Chapter 1
Just two weeks ago, I had to kill several men to stay alive. It was them or me. My shipmates tell me
that they would have done the same thing, but as I sit here in the back seat of this foul-smelling bus, I
knew that I’d also killed something in me. I jumped on this bus, because I couldn’t find privacy on the
ship. I didn’t really want to go where this bus was heading.
I felt the effects of my misery; low energy, dizzy, and anxious to the point of panic, usually at night
while trying to sleep. The burden of guilt weighed me down. Emotionally? Let’s just say I probably feel
better than a man on death row, cut off from the world, waiting his doom. At least I can move freely, to
search for a place where I can find peace and some small amount of privacy. What happened? Well, it’
s a story of politics and cultures; areas I hardly understand.
The Greek government and people were already hell-bent on getting the U.S. Navy out of
Greece; because, they believe that Nixon and Kissinger allowed the Turks to invade Cyprus, and
consequently the Turks forced some 200,000 Greek-Cypriots out of their homes and businesses and
made them flee as refugees to the South of Cyprus. Of course, this didn’t settle well with the average
Greek.
Then, as if things couldn’t get worse, a drunken, U.S. Sailor stabbed a Greek cab driver in the
chest when the cabby refused to give him a ride. This incident put thousands of Greek protesters in
the streets of Athens. But, the next political mess the Greeks started.
A handful of Greek activists and several students captured two of our sailors and demanded that
the USA get the hell out of Greece. The U.S. Government didn’t buy this “activist” crap; the U.S. called
them what they were—terrorists.
Well, guess what? No one told these harebrained Greek kidnappers that the U.S. doesn’t
negotiate with terrorists. Plus they obviously didn’t consider that the U.S. Navy would try to rescue two
of its own. Then, it was just common sense—if you capture sailors, or marines for that matter, the last
place to hide them are on a little deserted island, right? Yeah, you hide them—inland, in the hills, in a
cave! These terrorists weren’t very smart.
Unfortunately, one of the two U.S. two sailors that these terrorists captured, Earl Thomas, died
during captivity because of an unfortunate accident. U.S. Navy’s rescued the second sailor, me,
James Cavenaugh but not before many Greeks died. The Greeks called the U.S. operation an
invasion on their national soil. There wasn’t much soil on that tiny island, mostly rock and sand.
It was after this incident that the timetable advanced from months to weeks. This was the last nail
in the coffin of Greek-American relations. All six of the U.S.’s destroyers and hundreds of sailors will
be gone from Greece within the next two weeks.
I don’t know this for sure; because, my Chief said it was more rumor than fact that the U.S. State
Department told the Navy to keep my butt overseas, because the new Ford administration didn’t want
Americans all riled up about Thomas’ death and my survival.
I was pretty darn excited about being rescued, at the time, but the powers that make these kinds
of decisions didn’t want me getting too descriptive about all the Greeks the Navy killed to save one
American life.
That’s why, my Chief explained, I didn’t get to return to the states before the all the rest of the
sailors and ships returned home.
A few, small Greek papers were sympathetic to the U.S. and put a romantic twist on my story:
Brave American Sailor Rescues Beautiful Greek Woman. That beautiful Greek woman was a psycho
bitch was one of the terrorists! And, I wasn’t that brave. I was simply scared shitless and wanted to
stay alive.
Now, the U.S. Navy is in damage control mode, so it tried to separate its high-spirited sailors from
the local Greek people by busing them to the tourist-filled coastline of Athens, where the average
Greek seldom goes.
The sailors on the shuttle bus with me were mostly my age, nineteen to twenty-four. I’ll be twenty-
one this month. For the most part, they were just a bunch of “normal” men, talking about their favorite
bands and songs, girlfriends, home, and sports.
From the back of the bus, I listened to their normal conversations and tried to care about how
many home runs Joe Blow baseball player had last season. I really tried to care but it was no use.
Remember, only weeks ago, I killed two Greek terrorists with my bare hands, and I shot and wounded
several more with an AK-47. I was told again and again that I had done is what any “normal” person
would have done to stay alive. Now, I’m paying the price for doing what any normal person would have
done—act in a normal manner. But I feel abnormal.
A couple of friends from the sonar gang tried talking to me, and I really appreciated their efforts. A
Navy Chaplain also took a crack at me. But with him, I got myself into more trouble.
Now, I’m labeled a suicide risk. Everybody that knows me gives me sideways stares, like at any
moment I might eat a bullet, jump in the ocean to drown myself, or leap from a tall building without
wearing my Superman outfit.
Why in the fuck would I want to kill myself? All I did was tell the Chaplain that I had a deep, dark,
empty pit inside me. Just happened to mention the terrible emptiness and guilt taunts me to jump in
and find the bottom. I tried to take these words back after I said’m, but I made things worse the more I
tried to explain my way out of it. He got all flustered and serious looking. He wanted me to understand
that he had to tell the Captain of my ship to place me on a suicide prevention watch.
