In the final week of October, at last, a packet from Fort McCoy arrives in the mail. The packet contains three letters, each composed in different handwriting. The names of the three authors have been, to use the government term, redacted. Hawk had used the word when I visited him at Camp McCoy. When I looked it up in our dictionary, I learned that scribes used knives, in ancient times, to scrape sensitive data from parchment, and that monks would redact sacred texts by selectively blacking out certain information. So the tradition of redaction is long and esteemed.
The names of the three authors are not the only words that have been redacted. The first letter reads:
XXX XX, 1945
Sergeant Hawkins,
It has been XXX XXXX since I left Camp McCoy and began serving my country. I will always be grateful to you for preparing me for battle. I believe that I would not still be alive if you had not taught me the skills I needed, and employed, in the war – especially when I was at XXXXXXXXXXXXX.
I am back home now, and I have been thinking a lot about the men who served with me, many of whom did not return, it makes me sad to say. I am thinking especially about Nicholas Pappas. I know you will hear stories from other men about Nicholas – how he served and how he died. You trained Nicholas, so you know the truth about him – that he was always a good soldier, a good man, and a good friend to many of us. I will never forget the day when he XXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX during XXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX.
Nicholas Pappas was my friend, and I am not the only one who will remember him this way, and who will miss him. Whatever else you might hear, you should know that Nicholas was never anything other than a patriot, and that he lived and died honorably.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXX, XXXXXX
The other letters are similar. I consider sharing them with Mama and Papa. Each of the authors affirm, in their own way, what we all believe about Nicholas, about his character. But I realize that all three letters insinuate something that I do not myself understand and that I cannot explain. I had told Thea about my trip to Camp McCoy, and of course she knows about the two St. Louis letters, so I have only a brief moment’s hesitation about sharing these new letters with her. For now, and perhaps forever, all this will have to remain a secret from Mama and Papa.
It sounds like these are men you and Nicholas might have trained with at Camp McCoy, Thea offers. That’s something, isn’t it?
But as I explain to Thea, Sergeant Hawkins was training young men at Camp McCoy even before Pearl Harbor, so the odds are long that Nicholas and I trained with any of the three authors during the same period. In short, the letters reassure me that my brother served honorably, but they tell me nothing about how he died. Whatever else you might hear… Each letter includes some variation of these cryptic words.
Thea, I can see, is trying to think of something so say to console me.
It’s all right, I say finally. If there are some things we’ll never know, that’s just something we have to live with.
Thea knows that I am speaking empty words.
Our third child, a boy, is born on March 23, 1955. It has been nearly ten years since Nicholas was killed. At one time, Thea and I had decided to name our first boy after my brother. But giving his name to another Pappas now feels oddly like erasing Nicholas rather than honoring him. I do not know if Mama and Papa would feel the same way, but Thea and I settle on the name Leander – which has no roots in either one of our family trees. In Greek mythology, Leander was a strong, courageous, romantic figure. Leander Pappas. Thea likes the name, and Mama and Papa approve.
Tessa is nearly two, about the same age Maggie was when her sister was born. So Thea and I have the same talk with Tessa about the significance of her graduation out the crib, and our two daughters begin sharing a bed in the Utility Room. Leander takes over the crib, which is moved back into our bedroom.
If Thea and I had been able to stay in our old house, it would have fit our family well. I think about this often, especially during Leander’s frequent, very loud crying spells, which keeps everyone awake. Leander might mean Heart of a Lion, but Leander Pappas has the voice of an angry goat and the stamina of a workhorse. Like Maggie, our son cries for indeterminate reasons. But unlike Maggie, Leander is not placated with long drives in the car. I take him out to the car anyway, driving him along the lakefront as I did with Maggie, enduring his weeping. I do it so that Mama and Papa and Thea and the girls can have an hour or so of quiet in the house. I drive with the windows down, and I think about our old house and the field with the wildflowers behind it.
