Sons of Thunder (7 page)

“Markos!”

He stopped, rounded on her, pushed her against the wall.

Her eyes went wide. He put a finger into her face. “I will not leave you. Never. Do you hear me?
Never.
We will stay together.
All of us.
I swear it.”

Her mouth opened, something in her eyes he couldn’t name. Not fear, maybe—hope?

Yes, hope, gulping in his words as if they meant something. As if they could nourish her.

Oh…he couldn’t stop himself. He pressed his lips to hers—so fast he wasn’t even sure later he did it—just leaned in and kissed her, something he’d longed to do for so long—

Sofia.

But he tasted her tears, her body shaking against his. He jerked away.

She brought a trembling hand to her mouth.

Oh no. He braced one hand above her shoulder, hung his head, winced. What was his problem that he didn’t think, he just—let his emotions ride him. “Oh, Sofia, I’m—sorry.”

Tears ran over her fingers, into the cuffs of her ratty sweater. Then, oddly, she curled her hand into his collar. “You won’t leave me, right?”

He shook his head. “Never.
I promise.”

She ran her hand down his face. “I believe you, Markos, I believe you.”

And then, softly, she kissed him back.

CHAPTER 5

“Dino—put that back!”

Markos snatched the apple from his brother’s hand, shooting a glance at the vendor, who had his back turned, tending to a mother and her two waif-looking children. He replaced the apple on the stack outside the store and snagged his brother by the arm of his leather jacket—a gift from Dr. Scarpelli right before they’d disembarked the ship in New York.

Of course, the good doctor had chased Markos down a final time with an offer to take Markos with him. Markos didn’t bother to censor his response.

If his mother had known what kind of America she had sent her boys to, she might have let Markos take his chances with Yannis. Markos didn’t have to understand English—although yes, during the past week he’d made attempts to learn at least the alphabet, thanks to Sofia’s prodding—to comprehend the state of the people queuing up for bread or jobs on the streets of Chicago.

They bore the empty-eyed expressions of the soldiers who’d returned to Zante after the Greek-Turk war. Saggy-limbed, dressed in long-coats, dog-earred fedoras, or low-brimmed fisherman’s caps, curled newspapers sticking out of their pockets like clubs, they loitered outside what looked like employment offices with ripped notices posted on windows. Others hunkered down in the doorways of abandoned
buildings, playing dice, their eyes tracking Markos and Dino as they’d carried Sofia’s trunk between them down the street. Markos balanced their suitcase in the other hand.

“I’m hungry!” Dino yanked his arm from Markos’s grip, sulked away to where Sofia sat on the trunk, her arms clamping her sweater against her body. Too bad they’d burned Gaius’s clothing. She could have used his overcoat.

Markos took off his father’s jacket and settled it over her shoulders. It swallowed her whole, and in the black scarf, the black coat, her skin seemed even more ashen, her eyes that much hungrier. She may have said thank you, but he couldn’t hear what issued from her lips.

“We’ll eat later.”
Please, please let Uncle Dmitri still be in Chicago. Please let him have received Mama’s telegram
.

Although, with no greeting at the train station, Markos’s hopes had settled into his empty gullet.

“It’s okay, son, he can have it.” The sound of his native language stopped Markos, and he stared at the shopkeeper wearing a cloth apron, a black wool fisherman’s hat, and a smile vacant more than a few teeth. “I won’t stand for stealin’, but I can’t very well let a fellow Greek go hungry.” He handed over the apple.

Dino reached out, hesitated, then took it. Slipped it into his pocket. “Thank you.”

The man nodded. “Name’s Peter Kazalos. From Sanatorini.”

Markos held out his hand. “Markos and Dino Stavros. And our friend Sofia. From Zante.”

“Where you headed?” Mr. Kazalos shook it.

“North side. Our uncle’s place.”

“Is your father with you?”

Markos swallowed, not sure if his grief showed on his face. He’d
managed to bite it back for so long, when it roared to life, it could almost consume him in a gulp. He shook his head.

“I see. If you boys need anything, you come to me. Okay?”

Markos hated the sudden burning in his eyes. “Yes sir.”

