I am sitting in the gravel next to my pack as the midmorning sunlight filters through sky that is gray as a sinkful of old dishwater. A few yards away, he is vomiting in a ditch foul with rotting oranges.
Anna sits in the gravel next to me and watches him with worry lines across her forehead. There is a tiny opal stud pierced through her nose, as small as a freckle. She is fair. She was the one who played the princess in our childhood games. She is anxious about him. The air, sour with bile, makes my innards want to turn over.
The orange trees grow in ordered rows up to the edge of the ditch. The fruit is ripe and full on the branches, overripe and ruptured on the ground. The road sign, spelled out in Greek, says 14 kilometers to Skinias. This is the side of the road; this is the ditch. We were warned. They said to take the bus.
Joel gags again, spits and drags the back of his hand across his mouth, then wipes it on the thigh of his jeans. Last night at the bar in Matala he discovered raci—Cretan schnapps.
I am trying to understand. She is drawn to him, even while he vomits in a ditch. His face is pockmarked, his eyes beady in their sockets, his hair dirty and tangled in an attempt at dreadlocks. He is ugly. He was not my idea.
He has been with us for two weeks, since the all-night ferry crossing from Brindisi when he and Anna sat on the upper deck with a bottle of cheap wine between them. They toasted Italy while the black swell of open water swallowed the pinprick lights on the Adriatic shore. Later, Anna told me they talked about reincarnation; in the morning she found me on the hard bench down below. She sat down next to me.
Seasick? she asked.
I bloated my cheeks as if to puke, then looked at her and waited.
He’s one of those people, she said. That fast, I feel like I know him.
I’m getting my period, I told her.
Just for one week, she said. He has a job lined up in Tuscany.
I stared out at the water. I don’t even know him, Anna.
She was silent. We sat, eyes locked on the horizon.
When the ferry docked in Hania, he was with us.
I toss shards of gravel toward a crack in the center of the road. They bounce while his guts miscarry. The road is deserted.
We are at an intersection where a potholed line of pavement crosses the main road and runs north toward the mountains. Last night, the man stopped his car here, letting the engine idle while the three of us dragged our packs out of the backseat. I go here, he said. Ano Viannos like that, okay? And he gestured up the road beyond the illumination of the headlights. I nodded appreciation, and he turned the car up the side road. The taillights vanished into a dip. In the dark, Joel stumbled across the pavement. He jerked his arm away as Anna reached out to steady him, then muttered, swaying, and let himself lean into her.
Where’s my cigarettes? he slurred. I watched him fumble in his jeans, pull out his lighter and put it between his lips like a cigarette. He dug in his pockets again and cursed. The fucking lighter, he said. Where’s my lighter? He kicked at his pack lying in the road.
We were left to sleep there in the orange grove, amidst the roots and rotting citrus.
Now Anna gets up and offers him water, and she is tender the way our mothers are when the thermometer registers fever. He ignores her, hanging his head between his knees. He doesn’t deserve her and her goodness, and my insides twist despising him. I hoist my pack and walk across the road to escape the smell of him; I can feel Anna watching me. I pull a greasy bag of salted peanuts from the top of my pack and settle against the signpost. The metal is hard against my spine. I watch him and chew slowly, molar against molar. He lifts his head. I hold up the bag and shake it cheerfully.
Peanuts? I ask.
His lips curl at me, and then he lurches toward the ditch again. I lick the salt off my hand and close my eyes, working my jaw to the sound of his dry heaves.
On the bus we would be somewhere else by now, heading toward the coast, south side, where the currents are still warm in December. Anna shares an orange with him and offers a piece to me. I’ll peel one myself, I tell her. I want her to insist—to get up, come across the road and split an orange for the two of us. Remember grade school, when we had lunch in the cafeteria, seeing who could peel one in a nonstop spiral? She likes the white part of the peel. He doesn’t know that, I think. I know. I know that.
They said there was no way we’d hitch around the bottom of the island this time of year. Joel refused to buy a bus ticket, even though 1,000 drachmas is barely $4. I put the peanuts away and force a smile across the road, because Anna is caught in the middle. The skin at the corners of my mouth threatens to split. When it does, when it has stretched as far as it will go, lips thin and tight against my teeth, I will taste blood. The citrus will seep into the cracks and sting. I watch the two of them eat oranges and think, I am missing something about him.
Something about him. He is propped against a tree trunk with his eyes half-closed. Anna sits at his side and rolls his hair between her fingers. She murmurs something and giggles, and he smiles; he puts his hand on her knee. She looks up, and maybe she has read my mind the way we used to joke about. The look on her face comes back again, worry and helpless apology. I would tell her it’s all right, only my mouth closes shut before the words come out. I wish—, only I can’t say that either.
The shadows have shifted, and there is enough warmth in the afternoon that the flies are stirring. They crawl in and out of the oranges in the ditch, wanting sugar. The buzz is an even throb in the air; they move lethargically and find skin and membrane. I brush them away, again and then again. Too juicy to slap. There is trash along the roadside. A noise catches my ear. I strain to discern it from the hum of flies. It’s the sound of a motor, barely there and amplified by hope. It’s coming, though. It’s real. I stand up. A flash of metal glints in the flat light; a car rounds the top of a hill and then disappears into a dip. It is coming our way on the side road. I wait for it to reappear. I can hear the sound of the engine being pushed; then a clutch engages, shifting up to a higher gear.