I also think about Mrs. Apostolos’s old house, which would have served us for a time, although I recognize that it might not have worked for our present family of five. Max Farley, dependable to a fault, found a family for that house as well, and it seems that this new family has settled in happily. As for Mrs. Apostolos, she has been in steady decline for several years now. Being a grandmother when Maggie was born brought her some joy, initially. And her job in the front office at Washington Elementary School affords her a regular social outlet, in addition to paying the bills. But she has shown little interest in spending time with Tessa, and no interest in getting to know Leander. I can certainly understand how losing her husband so early in her marriage, and then losing her only son in the war, and finally watching her only daughter marry and move out of the house – how all this could have left Mrs. Apostolos untethered and without a good reason to get up in the morning. And on some mornings, Thea tells me – on weekends or when school is otherwise not in session – her mother chooses to not get up at all.
One day, Mrs. Apostolos does not answer her phone. Thea calls her mother every morning at 8:30, and they find something to talk about for ten or fifteen minutes. So when the phone rings and rings and Mrs. Apostolos does not pick it up, it is cause for worry. Thea tells me that she needs me to drive her to the apartment. We leave the children with Mama and Papa. Leander, thankfully, is sleeping.
Thea knocks and then lets herself into the apartment without waiting for a reply. The living room is in disarray, which seems very unusual. Admittedly, I am an infrequent visitor, but I have never known Mrs. Apostolos to go to bed at night without making sure that everything is in its place. A water glass, half full, sits on the coffee table. A sweater is thrown over the back of the sofa. A pair of house slippers is lying in the middle of the room. Not exactly a mess, but highly uncharacteristic of my mother-in-law.
I wait while Thea enters the bedroom. I can hear my wife calling for her mother, but there is no answer. Then Thea knocks on the bathroom door, and I hear a weak reply. A moment later, Thea summons me.
You need to call the ambulance. She doesn’t remember what happened, but I think it’s her heart. Call the ambulance and tell them it’s an emergency.
Alone in the waiting room, I try to imagine how we are possibly going to navigate the next few weeks. Mrs. Apostolos was alert when the ambulance arrived. She spoke coherently to the attendants and even tried standing up on her own. So I expect that she will survive whatever this is. But I know that, once she is discharged, Thea will not want her mother to be alone in the apartment – and if Thea moves in with her, short-term, I have no idea how we will manage the three children in the afternoons. Maggie and Tessa are well-behaved, and they can probably entertain each other at my mother-in-law’s place. But having Leander in the apartment... Not for the first time, I ask myself what possessed Thea and me to have a third child, given the situation we are in. If children are God’s blessing, as Father Gregory reminds us every Sunday morning, Thea and I are being blessed beyond our resources and our capacities.
When Thea returns to the waiting room, it seems that she has also been trying to puzzle out the logistics. So it is her heart. She’ll be okay, but they’re going to keep her a few days to make sure. But I’ll need to stay with her when she goes back to the apartment. At least for a couple of weeks. She looks away toward the far wall, shakes her head. I know this won’t be easy, Julian. On anybody. But we’ll have to make it work. I can keep the kids while you and your parents are at the restaurant. And maybe you can pick them up after you get off work.
I know that, in the back of her head, Thea must be thinking about Leander, as I am. I ask her how she expects her mother to recover with three young children in the apartment. It is a question without a good answer, and Thea treats it as such.
I don’t know what else we can do, she says finally.
Mrs. Apostolos’ main concern, however, is not her heart but her job at Washington Elementary. It is summer, Thea reminds her, so the school will not need to make any employment decisions. And several of her coworkers drop by the hospital to cheer her up and assure Mrs. Apostolos that she is indispensable. But she frets and frets, convinced that when the fall semester opens the school will have moved on without her.
