wipe my eyes. If I could have crawled under the table and never seen any of them again, I’d have been gone in a minute.
I didn’t want to look into their concerned faces or answer stupid questions. “What’s the matter? What did we say? Are you all right?”
I ignored Nancy’s tissue, picked up a paper napkin, and blew my nose. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go.” I stood up, walked out of the diner, and headed south on Spadina, away from Spiro’s, away from my friends and away from Abbott’s Printing. I could hear Arcas close behind me and doubled my pace. All I wanted was to be alone, preferably invisible. It was stupid, I couldn’t outrun him, but I didn’t stop until I felt his hand on my arm. He fell into step beside me as I continued walking.
We were all the way to Dundas before I could speak. “You know there’s a reason I moved to Canada, and it wasn’t to avoid the draft.”
Arcas didn’t say anything. He just kept pace as I tore down the street as though I knew where I was going. His silence was infuriating, worse than a lot of intrusive questions. Was he waiting for an explanation? Did he think I was going to tell him the whole goddam story? Couldn’t he tell I didn’t want to talk? The strap on my platform sandal snapped and I stumbled toward the pavement. Arcas caught me, breaking my fall, and held me in an awkward hug until I pulled away.
I croaked out a small, “thank you,” without looking at him. Taking off the broken shoe, I saw that the strap had ripped in half. There was no saving it, just one more thing I’d ruined. Too bad, it was a good sandal that deserved a longer life. I tossed it into the trash can on the corner and hobbled down the sidewalk in one high heeled sandal and one bare foot for another block. We eventually came to a bench where I sat down, took off the remaining sandal and cradled it like an orphaned kitten.
“OK, we can talk now?” Arcas sat stiffly, a safe distance away. He seemed to be afraid of me.
“I’m not going sailing, not next Sunday, not ever. Do you understand?”
“Yes, you don’t go sailing. I understand.” After several long, silent minutes, Arcas asked, “Are you very afraid of boats?”
I shook my head. “No, not exactly.”
“Maybe you get seasick?”
“Stop it. I’m not playing twenty questions. Look, I’m sorry for making a scene. I’ll try not to do that again, but please, just let it go. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Like not talking about your family?”
“Yes, like that. Maybe I’ll explain someday, maybe I won’t. Just trust me, it hurts a lot and it makes me crazy, so please stop prying, OK?”
“OK.” He took my hand, and I scooched over so I could put my head on his shoulder.
We sat quietly, ignoring the traffic, the streetcars, and the Chinese merchants hawking plastic toys and packaged snacks from sidewalk tables.
“Can I ask what you’re thinking?” Arcas asked.
I stared down at the lone sandal cradled in my lap. “I was thinking about this sandal. I was wondering if she’s lonely without her sister.”
That night, in bed with Arcas, I swam toward the dream ship, drawing closer and closer to the lights guiding me forward. I got so close I could hear music playing from an upper deck. I could almost touch the side of the boat when a great wave washed over me, and the ship suddenly disappeared. The alarm sounded and I awoke, trembling, to feel Arcas rubbing my back and whispering, “You’re OK, I’m here. It was just a bad dream.”
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MY PARENTS CALLED every Sunday, but they rarely visited. Rochester was only a few hours away, but I hadn’t seen them since Christmas, so I was delighted when they offered to drive up for a few days in June.
The last time they’d visited, my mother had sighed over the dilapidated state of my apartment, my abysmal housekeeping, and the thread-bare furniture I’d bought at the Salvation Army Thrift Store. I decided to redecorate before their visit to console her with the knowledge that her surviving daughter lived in clean and cheery rooms. Although I was the artist, Nancy was the decorator. She kept up on current trends, had a great sense of style, and an eye for a bargain so I recruited her to help me with the project.
Her enthusiasm surprised me. Apparently, she’d been waiting for the chance to move my furniture around and to rearrange my knickknacks. She pulled the sofa away from the wall, swung my chairs around, and angled my desk beneath the window. Within minutes the living room appeared cozier and significantly larger. She regarded my couch with a disapproving eye. “Your Chesterfield’s too big for the room and it throws everything off balance. You need something smaller, preferably in red or orange to coordinate with the chairs.”