So, my Captain, Captain Franks, ordered me to his stateroom, and talked to me for an hour.
Afterwards, he said, in so many words, that the Chaplain was full of shit and that he was overreacting.
The Captain thought I seemed normal to him.
My thoughts were interrupted at the sound of my name. I tuned back into the conversations on the
bus; I thought someone was calling me, but they were talking about me.
“Really, what a dumbass. Now, I hear he tried to kill himself. If you ask me, it was his fault that he
got shot and captured in the first place. Bad luck hell! Man, he asked for it.”
A sailor wearing a Cubs ball cap said this. He sat four rows in front of me.
Then the person next to him says, “No shit! This idiot gets shot at, and then he goes and chases
down the gunman. Now that is freaking me out stupid. Where was this shitbird from, anyway?
Georgia?”
“No, it wasn’t the south.” The Cubs fan said.
“Well, maybe it was Illinois?” The guy next to him said.
“Hey, no way. I’m from Chicago. I would’ve remembered that.” The sailor in the Cubs ball cap
stood up and said, “Hey, where was that dumbass from that got captured and killed those Greeks!”
The sailors on the bus stopped talking or woke up. The bus driver looked in the rear-view mirror
to see what the yelling was about. Those in front of the Cubs fan turned to look back, but they were
looking at me and not at him. The Cubby turned to see what they were looking at—me. He looked at
me, gave a nervous wave, and sat down. I wished I was invisible, but I was just the opposite. I was six-
foot-five, wore a cowboy hat and boots, jeans, and my best western shirt. I sort of stuck out.
I stood, stopped next to the Cubs fan, and bent over in his face. I said calmly and slowly, “The
dumbass is from Idaho.” Cubby looked a little scared, and I probably looked a little insane, because
this was the way I was feeling these days.
Cubby said, “Sorry man, I’m glad you’re okay.”
I never did like a lot of attention and never had great control over my temper, even when I was
normal. I shoved his leg out of the aisle with my leg and walked to the front of the bus. I had to get off,
before I opened my mouth again or did something worse. I said, “Stop the bus!”
The middle-aged Greek bus driver said, “I cannot. We are still far away from the American Club
and not much taxis here and not so good place here. I not to drop off in between.” His accent was
thick but his message was clear. I glared at him.
He stopped the bus. I grabbed the door handle and opened the door. The driver was right. This
was not such a good place to get out.
Chapter 2
The highway passed along the edge of a poor residential area, a slum. The buildings were three
stories, weather-stained concrete with rust marks running down their faces, making them two-toned.
No trees, shrubs, or grass anywhere.
The sun was sitting. I had to get near the ocean, getting there before the sun sat was a plus. I had
felt better when I was at sea on the ship, so being close to the ocean might help me feel better,
maybe even normal.
I knew which direction I needed to go to find the ocean, but it would take me down dark, narrow,
streets of this rundown neighborhood.
I walked on the sidewalk, on the left side of the street. My bootheels made loud, hollow sounds as
they hit the concrete and echoed off the hard faces of the buildings. A foul smell came from the
garbage, trash, and brown, standing water filled the gutter in various combinations.
I paused to look at a dead rat with a surprised rodent grin on his face. It wore a bloody rattrap
around its neck, but it looked happy, if you were to judge from the smile on its face. Looking closer, I
noticed the poor little fellow was forced into his grin, which exposed all of his tiny teeth. The trap’s stiff
copper wire clamped down on his neck at the base of his skull. It drew back the rat’s furry skin on its
walnut sized head.
He died smelling the cheese, and he looked happy in the trying. I wanted to smell the ocean. I
wondered what sort of trap lay ahead for me or if, one day, I’d die smiling.
After several blocks, a group of kids sat on the steps near a door, playing jacks. Other young kids
played in the street, chasing each other; maybe it was tag. A woman hung from a window several
stories up calling out, I guess, for her child. They all paused to stare at me, but I just walked on.
Parked and abandoned cars lined the street along another block. The junk cars had their
windows broken out and their axles removed. They sat on their frames. On one car, a broken sofa
with its back collapsed, backwards, was King-of-the-hill, perched on the dented roof, debris filled its
open trunk.
A gray and black cat lay on the sidewalk in front of me, swished its tail back and forth, stared me
down, and waited me out in a game of chicken before it sprang off across the street and slipped into
an open first floor window.
As I got deeper into the neighborhood, I came upon a group of older, rougher looking teenagers;
the oldest was maybe sixteen. They were a stair-stepped bunch and they stood over a young boy
who was crying. As I got closer, they lifted their heads and looked at me.
