Let Me Explain You Page 5

  A goat. Today, of all days in his life.

  Had he thought about suicide. Yes, OK, once or twice. Especially lately, when things were so lonely and unexpected. But he had not meant it. OK, yes, in some ways he had been praying for death without actually praying. Yes, he was acknowledging that death was an exact solution to all of his problems, which were many woman troubles, because troubles came with women like sore feet came with shoes. But Stavros did not want to die. And, besides, Stavros was not crazy, Stavros understood that to believe a dream about a goat that foretold your death was something only a sicko one would do, somebody like his first wife, Dina.

  Still, it was a very difficult thing to see a maybe-messenger of Death eating cigarettes out of your ceramic ashtray.

  He lit a Saratoga, and a dirty breath came out. He bit down on the cigarette out of anxiety and business strategy. He had been chewing the same brand for thirty-five years, since age fifteen; all of the butts he threw into the parking lot had enough teeth marks to make a mold of his mouth. “My menu is going to get a lot more meat tonight,” Stavros wagered. “You are no Death, Goat.”

  He should shout or beat the goat with a broom, like any Greek. He should threaten. This, something his brothers would have laughed at him for. He prodded the goat’s back leg with the tip of his work shoe. The goat flicked its tail, but otherwise nothing. Rhonda wouldn’t want him to hurt it. She would say, All it wants is a little, is that too much? even though it clearly wanted very much from him, maybe his entire life from him. His ex-wife, Carol, the Mother, she would want him to sacrifice the whole goat in her honor and feed the shiny meat right to her lips in pieces no bigger than a big jewel.

  The goat nudged into his hand. Stavros pulled away. He was afraid that this goat was eyeing his mustache and wanting to eat it. He took a drag to appear calm. Fewer people were looking, but still, some. The goat tried again, for the cigarette. “No one tells you that smoking is wrong, re? They never stop telling me.” Stavros laughed. It reminded him of his father’s farm, the way he and his brothers used to put cigarettes right up to cats’ mouths.

  The goat licked a gold butt off the pavement. It moved its jaw right-left, right-left, grinding the filters into cottony pulp between its flat old-man teeth. It searched the pavement with its tongue and lips. The busboys hadn’t swept the butts up, because the busboys were lazy and Mexican, but there were no gold ones left, no Saratogas. That was true. Stavros pulled out the pack of Saratogas from his breast pocket. It was a beige box, like the leather interior of a car. He flicked out a cigarette and offered it to the goat, gold end first. The goat pulled back. Stavros tried again. The goat ate the whole cigarette, tongue flapping at the tobacco falling from its black lips.

  “You think these are chips?” He took out another. The goat ate that, too. Stavros lifted a white butt from the curb. The goat turned its head away.

  Huh! he said, a goat that wants my brand only. Stavros Stavros Mavrakis; Goat Tamer. It made him feel funny inside, like he should be embarrassed by something so insignificant becoming so important. Then, suddenly, the insignificant began to weigh on him and become very significant, more than significant, because he saw this was no insignificant goat. This goat, meant for him, solely for his brand of Saratoga, was no common goat at all. It had a message: death was part of his life. Yes, Stavro, ten days. It was nuzzling at his pants pocket. Stavros jumped back. He did not want it to touch him with its teeth.

  What do you do with Death when it comes at you like a goat?

  Stavros used the open pack, coaxed the goat to follow him. Stavros took steps and the goat took steps, moving its neck like a chicken’s. They made it to the back of the diner, where there was privacy and a rope to tie it up with.

  “Goat,” he said, “we have two common things together. Nobody wants us, and we’re both looking at death between the eyes.” He had decided: if the goat was ushering his death, then the goat would be prepared for his funeral. It would be the Ultimate Supper.

  Inside, Stavros jingled his keys. “Got him,” he said. “Not even a goat can say no to Steve Mavrakis.”

  Marina reached for her knives and the burgundy apron she wore for butchering. “No one touch the goat,” he said, “not even you, Marina.”