“But I need a big sofa,” I protested. “I sleep on it when my parents visit.”
“Buy a small sleep sofa. Then all you’ll need is a rug and some throw pillows to pull your color-scheme together. I bet you could find something in Simpsons bargain basement.”
I looked around at the mismatched thrift store pieces I’d acquired because they cost next to nothing. They’d been chosen for function not aesthetics. “I don’t have a color scheme.”
“Well, you would have a color scheme if you got a sofa that picked up one of the colors in those chairs. She turned to the canvases I had propped against the wall. “And let’s get some of your artwork framed. These are beautiful. What are they? They’re kind of mysterious, like you’re looking at a sunset through a mirror or through water”
I didn’t answer. She didn’t need to know they depicted the world through Joanie’s eyes, looking up from the lake floor.
“Trust me, this place could look like something in Toronto Life.”
I didn’t particularly want an apartment that looked like a page from a glossy magazine, but I agreed to dip into my savings if we could find something decent for the right price. So, the following Saturday we caught the subway downtown and set off on a hunting expedition. Nancy’s mood was, typically, brighter than my own, but I was happy enough, enjoying her company and imagining my parent’s approval when they discovered that I was finally taking an interest in my surroundings. The sky was blue and cloudless as we got off at Yonge Street and walked the rest of the way, sipping cups of Orange Julius and window shopping as we headed south.
We tossed our paper cups in the trash then pushed our way through revolving doors into a perfumed world of cosmetics, hosiery, silk blouses, and costume jewelry. She wanted to try on hoop earrings and check out the new lipstick colors but I’m not a shopper. I just wanted to find a sofa and go home.
It turned out that Simpsons bargain basement sold dining room tables, recliners, sectionals bigger than my living room, and an odd assortment of chairs, but no sleep sofas. It took about two seconds to figure out this trip had been a waste of time.
“Come on, let’s go home. I think there’s a subway entrance on this level.” I scanned the room for a sign pointing to the subway.
“No, wait. I want to look around.” Nancy loved department stores.
“OK, you look around while I find a ladies’ room. I’ll meet you back here in a few minutes.” I made my way through hardware, auto parts, and the garden center before I found a toilet. There was a line of women ahead of me, so it was awhile before I retraced my steps back to the marked down furniture. Nancy was nowhere to be seen, so I stretched out in one of the recliners and waited for her. A few minutes later, she showed up with a gray-haired man in an ill-fitting suit.
She was negotiating for something, and she sounded pretty persuasive. “There’s no way that thing is worth a penny over two hundred dollars. The legs are scratched and there’s a stain on one of the seat cushions.”
The clerk looked tired but resigned. He clearly wasn’t interested in debating the issue. “I’m sorry, but that’s the price. If you think there should be an adjustment, you’ll have to take it up with the manager.”
“OK, then, where’s the manager?”
I couldn’t see anything worth haggling over but didn’t say a word until the clerk trotted off in search of his superior. “Nancy, what’s going on? I don’t want any of this shit.”
Nancy didn’t flinch. “Look at this. You won’t believe it. I told you to trust me.” She led me toward the toy department where a little domestic tableau on a raised platform featured a mother mannequin knitting on a red couch while twin daughter mannequins played a game of Candy Land at her feet. “What did I tell you? It’s perfect.” She pointed to a brown smudge on the sofa and lowered her voice. “That’s just dirt on the cushion, not a stain. It will wash right off.”
“Nancy, it’s a display piece. It’s not even for sale. Anyway, I thought we were looking for a sofa bed.”
She pointed to a tag pinned to the seat cushion. “Read that. It is a sofa bed and it’s half price. It originally sold for four hundred dollars, but we’re going to get it for two hundred, maybe less.”
I tried to focus on the sofa, but my eyes kept returning to the little girls playing on the floor. Joanie and I had played like that when we were small, dressed in identical outfits like the ones in the display. I felt queasy and overheated. One of the fiberglass girls seemed to be eyeing me accusingly. An odd buzzing sound set my teeth on edge. Was it one of the fluorescent lights or something inside my head? I had to leave. I turned to Nancy who was grinning smugly, delighted by her find.
