Let Me Explain You (6 page)

The Goat of Death was what brought the bad news that death would come. The goat appeared first to Stavros in a dream, which he considered a nightmare, and then the next day it showed up at his diner, even more of a nightmare.

He was in bed, cold, with no woman but plenty of woman troubles, and he was dreaming of home. His Crete, his island, which he had not seen in some months, which missed him as much as he missed it, which was going through a very tough time economically without people like him. At the top of a gray peak was a white church that, from his place at the base of the mountain, looked like a rib poking out of the earth. Next to the church was a white goat exactly the same size as the church. He blinked once and then, because he was dreaming, Stavros was next to the goat and the church; actually, he was beneath the goat and having to stare up at its dirty chin. The goat smelled like dirt and incense. The goat looked out with eyes as lifeless as one-dollar bills and the same green. There were no shepherds on the goat's mountain. There were not even bodies in the graves behind the church.

The goat pounded the hard dirt with its hooves. It was very strange and scraping, a shovel noise. The smell of incense got stronger, and a smoky cloud appeared above the goat's head. All around him, Stavros felt a Stavros-shaped hole being made by the hooves, as well as a God-shaped one because God was not here for him. And while he didn't feel anything of the hooves on his face where they struck, he did feel himself being pushed and buried. The earth opened. His own last breath was coming to him. It sounded like a gurgle, a sound too tiny for his whole life.

Stavros went down shouting,
Wait, Death! You must give me more time!

The goat listened, the incense hung in the air. The goat struck the ground ten times. It was hard, like stone on metal, blacksmith's work. Ten times, ten days. This was what he was being given.

In the morning, Stavros woke up and said to the nobody sharing his bed, “That is one crazy dream I would not even want my mother to know about.” He took care of regular business—bills, phone calls, sitting with the old man who came only for soup six days a week. But all day he was unable to help himself, looking at calendars and at his reflection in the display case, adding up all the hours left between now and—he snorted—ten days from now. But the day wore on, and mostly he forgot. Then Marina, when he was reading today's paper, undid him. Marina, the one person he could never fire, the person who could almost fire him, said, “There is a goat here for you, Stavro.”

“Who goat?” He stood. “Don't say the word
goat.
”

The Goat of Death was back, on his property. The goat was early!

“You want me to take care of it for you? A nice goat stew?”

No, no, no, he had to take care of it. Stavros said, “Give me the biggest knife you have.”

“You, who is afraid of meat when it's frozen. You have to earn a knife like that, Stavro. Get yourself a little trap from the trap store, or better to let Marina handle it.”

He was not afraid of meat, frozen or not: he was as much cook as she, almost. But he was afraid of this goat. He could not let anybody know that. “I bring you a new special tonight, goat all ways.”

“Goat no ways,” she answered back.

She shuffled off from him, insolent. She gave him that slanted bun on top of her head, the wet rag on her arm, the big white exclamation points of her calves in their black work sneakers, which were somehow like slippers. That big fat Greek-woman ass in its gray skirt, like if it was meat product.

On the wide top step in front of the diner's glass doors, Stavros and the goat faced off, only the goat was not facing off, only scavenging. Stavros knew immediately and was calmed: this goat was not his goat. It did have a dirty white chin, but it was black with black ears and a flicking tail. Young, thin, only its horns full grown. A common goat. It did not smell like incense. It smelled like poor men. Strangers were coming in and out, watching to see what Stavros would do, and these strangers would tell their friends and their friends would tell his enemies, some of whom were his friends, and he would lose business and the face of his reputation. So he joked, “Free goat for every happy customer.” But he had no joking feeling inside. This was not Welcome-Welcome Stavros with a sweet pear in his pocket for children, even the teens who walked in at eleven thirty and only asked for one fries to share for five people. This was a Greek man with a strong business mustache and ten days promised to him and he was not going to be beat or embarrassed or made fool by just any common livestock. Stavros was not going to be Mr. Nice Diner anymore.

A goat. Today, of all days in his life.

