The Cut (Spero Lucas) (5 page)

He lived in the District, but in his head he was never far from his boyhood home, just over the line in Maryland. He ate and drank here frequently with his brother, dates, and friends, and took his coffee at Kefa Café on Bonifant because he liked to visit with the lovely sisters, Lene and Abeba, who owned the shop. Wasn’t ever a day he came out here that he didn’t see folks he knew, the barbers up at Afrikuts; the Hispanic men standing beside their beloved 4Runners; the Wanderer, a guy who walked with a staff and wore a flowing robe; and the women who stood at Silver Spring Avenue and
Thayer and yelled at passing cars. He’d see dudes he’d played basketball with at the courts on Sligo or more serious hoops on the Chicago Ave courts, over by Montgomery College. And there were those people he didn’t see but were spoken of, young men and women who had gone off to college, become professionals of some sort, and never returned; others who were in lockup in places like Clarksburg or, if they had done their dirt in D.C., prisons in North Carolina or Illinois.

The moving pictures flickered through his mind constantly when he walked and rode these streets. He saw his brother Leo in his red vest, working his first job with the Gross boys up at the hardware store; and his brother Dimitrius, on his skateboard by the library park, strung out on speed and scary thin; and his sister, Irene, sullen, wearing black, catching smokes with her black-clad friends; and his mom, always gregarious, stopping to talk to neighbors as she walked her dogs. Mostly he saw his father, Evangelos “Van” Lucas, everywhere he looked. In the Safeway, exchanging Christmas cards with the grocery store employee and elder martial artist Mr. Vong; gassing up his Chevy truck outside the Texaco; on Selim, bullshitting with the auto body guys; in the breezeway where the Fred Folsom bust of Norman Lane, “the Mayor,” a fondly remembered, now-deceased homeless man, was on display; in the alley behind Bell Flowers where his father had often walked; at the homeless shelter where he had dropped off his old clothing; and on the ball fields where he had watched Spero and Leo compete.

Lucas had been away. Now staying close to home was a comfort.

HIS MOTHER
still lived in the house in which he’d been raised, a yellow bungalow with a deep backyard, set on the crest of a hill. Lucas’s father, who knew many contractors, had blown out the back of the house and raised its roof as their family eventually grew to six. The home’s renovation had rendered it architecturally incorrect, but it suited their needs.

Lucas parked and walked toward the house, noting that Leo’s car, a Hyundai something-or-other, was on the street. Two dogs, Cheyenne and Yuma, began to bark exuberantly behind the screen door as Lucas approached. Both were mixed breed, short haired, and on the large side, with tan-yellow coats. Cheyenne had a Lab’s head on a boxer’s body; Yuma was mostly Lab. Eleni Lucas had adopted them at the Humane Society on Georgia at Geranium, against Van’s fake protests. Shilo, now gone, a yellow Lab-pit mix, had been their first. Eleni was the type to bring in anyone, human or animal, who needed a home. Despite his mostly feigned gruff exterior, Van Lucas had been that kind of person, too.

“Out the way, dogs,” said Lucas as he entered the house, nudging Yuma, the younger and more boisterous of the two, aside with his knee. He patted them and rubbed behind their ears as they flanked him, their tails wagging and windmilling as they walked into the small living room. On the mantel above a brick fireplace sat photographs of their large and scattered family: Irene, now an attorney in San Francisco, the Lucases’ oldest, their sole biological child, distant geographically and emotionally; Dimitrius, a longtime drug addict and thief, in and out of lockup, who only called his
mother when he needed cash, currently in the wind, location unknown; and Leo and Spero, the two siblings who had stayed nearby. Their photos ranged from toddler to adult: Leo in a basketball uniform, Spero in wrestling singlet, Leo with his students, Spero in his dress blues. Scattered among photos of their children were those of Van and Eleni: shaggy haired and pink-eyed in the seventies; Van leaning on the bed of his Silverado at a job site; the two of them walking arm-in-arm out the doors of St. Sophia after their wedding ceremony, smiling, ducking rice; and the various group family portraits, the frames of the photographs progressively crowded as new babies and dogs arrived, the parents looking increasingly older, tired but happy, an odd-looking bunch to outsiders but perfectly normal to them—two Greek American adults, two black kids, two white kids, and various yellow mutts.