They were scrawny punks in tough-guy clothes, dirty-white tee shirt shirtsleeves rolled up,
exposing skeleton arms. Two wore old leather jackets, which were too big for them. These guys in
leather were the larger ones and the oldest looking.
I moved closer to have a better look at the crying boy. He was no more than ten and looked okay,
no visible marks, no blood.
The hard asses, five of them, broke their circle and spread across the sidewalk like an automatic
gate, blocking my way. I stepped off the sidewalk and onto the street. I didn’t want to get involved, but
I had a tinge of guilt that was telling me to help the little kid. The young boy made my mind up for me
as he ran to me and grabbed my leg, so I stopped. For just a moment, we all stood still looking at
each other, then the oldest one, he looked like the leader, spoke to the boy on my leg, in Greek, with
a tone of voice that made the little boy squeeze my leg harder. I should have stayed on the bus.
He looked up at me and said, “They want me to steal…steal cigarettes and money from my
mother and…and I tell them she has neither, but they do not believe me.”
I thought that this could be a set-up, but his face had tracks where the tears had washed away
dirt. The teens looked at me for my response. I had known mean men. Mean dudes have a look and it
says, “Fuck with me and I’ll rip your fucking head off and shit down your windpipe.” It’s all in the eyes.
These little criminals had that look, but I doubted that neither one nor all could rip my fucking head
off. These were baby bandits.
It was hard to measure the degree of danger I faced, but it was easy to see that I was stuck in the
middle of this little drama. I said, “Why don’t you guys leave this boy alone and pick on somebody
your own age,” I know it wasn’t original, but it’s what came to mind. They looked unarmed and
unimpressed, and maybe they didn’t understand English.
The ringleader, the tough guy, spoke Greek to the kid on my leg and then the boy interpreted.
“He said if you give him some money, they will leave me alone.” Then the tough guy spoke to one of
his buddies who produced a serrated steak knife and handed it him. He spoke to the boy on my leg.
“He said he want money now.”
I tried to pull the leach off my leg, but he had a tourniquet-like hug. “Do these kids speak English?”
“No.”
I’d bet the older kid was bluffing. I knew his friends would scatter at the first sign of trouble, but I
was in no position to change their minds with this boy holding on so tight and shaking like it was thirty
below zero.
“Let go of my leg and run home.”
“No. They will chase me!”
“Look, do it!” I didn’t like getting angry with the traumatized kid, but he had to move out of the way.
He was the most likely target of the knife.
I reached down and pinched him hard on the top of his shoulder. He let out a yell, said something
that sounded disrespectful. He ran across the street and grabbed hold of a rusty light pole. I
unsnapped my shirt pocket, while the tough kid made a quick jabbing motion with the steak knife.
I took out my cigarettes and offered them to Mr. Tough Guy. “Here, Jerk-Off, take these and get
the hell out of here.” I said with a scowl.
I held my hand open but kept it close to my body so the tough guy was forced to step into range.
He didn’t look very bright. Yep, he wasn’t.
He moved in close, coming towards the bait. He stared at the red and white box of cigarettes and
a smile crossed his face.
When he got in range, I quickly crushed my box of Marlboros into a fist and clobbered the punk on
his forehead, sending him backwards into a buddy, who also went down. The other three kids
scrammed down the street behind me, and the little boy let go of the light pole and ran the other
direction. The kid I didn’t hit, the one that fell down, helped the kid with the red mark on his forehead
to his feet. He lead the wobbly bully in the direction of their other friends.
I was feeling satisfied, like I had done some good deed, until a woman in a black scarf hung out of
a second story window and yelled at me. She held up one hand like she was going to throw something
down at me and used her other hand to shooed me away. So, I shooed down the street towards the
ocean, gladly.
The sun was setting and I was missing it. Lights turned on in some first floor apartments. I had
walked about three blocks away from the scene of the scuffle when the same little kid attacked me
from behind. His hold on my leg felt familiar.
“Come with me, you come with me. My mother want to thank you.”
He was a good-looking, big-eyed, black-haired boy that appeared a tad on the sensitive side. I
wasn’t going anywhere with this kid, and I doubted that this kid’s mother wanted anything to do with
me nor would his dad. I took him by the shoulders, pulled him away without too much of a struggle,
and leaned down to his level.
“Hey, buddy. Go tell your mom thanks, but no thanks. Now get,” I said.
The little squirt grabbed my hat and ran away into the building.
“Hey, damn it! Come back here,” I yelled. I thought about chasing him, but the last time I chased after
someone into a building it didn’t turn out so good.
As I stood knee-deep in indecision, a thin woman, maybe around thirty, dressed in black, came
out of the building with the boy in one hand and my hat in the other. She looked up at me and offered
my hat.
“Thank you for helping Victor. He said that you saved him from the…the bad kids. He is not to be
down that way, but there are no kids here for him to play with, his age. I am grateful for you.”
Her voice was soft, and she had sadness in her eyes stuck me like a thorn.
