Amy - April 1973
“Help!” Joanie’s shouts are barely audible above the wind and the roar of the outboard motor as she struggles to keep her head above the waves. I put my hands over my ears and close my eyes, but she’s still there, still struggling to stay above the water, the panic in her eyes a mirror of my own, her pale, freckled skin, her green eyes fraught with horror, identical to mine. I watch helpless, my heart pounding, until she disappears, as she always does, beneath the roiling waters of Lake Ontario.
Part One
Amy
April 1973
“Amy, wake up.” Mrs. Klein was shaking my shoulder. “You can’t sleep here. If you need to sleep, go home.”
How had I fallen asleep with the clatter and bang of the old linotype reverberating through the shop? I picked my head up from the drafting table and struggled to bring Mrs. Klein into focus. She was as solid and gray as the presses she ran. I felt a chill as her steely eyes took in my tousled hair and bloodshot eyes then moved to the floor where a chaotic mess of colored markers, X-Acto knives, and technical pens lay scattered.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep again last night, but I’m okay now. I’ll get back to work.” I was already on my knees gathering up the fallen art supplies as quickly as I could.
“When was the last time you had a proper night’s sleep?”
I took a moment to consider. “Nineteen seventy-one.”
Esther Klein was my mother’s best friend, more like my aunt than my employer, but she wasn’t amused. My literally falling asleep on the job had pushed her too far.
“That’s not funny. You need to see a doctor.”
“Now that is funny. How am I supposed to do that?” Legal Ontario residents had magic OHIP cards that entitled them to almost unlimited medical care, but she knew I’d slipped into the country illegally and had no papers.
“You can pay him in cash, the same way we pay you, so there’s no record. I’ll explain the situation to my doctor.”
“Sorry, can’t risk it. I’ve got to stay under the radar, but thanks anyway.”
Mrs. Klein’s face darkened, and a deep crease appeared between her eyes. “Go home, drink some tea, take a hot bath, and think about whether you want a future here or not.”
My heart skipped a beat. Was she threatening to fire me? She knew I’d be on the street or worse without this job. I could hear a slight quaver in my voice as I responded. “What about this poster?” I pointed to the design job I’d been working on. “They need it by tomorrow.”
She examined the work on my design table and nodded her approval. I’d hand drawn shadows beneath stenciled letters making the company name, Revolution Records, appear to float over a background of brightly colored discs. “You can finish in the morning. Now go home and get some sleep.”
What was the point of going home? It was easier to sleep in a noisy print shop than back in my apartment where Joanie’s ghost followed me from room to room. It had happened two years ago, yet her desperate calls for help still woke me from panicked dreams of drowning. I gathered up my coat and purse, wondering if I’d just ruined my last chance for a new life.
I was half-way out the door when Mrs. Klein called me back. “And don’t forget the party tonight. We’re expecting you at seven.”
I thought of rushing out the door, pretending I hadn’t heard, but Mrs. Klein was standing right beside me. I paused and took a breath. “Thank you, I really appreciate the invitation, but like I said, I don’t do parties.”
She stepped between me and the door, blocking my only means of escape. “This has gone on long enough. You’re not the one who died.”
Mr. Klein and Eddie, our pressman, were watching from the back room. I didn’t want to make a scene, but . . . a party? “I’m sorry, I know you want to help, but I’m just not ready.” Me, the good-time girl of Fairport High, turning down another party. Joanie wouldn’t have believed it.
Mrs. Klein took an umbrella off the coat rack and handed it to me. “You’ll need this, and you’re coming to the party. There will be people your age from the sailing club.”
Was she kidding? Sailors were the last people I’d want to meet. The very thought gave me the willies. I started to say no again, but she wouldn’t listen.
“Consider it a condition of your employment, and I mean it. Oh, and bring a box of baklava from that Greek bakery near your apartment. No excuses.”
Then she shoved me out into the rain and shut the door.