“Everything’s all right now,” said Spero, walking into the kitchen. “I’m here.”

“The prodigal son,” said Leo.

Spero noticed a bunch of white and yellow daisies that Leo, no doubt, had brought lying on the counter. Eleni was standing before the island Van had promised and delivered when he redid the kitchen. On the granite surface was a glass of red wine.

“Hey, Ma.”

“Hi, honey.”

She kissed him on the cheek and they hugged. Eleni was in her early sixties, with dark hair, lively hazel eyes, and a full figure. She had put on ten pounds in her fifties, but it had stopped there. Her neck had begun to turkey. She was a
lovely woman, but laugh lines and grief had marked her face, and she looked her age.

“We need a vase for those flowers,” said Eleni.

“I’ll get it,” said Leo. They had only one and he knew where it was. The tallest in the family at six-foot-one, Leo was the go-to guy for items placed on the cabinet’s top shelf.

“You boys want a beer?” said Eleni.

“I’m all right for now,” said Spero.

“I got that Stella you like.”

“All right.”

“Leo?” said Eleni.

“He’d prefer a microbrew,” said Spero.

“Screw you,
malaka
.”

“Leonidas,”
said Eleni.

Malaka
meant “jerkoff.” It was a noun and oddly enough was used as a term of endearment for Greeks.

“I’ll have a Stella, Mom,” said Leo.

She got them a couple of beers out of the side-by-side and popped the caps. They could have gotten the beer themselves, but it pleased their Greek mother to serve them. By the time she handed them the bottles, they were commenting on each other’s sartorial choices, an inevitable progression of their conversation.

“You didn’t have to dress up for Mom,” said Leo.

Spero was in his usual 501s, low black Adidas Forums on his feet. He pinched a piece of his long-sleeve Bud Ekins T and held it out. “Johnson Motors,” he said, a bit hurt. “Special order out of California.”

“Look more like
General
Motors to me. You wear that to the factory? When you’re carryin your lunch pail?”

“Least I’m not wearing the tablecloth from an Italian restaurant,” said Spero.

“It’s gingham, Spero.” Leo was particular about his clothing. He favored Hickey Freeman suits and Brooks Brothers casual when he could afford it. He was impeccably groomed and, with liquid brown eyes and an easy smile, handsome as a movie star.

“Last time I saw one of those, it had spaghetti sauce on it.”

“You’re confusing my shirt with your undershirt.”

“Are you two hungry?” said Eleni. “Or do you want to wait?”

“What are we havin, Ma?”

“Kota me manestra,”
said Eleni.

“I’m ready
now
,” said Leo.

“Set the table, then,” said Eleni. Before the words finished leaving her mouth, her sons had begun to mobilize.

THEY ATE
dinner at a glass-top table on the screened-in porch out back. Golden time had come and gone and dusk had arrived. Eleni had lit candles and the dogs slept beneath the table. The diners were high above the yard at tree level, and branches and leaves brushed at the screen. A half mile over the District line and they were in a canopy of green.

The table was heavy with food. In the center sat a whole chicken roasted with garlic and lemon on a bed of orzo in tomato sauce, a large bowl of salad, bread, and a plate of
tarama
, olives, and feta cheese.

Eleni poured herself another glass of wine. Spero and Leo were still working on their first beers.

“Pass me that
manestra
,” said Leo.

“Again?” said Spero.

“I can’t stop eating it, man.”

“Fas na pachinis,”
said Eleni.

“He’s already grown, Ma,” said Spero, passing the orzo to Leo. “He’s not gonna get taller if he eats more, he’s just gonna get fat.”

“Do you see any fat on me?” said Leo. “
Do
you?”

“A little in your
peesheenaw
,” said Spero. He was speaking of Leo’s behind.

“You were givin it a good inspection, huh?”

“You can’t help but see it. It’s like a billboard.”

“That’s all muscle back there,” said Leo. “That’s why I can’t wear those skinny Levi’s like you do. I got a man’s build.”

“Your father used to tell me to buy you Lees,” said Eleni, looking at Leo. “And he’d say, get Levi’s for Spero.”

“Lees had more room in the back,” said Spero helpfully. “To accommodate your manly build.”

“In the front, too,” said Leo.

“Stop it,” said Eleni. “More
salata
, Spero?”