“Miss, you’re welcome. Can I have my hat?”
She seemed to recover from some thought and handed me my hat.
The hat could have been a magnet that drew the boy over to my side. Once there, he took hold of
the fingers of my left hand. He spoke in Greek to his mother. She responded with an expressive face
that told me that the boy had said something inappropriate; it seemed to make her feel uncomfortable.
“Thanks for my hat. And nice to meet you,” I said, as I tried to gently free myself from the kid’s
grip, but he stuck like a booger. “Let go now. I have to go,” I said and bent down, using both hands,
and tried to pull him off without breaking something on his fragile body. His eyes filled with tears.
Jesus, I thought, what’s wrong with this kid?
“Look kid, I’ll give you a dollar if you let go,” I said in desperation. I pulled out my wallet and
opened it. His eyes got big when I exposed the bills. I didn’t have a dollar bill. The boy’s mother also
looked into my wallet with interest, and then she looked around as if she were worried that someone
might be watching us. She hurried over, yanked the boy to the side, and knocked the wallet out of my
hand.
“Go away, please! This looks awful.”
Her eyes were no longer sad; they were certain and angry. I picked up my wallet, tipped my hat,
and started down the street, listening to the sounds of a crying boy and angry mother and wondering
what looked awful. After another block, I felt a breeze funnel in-between the buildings. I smelled the
sea air. I was getting closer.
Chapter 3
The rundown apartments ended. The streets widened and they were filled with activity. I passed a
small food vendor that had rotating meat on a vertical spit. I was hungry, but he had several
customers and talked to them, as he took his time carving strips of the brown, steaming meat that fell
into his other hand that held a thick, flat, round bread. I could see the ocean, so I didn’t want to wait
for my turn. They didn’t sell beer, so I bought a Coke from the wrinkled woman who sat behind the
counter with the cash box. She needed a shave, especially her upper lip.
There were other businesses selling fruits, mostly oranges, and vegetables, and a place that sold
meat: plucked chickens and dressed animals that were the size of dogs—sheep; I guessed. These
carcasses hung out in the open air. On the cattle ranch, we cured our meat, but it was kept in cold
lockers in town. Flies were crawling on the bloodless, animal cadavers. I figured they must butcher
only what they can sell in a day or maybe two.
Trucks, cars, and buses honked and spewed blue smoke into the air, which bombarded my
senses. People were hustling in every direction. Where they were coming from and where they going
to didn’t interest me.
I missed the sunset, but there was still a brownish-red, glowing dusk. I bought a pack of Marlboros
from a street vendor and looked at the other things he sold. I also bought a map of the city and gave
him my empty Coke bottle. When the light changed, I crossed the busy street and found a bench in
the park that was closest to the ocean, the furthest from the street.
Somehow, looking at and being close to the ocean made me feel better. The massive ocean
helped me to forget the faces of the dead men. It also helped me ignore the sounds, which I didn’t
hear at the time, but now I heard them. Both men had struggled for air, nothing worse than not being
able to breath, the moaning, gasping, and crying, without the breath to be heard.
Not that I would have done anything different, given the same situation—I’d have to kill’m again. I
was still sorting it out, looking for the reason why saving my life from men who wanted to see me
dead—made me rotten.
Six years ago, it became hard to justify my life given the pain that I had caused my family. I was
responsible for another death—my younger brother, Bryan.
It was six years ago that I first dug that deep, dark, empty pit that calls me to jump in and find the
bottom. Now the pit was larger and deeper, and it surrounded me. Bryan forgave me before he died,
but no one else did, including myself.
I reached for my cigarettes, a new habit. I breathed in the moist air along with the smoke. In the
distance, to my right, a brightly-lit ferry was leaving Piraeus towards the open water. To my left, a long
ways away, an airliner with flashing white, green, and red lights was landing at Athens’ airport. The
sea was smooth, with an occasional wave that flopped on the sand near where several small boats
were turned upside down and lay on the beach. From behind me came a small hand on my shoulder—
it was the little boy with the big eyes.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” I looked for his mother but didn’t see her. He came around the
bench and sat close to me.
“Victor, right?”
He nodded and said, “Why are you here?”
He looked out to the water. He looked troubled and not interested in talking. He placed his little
hand on my knee. I guess that he didn’t have a good reason for being here either. So, we sat
together. I tried to blow smoke rings, I guess for his entertainment. He poked at them with his fingers.
When we were finished with the smoke rings, he decided he wanted to talk.
“You English?”
“American.”
“What kind of hat is it?”
“Have you seen one before?” He shook his head. “Well, It’s called a cowboy hat.”
“Cow…boy? But, you are not a boy. You are a man.”
“You better go back. Your mother will be worried about you. Maybe your dad will give you a
spanking.” He was close to me already but he scooted even closer.