On a Thursday morning in late June, Thea and I drive to the hospital for what I expect to be the last time. Mrs. Apostolos is scheduled to be discharged. Thea has given her mother’s apartment a thorough cleaning, and she has moved some of her own things into the place. The plan is for Thea to stay with Mrs. Apostolos for two weeks, at which time we will decide what to do next. We are both uncomfortable with the available options.
But at the hospital, the doctor tells us that Thea’s mother cannot be discharged yet.
Part of me is relieved that we can delay the important decisions for another day, but Thea has prepared herself for the move and she is upset at the news.
Your mother had a rough night, the doctor tells Thea. I don’t think it’s wise to release her just yet. Let’s give her another day and see how she’s feeling.
Thea rubs her temples with her fingers. She is trying to focus, trying to calm herself. How did she have a rough night? What do you mean?
The nurses said she was awake most of the night. I wasn’t on duty, but apparently she was hallucinating. Why don’t we go see your mother? You can talk to her.
Mrs. Apostolos is lying in the bed with her arms straight down by her side, almost corpse-like. Her eyes are open but they look at us blankly as we enter the room. Thea pauses for a moment, then she walks purposefully over to her mother’s bedside.
There was beet juice everywhere, Mrs. Apostolos says in a low monotone.
What do you mean, mother? Where was the beet juice?
It was everywhere. I was mopping it up all morning and I couldn’t get everything clean. You know how beet juice stains everything.
Thea turns and looks at me with alarm. The doctor walks over to the bed, looks down clinically at Thea’s mother. Mrs. Apostolos, do you know where you are?
Thea’s mother smiles faintly, closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them. Of course I know where I am. I’m in my house. I’ve been cooking all day. I sent Dimitrios out for bread and he hasn’t come home yet. Christopher and Thea are out back, playing. They play well together, even though Christopher is so much older. He’s such a good boy.
Thea takes her mother’s hand, squeezes it. Mother, it’s Thea. You’re in the hospital.
Mrs. Apostolos smiles again. You’re a good child, too, Thea. You’ve always been a good child. The beet juice wasn’t your fault, but it will stain your clothes. That’s why I sent you and Christopher out of the kitchen.
Thea looks beseechingly at the doctor, whose face displays no emotion. I notice Thea’s shoulders beginning to shake, and I hurry over to the bed, lean down, and give my wife a long, awkward embrace.
It’s not usual for someone to be confused after an episode like your mother has experienced, says the doctor. He is addressing Thea but looking at Mrs. Apostolos and speaking as if she is incapable of hearing or understanding his words.
Thea spends a few minutes trying to engage her mother in a normal conversation, trying to pull her back into reality. But in Mrs. Apostolos’ mind, she is still in her old house trying to clean up beet juice and waiting for her husband to return with the bread. Finally, Thea gets up from her bedside chair and allows me to hug her. She tells me that I should go back to the house and get ready for work, that she wants to stay at the hospital with her mother. It is still early. I offer to stay with her in the room for another hour. But Thea wants to be alone with her mother. So I give her a kiss and make my way out to the parking lot.
One of Mama’s friends from St. Spyridon has agreed to watch the children at her house for a few afternoons and evenings. We had worked everything out, thinking that Thea and her mother would need some quiet time in the apartment, but thankfully the arrangement will allow Thea to spend as much time as she needs at the hospital while Mama and Papa and I work our regular hours at the Atheneum.
I drive back to the hospital at the end of the day to find that Mrs. Apostolos, between naps, is still cleaning beet juice off the floor and the furniture. A different doctor is now on duty. He is younger than the one we talked to in the morning, and he seems a good deal more empathetic, touching Mrs. Apostolos on the arm and looking her in the eye when he addresses her. He takes me into the hall and tells me that he believes my mother-in-law experienced a mini-stroke during the afternoon hours, and he is not recommending that she be discharged for at least several more days.
I tell the doctor that I do not know what a mini-stroke is, and it seems strange that he would be uncertain as to whether or not she experienced one.