“Come on,” I said. “I don’t want a red sofa. Let’s get out of here.”
Her expression turned to shock. “Of course, you want a red sofa. There’s red in the floral fabric on your chairs. It will absolutely make your room. This sofa’s perfect.”
I looked at the sofa a second time and could sort of see her point. Maybe in my other life, the one where I still had a sister, I could have managed a red sofa, but not now. It was too loud, too cheerful, too fashionable.
“No, really. I just want to go.”
It didn’t matter. It was my money and my apartment, but Nancy was adamant. I had to have it.
There was no fight left in me. “OK, then, can we just buy it and go home?”
The man in the gray suit reappeared with a man half his age, presumably the manager. Nancy whispered, “Let me do the talking,” as she stepped forward to greet them. No wonder the guys claimed she ran the department. Half an hour later she’d debated, negotiated, and flirted the price down to two hundred dollars including delivery.
Nancy was ebullient. “We need to celebrate. I’m treating you to lunch at Swiss Chalet and then we’re shopping for accessories.”
My ears were still buzzing as we stepped off the escalator. Nancy was babbling about Marimekko something or other when we nearly collided with two men carrying a female mannequin in a blue bikini. Long dark hair concealed her face, but I knew she looked like my sister. The buzzing in my ears grew louder until it resembled the roar of an outboard motor or the sound of rushing water. Then, above the din I heard a familiar cry for help.
Joanie’s shouts rose above the wind as she struggled to keep her head above the waves. I put my hands over my ears and closed my eyes, but she was still there, still struggling to stay afloat, the panic in her eyes a mirror of my own, her pale, freckled skin, her green eyes fraught with horror, identical to mine. I watched helpless, my heart pounding until she disappeared, as she always did, beneath the roiling waters of Lake Ontario.
A minute later Nancy was patting my shoulder and asking, “Are you OK? What just happened?”
I stood there disoriented, breathless, adrift in time, hostage to the dream or hallucination that had loomed up like a tsunami and washed away the escalator, the racks of dresses, the very walls. There was no way to explain that I’d just been transported to a small boat on a turbulent lake at dusk where my sister’s calls for help rose above dark water.
“Did you change your mind about the sofa?” She produced a nervous laugh, but I knew I’d frightened her. I shook my head and tried to respond with some sort of joke, but found I couldn’t talk. Shoppers rushed past, annoyed that I was blocking the escalator.
“You’d better sit down.” Nancy led me over to a chair that was probably intended to relieve bored husbands while their spouses shopped. I sank into it without a word of protest while trying to come up with a plausible explanation for my implausible behavior. Nancy stared at me with an expression of genuine concern. She was a nice person. I didn’t put enough value on her friendship.
“I’m OK, I just get these dizzy spells sometimes. Give me a minute to pull myself together.”
“OK, wait here while I get a glass of water.”
“Thanks, then how about if I buy you lunch? You deserve a reward for putting up with me.”
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MY MOTHER’S REACTION when she walked into my apartment exceeded all expectations. The red sofa, a few accessories, and the framed paintings had converted my old rooms into a trendy showplace that charmed the real estate saleswoman in my mother. She appraised the room with a professional eye as though she saw a fat commission in her future. No, I’m being unkind. Despite all the pain I’d caused them, she was genuinely glad that joy and color were returning to her daughter’s world.
“Oh, my darling, it’s beautiful. I can’t believe this is the same place we visited last Christmas. Seeing what you’ve done here was worth the hideous drive in this awful heat.”
I exchanged a sympathetic look with my father. The temperature was quite moderate for August. In fact, people with cottages were complaining that it was too cold to swim in the lakes north of the city. There was a window air conditioner in the bedroom, but I never turned it on.
“How about some iced tea? I only have instant, but it’s not bad.”
My mother made a face. She didn’t approve of instant anything. “How about if we unpack and then go out for lunch? Henry, bring the luggage in here.” She disappeared into the bedroom and my father obediently followed carrying two large suitcases. A moment later I heard the air conditioner click on, then the loud thrumming of the fan.