#
Four hours later I was pounding on the glass door of Kosmos Bakery, desperately trying to catch the attention of a young man in a white apron who was pulling trays from a display case. He looked up, pointed at his watch, and shook his head. Despite my concerns, I’d overslept and arrived too late. Any other night I’d have run into Loblaw’s for brownies or a coffee cake, but Mrs. Klein wanted baklava and I couldn’t risk disappointing her again. I put my hands together in mock prayer and this time the man came forward and unlocked the door.
“We’re closed,” he said pointing to the neon sign in the window. He spoke with an accent that evoked images of an older, warmer country. As he leaned toward me, I smelled cinnamon and sugar. It was just after six o’clock, the evening dusk made darker by clouds, a blustery wind, and a spring rain threatening to turn to snow. The bakery’s white tile walls radiated light and warmth as I stood shivering in a mini-skirt and thin leather jacket on the damp pavement.
“I promised my boss baklava. She’ll kill me if I don’t bring it.”
“She would kill you for this?” He looked stern, but his eyes crinkled at the corners.
“Absolutely. She’s mad at me already.”
“Then you’d better come in. I don’t want blood on my hands.” His body had been blocking the doorway, but now he stepped aside. As I brushed past him, I was unnerved by his physical presence. He wasn’t especially tall, yet his broad shoulders and muscular body dominated space.
The shop smelled like home. Not the actual home where I’d grown up with a mother too busy selling real estate to cook, and certainly not the home I’d fled teetering on its foundation. Rather, it smelled like the home I longed for, the one that provides shelter from all adversity and comfort for every sorrow. I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and felt my own interminable pain subside for just a moment.
When I opened my eyes the baker was watching me with raised eyebrows and a bemused expression.
“Your shop smells wonderful, absolutely intoxicating,” I said, somewhat embarrassed.
“It’s not my shop. I just work here at night. During the day I work toward a doctorate in economics.” He grinned, pleased at disarming me with this revelation. “My name’s Arcas.” He held out his hand.
I hesitated for an awkward moment, but how could I insult a man who’d just saved me from looking too incompetent to buy a box of pastry? I took his hand. “Amy.”
He smiled warmly as his fingers closed over mine. “Nice to meet you, Amy. Maybe you’re a student too.”
“Me? No, I used to be a student back in the States, but now I just work in a print shop.” For some reason, in a country where I tried to be invisible, I wanted him to see me. “I studied art. I’m an artist,” I added much to my own surprise.
He nodded approvingly as he released my hand. “I knew there was something special about you.” He assembled a cardboard box and filled it with sticky pieces of nut-filled phyllo dough as we talked.
I cringed. There was nothing special about my mediocre artistic talent. What made me special was the disaster I’d fled my country to escape. It was the reason I kept to myself and avoided idle chit-chat with good-looking men.
I tugged at my short skirt, feeling exposed and embarrassed. Why was I even talking with this man? It was dangerous to forget myself. I made a show of looking at my watch. “Well, thanks for opening the bakery for me. I really appreciate it, but I’ve got to get going. How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing. We were already closed so this is officially yesterday’s pastry.”
“No, that’s not right. I’m happy to pay whatever it costs.”
“Please take it. We would just throw it away.” He pressed a box tied up with blue ribbon into my hands. “So, your boss is Greek? Do you have other Greek friends as well?”
“The Kleins aren’t Greek. Their son and his wife are just going on a Greek island cruise. This is for their bon voyage party.”
“So, maybe you’ve never eaten in a real Greek taverna . . .”
Was he asking me on a date? I could feel the little cat pendant hanging from a chain around my neck grow warm. Maybe it was just my imagination, but it felt like a message from my sister. As my hand touched the gold charm I could almost hear her voice, “What’s with you, Mungo? Don’t be such a dork.”