It’s not uncommon, he explains. At times, the symptoms are almost imperceptible. Sometimes we can only surmise that a patient has had a mini-stroke by observing their behavior and looking carefully at their vitals. It happens when the blood flow to the heart is partially blocked. It seems like a small thing, but it’s concerning. Your wife was in the room at the time. She sensed that something was wrong so she called for the nurse. Which was very perceptive.
But why is she hallucinating? I ask. I thought that, with Thea in the room with her, she’d eventually realize that she’s in the hospital.
The doctor shook his head. She’s quite certain she’s not, and trying to convince her otherwise would only make her agitated. There is a medical condition called delirium, which can sometimes occur after a coronary event. We think it’s caused by the interruption of blood flow to the brain. I’ve seen it before.
I thought you said the problem was blood flow to the heart. Now I am getting agitated, raising my voice. A nurse passes us in the hallway and frowns at me.
The doctor puts his hand on my shoulder. I understand how frustrating this is. I studied medicine for years and I am always encountering patients whose symptoms I do not entirely understand. I wish I could give you and your wife a diagnosis that makes more sense. He smiles sadly and shakes his head.
Thea wants to come home with me, but she feels obliged to be with her mother at least through the night. So I drive home alone, wondering how everything went so suddenly wrong and where all this will end. Mama and Papa have picked up the children, but the house is strangely quiet when I arrive. It is almost as if Maggie and Tessa and even Leander know that something is different, as if they have decided to shoulder a portion of the concern and anxiety that hangs over the adults in their lives.
Thea spends three more days and nights at the hospital. On the fourth night, at three o’clock in the morning, she calls to tell me that her mother has died. The call has awakened everyone in the house. Mama dresses, tells me that she is going to the hospital with me and that Papa will stay home with the children. Papa has not been consulted, but he looks relieved.
You girls understand what’s happened, don’t you? Mama asks.
Maggie nods solemnly. Tessa looks blankly at her sister and nods in imitation.
You might need to help your grandpop with the baby while your father and I are gone. He’s too young to know what’s happening. He’ll need his big sisters. You’ll do that, won’t you? You’ll help your grandpop.
At the hospital, Thea seems exceptionally composed. I had expected her to be in tears, but she is sitting bedside, exactly where I had left her four hours earlier, holding her mother’s hand. There are two nurses in the room with her. When they see Mama and I arrive, the older nurse nods at my mother and leaves the room. It is, strangely, as if Mama has assumed her shift. I have never seen a dead person before. I study Mrs. Apostolos’ eyes, imagining them opening. She appears unchanged from when I last saw her, as if she is simply resting up for her reappearance in the world of the living.
For a long time, Thea seems to be in her own world. She does not want to talk about her mother’s last days in the hospital, whether Mrs. Apostolos experienced any moments of lucidity at the end, how Thea knew with certainty that her mother was gone. If Thea cries at all, she does it privately. She has lost her father, her only sibling, and now her mother. I am her husband and it is my responsibility to console her. But most of the time, she is in a place I cannot reach.
After the funeral, I ask Thea if she would like to take a weekend trip up to Sturgeon Bay in Door County. Papa has said that he can manage the kitchen by himself on Saturday, and Mama has made arrangements for the children to spend the weekend with her friend from church. Thea studies me as if she is trying to decrypt me.
Mr. Stavridis said we could stay in his cottage. He goes up there every other weekend, and the place is free this weekend.
Who’s Mr. Stavridis?
From the restaurant. You remember. He used to always come in on Friday nights with his mother. They always sat near the window where they could wave to people when they walked by. They always shared a Greek salad and bottle of red wine.
Thea shrugged. I don’t really feel up to it, she says finally. You can go, if you want. I’ll stay here with the kids.
Of course I have no intention of spending the weekend by myself at a cottage in Sturgeon Bay. I tell Thea this, and I try to coax her into changing her mind. But she is not interested.
In her will, Mrs. Apostolos has left a small sum of money to her daughter. But the hospital bills consume it all, so whatever hope we might have had of moving into our own place have evaporated.