  He would lay out his final wisdoms in a letter, which none of his daughters—in the confusion of their lives—could argue against. Stavroula, too much like Marina, who heard nothing unless it came out of her own mouth; Litza, who made mountains into mistakes. Ruby and his ex-wife, who lived like spoiled twins. They would give many, many tears and, over delicious goat on a spit, go over the ways he was a good man. They would change for the better and make good lives, finally, even that selfish ex-goat-wife. He suspected writing the letter—no, email, he needed to send it out as soon as possible so they could read it right away—might make him sad. He had been in depression for so many days already—but how could he be sad to build the future? How can he be sad to do what he is doing when what he is doing is making it easier on everybody? Wasn’t that wisdom? Surely, this must be what God felt after the seventh day—before anyone could appreciate anything, but knowing they one day would—that what would come was love and respect for the father.

  Let me explain you something, he began, the way he always began, even at the end.

  CHAPTER 6

  * * *

  Stavroula could see that her sister was the only one in the dining room, hands in her lap, texting. Salt was not officially open and Ruby hadn’t told Stavroula she was coming, but the waitstaff had let her in because she was the chef’s sister. Ruby could have gotten in anyway: she got into most places. Ruby’s shift at the salon would start soon, but Stavroula could tell she was in no rush. Her clientele loved her, her boss declared her a waxed miracle, and if any of them were agitated at her lateness, Ruby would introduce a hair glaze that was inexplicably slimming, or demonstrate a new technique with dry cutting—or something else Stavroula had no idea about—and make them fawn all over again. Ruby had an eye for the fine things in life like makeup and accessories and the adoration of others—things Stavroula approached only occasionally. When Stavroula wanted a makeover a few months ago, in large part because ex-Mike was out of July’s life, it was Ruby she went to.

  One of the busboys near Ruby’s table flicked the black towel at his waist. Around Ruby, all men became boys and all boys became flies. Ruby knew how to ignore flies.

  Stavroula entered the dining room with a salad for her sister, a frappe for herself. All the décor, tablecloths had been changed to subtly reflect July. The centerpieces were given to thin vases of black sand. The furniture had been rearranged with the single purpose of bringing people together, the way Stavroula liked. Stavroula loved people, the messy noise of them: if she could, she’d have everyone eat out of one large plate. In this way, at least, she took after her father. Litza always chose to sit alone. That was fine by Stavroula. If it were that sister instead of this one in her restaurant, Stavroula would be content to let her eat by herself.

  No. No. She wouldn’t want Litza eating alone. She didn’t believe in people eating alone. At one time, she and her sister would have enjoyed sharing a plate together. They liked the same foods, though Stavroula would’ve eaten the bigger portion, probably.

  Stavroula squeezed her sister’s forearm and sat across from her. Ruby had taken their father’s black hair and complexion, Mother’s long face, Mother’s long legs. No Greek nose on this one. Maybe Mother and their father had agreed ahead of time to mix her by hand, bake Ruby like an artisan boule, then fight over the crumbs. At twenty-four Ruby was prematurely lovely, introverted despite or because of years of attention, and dissatisfied with where she was in life. The only people who knew the latter were those closest to Ruby; to everyone else, life for Ruby must be a perfect cocktail umbrella.

  Ruby held up the new July menu and said, “Well, this is subtle.”

  “It’s all they talk about around here. Just not to my face.” It came out bluster
y, but Stavroula was squirming on the inside. She wasn’t accustomed to being seen like this by Ruby. “You think I should invite Dad for a tasting?”

  “Better do it fast.”

  Ruby used a knife to cut the romaine into ruffled scraps. She ate in controlled bites, never going for the next one without completely finishing the first. Whereas Mother got excited over new recipes every time she came into Salt (her recent favorite ingredient was “crunchy” fennel), Ruby ordered only Caesar salads. Once, Stavroula had tried to teach her sister how to make grape leaves, the little arms of the leaf tucking in to give itself a hug. It’s like rolling weed, Ruby had said. Stavroula thought they were having a good time and was convinced Ruby was beginning to think about cooking for herself, but she didn’t come back for a second lesson. Stavroula saw little culinary curiosity in Ruby, not much interest in the outside world at all—or maybe Ruby didn’t know where to begin. Ruby, who worked hard and had a fluency of the body the way Stavroula had with food, Ruby who had enough business sense to run her own salon but was accustomed to passivity. Was that it? Stavroula jumping at the chance to take care of her sister, just like the rest of them, maybe more so. Seven years apart meant that the parents who brought up the oldest were not at all the ones who brought up the youngest. Stavroula was a chef, Ruby was a kid who still lived at home, even if she had been a woman from fifteen. As a result Stavroula was gentler, more forgiving with Ruby than she was with most people. And she was willing to admit she had no idea what her sister craved out of life.