The day had given their arrival in Chicago dour greeting—a smoke grey sky spit down on them, into his jacket collar, down his spine. He’d long since ceased to remember real warmth, the cold having metastasized to his bones by the time they disembarked at Ellis Island.

The humiliation of being led like goats through the processing center, examined, queried, and spit out into America like he might be a fish on the dock didn’t stir any warmth, either.

Markos did have to admit to a begrudging gratitude to Dr. Scarpelli for the quarantine on Sofia’s grandfather. The American health department cleared Dino, Sofia, and Markos for entry—while the Polish family who’d survived the trip ended up in the dentition cells for further scrutiny.

Markos had bought their ferry tickets to New York City and didn’t bother stopping for a night in the city. He bunked them down in Grand Central Station and purchased, with nearly his last monies, train tickets to Chicago.

Dino barely acknowledged Markos after he left a sobbing Mrs. Scarpelli on the deck of the
Minnekahda
. Markos had taken the doctor’s proffered address in Minneapolis. Pocketed it. Accepted the man’s handshake.

The look in the doctor’s dark eyes haunted him the entire overnight trip to Chicago, while Sofia and Dino slept in the open berths across the aisle.

“I’m tired, Markos,” Dino said, lifting Sofia’s trunk. It bumped against his legs as he walked, his eyes away from Markos. Like Sofia, the sun had left him—or it could be the effect of the sour day, the chaos of the street.
Train cars on wires spit sparks as they plowed through traffic, scattering muddy automobiles, the occasional horse-drawn deliveries filled with fruit, burlap bags of potatoes, or metal canisters of milk. The earthy smell of animals, the acrid grit of coal smoke and unwashed bodies burned into his nose. Buildings loomed over them—four and five stories high, and he tugged Dino toward one, huddling under a green awning as it began to drizzle. A uniformed footman by the gold-embossed door narrowed his eyes at them.

Sofia huddled in behind Markos.

“It’s not much farther.”

“How do you know?” Dino dropped his end of the trunk with a thud, nearly jerking Markos’s arm from its socket.

“I showed someone in the train station Uncle Jimmy’s address. They drew me a map.” He held out the now fraying envelope that showed the penciled drawing.

“Let me see it.” Dino swiped the letter from Markos.

Markos held his hands up in surrender and glared at him as Dino turned and walked up to the footman. He tucked his arm around Sofia as he listened to Dino fumble with English, sufficient to elicit further directions.

Markos memorized the footman’s gesticulations. Down the street, take a left…keep going…

He bit back a remark as Dino picked up his end of the trunk, both hands behind his back, trundling his end of Sofia’s belongings as he led the way.

They dodged street vendors—Dino’s eyes lingering on a stand of hot meat sandwiches an elderly woman was selling on the corner of an alleyway. The smell, something that reminded Markos of his mother’s roast lamb, nearly turned him inside out.

Cars honked, and above the din, a policeman’s shrill whistle pierced the air. Storefronts displayed exotic clothing, mannequins in slinky furs, and lacey green and red dresses—the kind Mrs. Scarpelli wore—shiny, pointed shoes with thin, raised heels. And all manner of hats—bowls, and wide-brimmed felt hats, and hats with no brims at all.

For a moment, he tried to imagine Sofia in such a hat, her dark hair trailing down her back. He pushed the thought away.

Dino led them down another street then stopped, nearly ramming the trunk into Markos’s knees.

“Zante’s.” Dino pointed to a sign hanging vertically amidst a long row of buildings. He yanked Markos forward.

Markos stopped outside the door. “Wait here, Dino—”

But Dino had already dropped his end and begun climbing the steps. Markos lunged after him. Grabbed his arm. “Wait
here
.”

Dino glared at him. Markos glared back.

“I’ll watch our bags,” Sofia said softly, touching his arm.

“Are you sure?”

“I just need to sit.” She collapsed onto the trunk, ducking her head into the collar of his father’s coat. He turned back to Dino. “Be a gentleman.”

Dino tightened his mouth and stepped down to stand over her.

The smell of Greece nearly brought tears to Markos’s eyes as he entered the restaurant. It resembled a galley-style café with tables down the middle, wooden booths along one wall, a long counter flanking the other, behind which a Greek man—he had to be Greek with his dark eyes, dark hair, the tooled mustache—watched Markos enter.

