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He lives with his wife and son in the only other house on this side of the small bay. He tolerates my coffee and I tolerate the questions he keeps repeating. Hills, stones, paths—all sleep to the breathing sea. A place, just a place: no meaning, no wisdom, no secret loves or unrevealed purpose. You an absence. Walking the beach, I feel waves wash over my feet, wet sand press between my toes with each step. Or I might spend the afternoon on this beach, reading and watching bathers lay out their towels and straw mats. A grandmother with her grandkids maybe. Some boys kicking a soccer ball. A pair of lovers on the low wall near my well, in the shade of a long-needle pine. After the sun sets, I listen for bullfrogs in the cistern, there, where the houses end and the underground spring bubbles to the surface, watering a garden of lemons and pears. I feel invisible here, leaping thought to thought, memory to memory. Just the way I like it. A redheaded woman with two Irish setters is sitting next to him. Two overhead fans turning slowly. The redhead, sitting on his other side, is wearing lots of makeup, red lipstick, strong perfume. Her setters are well-groomed, the same shade of red almost as her long, wavy hair. Their leashes clatter on the tiled floor as they get up, lie down, get up again, first one, then the other. Tongues hanging out. Panting quietly. No music from the jukebox. My name is his name. I try turning a little faster on the barstool. He and that redhead have been drinking for a while. Sure, I like the dogs, but right now I just want to go back up to our room. I mostly like the layovers. He rarely reads them to me. We take our time. He calls me skinny and a towhead whatever that means when he wants to tease me. But when I press my face close to the mirror, there they are—that little nose, that dent in my chin. For dinner we go to whatever diner or coffee shop is nearby. He mostly orders steak and potatoes of some kind, usually mashed. Never talks much while we eat, never leaves anything on his plate, insists that I clean mine, too. And he always has coffee, cup after cup, whatever the meal, puts down his fork now and then to have a cigarette, takes a few puffs then lets it burn down in the ashtray as he continues eating. He likes Westerns and war movies. I like cartoons and the fast-paced newsreels. Always soldiers marching somewhere, planes crashing, big floods or earthquakes. And I like sitting there in the dark next to him, just me and him, the smell of popcorn, the feel of my shoes sticking to the floor. Other nights we just watch TV in our room. Do I miss her? I miss my brother more. Janet, my half-sister, not so much. We fight a lot, Larry and me. He never shares his toys. I know that he likes to hit me with that brace he has on his leg. Tries to hit Dad with it too when he yells at Mom or throws something at her. Dad just ignores him, gives him a shove and sends him to his room. Sometimes he swats him for no reason at all. I sleep better in these hotel rooms beside him than I do at home, sharing a bed with my brother. Larry always kicks me in his sleep. Larry was born with some disease and has to wear that metal thing. So, when I came along two years later, I was all his, even though I too was defective a preemie, she says, kept in a tent for three months. Even named me after him. He loved to put me on his shoulders and walk through the neighborhood. I was his. End of story. Which meant, when they finally split up. Did she gather up my brother and sister and take off? Did she kick him out? Did he just up and leave, with me on his shoulders? Mom says one thing, he says another. Crossing the beach this morning, I scan the hills surrounding this cove, the rocky terraces that grow only barley, thorny scrub, and a few scattered fig trees, except in that crease between the slopes, that ravine where a spring, sometimes above the ground, sometimes below, seeps toward the garden on the other side of the cove, then into the sea. Shading my eyes, I follow the drystone walls angling above that ravine, up past wild fennel and oleanders, past a tethered mule and a few grazing goats, past stands of spindly cypresses, all the way up to the blue expanse of sky. Going from shop to shop, I fill my backpack with tomatoes, cucumbers, capers, and olives for salad; canned tuna and sardines for dinner; peaches and honeydew melons for breakfast or after a swim; and fresh bread, a loaf for me, one or two for my neighbor. I let the goats grazing nearby stare at me while I sit on a toppled granite slab, imagine the heavy, muffled clopping of mule and donkey hooves going round and round that abandoned stone floor, threshing barley like I endlessly tread memories in my head. Turning the days of my childhood, all those months and years in California, over in my mind, moment to moment, face to face, I try to piece together those fragments into whole scenes, filling in the gaps as best I can. Came close with Patty, though, the first woman I was with after I came to Greece. The two of us almost one, at least in the beginning. Ten years together with my Italian-Greek companion, three good ones, then seven with things steadily disintegrating. He tolerates my coffee and I tolerate the questions he keeps repeating: what are you doing here in Greece? No answer ; why are you here all alone? Still no answer. All the wild figs I can eat. What more do I need? At that he throws his head back, drinks down the last of his coffee, all but the grounds. Of course, I tell him only half the truth, the half I keep telling myself, that I need, I really hunger for solitude. And somehow, with absolutely no memory of it, I stumble back down the mountain to my Cave at first light, more like the Cyclops than the man I say I am. They let me play with my cars in the lobby sometimes, but mostly I stay in our room, build stuff with my Tinker Toys and Lincoln Logs, and watch TV. He left me in the room right after breakfast. He can read better than my father. What he does, he does for all mankind. Will bless you. God will save you, no matter where you are. He makes me feel as tall as a mountain. Raise them! He calls for all of those in attendance to come up to him, and, through prayer and the love of Jesus, he will heal them. Heal my eyes. Make me see like everyone else. No signs and wonders. His weight on the mattress wakes me, then the smell of whiskey and cigarettes. His loud snores keep me awake, till Oral calls out to me again, puts his hands on my head, and sleep falls over me. Lying in bed, listening to the waves slap the rocks below my veranda, I recall again how those days riding Greyhounds with my father abruptly ended, not long after that Sunday with Oral Roberts. There, in that bar, with that redhead and her two dogs, me turning around on a barstool—that was the last time I was truly with him. But that day, in that bar, there was no miracle, either. There was a sign, though, a secret one between my dad and that redhead. I know because, in memory, I can see that woman stand up suddenly and totter toward me, bringing her two dogs with her. You could play with them, every day. Am I gonna have a new mother? Live here in Fresno? With her?! I promise! With one hand he pushes me away, with the other strokes my head, the back of my neck, trying to calm me. I can see deep into his hard, green eyes. No tears. Not sad, just determined. And I start crying. Since that time, he has been living and writing in Greece, traveling extensively, teaching, and serving as an administrator at various universities—Greek, American, and British. Fluent in Greek, a citizen of both his homeland and his adopted country or, more precisely, the country that adopted him , he has published several poetry collections as well as an anthology of American poets in Greece and translations of contemporary Greek poets. Seeger Writer-in-Residence fellowship at Princeton University. Recently retired, he and his companion live in both Athens and Thessaloniki. Never makes trouble. The author at five. Will it still be like that when we go back? The author, aged three, in a bicycle basket. Young goat on a rock, Kythnos. Like today, a Sunday. Oral Roberts and early Christian television.

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