War Games (19 page)

“Has something happened to Papa?” Sophie cried. “I thought you were all together.”

Petros didn’t even try to answer. Their voices rose around him, and the dog’s barking was especially sharp. It was a comfort, nearly.

The house felt cool as they entered in a clump of family bodies clinging to each other, the kitchen looked dark after his run in the white sunlight. Mama said, “Why didn’t you come home with your father?” as she let him fall into a chair.

“Auntie needed him,” Petros said, answering her worry. “Old Mario too,” and here Petros let his head rest on the
kitchen table, hot tears burning beneath his eyelids. “Stavros is dead.”

There was a sudden noise at a distance, Sophie shouting, and Mama argued with Zola, who wanted to run back to town. Mama pulled Petros upright and set a cool wet cloth against his face, and the noise of his family rushed at him again.

He knew there was something else he was to say, the answer to this, but he couldn’t bring it to mind. He heard the rustle of the kite tail in the book bag and leaned away from the chair.

At that moment Papa’s truck came through the open gate. Zola ran outside, his dog fast behind him. Sophie ran too, getting to the door just ahead of Petros and Mama.

Papa pulled up at the steps to the kitchen.

“Mama!” Sophie cried, and covered her eyes at the sight of Old Mario in the truck bed with Stavros’s bloodied body.

Sophie leaned against the door frame and slid to the floor, blocking the doorway. Mama slapped the wet towel, still in her hands, to the back of Sophie’s head. “You have to get out of the way,” she said, pulling at Sophie.

Zola climbed into the truck, touching Stavros’s leg, and said to Petros, “He isn’t dead, stupid.”

“Zola!” This was Papa and Mama together.

“I
thought he was dead,” Papa said, perhaps defending Petros but also telling Mama what had happened.

Old Mario said, “It was perhaps the luckiest wound anyone
ever received. The doctor came running and stopped the bleeding. But it’s only a little flesh missing.”

“Get up,” Mama told Sophie, pulling at her again. “You have to help Auntie.” The old lady sat in the truck, weeping. Sophie dragged herself up.

“We’ve told her and told her he’s breathing,” Papa said, “but she believes Stavros is gone.”

Helped by Zola, Old Mario lifted Stavros into Papa’s arms. “Thanks to the doctor’s quick thinking,” Old Mario said, “the whole village believes he’s dead.”

Zola took the weight of Stavros’s legs as they carried him into the house. “I’m going up to the roof,” Old Mario said.

Sophie reached through the truck window. “Auntie, don’t cry. Auntie, let’s go into the kitchen.”

They carried Stavros through the house, the dog nearly tripping them as he scurried around them. Papa ignored the dog as he said, “… the gun at his head. The man moved a little before he pulled the trigger, and the bullet nicked Stavros’s ear. A lot of blood, but not likely to kill him.”

They laid him on Zola’s bed.

Mama hurried back to the kitchen, where she grabbed a handful of clean dish towels and pumped a bowl of water. Sophie came in at the kitchen, pulling Auntie along, nearly carrying her.

Petros hung back in the hallway. He wanted to help Sophie, who kept up a running stream of words in a voice that was anything but reassuring.

But he also wanted to be where Stavros was, and followed Mama back to the bedroom, where he hovered in the doorway.

Papa had stripped away the bloody clothing and covered Stavros with the sheet.

Mama soaked a towel and wrung it nearly dry to wipe the dirt off Stavros’s face. This seemed to bother him, but he went on sleeping.

Zola asked, “Why doesn’t he wake up?”

“The doctor gave him something to make him sleep,” Papa said, sounding … not cheerful, but so relieved it could have been mistaken for cheerfulness. “The bleeding cleaned the wound, which is good. Only, the doctor says, maybe his hearing will suffer. Such a blast so close to the ear is bad.”

Mama scolded with her tongue, a sign she would be angry over something later. Anything. Nothing.

Papa added, “He’s alive, and we can’t improve on that.”

Zola said, “We can’t hide him in the well.”

Petros said, “Uncle Spiro.” All of them looked at him, including Mama. “Take Stavros and Auntie to Uncle Spiro’s farm,” Petros said.

“It’s the best we can do,” Mama said, getting up. “If Stavros can travel, he should be taken to his mother.” She went back to the kitchen, and Petros followed her.