Markos stepped up to the counter. “I’m looking for Dmitri Stavros. He’s—my uncle.”

Two men, dressed in suits and perched on the round stools, glanced at him. Markos hadn’t considered his appearance, his three-day body odor, the fact that sometime between his escape from Zante and now, he’d grown the beginnings of a beard. He swiped off his fisherman’s hat and tried to smooth his hair.

“Jimmy’s in the back,” the man at the counter said, pointing with a jerk of his chin.

Markos trekked through to the back room, passing what looked like the kitchen. The smells of home leaked out—roasted lamb, onions. His stomach fairly leaped with joy. He knocked on the closed door.

The face that met him didn’t in the least bear a Stavros resemblance. Short brown hair, green eyes—a body built like a keg. “What?”

So, maybe he’d thank Sofia for the rudimentary English lessons. Not that he had resisted spending time with her, her soft voice blending with his as they sounded out words together.

He crushed his hat in his hands. “I’m here for…Dmitri Stavros.”

“Jimmy? Whadaya want with him?”

“He’s—my uncle.” Oh, he sounded about three years old. But he sucked in a breath, met the man’s gaze. Greek men didn’t run. Or, rather, he wouldn’t run again.

And, Dmitri was family—

The door closed in his face.

Markos took a breath, waited. He glanced toward the front of the café, spotted Dino’s face pressed up against the glass. Why couldn’t the kid listen to him just once?

The door opened. Markos stared into the eyes of a hairy, oily-eyed man that, if he squinted hard, had his mother’s nose. “Theo? Is that you?”

Markos swallowed, grabbing at his voice, which had decided to desert him. At least he spoke Greek. “Uh—no. It’s Markos.”

“Markos?”

“I’m Theo’s—younger brother.”

The man stepped forward, caught Markos’s face with both hands, looking him over. “Yes! Of course.” Then he flung his arms around Markos, pounding him hard on the back. “Markos Stavros, at my doorstep!” He leaned back, kissed Markos on both cheeks, loudly, with Greek flourish. “My nephew is here, in America!”

Markos fought the boyish urge to fall into his uncle’s embrace, maybe cling to the man’s girth. Instead, he nodded, glancing to Dino and back again.

“Did I miss a letter from my sister?” He grabbed Markos’s arm. “Come, sit down. Are you hungry?”

“Yes, but—”

“Moussaka for my nephew!” Dmitri yelled, ushering him into the seating area. “Sit, I will feed you. And you will tell me everything.” He grabbed Markos’s hat, treed it by the door.

“Uncle—”

He shoved Markos into a seat. “Some coffee?” He switched to English, barking at the man behind the counter.

“Uncle—listen—I’m not alone. My brother, Dino, is here—and—”

Dmitri rounded, his eyes going to the door. “Dino?” He crossed the room, but Dino had already beat him to the entrance. “Little Dino!” Dmitri kissed him, again, both cheeks, then caught the boy into his bearish arms.

Dino looked over his uncle’s shoulder, his wide eyes connecting with Markos’s.

“Markos?”

Sofia edged up behind Dino, her gaze flashing back to their belongings on the street.

Dmitri set Dino away from him, looked at Markos. Raised an eyebrow. “Is this your wife, Markos?”

Wife? “No, Uncle—she’s—she’s from Zante. Her grandfather died on the journey over. We thought, perhaps, maybe…”

“Of course, Markos! Of course.”

Sofia didn’t move as Dmitri took her hands, kissed each one. “Of course, such a lovely young lady as yourself is welcome here, at Zante’s!”

Sofia looked to the floor. Was that a blush? Markos moved past them, out the door. He grabbed up his suitcase and carried it inside.

Uncle Dmitri had ordered more coffee. “I don’t have much room, but…” He turned to the patrons in the café. “My family has come from Greece!” He clapped above his head. “Tonight we celebrate!”

Markos let Dino and Uncle Dmitri retrieve Sofia’s trunk from the street as he cupped his hands around the coffee, drank it in slowly, letting the dark pungency seep into his bones. From the kitchen, the smells of supper stirred the feelings of home, of watching his mother knead bread, bake the fish.