I left the shop twenty minutes later with the baklava and an invitation to dinner at The Olive Tree for the following night. My heart pounded and my mind churned as I waited for the streetcar. What had I done? Why had I said yes? Arcus was charming, but that was no excuse. I had to remain inconspicuous and live in the shadows. Would Joanie really want me to go on partying as though nothing had happened when she’d never see the sunshine, never dance again? Mrs. Klein was wrong; something in me had died. I was a recluse, and an insomniac. I padded around my apartment at night talking to ghosts. It had been two years since the accident, but I still couldn’t look in a mirror because it was always Joanie who stared back at me with hollow, sunken eyes.
#
I left for the taverna directly from work the next day without bothering to change or put on makeup to convince myself I wasn’t going on a date. I had to take two buses at the height of rush hour, but then it was only a short walk to The Olive Tree. A welcoming blue awning hung over the front door and the menu, posted in the window, was written in Greek with the English translation in small type added as an afterthought.
Arcas was sitting at one of the tables carrying on an animated conversation in Greek with an athletically built man whose large, soulful eyes and scraggly beard reminded me of a goat. An attractive young woman with straight blonde hair, a wide floral headband and hoop earrings sat beside him playing with the ice in her water glass and staring vacantly around the room. I was surprised to see that the white aproned baker I’d met the previous night was wearing a paisley shirt unbuttoned at the neck. He jumped up when he saw me and gave me an unexpected hug as though we were old friends. Startled, I stiffened and pulled away.
“Amy.” He beamed, completely undaunted. “You came. I’m so happy to see you.” He smiled triumphantly at the two people sitting at the table. “See, I told you she looked like Nana Mouskouri.” Before I could even sit down, he grabbed a carafe of wine from the table and filled my water glass. “This is Greek wine, retsina, have you tried this before?”
“Yes, actually I had some last night at the party.” I took a cautious sip to be polite. I already knew it tasted like turpentine. “Who’s Nana Mouskouri?”
“A beautiful Greek singer with long, dark hair and glasses like yours. These are my friends, Tom Savas and Nancy Wells.” They smiled, sizing me up with unabashed curiosity. “Tom’s in economics with me and Nancy’s head of the department.”
Nancy winced. “That’s his idea of a joke. I’m the department secretary.” No Greek accent, I noted—a Canadian.
“She’s being modest. This woman is absolutely the boss of the department. She runs everything. We have to do everything she says.”
“So, what are you studying?” Nancy polished off the retsina in her glass and held it out for Arcas to refill.
I slipped into an empty chair and covered my glass with my hand to prevent him giving me more. “I studied art for a couple years, but I left without a degree. I work in a print shop now, Abbot’s Printing on Bathurst.”
“You’re from the States?” Nancy pulled a package of Belmonts and a lighter from her purse. She lit her own cigarette, handed one to Tom, then held the pack out toward me.
I inhaled the smoke that drifted across the table but shook my head. “No thanks, I’m trying to quit.” I moved my hands to my lap to hide my bitten nails and ragged cuticles, evidence of how that project was progressing.
“Yeah, I’m an immigrant like these guys. I’ve been here about two years now.” Should I have lied? Said I was from Ottawa? But what would be the point with an accent that screamed Rochester, New York?
“Why? Is the United States drafting women now?” Tom meant to be funny, but he had no idea how sick I was of that joke.
“Right,” I humored him. “Maybe I’ll go back when the war’s over.” His English surprised me. Although he’d been speaking fluent Greek a moment earlier, he spoke English like a Canadian, or someone from the States. “What about you? Are you here dodging the draft?”
“Nope, I’m a legal Canuck, born in Montreal. We moved to Athens when I was two. Anyway, the war is over since the Paris Peace Accords. You can go back to the US any time now––unless you want to stay here with my friend.” He lifted his fingers in a peace sign and grinned at Arcas. “Make love not war.”
I blanched; he had no idea. War or no war I might never be able to go home.
Nancy swatted the back of his head with the laminated menu. “Cut that out. Try to behave like civilized people.” She seemed to include Arcas in her rebuke although he was sitting quietly with his arm on the back of my chair and hadn’t said a word.
Tom pretended to be indignant. “You’re telling Greeks to be civilized? We invented civilization. Arcas, are you going to let a Canadian insult us like this?”
