I saw Lefterio what you wrote to me about your aunt Stella that she and her husband left for Argentina but that was a mistake. Things are much better in Athens than in Argentina where great poverty has fallen the whole place is poor it would have been much better for them to go to Canada than to go there they will regret it and wont stay long before they leave. Poverty is a terrible thing my Leferitsa here too we have many expenses I have my son Thodoris in California studying at the university who needs 2,000 dollars a year and it will take him 4 years to finish so Stella did wrong to go to Argentina but thats how it is so many people talk of leaving Greece and its best for them to go anywhere at all they might as well go anywhere since there is poverty all over now even here in America many people are without jobs and stay home and live off the state which is why it is so hard today for a person to imigrate to America because things are not too good and every year there are fewer jobs and so Ill stop there.
On Saturday my husband and I went to see Eftychia Karatzakis and stayed there most of the day. She and her husband will leave on May 20 to go home to Crete. I asked her if I could put together a little package I begged her a thousand times but she said no because she says she has too many things and cant take anything else. In the end I started crying and asked if I could send at least one little dress a dress for my Lefteritsa who I love so much and she said yes and so I am sending you a dress Lefterio so you can wear it on the feast day of Agios Pavlos and go to church and remember your godmother who is in foreign lands.
I saw Lefterio that you wrote to me that I should take care to find you a husband even if hes old so that you can come here. My sweet one just as a blind man wants to see the day so too do I want to bring my people here to save them from the troubles of Greece because its true that here it is a real paradise. But if imigration was open the way you write everyone would pack their bags and come to America not just from Crete but from the whole world. Ever since I came I have been trying to bring my brother Spiros and havent been able yesterday I went again to the imigration office with my husband Fotis and they told me I have to be married for 3 years to have the right as an American to invite someone. And my aunt Maragkoudaina in Koufo asked me to make a place for her granddaughter Athina in my home and I answered her that I cant and my aunt got angry and stopped writing to me. There are strict laws Lefterio because if it was that way all of Greece would pack its bags and come here. I know my dear that life is very dramatic like you write to me and that your heart hurts and I tell you my heart hurts too because I love you so much my good little girl which I know you are and I know you deserve a good fate my dear sweet good girl but I think you will understand that I have only been here a short while and I am not yet an American. The law says that I have to be married to an American citizen for 3 years in order to invite one of my own people here.
Lefterio please do not be sad I beg you. I beg you please do not do anything silly of the kind you write to me because it is a shame and unjust to God for a golden girl like you to have her heart poisoned like that. God is great my Lefteria. Be patient thats all I write to you.
I send greetings to everyone from my husband Fotis and from all my children give all my greetings to my relations your parents and to all your brothers and sisters and may we meet soon and please give my greetings to everyone and to all the neighbors and anyone who asks after us.
Goodbye and as a gift from me your godmother Eleni Varipatakis in my next letter I will send you a memento two dollars to remember me and to buy yourself a pensil.
• • •
My father comes into the kitchen. He sets the basin on the table and takes off the orange gloves and washes his hands at the sink. Then he sits and smooths his hair which the wind had mussed and reaches for one of my cigarettes. His hands are shaking, his palms are red and wrinkled. Who knows how many loads of wash he did again today.
I’m making lamb chops, he says. And Dina from next door brought pastitsio. I’m not eating meat but I’ll boil some greens.
But he doesn’t get up from the chair. He sits with his elbows on the table twirling the lit end of his cigarette against the ashtray and staring at the letters spread before him.
I get up and pour another tsikoudia and look out the window. I can see the cream-colored bra and the panties with the kitten on them fluttering on the line. It occurs to me to ask if they were a present from him. Because I can’t imagine my mother going into a store and buying something like that. Panties with a kitten on them. Jesus. I certainly can’t imagine her wearing them. Panties with a kitten. A kitten with a red bow. My mother.
Did you read them?
He stubs out his cigarette and sweeps the pile of papers over to his side of the table and starts to neaten them.
Not all.
On the very top of the pile is the postcard with the ship. He grabs it and brings it up to his eyes then flips it over. He rests his glasses on his forehead and rubs his eyes with two fingers. He looks at the blue envelope with the red ribbon that I’ve set aside and the long letter from Atlant Siri. He picks up the ribbon and wraps it around his hand and ties a bow and then puts it in his coat pocket.
Did you read this one? he asks.
I did.
A thousand times better, he says. A thousand times better if she had left. They have good doctors there hospitals and machines and things. They don’t just let people die like a dog in the vineyard. Of course not. America America, he sings. How right they are who say your streets are paved with dreams of gold.
He rubs his eyes again, harder this time. The refrigerator is making strange noises. Crick Crack. As if there’s something alive in there that wants to get out. I read the tiny letters on the freezer door. I read the brand of the stove and of the toaster and of the clock on the wall. I’ll look at anything to avoid my father’s eyes.
Give me some of that.
He grabs my glass and takes a few sips. His Adam’s apple slowly rises then sinks back down to its place.
He sets the glass on the table and then stands and picks up the basin.
I’ve got a load of dark clothes in the machine, he says.
In the doorway he pauses and pulls his glasses down off his forehead and looks at me.
I didn’t know she wanted to go to America. What does it say in the letter? You wrote that I should find you a husband even if he’s old. She was sixteen years old. You know? Just a girl, sixteen years old. And she wanted to get married even if the groom was old. I never knew. I swear to you. She never said a thing to me. Forty-three years together and she never said a thing. Other people did, though. Sure. I heard from other people. We all take a secret with us to the grave. Big or small everyone has one. People told me but I didn’t believe. Impossible, I said. Lefteria and I won’t ever have secrets. Not in life and not in death, either. That’s what I said. Big words, sure. But I believed it. God knows I believed it. And now what’ll happen, can you tell me that? How are we supposed to live now.
He turns his head and looks at the letters splayed out over the table. His eyes seem so small and red behind his glasses. Two strange creatures staring petrified at the world from behind a glass wall.