Anna cocks her head. Car? she asks.
I nod. This is the game—standing on the roadside with your hopes strangling against a choke collar of nonchalance. Pretend you don’t care. Pretend right now that this car doesn’t matter, because if you want it too bad, it’s that much worse when you don’t get it. I realize as it comes over the last rise that it is the same car that left us last night, the same man behind the wheel. He puts his right-hand blinker on—toward Matala, where we came from—and my stomach sinks.
He is slowing toward the intersection.
We could go back with him, I think suddenly. The bus station there. We could get a bus. There’s a 4:20, I remember, and there is still time. I spin around.
Anna! If we go to Matala we can ride the bus.
She looks at me blankly. Go back? she says.
What, are you crazy? Joel says.
To get the bus, I say. The 4:20. We could be in Ano Viannos tonight.
The man stops at the intersection and lifts a hand in recognition. I wave my arms. Please, please don’t leave me here.
We could go anywhere, I say to them, spilling the words out. Ano Viannos, wherever.
The man rolls his window down. Matala? I ask breathlessly. Are you going to Matala?
He nods and looks puzzled. You go back to Matala? he asks. You come from Matala.
But no cars, I say, gesturing along the road.
I’m not going back to Matala, Joel calls out.
The man in the car looks at me, bewildered. I needing to go, he says, tapping his wrist.
Anna sees it. I am close to cracking here. I am desperate. She looks back and forth between me and Joel.
There’s bound to be cars, she says to me. But I’m willing to go. . . . Her voice trails off as she looks at Joel. Where is her backbone?
Fuck that, Joel says. I’m not buying a goddamn bus ticket.
The man puts the rusted sedan in gear.
I am gripped by the urge to get in the car with him and leave. My brain reels. I could catch the bus. I could fly home. Anna and I talked about this trip for three years. She is pleading with that look.
Please, Sal, she says. I’m sure we’ll get a ride.
She hates this, and I know it. She is torn down the middle, breastbone to belly button. Sixteen years of friendship—I would think I’d have the bigger half of her, but he is new and intriguing. I break before I crack. I look at the man behind the steering wheel and feel exhausted. I wave him off. Sorry, thanks.
He shrugs and nods. The car pulls out and heads in the direction of Matala, disappearing.
I squat on my pack in the middle of the road. We are silent. The flies find me again and I shake them off. Anna opens her mouth to make peace. Joel lights a cigarette. She closes her mouth again. He pulls in a throatful of smoke and releases it in slow, cocksure rings.
The dice clatter against wood and show a six and a one. My move; it’s a good roll. Joel’s backgammon board is laid out between us on the road. The man at the flea market in Athens claimed it was made from heartwood and oak, but he lied. Already the shellac is chipping to reveal the dull brown of some other wood—cheap, manufactured, not exotic. I move my pieces without counting and stack them double just outside of home base.
Joel frowns.
He has been waiting for double sixes in order to get the last two pieces out, but I am slowly trapping him in the corner, boxing him in with a lineup of my own. There is satisfaction in knowing that I will beat him on his own board. He scoops up the dice and rolls. Double ones.
To hell with this—game’s over, he says.
I raise my eyebrows.
There’s no way I can get out now. You boxed me in, he says.
I look at Anna, hunched over, embroidering on her pack. She is listening, I know. This match was her idea. I always lose, she said to Joel when he pulled the board out of his pack and set it up. You and Sal play—she knows the game.
Let’s just play it out, I say. You never know.
You never know, he mocks. He lights another cigarette and blows smoke straight up. Fuckin’ waste of time, he says.
Anna is quiet, and then she surprises me. Why don’t you just finish the game? she asks him.
Joel flares. What camp are you in?
Somewhere that hits her, sharp. I thought it was two out of three, she says quietly. Her throat sounds tight. She looks down and studies the embroidery—yellow flowers, like buttercups— on the strap of her pack.
Joel walks over to a tree, unzips and pees. I reach out to squeeze her hand and she forces a weak smile. For a second we seem to be connecting—there is a taut line between her and me, and she is recognizing something that I have understood for two weeks. The sun is sinking behind the orange trees.
Then—he didn’t sleep well, she says, looking down.
I blink, and the cord between us goes slack.
It is dusk when we see the headlights coming in our direction. Anna looks up from their game of rummy. She puts down her cards and plants herself on the side of the road. Her arm is raised at the approaching pickup as it speeds toward us in the twilight. Please, I murmur. See us and stop.
We come into the headlight beams and it is an aging Datsun, hammered with craters and dents. The truck goes flying by and Anna shouts, waving her arms above her head. The brake lights flare up red and the tires squeal. The truck lurches to a stop and idles a hundred feet up the road.