Sophie and Auntie had gotten no farther than the kitchen table and waited to hear about Stavros. Mama looked alarming, Petros thought, in her bloodied apron, telling good news.

Auntie cried, but differently, as if she finally believed
Stavros lived. Despite the good news that he was in fact a lucky bird that day, Sophie remained badly upset.

“Sophie, go to your room,” Mama said as she pumped clean water.

When Old Mario called down from the stairs that all remained clear on the road to the village, the fright came back to Auntie’s face. Petros urged the old lady to her feet. “Auntie, come see Stavros. See what’s true.”

Auntie leaned on Petros, but also she pushed him ahead of her. When they reached the bedroom, Papa had taken over where Mama left off, cleaning the dirt off Stavros.

“If he’s going to live,” Auntie said, wearing the frown so familiar from Stavros’s face, “take him to Spiro, who can take him to Hypatia. I can’t see him killed again.”

Mama returned from the kitchen and talked constantly as she bandaged Stavros, trying to persuade Auntie to go too, but the old lady kept saying, “No. No.”

Mama sent Petros outside with shorts and two shirts for Stavros. The bottle of iodine. Papa was filling the gas tank as Zola threw buckets of water across the truck bed. Old Mario swept the blood out with a broom.

Papa sent Petros back inside. “Fold two blankets for Stavros to lie on.”

It was a simple thing to do, but Sophie helped him in that big-sister way of hers. “Whose bag is this?” she asked, pulling on the book bag Petros still wore.

“It belongs to Stavros,” he said. He dropped it on the table.

And as he carried the blankets outside, Sophie carried the book bag. “It weighs nothing,” she said, shaking it. “What’s inside?”

“Dead bugs,” Petros said, and caught the bag as she dropped it.

Zola had just finished mopping up the water in the truck bed. When Sophie went back inside, he asked, “What is it really?”

“A kite tail.” Petros opened the bag and showed Zola, who laughed.

Together they laid the blankets out in the truck bed. “We should send the kite with Stavros,” Petros told Zola.

“All right, all right,” Zola said in an irritated way.

“We don’t dare fly it anyway,” Petros said. “Papa would kill us for sure.”

“Still, it doesn’t hurt to dream,” Zola said.

Petros could hardly breathe. Zola wasn’t talking to him as the big brother talking to a little one. He was speaking simply as one brother to another.

Zola looked up from straightening the blanket. “What will he do for string?”

“I have string,” Petros said. “I’ll go get it.”

Zola jumped out of the truck, going for the kite. Petros heard him on the stairs to the roof. He set the book bag next to the box of clothing, then ran to the arbor for the balls of silken string. Holding them against his chest, he ran back to the truck, where everyone was gathering.

Papa was carrying Stavros out to the truck, but it was Auntie who stood with arms lifted as if she were doing the job.

“Burn it,” Papa said, having seen the kite as Zola came down the stairs. But Zola lifted the corner of the blankets, laid the kite flat, and threw the blankets back over it.

“Is it a kite?” Auntie asked. “He loves kites.”

“It’s nothing American,” Petros said, and quickly tossed the silken balls into the box with the clothing and tomatoes. “It will make Stavros live and be well. If it doesn’t get broken.”

Mama’s eyes sharpened at seeing the color of those balls, but she had her hands full with Auntie, who looked less lost every minute. Auntie was shouting instructions of her own as she climbed into the seat and briskly rolled down the window.

Old Mario climbed into the truck bed, helping Papa with Stavros. He placed Stavros’s legs over the area where the kite was hidden. The frame was strong enough to bear that much weight, Petros felt sure.

Papa looked torn, but was distracted when Zola said, “Let me come.”

Papa said, “It’s your job to think Stavros is dead, as Petros thought Stavros was dead. Help your mother and sister lay out a table for mourning. That’s your job.”

“You’re right,” Zola said as Papa got behind the wheel. “I didn’t think.”

“It’s good to know you sometimes rest from all that thinking,” Papa said. “Put a hen in a burlap sack and go trade the fishmonger.”

“I’ll do that,” Old Mario said, climbing back off the truck bed. “I’m an old man. This is too much for me. Take your grown son with you.”

Papa hesitated, then nodded. Zola stepped up into the truck, his face looking sunburned but satisfied. As Papa drove away, Mama told Sophie they had to kill a few chickens.