Had he thought about suicide. Yes, OK, once or twice. Especially lately, when things were so lonely and unexpected. But he had not meant it. OK, yes, in some ways he had been praying for death without actually praying. Yes, he was acknowledging that death was an exact solution to all of his problems, which were many woman troubles, because troubles came with women like sore feet came with shoes. But Stavros did not want to die. And, besides, Stavros was not crazy, Stavros understood that to believe a dream about a goat that foretold your death was something only a sicko one would do, somebody like his first wife, Dina.

Still, it was a very difficult thing to see a maybe-messenger of Death eating cigarettes out of your ceramic ashtray.

He lit a Saratoga, and a dirty breath came out. He bit down on the cigarette out of anxiety and business strategy. He had been chewing the same brand for thirty-five years, since age fifteen; all of the butts he threw into the parking lot had enough teeth marks to make a mold of his mouth. “My menu is going to get a lot more meat tonight,” Stavros wagered. “You are no Death, Goat.”

He should shout or beat the goat with a broom, like any Greek. He should threaten. This, something his brothers would have laughed at him for. He prodded the goat's back leg with the tip of his work shoe. The goat flicked its tail, but otherwise nothing. Rhonda wouldn't want him to hurt it. She would say,
All it wants is a little, is that too much?
even though it clearly wanted very much from him, maybe his entire life from him. His ex-wife, Carol, the Mother, she would want him to sacrifice the whole goat in her honor and feed the shiny meat right to her lips in pieces no bigger than a big jewel.

The goat nudged into his hand. Stavros pulled away. He was afraid that this goat was eyeing his mustache and wanting to eat it. He took a drag to appear calm. Fewer people were looking, but still, some. The goat tried again, for the cigarette. “No one tells you that smoking is wrong,
re
? They never stop telling me.” Stavros laughed. It reminded him of his father's farm, the way he and his brothers used to put cigarettes right up to cats' mouths.

The goat licked a gold butt off the pavement. It moved its jaw right-left, right-left, grinding the filters into cottony pulp between its flat old-man teeth. It searched the pavement with its tongue and lips. The busboys hadn't swept the butts up, because the busboys were lazy and Mexican, but there were no gold ones left, no Saratogas. That was true. Stavros pulled out the pack of Saratogas from his breast pocket. It was a beige box, like the leather interior of a car. He flicked out a cigarette and offered it to the goat, gold end first. The goat pulled back. Stavros tried again. The goat ate the whole cigarette, tongue flapping at the tobacco falling from its black lips.

“You think these are chips?” He took out another. The goat ate that, too. Stavros lifted a white butt from the curb. The goat turned its head away.

Huh! he said, a goat that wants my brand only. Stavros Stavros Mavrakis; Goat Tamer. It made him feel funny inside, like he should be embarrassed by something so insignificant becoming so important. Then, suddenly, the insignificant began to weigh on him and become very significant, more than significant, because he saw this was no insignificant goat. This goat, meant for him, solely for his brand of Saratoga, was no common goat at all. It had a message: death was part of his life. Yes, Stavro, ten days. It was nuzzling at his pants pocket. Stavros jumped back. He did not want it to touch him with its teeth.

What do you do with Death when it comes at you like a goat?

Stavros used the open pack, coaxed the goat to follow him. Stavros took steps and the goat took steps, moving its neck like a chicken's. They made it to the back of the diner, where there was privacy and a rope to tie it up with.

“Goat,” he said, “we have two common things together. Nobody wants us, and we're both looking at death between the eyes.” He had decided: if the goat was ushering his death, then the goat would be prepared for his funeral. It would be the Ultimate Supper.

Inside, Stavros jingled his keys. “Got him,” he said. “Not even a goat can say no to Steve Mavrakis.”

Marina reached for her knives and the burgundy apron she wore for butchering. “No one touch the goat,” he said, “not even you, Marina.”

He would lay out his final wisdoms in a letter, which none of his daughters—in the confusion of their lives—could argue against. Stavroula, too much like Marina, who heard nothing unless it came out of her own mouth; Litza, who made mountains into mistakes. Ruby and his ex-wife, who lived like spoiled twins. They would give many, many tears and, over delicious goat on a spit, go over the ways he was a good man. They would change for the better and make good lives, finally, even that selfish ex-goat-wife. He suspected writing the letter—no, email, he needed to send it out as soon as possible so they could read it right away—might make him sad. He had been in depression for so many days already—but how could he be sad to build the future? How can he be sad to do what he is doing when what he is doing is making it easier on everybody? Wasn't that wisdom? Surely, this must be what God felt after the seventh day—before anyone could appreciate anything, but knowing they one day would—that what would come was love and respect for the father.