The summer passes, Leander grows out of his fussy stage, but little else changes.
In March of the following year, my father has a stroke. It happens in the kitchen of the Atheneum on a Thursday evening. Papa and I are alone. I am slicing onions, my back to Papa, when I hear the thump. I turn around quickly and see my father on the floor, struggling to get to his knees. I rush over, help him lay back down, put a dishtowel under his head. I tell him not to move while I get help. I rush out to the front of the restaurant. Mama sees me, and she seems to know at once that something has happened. It has been less than a year since Mrs. Apostolos collapsed on her bathroom floor, less than a year since the night she died in the hospital. I cannot escape the feeling, irrational though it is, that I am responsible for all of this – for everything that has happened to the people in my life since Nicholas died on the other side of the world.
Papa’s recovery is slow. He is frustrated by not being able to move about the house as he did before, not being able to find the right words to express himself, not being able to make his family understand when he does manage to conjure up the right words in his head. And he is frustrated, maybe more than anything, at not being able to work in the kitchen of the Atheneum. Over the years, Papa has taught me everything I need to know to keep the place running, and he has trained some of the part-time kitchen staff, when business is slow, to do more than wash pots and pans. So if I need help in the kitchen now, as seems likely, there are people I can call on.
For the first few weeks, business at the Atheneum seems to maintain a steady pace, and nothing goes terribly wrong. The regulars all know that Papa is out, and they order their regular meals and their regular drinks, wait patiently and act as if nothing has changed. Every night, after closing, Mama and I go through the receipts and the bills as she and Papa would do, ritualistically. There are nights when I wonder how many more weeks the Atheneum can stay afloat. But the place has weathered hard times, and Mama seems concerned only about Papa’s health.
On a Sunday evening in July, after we have put the children to bed, Mama and Papa and Thea and I reconvene in the living room, at Mama’s direction, for a talk.
It’s time to make Julian head chef, she opens.
From Papa’s expression, I can see that this is not the first time they have had this conversation. Not yet, he says, without energy. I’m getting better. I can still… He searches for the word and finally gives up.
You won’t get better if you drag yourself back into the kitchen and force yourself to work six days a week. You’ll get better if you keep resting. Julian can handle the kitchen.
Papa erupts suddenly. I don’t want to rest! That’s all I do! I’m sick of resting!
Thea and I exchange a look. I know that I should say something, but I was not prepared for Mama’s pronouncement and I am not sure how I feel about stepping into the job Papa has had since before Nicholas and I were born. On the most basic level, I believe that I am capable. But Papa has run the kitchen of the Atheneum since he was my age, through young fatherhood and war and family tragedy and grandparenthood, resulting finally in a stroke. The job suddenly feels as if, for me, it would be a permanent life assignment.
Finally, Thea mediates. Maybe we could try it out. You could bring a comfortable chair into the restaurant, into the kitchen, and Papa could come in a few days a week and supervise. He’d still be head chef, and he could make sure all the food was prepared right and everything was running smoothly.
Mama appears to consider the idea. She gives Papa a scrutinizing look. We are all, it seems, waiting for her decision. At last, she nods. We can try it once. As long as you stay off your feet. But if you start trying to run the show, which I expect you will, it won’t work. The doctor said you need to keep your blood pressure under control.
On this argument at least, Papa needs to have the last say. If I do nothing but sit here all day, every day, do you think that’s good for my blood pressure? I need to be…I need to go…
We all know what Papa means to say. Mama stands up, signaling the end of the discussion.
We had gotten rid of most of Mrs. Apostolos’ things, but we had made room in the house for an easy chair and an end table, and now we deliver them both to the kitchen of the Atheneum. Thea creates a cozy little nook for Papa, where he can watch without getting in the way. It is next to impossible for him to supervise without jumping out of his chair and grabbing a knife or a bottle of olive oil to demonstrate one thing or another. Over time, I have developed certain shortcuts that Papa would never employ. Papa puts the same number of currants into every stuffed grape leaf before he folds it up, whereas I toss in a few currants, fold, and throw a few more on top of each layer in the pot for good measure. I cannot see this arrangement working for long.