“I do not have a father, anymore. He left us because of me.”
“Well, I’m sorry about that little man, but right now, Buddy, you have a mother, and you need to go
home.”
He looked back in the direction of his house and clamped both hands down on the edge of the
bench. “What, are you afraid of—the dark?” I said, as I stood and stretched. He sat there on the
bench.
“Look, Kid, I’m done here and I’m leaving.” This wasn’t true, but I wanted him to leave. “I don’t feel
right about your staying here alone, so if you got something goin’ on that you need from me then this
is your last chance, ‘cause I’m out of here and you can’t follow me.” He just sat there. “So, why did you
come follow me?” I sat down next to him. I waited for him to speak. Nothing.
I lit another cigarette. “Hey, Buddy, where can I get a beer?” The little creature stood up,
accidentally hit my cigarette, and grabbed my hand. “You can take me home please.”
That’s when it hit me between the eyes and it had a kick like a mule. I felt a slow dizziness and saw
my vision fading. He reminded me of my dead little brother, Bryan. This was all I needed, to add to my
problems. I wanted the runt gone. I snapped myself out of it, cleared my mind with the annoyance of
this kid. Playtime was over. I’d take him home and come back. “All right, let’s go.”
I took off my hat, stuck it on his head, and hoisted him onto my shoulders. He was unsteady at first
but soon found his balance. We entered his neighborhood and I heard TV’s, smelled dinners, and
heard mothers yelling and kids complaining. “Okay, squirt, where do you live? I think we passed it.
This ain’t an all day ride.”
“You can let me down now.”
I let him down. He handed me my hat and then surprised me by running back in the other
direction, like we had come too far. Was he lost? He disappeared into the darkness.
I walked back towards the ocean and the man that sliced meat. I got about a block when I heard….
“Cowboy.” A woman’s voice called from behind. It was the boy and the mother. We stood about
fifteen feet away. The kid came running towards me, jumped up into my arms, knocked my hat off,
and began to strangle me. “Hey, now I got to breathe here.”
“Victor, let go of him.” His mother said, as she walked over and grabbed the kid’s rib cage. Victor
choked me harder the more she pulled, like a human Chinese finger toy.
“Hey, everybody just stop pulling!” I said and turned away from Victor’s mother.
She grabbed my ribs when she meant to grab her son’s, and it tickled like hell.
“Hey, hey, I’m ticklish.”
She started to snicker. Victor freed one hand from my neck and used it to tickle me on my back.
So, I reached up and dug my fingers into his bony ribs. He let out a howl and his arms fell away as he
squealed with laughter.
“Here is your hat.”
“Here’s your kid.” We traded.
“Victor said you wanted beer. We have brandy.”
She wore black like a widow, but I wasn’t about to take any chances of facing a boyfriend who
would want to know what the hell I was doing there. She must have read my thoughts.
“I am alone with Victor, a widow. Do not be worried. I want to thank you for bringing Victor home.”
“Oh.” That was all I could manage to say. Too many thoughts were trampling around in my head,
not all of them respectable.
“Please, please. I get food for you.”
Victor grabbed my index finger and proceeded to bend it backwards, as he pulled me into the
apartment. So, I let him.
Chapter 4
I slipped and grabbed for a non-existent handrail. My hands landed about four steps up from the
first step, breaking my fall. Victor laughed at me; he pretended to slip and fall.
“Are you okay?” His mother said. “These steps are very worn.”
“I see that now.” I took careful steps to their third floor unit.
Their apartment was almost dark inside, but there was a light at the end of the hall. As we walked
towards the light, on my left, we passed two small bedrooms and, on my right, was a small living and
dining room combination. What furniture I was able to see looked tired and old. At the end of the hall
was a kitchen and bathroom.
The kitchen was brightly lit. A single bare incandescent bulb dangled from the high ceiling; the pull
string was a black shoelace. Victor sat swinging his dangling legs back and forth at the kitchen table
on a chair with rusted chrome legs.
The rusted table legs completed the matching set. On the worn floral tablecloth sat two squatty,
clear-glass bottles, with curved stainless steel spouts; I guessed oil and vinegar. Sugar cubes in an
open bowl, saltshaker, and a grimy wooden pepper mill also sat on the table.
I took a seat while the boy’s mother reached up high in a cabinet. Her back was shapely. Victor
noticed me staring at his mother’s backside. We both looked at each other. I shrugged. He shrugged.
He seemed clueless.
“I have brandy. Where is it?”
She reached higher. I looked at her slender, contracted calf muscles and thin ankles, and so did
he. Our eyes met again. This time he figured it out. He spoke to her, in Greek, and I wanted to hide
somewhere. She turned around, looked down at me with an I-beg-your-pardon look; she pulled her
dress down.
“Perhaps you would look for me? You are so tall.”