Nancy reached across the table and grabbed my hand. “Don’t pay any attention to Tom. He’s acting like an idiot because his dissertation committee just turned down his thesis proposal.”
“Which I spent months developing and which my advisor thought was brilliant, and which could cost me a full fucking semester, so cut me some slack.” Tom downed the last of his retsina and refilled his glass.
Nancy studied Arcas with an appraising eye, then turned to me. “I think you got the better one. He has a much sweeter personality. You might be able to do something with him.”
“I’m not sure that I’m ready to take on any new projects at the moment, but thanks for the tip.” The evening was getting weird. Had Arcas told them we were dating?
The smell of roasted meat, rosemary, and garlic distracted me. Arcas called the waiter over and began a long negotiation in Greek that ended with platters of roasted potatoes, skewers of lamb, and zucchini cooked with tomatoes and olives being brought to our table along with a basket of warm pita.
We filled our plates, and everyone relaxed as Arcas gave me a culinary tour of Greece beginning with his mother’s kitchen in the romantically named province of Arcadia. His family raised sheep. Sheep. I was pretty sure that no one in my family had raised sheep since the Bronze Age.
“This meat is okay”—Arcas waved a fork in front of me—“but not like the sheep my father grows. In Greece they have more flavor. If I was home right now, I’d help my father kill one of the baby lambs, then my mother would take the head and all the inside parts to make the Magiritsa soup for Easter.”
I put down my fork. “You kill baby lambs?”
“Of course, so you can eat baby lamb.” He pointed to my plate, obviously amused by my squeamishness. He turned to Tom, probably just to goad me further. “Does your mother put the head in her Magiritsa for Easter?”
“Of course.” Tom looked insulted that he would even ask such a question.
“I’ve never cooked a lamb’s head, but we always use the whole bird, including the head and feet, whenever we slaughter a chicken.” Nancy had ganged up with the guys, enjoying my discomfort.
“Did you all grow up on farms? Am I the only city girl at this table?”
“Actually, I grew up in Peterborough, a small town north of Toronto, but we lived in the suburbs and always kept chickens.” Nancy slipped another cube of meat off a skewer and cut it in two.
“And I’m a city boy.” Tom stared down at his plate, looking slightly embarrassed. “But we had a summer house in the country where we’d go for Easter.”
“And another house outside Montreal where he’d go in the summer.” Arcas leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “Tom’s mother is Canadian and his father is Greek. He has two passports and lots of money. This makes him a very useful person.”
“That’s right.” Nancy took another helping of zucchini. “Our house revolutionary is the son of a Greek banker and a Canadian socialite, fancy cars and private schools all the way.”
“My dad’s got a good job, but he’s not exactly Aristotle Onassis, and my mom’s family lost almost everything before I was born. Anyway, I can’t help what my family does. I just want to live my own life.” He turned toward me. “What about you? Where do you come from?”
I flinched and started to stammer. It was still hard to talk about my family. “I, uh, I grew up in a suburb of Rochester. My father’s a dentist and my mom sells real estate, pretty boring really.” I examined their faces for a shadow of doubt or suspicion but saw nothing but bland acceptance. Why would I expect anything else? It had happened over two years ago and never made the Toronto papers. They had no idea we’d been the butt of local gossip and lurid stories on the six o’clock news.
“So, another member of the petite bourgeoisie, good for you.” Nancy took a puff of her Belmont and blew out a long, thin cirrus cloud of smoke. “Tom doesn’t appreciate his luck. He thinks money’s a curse, but then he’s never had to work for a living.”
“Cut it out, Nancy, you know how hard I work.” Tom finished his second glass of retsina and poured another into the tumbler almost to the brim. “Her folks can’t pay her tuition so she’s jealous and she should be. In a just society everyone would earn a decent wage, university would be free and . . .”
“Everyone would have universal health care,” I said. The Ontario Health Insurance Plan was a marvel to an American. Not qualifying for OHIP was the thing I regretted most about my illegal status in the country.