But Papa is on his best behavior the first day. He sits in his chair during the lunch shift, mostly observing. At three o’clock, I drive him home. Mama agrees, reluctantly, that he has earned another stint in the kitchen, so after one day off we do it all again. This is the agreement we negotiate. Papa will sit in his chair during the lunch shift every other day, as long as he stays off his feet and keeps his composure, and as long as his health does not begin to decline. And Mama will make unannounced visits into the kitchen to make sure Papa is complying.
The arrangement holds throughout the summer and into the fall. Working under Papa’s scrutiny is not, I am sure, keeping my own blood pressure where it should be. But we adapt because we have no other choice.
It is Thanksgiving Day when my parents make their big announcement. Thea and I had expected something, but we had not expected this.
Your father and I are moving back to Greece in the spring, says Mama.
The family is seated at the dinner table, all seven of us. As always, Mama has prepared her classic American Thanksgiving meal. Papa has always carved the turkey, but on this holiday Mama has set the platter in front of me.
What’s grease? Tessa asks.
It’s the country where your grandpop and I were born, Mama explains. It’s where we lived when we were children. Where we met. She catches her breath, smiles at Papa.
Can we go too? Maggie wants to know.
That would be lovely, honey. But your grandpop and I are going there to live, and you and your brother and sister and your parents are living your lives in America. But when we get settled, we would love it if you came for a nice long visit. She smiles again, sadly. Wouldn’t we, Damianos?
Papa nods. He opens his mouth to say something, but a small sob escapes and he closes it quickly. My father suddenly looks older than I have ever seen him.
I am aware that my parents still talk and reminisce about their young days in Greece. But we are all unreservedly Americans, and it never occurred to me that they would forever leave the country where they raised a family and made a life. I am at a loss for anything to say.
Are you sure? Thea says finally.
Mama nods. We’ve talked about it, and this is what we want. Damianos’ mother is 84 and still in good health, but she lives alone and it would be a blessing to have her son back home. We’ll be moving back to Farsala. That’s where we both grew up.
I have not known Mama to be this sentimental about her native country. With each passing year, it seems as if she has detached herself a little bit more from her Greek roots. Papa has always been the one to spin epic tales about the strong Greeks who resisted Mussolini and died for freedom, and the proud Greeks who endured poverty and hardship, and the wise and artistic Greeks who gave the world philosophy and classical architecture. Working with Mama and Papa in the Atheneum, leaning how to make authentic dishes like souvlakia and spanikopita and dolmades and stifado, to Papa’s approval, I have grown to be proud of my Greek-American heritage. But Nicholas and I were born in America and I have never considered myself anything other than an American. And now, my parents will be leaving my country. My family.
The restaurant will be yours, Mama continues. Damianos and I will be happy knowing that the Atheneum will stay in the family. You know the business. You can hire whatever help you need. If you want to make changes to the menu, you can do that too. She looks at Papa, who looks back without expression. And then, Mama adds, And the house too. The house is yours.
For the next five months, I find myself observing every important occasion as the last our large family will celebrate together. The Last Christmas. The Last New Year’s Eve, and The Last Loaf of Mama’s Vasilopeta. (Tessa scored The Last Coin.) The Last Time Papa and I Will Cook Together in the Atheneum. Our Last Sunday Supper.
As their scheduled date of departure draws nearer, my parents actually seem to grow more energetic. Even Papa, who has not entirely recovered from his stroke, is out of bed early in the morning, making coffee for the house, taking walks around the block. I join Papa on one of these walks and he tells me, when we are well away from the house, that it took some work to convince Mama to make the move.
She said she didn’t want to leave Nicholas, he says.