I stood next to her. I found an unopened dusty bottle of Metaxa lying on its side behind seldom
use kitchen stuff, which was also dusty. I wiped the label. It had five stars on it.
“We were saving this for my husband when he returned. Some time now.”
“Three years, Momma.”
“Yes, Victor. Three years now.”
“Hey, that’s all right…”
“No, no, here, here.”
She took the bottle from me and rinsed it under the tap of a deep bottom sink.
I was feeling pretty uncomfortable, but she seemed eager to open it. Like I figured earlier, she was
around thirty. Her baggy black dress hid her figure, but when it hung closer to her body, it revealed
something shapelier. Her mouth was wide, lips full, and her nose straight, thin, and smooth like her
white skin. She was attractive, in any man’s opinion.
“Please sit, and I will serve you now.”
I looked at pipsqueak, as he jumped up, came back with a little glass for himself, and waited to be
served. I had my doubts about that, and I was right. She spoke, softly, in Greek to her son and he
obeyed, sort of. She didn’t see it, but he stuck his tongue out at her on his way to the bathroom.
“Nice boy that Victor.”
She looked longingly toward the bathroom. “Yes, he is all I have. Not much trouble until today.
Mind of his own now, and soon…no mind left for me. Thank you for bringing him home, I was ready to
go look for him.”
I poured her some brandy in peewee’s glass. She waved her hand.
“Oh, I do not drink.”
She looked at me with searching and intense eyes. She put her hand on mine to stop me from
placing the kid’s sized glass in front of her. When our hands touched—it wasn’t a static shock; it was
an emotional spark, and it caused my stomach to take a quick and unexpected flop. Her hand recoiled
and mine froze in place. We searched each other’s eyes.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
She looked down first. “Oh, I am so sorry…my manners…Maria, Maria Carter.”
I wanted her to look at me again. “Carter? That’s not Greek.”
She seemed embarrassed and brushed down her baggy dress.
“No, no, it is not Greek. It is English. Victor’s father was in the American Air Force.”
I heard the tub water running. Maria reached over for Victor’s small glass and brought it close to
her breast. She was leaning them into the table, slouching on her elbows, rounding her shoulders.
She seemed like a woman with a lot on her mind.
The brandy felt good. It warmed and numbed my throat. “I’m James Cavenaugh, uh, a sailor from
Elefsina, where the ships are.”
“Yes, I know the ships and I know you too. Victor does not know, but I suspected it by the
description. The hat, and tall, like it said in the newspaper.”
I couldn’t read what she was thinking. She looked relaxed. She sipped her brandy. “Is it good still?”
“Yeah, it’s good, thanks. So, what happened to your husband?”
“He was transferred to Germany five years ago, but he would fly back to see me and Victor often,
but then he was supposed to come back one time, but he never came, and I never heard from him
after that.”
“Well, did you ask the Air Force about him? You’re married to an American. What about the
American Embassy? Wouldn’t they help?”
“I had no papers, only a ring. He took the papers.”
She was not wearing a ring.
“That’s a lousy thing to do to you and Victor.” She poured us more brandy. “Isn’t black for
mourning?”
She peeled the black scarf away and revealed short, thick jet-black hair that had a sheen of
cleanliness. She shook her head like a dog shakes its body. Several of her hairs landed on the table,
and she brushed them away. I could hear Victor splashing in the tub, having a ball.
“It was easier to say he had died than to admit…the truth. Was that wrong?”
“Say, do ya mind if I smoke, I’ll go outside if you want.”
Maria refilled my juice glass. I was starting to feel a certain numbness around my ears and a
welcome relaxation.
“Let’s go to the roof.”
She picked up the bottle and her glass and opened a rear door that I hadn’t noticed. She spoke
to Victor in Greek. The splashing stopped and then it started again. The door led to metal stairs and
to the rooftop.
Chapter 5
The rooftop was like the garage and garden of Maria’s apartment building. Junk, trunks, and small
sheds were on one side, and raised gardens with their dark shadows of large, bushy plants were on
the other side. We were above the street noise.
The view out to the ocean was open and wide, but it was as black as the sky. A steady movement
of damp sea air filled the night and tamed the radiating heat that came up from the roof. The breeze
off the ocean smelled clean, and the cool moist air felt like a splash of aftershave on my warm face.
“Over here.” Maria said.
I had fallen behind.
“Here, James, here. Watch your step, there are many pipes.”
She turned on a light inside a small shed. It was full of paintings without frames. She took out one
folding chair and closed the door.
“What’s with all of those paintings?” She could use some pictures in her apartment.
“They’re nothing really…just something I do.”
I’m no authority on women, but what she meant was—she wanted to show them to me.
“Can I see them?”
“You wont like them. I’m not very talented. I just copy what I see.”
The paintings of various sizes were bright and colorful: small secluded seaside resorts; tourist
filled beaches with colorful umbrellas; two-tone sailboats with full, stiff white sails on blue seas. She
held up several paintings and showed me places that I’d like to be painted into.