“Exactly.” He put his hand on Nancy’s shoulder. “Nancy can only take one class a semester because she has to work full-time.”
“There’s nothing wrong with working.” Nancy shrugged off Tom’s hand. “Not everyone gets a university education handed to them on a silver platter.”
Tom raised his glass and intoned loud enough so that everyone in the restaurant turned their heads. “Kill the colonels, burn the prisons. What we need is communism.”
“Tom, stop it. You’re making a scene.” Nancy glared at him, and I could feel a little whoosh of activity under the table as she kicked his ankle.
“Sorry, I forgot, we’re in Canada. I have to be polite and keep my voice down.” Tom made a pretense of hanging his head in embarrassment.
“What colonels?” I asked.
“The Greek colonels, the junta, please, don’t get him started.” Nancy held up her hand to stop me and I shut up.
“I’ll explain to you later, now isn’t a good time.” Arcas shot Tom a warning look as he helped himself to more lamb.
“Right, tell her about baklava and rice pudding. She doesn’t want to hear about how America is siding with a junta that’s torturing students fighting for democracy.”
“Please, Tom, stop it. Amy doesn’t deserve that. You’ve had too much to drink.”
“You’re right. I offer my apologies to the pretty American lady. None of that’s your fault. Please, forgive me.” He bowed his head in my direction, looking genuinely sorry. “But I’ve got to go now. I have a paper due on Monday. It was nice meeting you.” He stood up, put twenty dollars on the table, and staggered slightly as he headed toward the door. Nancy jumped up and grabbed his arm.
“He can’t drive home like this and I don’t have a license. Arcas, would you mind driving us?” Nancy reached into Tom’s pocket and neatly extracted his keys. Tom made a weak attempt to intercept them as Nancy tossed them across the table to Arcas who made a neat catch.
I looked at my watch. It was only eight o’clock, but the evening was clearly over. “It’s time for me to be heading home as well. I think this will cover my dinner and the tip.” I pulled a five-dollar bill from my wallet.
“You’re my guest, I invited you to dinner.” Arcas appeared genuinely shocked at the sight of my money.
“That’s not necessary. I can pay for my own meal.”
“It is necessary. Greeks don’t let ladies pay.” He was adamant.
I put the bill back inside my wallet. “Well, thank you, I enjoyed the evening. I’ll look for you at the bakery the next time I stop by.”
“No, don’t go, stay with me a while. We’ll listen to Greek music after I take these guys home.”
Once outside, we walked down Danforth Avenue. The others were arguing about which Greek club had the best music while I was plotting to grab the next bus back to my apartment as we headed toward Tom’s car.
I was still walking with them as we neared the parking lot. Arcas and I had just stepped off the curb a pace or two behind Tom and Nancy, when a black car wheeled around the corner and barreled toward us at high speed. It didn’t slow down or try to veer away but shot directly toward us like a torpedo. A strong arm reached out and pulled me backward a split second before the impact.
A moment later Arcas was rattled but untouched. Tom was bruised and Nancy lay unconscious in the street, her body floating on a sea of asphalt as I screamed and screamed. Even as paramedics wrapped me in blankets, subdued me with sedatives, and reassured me that Nancy wasn’t dead, I continued shaking.
They were tending to Tom’s injured arm when another siren and more flashing lights alerted me to an approaching police car. Terrified, I grabbed my purse and bolted without even saying goodbye. I raced down Danforth, ducked down a side street, and kept running. Exhausted and utterly lost, I finally stopped to look around and get my bearings. Well-kept older homes lined both sides of a quiet residential street. There wasn’t much traffic but, God bless Toronto, there was a taxi. I clambered into the backseat, gave the driver my address, then started babbling incoherently. I couldn’t stop. I told him about the Greek restaurant, the baklava, the print shop, the speeding car, and the injured girl. I told him everything, except I didn’t say that for just a moment I’d confused Nancy with my sister, or that I’d heard Joanie call for help from somewhere in the direction of the lake.