“Entaxi,”
said Spero, telling her that he was fine.

They spoke a combination of Greek and English when they were home. It made their mother happy. Neither Spero nor Leo was Greek by blood, but, somewhat defiantly, they considered themselves to be honorary Greeks. Both were Orthodox, raised in the church. Of the four Lucas children, they were the ones who had attended Greek school, an after-public-school program, when they were young, which they loathed at the time but which paid off with dividends later
on. Both had played basketball in the Greek Orthodox Youth of America league as well. Spero had been a wrestler primarily but was a strong athlete and had held his own on the courts. Leo had been a standout point guard in high school, and in the church league he tore it up. He was thirty years old, and it had been twelve years since he had last played GOYA, but in the Baltimore-Washington corridor Greek guys of his generation, even those who had cursed him at one time, and a few who had muttered racial epithets under their breath at him, now spoke of
Mavro Leo
with reverence.

“Your sister called me,” said Eleni.

“Epitelos,”
said Spero. It meant, roughly, that it was about time.

“What’d
she
want?” said Leo.

“Just to catch up,” said Eleni, noticing the look between Leo and Spero. Irene, the eldest of the siblings, rarely called home and visited even less frequently. She had made her break from the family long ago and had not looked back. As for Dimitrius, their older brother, Eleni knew not to mention his name in front of her younger sons. Leo in particular had no love for his older brother, whom he simply called the Degenerate, and couldn’t forgive the stress he had put on their parents. Leo didn’t care about his whereabouts or how he was doing. Eleni, of course, had forgiven Dimitrius for everything and would have embraced him without reservation if he were to walk through the front door. She didn’t speak on Dimitrius to Spero and Leo, but he was still in her thoughts constantly, and she prayed for him every day.

“What’s goin on with Irene?” said Spero, not much caring, appeasing his mother.

“She just won a case. Some corporate thing.”

“Big money,” said Leo.

“I suppose.” Eleni had a sip of wine, looked at the glass, and killed what was left. “How’s work going, Leo?”

“Good,” said Leo. “I got this class, all boys. I’m really enjoying it, and I think they are, too.” He looked at Spero. “You’re coming to visit, right?”

“For career day?”

“We don’t call it that. I bring in people who have had success, from different backgrounds, to show the boys their options. You got a story, man.”

“I’ll come in if you want me to.” Spero pushed his plate away. “What are they reading in your class,
The Scarlet Letter
, somethin like that?”

“We’re finishing up an Elmore Leonard,” said Leo.

“Which one?”

“
Unknown Man #89
.”

“Good one.”

“Hell, yeah.”

“You can do that?”

“I gotta clear it, but I can teach pretty much any book I want.”

“You’re enjoying it,” said Eleni.

“I am,” said Leo. “I found my calling.”

“Better watch out for the big boss,” said Spero. “That superintendent gets a wild hair up her ass and you might be out on the street.”

“She’s not gonna fire me, man,” said Leo. “I
do
my job.”

“What about you, Spero?” said Eleni, her eyes slightly unfocused. “How’s things?”

“I’m busy.”

“Working on anything in particular?”

“Nothing serious,” said Spero, not wishing to worry his mother. “A little bit of this and that.”

THE MEN
had cleared the table and were sitting back out on the porch. Eleni was in the kitchen washing dishes, nipping at another glass of wine. Dark had come to the backyard, the lights from the candles moving across their faces with the passing breeze.

“So who was that woman at your apartment when I called?” said Spero.

“Girl name Kyra. She’s all right.”

“Stray cat or house cat?”

“Stray.”

“What about that teacher at your school?”

“We still hang out,” said Leo. “You seein that lawyer?”

“She’s not a lawyer yet. I like her.”

“How much?”

“We’re having a nice time.” Spero looked through the open French doors of the screened porch to the kitchen. “Mom’s hitting it pretty good tonight.”

“She’s happy we’re here.”

“You think it’s that? That this is a special night for her and she’s having an extra couple of glasses to celebrate? Or do you think that it’s like that
every
night for her?”

“I don’t know,” said Leo. “Gotta be hard for her to navigate her life without Dad. To figure out where it’s going next. I think you oughtta, you know, lighten up some. Let her flounder a little if that’s what she needs to do. If that means an extra glass of wine or two a night, so be it.”