  Whatever she wanted, it certainly wasn’t to marry one of her father’s assistants.

  Stavroula said, “Remember the time he got so pissed he threw a plate of spaghetti?” The pasta had stuck to the ceiling, dangled like streamers.

  “Yeah, that was the last time Mom cleaned up any food tantrums.” Ruby snickered. She quoted their father. “ ‘See all the abusion I take from yous?’ ” He had been justified in throwing his plate, he said, because he was a hardworking man with no peace, and all these women were taking years off his life.

  “Remember when the school asked for donations for the bake sale and he sent scrapple?”

  Ruby said, “Remember the first time he brought home a rutabaga, he tried to light it?”

  That one was good! “Like a candle.” Stavroula said, “Remember Toast Delight?” Disgusting when he nuked it.

  “Remember the pink shirt?” It hung in his closet, but it wasn’t his, he swore. He didn’t wear pink hunkies, meaning hankies, and said it must have belonged to the fruity who lived there before them. That time he got so mad at their teasing, he sent the hunky down the garbage disposal.

  Stavroula said, “Remember when Mother was sick and for the first time ever he got her a get-well card? He put it on her nightstand? He didn’t sign it or even put it in the envelope? He didn’t realize it was in braille? He didn’t even know what braille was?”

  “You always tell that one.”

  “It was just a big fat smiley face on the front of the card. No words at all. The only way to read it was to touch it?”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “He was like, ‘So that’s what those little bumps on the elevator mean.’ ”

  “Remember the time he wrote a letter to his daughters about how he’s going to die in ten days, and here’s everything that’s fucked up about them?”

  “I remember. Reminds me of the day I got my master’s in culinary arts and he called just to read the names of lawyers off his place mats.”

  Ruby pushed her plate back, and the busboy removed it wordlessly. She’d taken ten, twelve bites max. Lunch was free, of course, but a generous tip for the boys who would arrange for anything more she could want. She never wanted anything.

  Ruby said, “I’m over it.”

  “You’re not the only one.”

  “He’s so dumb. A goat comes to him in a dream, and then it shows up at the diner, and now he thinks he’s gonna die.”

  “He told you this? You went to see him?”

  Ruby said, “No, he left me a voice mail and told me not to tell any of you.”

  “This is all because of a goat? Let’s just butcher it.”

  “You can’t butcher the goat. He’s the goat,” Ruby said. “Anyway, next week we’ll get emails about how he’s starting a fig farm or something.”

  “Remember the time he planted cacti in the backyard in case he ever got cancer?”

  “I’m tired of talking about it, Stevie. He’s just whining because nobody’s paying attention to him.”

  “We never stop paying attention to him,” Stavroula said.

  Ruby smiled. It was compassionate, confident. “I do.”

  Stavroula didn’t believe her. Then she did. It was hard to tell with Ruby. Stavroula was still trying to understand the adult version of her sister. Stavroula had left home early; her father’s motto had been I Made It On My Own And So Should You, and Mother agreed with him. Or maybe it was Mother’s idea. All Stavroula knew was that suddenly, at age seventeen, she was alone and angry and taking care of herself in every way. When things got hard and she had no one to turn to, she reached out to Marina—but Marina did not get involved in family matters, that was one of Marina’s many rules. When things got desperate, Stavroula went to church—once. What Stavroula got from the one prayer she put together for God was that she was on her own. She stood, made the sign of the cross, and put herself through culinary school. She was grateful for her independence, there was no doubt about that, but those years of self-sufficiency had fermented something in her. She could feel, some days, her very veins filled with vinegar, but that was OK. Because vinegar is potent, versatile. There are a hundred and fifty common applications for vinegar. Vinegar is self-preserving. And if you wait long enough, it makes its own mother.