“No one has died,” Old Mario muttered. “Kill just one.”

“It can’t be helped,” Mama said.

Petros knew Mama would have things to tell him about the table, even though they had no dead to mourn. He would simply do as he was told. He allowed himself a minute to watch the truck out of sight, the road dust beginning to settle at the front gate.

Stavros would be with Lambros—that’s what he wanted most.

Across the street, Elia stepped out from behind a tree. He’d seen the whole thing, Petros thought, even if all he saw was Stavros carried out to the truck and Papa driving away.

Old Mario looked doubtfully at the burlap sack when he was ready to go. “What if the fishmonger wants more than one chicken?”

“Tell him his fish are dead,” Mama said. “The hen lays an egg a day.”

Mama’s courage began to fail at thinking of how many villagers would come to the church in the village. “It’s a necessary lie,” she said worriedly. “But one I’ve begun to dread living with.”

Sophie had recovered enough to help in the kitchen, but not enough to argue this with Mama. It fell to Petros to keep saying, “Everything will be fine. Fine.”

He and Sophie put two tables together in the kitchen and set out as many chairs as they could lay hands on. Some of these were in the cellar. Petros made quick work of it, passing the chairs upward to Mama and Sophie and then putting the room back to rights, sliding the bed over the cellar door.

They’d just finished with this when Old Mario returned,
saying, “The fish weighs less than the chicken.” He seemed to want to grumble about this some more, but the commander drove into the yard. Less than an hour after Papa had gone, which made his hasty departure wise.

The commander came into the house at the front and knocked on the kitchen door. Mama opened it, wringing her hands, real tears of fright in her eyes. Her anger rose to meet the commander. “This was a terrible thing for my son to see.”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” the commander said. He tried to walk the border of being the colonel, but also he showed real sadness. “A mistake.”

He almost whispered, asking, “Your husband has not returned, Mrs.?”

Mama nodded. “He’s gone to tell the rest of the family.” Her tears looked convincing to Petros, who remembered immediately how terrible he’d felt, running home believing Stavros had been killed.

Sophie ran to be at Mama’s back.

The commander said, “I tried. I couldn’t stop it.”

Petros remained where he stood. Many mistakes happened, but what Petros saw was no different from the things he’d heard about over the radio. He couldn’t accept this apology.

There were no tears in Sophie’s eyes. In the end it may have been the hatred Sophie didn’t hide that convinced the commander.

Or it may have been Elia, who came to the back door and
stood silently, waiting to be invited in. A long moment of no one speaking, no one moving, followed his appearance.

Elia’s grandmother broke this silence, coming through the front door without knocking. She wore her black dress for mourning. She believed Stavros to be dead.

She put her arms around Mama, saying, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

This by itself was kind and courageous. But especially the scowling look she gave the commander for bothering the bereaved family convinced him.

Mama gave Petros and Sophie a nervous glance. What could she say but what Petros had told them after running home?

Only Petros knew what Elia had seen, and even he didn’t know what Elia thought of it.

Mama looked relieved to see Papa’s truck turn into the yard and stop quickly, gravel spitting out from under the tires. She met him on the veranda, but the commander had already stepped outside. All she could say was said with tears.

“How’s the boy?” the commander asked.

“He lived for an hour,” Papa said. This was a smart lie, Petros realized, because no one in the village knew otherwise. But some people might know he hadn’t died right away.

The commander apologized all over again, his voice breaking over the words
the boy’s death
. For some reason, these words tore a sob from Petros’s chest.

Mama did her part, pulling Petros into her arms so
forcefully he couldn’t have resisted. Still, Petros felt the way the commander watched them, listened, his attention enough to take the breath away.

“I took my older son with me when I drove the body to my brother,” Papa told the commander, “and I left my son there to help with his grandmother.”

“About the man we’re looking for …,” the commander began.

“Lambros has been mad since boyhood,” Old Mario said. An impressive lie. “The family didn’t know where he is.”

Papa went on, saying, “He’s been away for many years.” Petros hadn’t known his father or Old Mario were capable of such excellent lies. He pulled away from Mama’s shoulder.

“I know the rumors,” Papa said. “But it does the boy and his grandmother a great wrong to think they’d hide him. I tell you the truth, even though it endangers
my
children to anger you.”