I hardly know what to say. I had thought that leaving Thea and Maggie and Tessa and Leander and me would be difficult, but I was not prepared for this.
You know that your mother and I go there a couple of times a month. Up to Calvary Cemetery, where your brother is buried. She talks to him. I just sit there and think, but your mother has a conversation with Nicholas, and I knew it would be hard when we move. Not being able to visit. She said she feels his presence there.
In the years after Nicholas was killed, I would sometimes accompany Mama and Papa to the cemetery. But there were other places where I felt his presence more, private places from our shared childhood. It was not a conscious decision, but at some point I simply stopped visiting his grave. I knew that Mama and Papa never did, but we have not talked about it and I was unaware of what a spiritual place the cemetery was, especially for Mama.
We had long talks about it, Papa continues. Finally, we went there, spent most of an afternoon at your brother’s grave. Your mother said all the things she needed to say. It was an overcast day. It rained some and we got a little wet. We hadn’t brought umbrellas. But then it cleared off and the sun came out. I think that was a good sign for your mother. After that, she said she was at peace with Nicholas and at peace with the idea of moving to Greece. I just wanted you to know all that. I don’t want you to worry about either of us. We’ll be fine.
We have decided, collectively, to close the restaurant for a week, so that we can spend more time together. The Last Week, I tell myself. Thea is getting tired of all these Lasts I am decreeing, so I note this occasion privately. Thea has suggested throwing my parents a Bon Voyage party in the back room of the Atheneum, so all of our regular customers can say a proper goodbye. I prepare enough food for fifty or sixty people, but at least twice that number show up. Fortunately, many of them arrive with their own Greek dishes, so it is an evening of skewered lamb and peppers, spinach pie, stuffed grape leaves and stuffed tomatoes, orzo in browned butter sauce, baked fish, tomato salad with feta, tzatziki and pita, baklava and walnut cake and biscotti and butter cookies, wine and ouzo and more wine.
It is also an evening of hugs and tears and toasts. Mr. Kosta, who has been coming to the Atheneum with his wife for lunch almost every Saturday as long as I can remember, stands on a table and tells a long story about a day years ago when half the city of Sheboygan lost power due to a winter storm. The power was still on at the Atheneum, he recalls, and when the word circulated that the place was open, dozens of people began arriving, wanting hot food and a warm place to enjoy it. Mama and Papa both went to work in the kitchen making huge pots of Papa’s famous beef and onion stew. Mrs. Kosta took over greeting and seating customers, until all the tables in the restaurant were occupied. Then someone arrived with chairs, and strangers crowded around tables with other strangers.
This is what the Atheneum means, Mr. Kostas says. It means good food, and people coming in the door as strangers and leaving as friends. He raises his glass, splashing a little bit of red wine onto his arm. This is what Damianos and Katerina Pappas have brought to Sheboygan. We will miss them, but we wish them long life and happiness back in the mother country.
And to the next Pappas generation, which will carry on with the Atheneum, Mrs. Kostas adds, standing at her husband’s feet. She looks at Thea and me and raises her glass.
And the next generation down the line! someone shouts. Maggie and Tessa are sitting at the table next to Mama and Papa, and they exchange a look, no doubt wondering why everyone is suddenly staring and smiling at them. Thea is holding Leander, who turned one just a month ago. She whispers something in his ear and gives him a kiss.
Two days later, we drive Mama and Papa to the airport in Chicago. The car has never accommodated seven people, but everyone wants to come, so Mama and Papa are seated next to me in the front, Thea and Maggie and Tessa are in the back, Leander on Thea’s lap. The Last Car Trip, I say to myself. April can be fickle, but today is unusually warm. On days like this, I think about that field of wildflowers behind the house where Thea and I lived when we were first married. The field is still there. I know this because I drive by it often, despite my vow not to. And the yellow wildflowers, whose name I have forgotten, have begun to bloom, as they did last year and as they will again – as long, I suppose, as the field is there.