Page 13 of The Summer Show
“Nikos, Nikos, Nikos, he break-a my heart,” Proyiayia said, waving her crochet hook. “He no want my galaktoboureko. Nikaki loves my galaktoboureko.”
“My galaktoboureko,” Yiayia said, returning from the kitchen with more coffee.
Proyiayia held one hand up to shield her mouth from Yiayia’s view. “My daughter is-a the idiot.”
Yiayia’s eyeballs rolled so far back it was a wonder she didn’t see her own brain.
“The mystery of Nick is still a mystery,” Ana said.
Lina swirled the straw through her coffee’s thick layer of whipped foam. “So if Kathleen is here, where will Nick sleep?”
Ana shrugged. “The couch.”
She grimaced. “There’s a lot of Nick and not nearly enough couch.”
“I love my brother, and I like him about ninety-nine percent of the time, but our spare room belongs to Kathleen this summer. It’s the couch, or he has to come back here.”
I would never know what Lina thought of that, because in that moment a commotion broke out on the road, not far from the house. At first I mistook it for hooves. Naturally when you hear hooves you think horses, not zebras. Today there were no horses or zebras, although one of the five women who emerged from the rolling cloud of perfume was wearing stripped pajamas. Possibly a prison jumpsuit.
Even without an introduction I recognized the women. Their reputations preceded them. Take that as you will.
The Irinis.
Ana’s five uncles—Lina’s brothers—all married women named Irini. To keep track of which Irini was which, the family assigned each of them a number.
Irini One suffered from over-plucking, and now her eyebrows were thin goth rainbows arched over her eyes. Nothing in nature was that black. The hair she’d hacked into a severe frame around her head was the same shade of unnatural black. She had the look of a woman who kept a notebook full of slights and grudges, and in the back were the numbers of the island’s managers.
Irinis Two and Three were low-ink photocopies of One.
Four and Five bucked the trend. Blond. Younger. These were women who knew not to use all caps on social media. They smiled at me and I smiled back. Two and Three ignored me, breathlessly watching One for their cues.
Finally, Irini One made her first move.
She fingered my ponytail. “Your hair, is it real?”
That was a new one. “Yes?”
Ana’s aunt wasn’t done with me yet. “Where are your spots?”
What in the world …?
Honestly, it took me a moment to regain my equilibrium after that one. Was she expecting a Dalmatian?
“Spots?”
Ana fired a bunch of words at her. The exchange was short but sounded terrifying. Greeks spoke at the speed of traffic on I-5.
“Freckles,” Ana said, clarifying. “She means freckles.”
“That’s certainly a question that she asked.”
Ana leaned closer. “You can tell her to mind her own beeswax. I do that all the time.”
Irini One seemed oblivious to her faux pas. She was staring at me as if she expected a satisfying answer. I decided to play it the elementary school way. “They fell off when I was cleaning my face.”
Irini Five giggled. Irini One flung a killer stink-eye at her sister-in-law. Like flipping a light switch, Irini Five’s laughter died.
Pecking order, engage.