I looked at one painting of a grand sunset, and for a moment, I felt a flash of joy and peace, and
then, quickly, the oil-based sunset became paint smeared on canvas. I envied the happy, normal
people in her pictures; maybe, she did too.
“I try to paint what will sell. Look, that’s Victor on the beach, there on the red towel waving.” She
was beautiful; her lips formed a smile. That spark of joy flashed again; it was like lightening inside me.
“These are very good. I like ’m all. Did you paint all of these?” She bit her lower lip and nodded.
“Do you sell many?” She shrugged.
“I sell them at the park where Victor said he found you. That is how we survive. That is my work.
Take one. Please, take the one you like best of all of them.”
I liked her best of all. Even though she was dressed in black, she seemed full of color. It was easy
to see she took great joy in her work, yet she also seemed sad like Victor seemed as he sat on the
bench in the park with me. She seemed to enjoy being free of her black scarf; she kept shaking her
hair.
“I can’t decide. They’re all so good,” I said, but what I wanted was to take her, but where? Maybe
in that golden sunset or sailing…. I started to feel worse not better about her pictures. They were
what I lacked in life and maybe for her too. She kept them hidden away.
“Take your time, please. Be careful. On some of these, the paint is still wet. I need to get Victor
out of the bath and get us some food. Here.”
She handed me the bottle of brandy and left me standing on the rooftop. I shut off the annoying
light, sat in the folding chair, poured more brandy, and lit a cigarette.
I tried not to interpret reality like it was a dream, but it was hard not to grind up my recent
memories. My shoulder still ached from the gunshot wound and my nights were still filled with restless
sleep.
“Stop it,” I said to myself, “why can’t you relax?” Drinking helped me to forget up to a point, but
after that point, when I’d drank too much—it was all I thought about—my life left like it was over,
ruined, abnormal, black and white.
Little footsteps were coming up the metal stairs.
“Hey, Pal, what you got there?”
“Mamma said it’s okay to call you Mister James, because your last name is so long.”
“Wow, something smells good.” He was wrapped up in his thoughts and I was hungry. “What’s in
your hand?”
He tried to hitch up on my knee but his hands were full, so I pulled him up on my knee like jolly-ole
St. Nick. He almost shoved the "whatever" it was up my nose in his eagerness to give it to me.
“It’s a what?” I couldn’t make out what he called it.
“Momma makes them from the leftover meat from our Sunday roast.”
“Really?”
This was Saturday.
I let him take the first bite. It was too dark to see the color of the meat. I would have used the light
in the shed if the kid were not around. A quick toss over the side was not out of the question.
He was cramming it into his little mouth like he hadn’t eaten all day.
I was hungry, so I took a bite and hit a glob of fat; my tongue reported that the fat surrounded a
good-sized blood vessel. I turned my head, pulled the disgusting thing out of my mouth, and flipped it
over the side like a butt.
“Mmmm…this is really good, but I’m really not that hungry; how would you like mine?”
“Momma said you must be hungry because Americans eat early. Why are you not hungry?”
“Ahh…now…the brandy killed my appetite away.”
I took his little wrist and he opened his hand. I gave him Sunday’s leftovers that were still hanging
around six days later.
He shrugged, so I shrugged. He shrugged again. So, I shrugged and held both of his scrawny
shoulders down to prevent him from shrugging.
He popped the last of his meat thing into his mouth. He apple-bit and held between his teeth, the
one I had given him.
He reached up with his paws and pressed down on my shoulders. I pretended to have difficulty
shrugging which amused him. He started to drool Sunday’s leftover meat on my leg.
I took the plug from his mouth, so he could chew and swallow. I stuck it back in his mouth and we
pretended some more. He got tired of the game, ate fast, and put his arms around my neck and held
firm.
After a while, I felt his head bob and then relax into my shoulder. He breathed on my neck. I hoped
he wouldn’t drool on me again. I held the squirt of a boy and tried to remember if I’d ever been held
like this, couldn’t remember any times.
Then, I wondered what it would feel like if Maria held me. I looked up at the stars…the
horizon…where the moon had come up. It was then I realized I wasn’t suicidal, just hollow inside,
drained of all good feelings.
I heard footsteps. It was Maria with a bowl of something in one hand and a chunk of bread in the
other. The little man was relaxed like a rag doll.
She stood, put the back of her hand to her mouth, and did something with her eyes. She handed
me the bowl and bread, took Victor in her arms, and turned for the stairs. She stopped and looked
back over her shoulder and whispered, “God bless you.”