Whenever my parents visited, they took me to restaurants I could never afford on my own. The first time they’d driven up we’d gone for drinks on the rooftop of the Park Plaza Hotel and my mother wanted to go back there. We could have saved time and money by taking the TTC, but my mother didn’t do subways, so my father dropped us off on the corner of Bloor and Avenue then set off to find a place to park that would probably cost more than our meal.
It was past the usual lunch hour, but too early for supper, so the restaurant was nearly deserted as the waiter showed us to our table. There was a pleasant breeze and a lovely view of the city from the terrace, and I could see my mother starting to relax.
I squeezed her hand and smiled. “It’s so good to see you. I never realize how homesick I am until I see you and Dad. Have you heard from any of my old friends?”
Her face darkened slightly. I’d forgotten how much my friends reminded her of everything she’d lost. I should have asked about her sister in California or the dog or pretty much anything else.
“No, I don’t hear from any of them.” There was a note of bitterness in her voice. “But I do hear about them from time to time. There’s not much to report. They’re all off living the lovely lives they planned. I try to be happy for them.” She took a cigarette from her purse. “Do you want one?”
“No thanks, I quit a while ago, but you go ahead.”
She lifted a silver lighter to her Raleigh. “Elsie got married last month.”
“I know, she invited me, but of course I couldn’t go.”
“How could she invite you? No one knows you’re here.”
I was embarrassed to admit that I’d broken our cardinal rule. “I called her a couple months ago. She’s sworn to secrecy, and I absolutely trust her. I had to talk to someone. The loneliness was getting to me.”
“All right, but for God’s sake don’t mention that to your father. He’s nervous enough about you being here as it is.” She closed her eyes and exhaled an elegant plume of smoke. “Are you sleeping better these days? No more nightmares? You’re not still hearing voices, are you?”
“I’m fine, practically back to normal.” I was playing with my necklace, a nervous habit I’ve had since childhood. “How about you?”
“There are good days and bad days, you know how it is.” She took a sip of coffee from a gold rimmed cup and stared out over the roof of the Royal Ontario Museum.
“I sent Elsie a pair of Dansk candlesticks in her China pattern.”
My mother smiled weakly and nodded her approval. “Did you know that Stephen just got engaged?”
“Joanie’s Stephen? No, I didn’t know that.” The truth was he’d never really been Joanie’s Stephen. They’d just gone out a few times that last summer. “I guess that was bound to happen eventually.”
My mother put down the coffee and patted my hand. “So, are there any candlesticks in our future? We’d love to meet this Greek god that you’ve been dating.”
“Not this trip. He’s back in Greece helping his mother with some family business.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. What’s he like?”
My father’s timely arrival saved me from having to unpack my love life for my mother.
He was out of breath and out of sorts. “I should have just left the car in Rochester and walked to Toronto. It couldn’t be much further, and it would have saved a bundle.”
“My God, Henry, your face is bright red. Sit down and drink some cold water.” My mother signaled the waiter who’d been hovering nearby. “And let’s order a bottle of wine with lunch. You look like you could use a drink.” Our attention turned to the menus, and we were soon happily sipping chilled Chablis and murmuring appreciation for our salads and the pasta with grilled shrimp and vegetables.
Even my notoriously critical mother seemed satisfied with the meal.
“That was wonderful, and it’s so good seeing you again. I wish that you lived closer.”
“It’s good to know you miss me. I sometimes wonder if you shipped me off to Canada just so you wouldn’t have to see me anymore.” I’d never said that to them directly, but I’d wondered. Maybe they really couldn’t bare the sight of me. I wouldn’t blame them.
My mother startled me by slapping the table. “Don’t you ever say anything like that again. It was an accident, a horrible, tragic accident that changed all our lives, but we still love you. You’re here for your own good, not because we don’t want you with us.”
My dad’s eyes were tearing too. “It cost us a fortune to protect you, but we spent that money gladly because you’re our daughter and we love you. You can make a good life here in Canada until it’s safe to return home, but believe me, this isn’t what we wanted.”
“Well, this was your idea. I would have . . .” I didn’t know what else we could have done.