Let me explain you something
, he began, the way he always began, even at the end.

Stavroula could see that her sister was the only one in the dining room, hands in her lap, texting. Salt was not officially open and Ruby hadn't told Stavroula she was coming, but the waitstaff had let her in because she was the chef's sister. Ruby could have gotten in anyway: she got into most places. Ruby's shift at the salon would start soon, but Stavroula could tell she was in no rush. Her clientele loved her, her boss declared her a waxed miracle, and if any of them were agitated at her lateness, Ruby would introduce a hair glaze that was inexplicably slimming, or demonstrate a new technique with dry cutting—or something else Stavroula had no idea about—and make them fawn all over again. Ruby had an eye for the fine things in life like makeup and accessories and the adoration of others—things Stavroula approached only occasionally. When Stavroula wanted a makeover a few months ago, in large part because ex-Mike was out of July's life, it was Ruby she went to.

One of the busboys near Ruby's table flicked the black towel at his waist. Around Ruby, all men became boys and all boys became flies. Ruby knew how to ignore flies.

Stavroula entered the dining room with a salad for her sister, a frappe for herself. All the décor, tablecloths had been changed to subtly reflect July. The centerpieces were given to thin vases of black sand. The furniture had been rearranged with the single purpose of bringing people together, the way Stavroula liked. Stavroula loved people, the messy noise of them: if she could, she'd have everyone eat out of one large plate. In this way, at least, she took after her father. Litza always chose to sit alone. That was fine by Stavroula. If it were that sister instead of this one in her restaurant, Stavroula would be content to let her eat by herself.

No. No. She wouldn't want Litza eating alone. She didn't believe in people eating alone. At one time, she and her sister would have enjoyed sharing a plate together. They liked the same foods, though Stavroula would've eaten the bigger portion, probably.

Stavroula squeezed her sister's forearm and sat across from her. Ruby had taken their father's black hair and complexion, Mother's long face, Mother's long legs. No Greek nose on this one. Maybe Mother and their father had agreed ahead of time to mix her by hand, bake Ruby like an artisan boule, then fight over the crumbs. At twenty-four Ruby was prematurely lovely, introverted despite or because of years of attention, and dissatisfied with where she was in life. The only people who knew the latter were those closest to Ruby; to everyone else, life for Ruby must be a perfect cocktail umbrella.

Ruby held up the new July menu and said, “Well, this is subtle.”

“It's all they talk about around here. Just not to my face.” It came out blustery, but Stavroula was squirming on the inside. She wasn't accustomed to being seen like this by Ruby. “You think I should invite Dad for a tasting?”

“Better do it fast.”

Ruby used a knife to cut the romaine into ruffled scraps. She ate in controlled bites, never going for the next one without completely finishing the first. Whereas Mother got excited over new recipes every time she came into Salt (her recent favorite ingredient was “crunchy” fennel), Ruby ordered only Caesar salads. Once, Stavroula had tried to teach her sister how to make grape leaves, the little arms of the leaf tucking in to give itself a hug.
It's like rolling weed
, Ruby had said. Stavroula thought they were having a good time and was convinced Ruby was beginning to think about cooking for herself, but she didn't come back for a second lesson. Stavroula saw little culinary curiosity in Ruby, not much interest in the outside world at all—or maybe Ruby didn't know where to begin. Ruby, who worked hard and had a fluency of the body the way Stavroula had with food, Ruby who had enough business sense to run her own salon but was accustomed to passivity. Was that it? Stavroula jumping at the chance to take care of her sister, just like the rest of them, maybe more so. Seven years apart meant that the parents who brought up the oldest were not at all the ones who brought up the youngest. Stavroula was a chef, Ruby was a kid who still lived at home, even if she had been a woman from fifteen. As a result Stavroula was gentler, more forgiving with Ruby than she was with most people. And she was willing to admit she had no idea what her sister craved out of life.