“Yeah….” I whispered back. I had never been blessed, so what do you say? Now, I was glad I got
off the bus. The soup only had one spoon. I submerged a corner of the crusty bread into the bowl to
sop up some broth. It was really good. I devoured the meat, potatoes, and something like small, flat
beans. I didn’t save a last piece of crust to wipe out the bowl. It was too deep to get my tongue to the
bottom, so I tilted the bowl to see if anything would run out, within reach.
I set the bowl down, poured more brandy, and lit a cigarette.
Chapter 6
Maria returned to the rooftop living room. She handed me a small plate of peeled orange slices
with a cinnamon smell that mixed with the sweet orange scent. She went to her shed and brought a
second folding chair. She sat it pretty close to me.
“The soup was great. You’re a good cook.”
She hesitated and said, “I got it from a neighbor, but I am glad you liked it. She offered more…”
“Oh, no, no thanks. What did you eat?”
“I will in the morning, a big breakfast.”
She was quiet. I wanted nothing more than to stay right here on this rooftop, drinking this woman’s
brandy, eating her neighbor’s stew, and getting hugs from a scrawny kid. Crickets chirped up here on
the rooftop.
“Do you have a girlfriend, James?
I hesitated, “No.”
“Not even the woman you rescued on the island? In the papers, not the main papers, but the little
ones, you know, gossip papers, they made it sound so romantic. You saved her and her godfather
from those bad men. Did you really kill those men with your bare hands to save her?”
“Look, it’s a long story and, well, it wasn’t all like that. The papers weren’t there so…”
“Then, tell me about it please, all about it, will you, please? I’m a good listener, please?”
She picked up her chair and placed it in front of me. She sat and looked like an obedient
schoolgirl. She looked at me with those big dark eyes and the glow of the gold moon was behind her.
She looked different. She had changed from her black dress. She wore a mid-length, pleated skirt
and a white collar was folded over the top of a light-colored sweater. When she came closer, she
smelled of flowery soap. There was a smooth sheen on the shins of her legs. I stared at her. It felt
good to have the complete attention of this woman.
I started from the very beginning of the story when I had reported for duty on the USS Manley in
early September of this year, 1974. When I got to the part about my brother, she interrupted me.
“The paper did not mention that you…your little brother was killed. Then…well, that was that an
accident? It was, right?”
“Maybe we can finish this another time. I really should be going.” I was suddenly done with this
domestic experience; I had to get out of here.
“Unless you drove, there are no buses or cabs at this time of night. And it is a long walk to your
ship…thirty miles. Of course, there is a hotel not too far. Or, you…you…could stay here.” Then she
added quickly, “On the couch.”
“The walk would do me good.”
“It would take you about nine hours. I walk a lot; I know. Look, just skip to the part, please, about
the woman how you saved her. Her and her godfather.”
There was nothing to tell. I was out to save my own skin and saving that damsel in distress was a
byproduct of my need to stay alive.
Maria took my hands.
I decided to stay a little longer.
Maybe, she needed to believe in the romance of every day life, so I told her about the part where
the woman, Theia, had put the medallion of the Virgin Mary over my head and how she had blessed
me…. Well, I guess I forgot that I had been blessed before.
“I knew it!” Maria said, jumped up, and looked down at me. “You are a blessing from God. The
way you are so nice to Victor. You saved him from those mean boys. You brought him home…”
“He brought me here.”
“Maybe so, but you followed your heart. And now he already adores you, don’t you see it?”
“See, what?” This was all over the top for me. I was just plain James. No saint here. In fact, just the
opposite. What did I get myself into—now? Stop already, I almost yelled. I had hit the limit on this
conversation. She looked hurt. Crushed might be a better word. She walked slowly to the stairs and
then scampered down them, until me, the entire neighborhood, and the ships at sea heard the door
slam.
Oh, good job champ. Smooth with the ladies. I gave my cigarette butt a fling over the edge, took
my last drink of brandy, and put the chairs back in the shed. I turned the light on. And I looked at a
painting: happiness, contentment, adventure, fun, bright sun, and white beaches. I sat and looked at
her paintings again. I had no place to go. I dug deeper than she had and found one that was different.
It was a beautiful woman sitting on a bench on a bright sunny day. No, it was a self-portrait, Maria
in a white wedding dress, colorful flowers¬—no, just the petals. They were all around her in a
garden—no, a park with children playing in the background, and a child—no, Victor, waving in the
background. I turned around. Maria had walked up behind me, stood over me, came close, put her
arms around my neck, and gave me an adult-sized Victor hug.
Then it was all over. I hadn’t cried since I was fourteen, when Bryan died. She went to her knees
and pushed my legs apart.
She came in close to hold me. She wrapped her arms under my arms, squeezed closer, and
placed her head on my chest.
I embraced her, smelled her hair, and felt the warmth of her body. Then it wasn’t long until I felt
the moisture from her tears on my chest. I guess joy can also come in black and white.
The End
Black and White
(2006) (Unpublished)
A Short Story by Russell Traughber
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