  Stavroula could have gone anywhere with her credentials and experience, but somehow she ended up returning to the area for the evolving Philly food scene. She was slowly working her way back into the family. She had missed all of the years that gave Ruby her nuances. She missed important stuff. Like the time Ruby was thirteen and a pack of waves almost dragged her and Mother out to the Mediterranean. They had to anchor themselves to volcanic rock, and by the time a fisherman discovered them, they had almost no fingernails. Stavroula hadn’t even heard this story until a few weeks ago, and the way Ruby told it made her think it happened to a different Ruby, which it did, because it seemed everything did. Stavroula imagined how her father must have handled that scare. Husband, protector, he had been onshore, unaware, drinking coffee . . . after they were rescued, he was still onshore, unaware, drinking coffee.

  The morning after their father sent the email, Stavroula texted Mother, YOU IN BLACK YET? Mother had texted back with a picture of herself in a vampiric black cloak, which Stavroula recognized from a costume trunk.

  Then Stavroula asked Ruby, nonchalant as she could manage, “Did you show Dave?”

  For years, their father had been demanding that Ruby break up with her boyfriend, Dave. The problem with Dave was that since he had been released from the army, all he wanted was a platoon. He spent time with his boys at intramural soccer, he spent time with his boys—none of them even in the same room, mind you—playing first-person shooters with titles like R3venge. He rolled with his boys to laser tag and the club and the diner. OK, he was taking a few college courses, but Dave had no real plan. What he said he wanted more than anything—if only Mr. Mavrakis would give him a seed loan—was to own his own business, a bicycle repair shop. What he needed, in Stavroula’s estimation, was somebody to give him orders.

  “Yeah, I sent him the email. Doesn’t matter, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s already done.”

  “What’s done?” Though she knew. Guessed, anyhow.

  “We eloped,” Ruby said. She took a nice long drink of Stavroula’s watery frappe.

  It was not the email that made Ruby elope. Ruby had eloped three days before the
email. She did not tell her sisters about it. She did not tell Mother, but Mother found out, of course. Mother was arranging Ruby’s things. Ruby did not like anyone to touch her shit, but Mother was an exception. Mother was installing a brand-new closet organizer, because the day before, Ruby, overwhelmed, had said she was going to throw all of her burning, flaming shit off an overpass and into the Delaware. She wanted something different, couldn’t she have something for herself and for Dave? That was why Mother was picking up Ruby’s clothes from the bedroom floor and sorting them—to alleviate Ruby’s stress. Stavroula had dropped by the house but Mother didn’t hear her come in. Stavroula was going to announce herself but felt, as the seconds built on each other, that she had no right to be there. She couldn’t bring herself to break the silence. Instead she watched unseen as Mother lovingly picked up Ruby’s things, stacking the jeans with the seams facing one way. That folding, each pair of pants stacked on another, was how Mother sensed a similar layering happening in her daughter’s life. Pant leg on pant leg, hand on hand. Spirit on spirit, voice on voice. The seams in the heap of denim ran together to spell a message: Mrs. This was the story that Mother told, anyway, a few minutes later when Ruby called to tell her the news.

  “I knew it, goddamnit,” she breathed. “He better be ready to give you a good life.”

  Ruby said something Stavroula couldn’t make out. Mother responded, “We can do it together now,” and she began listing ideas for a wedding. There would be a harp player. Downstairs Stavroula put the oven on low, warmed up the tray of lasagna that she had baked for Mother, and went back to her one-bedroom in Philadelphia. She wondered if Ruby was pregnant.

  Her father was right; Dave could have used more ambition. The way Dave spoke reminded Stavroula of some kind of nut butter—words and thoughts stuck to the roof of his mouth. But, honestly, who would be good enough for Ruby? Something Stavroula and her father had in common, and Litza, and Mother: they wanted only the best for her.