We scramble and gather up our packs. Joel scrapes up the playing cards and snaps a rubber band around them. I am off running. I stick my face up to the window and the truck driver rolls it down. The cab is acrid with cigarettes.
Ano Viannos? I ask.
His hair is dark, slicked back against his scalp. His features are vague in the half-light.
Ano Viannos? I say again.
He grunts and jabs his thumb toward the passenger seat.
Yeah? Anna asks me. Is he going there?
I guess. Someone’s got to ride up front.
Joel is already climbing into the back of the truck. You do it, he says to me. You’ve got the most Greek.
All I want to do is lie down in the back of the pickup and feel myself moving, let the murky sky swallow me. Jounce over potholes and know that I am going somewhere. Anna begins climbing in after him.
We can switch partway maybe, she says. Okay?
I am forced into the cab. I slam the thin metal door angrily and search for a seat belt. There isn’t one. The truck resists first gear; he grinds it into place. The needle on the speedometer stays at zero, broken and useless, as he accelerates. I catch his glance as he pulls a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket. He slides a cigarette out halfway and offers it to me, his eyes falling short and resting on the triangle of bare skin at my collarbone.
I apologize. No, but thanks.
He shrugs and pulls it out for himself and glances back at me. You have fire? he asks.
I raise my eyebrows, confused.
Fire, he says. He pretends to strike a lighter with his thumb.
I raise my hands helplessly. No fire.
He seems disgusted and reaches into his jacket for a lighter. It sparks twice, then catches and flames steadily as he holds it to the cigarette between his lips. In the light, his features are smooth and dark. He wears his shirt unbuttoned to the sternum, and a gold chain is caught in his chest hair. There is a bottle gripped between his thighs.
I peer through the back window of the pickup trying to make out the shapes of Anna and Joel. They are a dark lump, piled in with the packs. The pane of glass between us is thicker somehow than a half-inch.
The engine whines, straining, as the road begins to climb. Orange groves give way to talus slope. The truck driver pushes the gas pedal against the floor. This is too fast. He hits the brakes for a hairpin turn, and the truck shudders around the corner. I dig into the door handle with my fingernails, press my foot into an imaginary brake.
He slides the bottle from between his legs and swills. I can feel eyes on my body again.
Four dollars for a bus ticket, I am thinking.
I jerk as his hand moves for my thigh. Tensed, staring straight ahead, I push his hand off my leg and try to breathe in. I am shrunk into a corner, against the door, but his arm still reaches. The cab is tiny and stifling. There is a nagging in the back of my brain—I’ll have to do laundry. My clothes, they’ll reek of cigarettes when he drops us off.
He takes a deep drag on his Marlboro and stubs it out on the dashboard. The ember dies and goes black. The truck lurches as he downshifts and the engine moans. I realize that if I need to scream they won’t hear it.
He tips the bottle to his lips again, slides it between his legs. The truck is swimming on the road, ditch to ditch. He reaches for me again, moving for my shirt. Fragments of self-defense training flood back: throw up on your purse, kick them in the shins, stab into eyeballs. He fingers his way toward my breast. I twist away toward the window, jabbing my elbow out at him. He swerves in surprise; the truck veers toward the edge and rubber shrieks on the roadway. Joel pounds on the window. I see his mouth shouting—muffled sound.
The man jerks the wheel back, and I hear the thud of bodies and backpacks being thrown against the side of the pickup. The tires catch in the loose gravel of the shoulder, and we are spinning, brakes locked and wheels screaming. Below, the road drops off into blackness and no guardrail. The headlights strobe across rocks, pavement, oblivion, pavement. Joel and Anna are yelling into the glass. I am 5 years old at the county fair, riding the Tilt-a-Whirl. I throw up corn-on-the-cob and caramel apple, and my sister squeals. Everyone is screaming. Her favorite shoes are ruined.
The truck stops its spin facing down the road, toward Matala. The man is breathing hard. Both hands are clenched around the wheel and he stares ahead, following the headlight beams. The truck is stalled. There is the smell of booze, sloshed in his lap.
I throw my shoulder against the door and scramble out. Anna has clambered out of the back, and Joel is passing the packs to her. He jumps down and kicks the side of the truck.
You didn’t notice he was drunk? he fumes. You stuck your face in his window and didn’t notice that he was drunk?
Joel, Anna protests. She is shaky as we stand in a triangle facing each other.
He could have killed us, Joel lashes. Any idiot would know he was drunk.
Joel!
I am stunned silent. After all of today, all of two weeks. I feel dirty. Put it all together in a ditch somewhere—vomit, loneliness, rough hands reaching for breast meat. Push the festering deeper inside, and let it rupture later. When it’s safe. For now, something goes dead. I step backwards from them and feel the gravel through my old sneakers, each rock small and sharp.
The truck crunches into first gear and noses around until the headlights aim back up the road.
The night closes in thick and starless once the pickup is gone. There is silence. We stand blind in the dark. You have fire? This is the side of the road.
I reach down to hoist my pack over my shoulders and start walking. This time it doesn’t matter which way.
Zoë Ida Bradbury, ’01, works in the Bay Area in the field of sustainable agriculture.
