Zeus took her hand and pulled her toward the door, almost before she was dressed again. Her father was in the front room of their apartment in a sleeveless undervest. He had been drinking beer and listening on a large console radio to baseball, a game for which, although an immigrant, he had developed a great fascination. As she stood, hand in hand with Zeus, she could still feel what had gushed from her wetting the inside of her thigh.
‘I wish to marry Lidia,’ said Zeus.
Her father looked at Zeus coldly and then snorted as he turned back to the radio.
‘No daughter of mine will marry into a family of hoodlums.’ Lidia, he said, came from honorable people, farmers in Greece who made their way here honestly, selling produce. The Kronons at home were sheep rustlers and blacksmiths, which was another word for thieves. These days, Nikos, Zeus’s father, translated for the mafiosi when they shook down the Greek restaurant owners, reiterating the Italians’ threats, which were often carried out, to break windows or sabotage the plumbing.
The next night she met Zeus under the streetlight in front of her house.
‘Marry me anyway,’ he said. He had made a plan to run off. But she could not go against her father. She had cried most of the day, but she knew which man had to command her loyalties.
She went back inside, and for years after barely spoke to Zeus. To avoid humiliating him, she told no one about his proposal, including Teri, who would have been enraged that Lidia’s father had said such things about the Kronons to her brother’s face. The moment receded as if it had never occurred. Zeus enlisted in the army the week after Pearl Harbor, nearly dying at one point in a military hospital, but he returned, married to Hermione, with Hal, a babe in arms. Lidia by then had wed Mickey, the son of her mother’s best friend, before he left for the service in 1942. Mickey was nice-looking, and worked hard, and wanted to be a good husband, which she knew even at sixteen was not likely to be true of Zeus. Mickey lived by a narrower compass, but that didn’t matter because she took it for granted, when she kissed Zeus good-bye under that streetlight, that she would never feel the same way about anyone else.
Mickey was an uncomplicated person, but he was everything he promised to be. Then he took sick. He had rheumatic fever as a child and the mitral valve in his heart did not close properly. In her mind’s eye, Lidia saw the blood spurting past the structure, as if it were a finger in a dike. There was no way for the doctors to operate. Mickey took medicine, but he declined. By 1955, he could no longer go to the produce market and remained at home. Soon he was in his bed, drowning in his own body. Lidia tried her best to believe he wouldn’t die.
Teri arranged a job for Lidia in Zeus’s office. Zeus knew her, knew how bright she was, and his business was erupting like a volcano, with shopping centers spreading around the Tri-Cities like a lava flow. And Lidia’s family needed money. As for what had once happened between them, it was a lifetime ago. She did not imagine that she would be attractive to Zeus any longer. She was becoming matronly, and he was, in his sister’s own words, “Sir Lance-a-lot,” a nightly visitor to the bars on Street of Dreams, from which he frequently extracted some little trinket half his age whom he bedded in one of the swank hotels nearby.
Yet Zeus was wooing Lidia from the first moment he saw her there.
‘Your father spoiled not only your life,’ he told her the first time he was alone with her. ‘He ruined mine.’
Sometimes, he came up behind her chair, when no one else was around, and sang a Greek folk song, “S’agapo,” ‘I love you,’ in a whisper. If there was not time for the entire tune, he sang one of the lyrics:
Your window which is closed
Your window which is shut
Open, open one panel of it.
She answered with a hundred remonstrations. That is the past. Our lives are what they are. I am married, Zeus. She avoided his office if she could, and if not, told her colleagues to call her there in five minutes. He tried each time to take her in his arms as she wriggled free.
Along with most of her coworkers, she attended this party twenty-six years ago, the first of the Labor Day picnics. Zeus had bought the house only eighteen months before and offered her a tour. Another couple was with them, but when her eyes adjusted to the change from the brilliant sun, the other two had been waylaid, perhaps at Zeus’s instruction. He had been drinking, as had she. Finding they were alone, he drove her into one of the servants’ bedrooms right off the kitchen. It was a small room with narrow windows like a prison cell and a simple chenille spread on the twin bed. She did not cry out, because the consequences of that, for her life and his, for her job, were beyond quick calculation. But she resisted fiercely, holding him off. ‘No. Zeus. This is craziness. Zeus, I am saying no.’ But he continued bearing down on her. ‘Please,’ he kept saying. ‘Please.’ It was as if what had begun in the choir room had taken place only a minute before. Familiarity with his physical presence had never left her, and her body, largely unused in this way for years, rose to him, no matter what she wanted. But she stopped saying no and fighting him off only after he had entered her and she had begun to weep in hopelessness and shame. She dressed and left the room without a word.
Out on the lawn he found her again. ‘I am so sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I will marry you,’ he said, ‘I will still marry you,’ as if two decades, two marriages, had not intervened. At that moment, she learned everything about Zeus she needed to know. Not that he was a liar, although she did not think for a second that he would leave this mansion, and his son and his wife. But rather, that he believed what he was saying. Like someone in Galaxy magazine, Zeus wanted to live six or seven different lives at the same time. She knew then that Zeus probably would not have married her either when she was sixteen. His greatness, if you could call it that, was that he did not accept human limits.
She turned away, still with no idea what to do. There was no one to tell, not her husband, who quite likely would die on the spot, nor even Terisia, who was loyal and old-fashioned enough to side with her brother: What else was the man to think, after all his overtures, when you snuck with him into the house? It had not happened, Lidia decided. That was the only way to live her life.
It was more than three months before she accepted that she was pregnant. She hoped at first that she would miscarry. Her faith was of her own construction, but as a mother, she would not even contemplate forcing a child from her womb. Finally, when she realized she would be showing soon, she laid down in Mickey’s bed and wrapped him in her arms. ‘We are going to have a baby,’ she said. ‘Soon I will have to quit work.’ She did not know then or now what Mickey believed. In every marriage there are subjects that are unapproachable. Even then, sick as he was, he could, every few months, get up like a whale breaking the surface for a moment to spurt, declaring afterward each time that it would have been a fine way to go. But Lidia’s impression at that moment was that Mickey was simply too sick to care. He knew he was dying, that his wife, the mother of his daughters, was loyal in her care for him and would be beside him when he passed. Eventually, his great joy at the birth of his sons, who could carry forth his name, was the final antidote to questions.
In 1958, the year after the boys came, U Hospital had purchased a heart-lung machine, one of the first, and Dr. Silverstein told Mickey they could save his life. It was a miracle, of course. It was like watching a man stand up out of his own grave.
His grocery was open soon after. Seven years later, the lease came up for renewal. They had always known the terms were favorable, but believed that Old Man Kariatis just wanted someone he would never have to chase around for rent. But Mickey’s lawyer discovered that Kariatis was a straw man; he had sold long before to ZP. Mickey’s rent was barely half what Zeus was charging on the adjoining properties. Zeus’s generosity drove Mickey into a fury. She never dared ask why, although she was certain what inference her husband was drawing.