The plan was to wait until Naxos. They would sit at a café by the ocean, sip retsina, and eat fresh shrimp with spinach and green apples. After dinner they would stroll through the Kastro’s quaint gardens and medieval terraces, and then Friedman would take Marlowe’s hand. He had it all planned out. He would lead her from Hora’s port to the unfinished Temple of Apollo, the whitewashed city shrinking behind them as they traversed the peninsula’s long, rocky finger, waves crashing against either side of the embankment, the wind lifting Marlowe’s hair, salt on their cheeks. Alone together on the cliff, they would face the temple — a six-meter tall, three-and-a-half-meter wide, perfectly rectangular window to the sea — and Friedman would fall to one knee, the magenta sky at his back. Three years ago, touring the Cyclades alone, he closed his eyes and walked purposefully through the stone portal to the dark lip of the ocean, and he envisioned a better life.
Friedman and Marlowe dozed now on Santorini’s black beach, Marlowe with her back to the late-afternoon sun, Friedman in a yellow lounge chair underneath a blue-and-white umbrella. With his tragically pale skin, he had to be careful not to burn. It was late August, ten days into their vacation, and though Greece was at the tail-end of its tourist season, the sun had not yet relented. He made sure to wear a white t-shirt, his clip-on sunglasses, and a floppy safari hat even underneath his beach umbrella. Marlowe could only laugh.
“You look like a beekeeper,” she said. “The absolute life of the party.”
Forty-five to Marlowe’s twenty-eight, Friedman still managed to pump his fist to European club music and grind against Marlowe on crowded dance floors while knocking back bottles of Mythos. He had his proposal in mind along with a sense of newfound freedom since his mother had moved from her Austin facility to her boyfriend Buck’s duplex. When Friedman was younger, his mother hid razorblades in her sewing kit along with cotton balls, hydrocortisone ointment, and antiseptic wipes. But the facility’s staff assured him that his mother seemed better. “She’s on a good cocktail,” they said. “No more lashing out.” So Friedman signed off on her release, and before leaving for Greece, Marlowe entrusted the woman with her sheepdog, Goliath.
“Where do you want to eat tonight?” Marlowe rolled to her side. Her skin was tanning nicely. A barista applying for programs in social work, she’d never been abroad.
“In town.” Friedman said. “There’s a place up the beach.”
Marlowe smiled, stretching back out on her blanket. They’d been together eight months and she’d seen the worst of him and his family.
“Come be with me,” Marlowe said.
“I’m good,” Friedman said from his chair.
“You won’t burn. I promise.”
He pulled his hat’s strap tight against his chin. “You know me. I burn indoors. In the dark.”
“I know you,” Marlowe smiled. “Take off your hat. Go nuts.”
“Ha ha.”
“I’m serious. Let’s be crazy.”
Friedman bit his lip. He picked up a black, white-flecked pebble and ran his fingers over its smooth surface. When he palmed the stone, he felt the island’s dark, eruptive power.
***
The calamari on Santorini’s black beach tasted as thick and juicy as Friedman remembered. He and Marlowe sat in deck chairs by the water, Friedman’s heart vibrating with the earth beneath their feet. Sharing the island with Marlowe was special; he was in love with her loving it. They wiped oil from their lips and clinked the necks of their Heineken bottles together.
His first trip here, Friedman ate alone amongst honeymooners, waiters asking where his wife had run off to. Then he wandered the bare, dusk-lit streets, listening to old men in doorways clack worry beads and sigh. After Marlowe devoured the last strip of calamari, they set out for Oia to watch the sunset. Friedman had rented an old, two-door jalopy with a clanking motor and manual shifter. He hadn’t driven stick since he was twelve when, during one of her episodes, his mother brought home a Lamborghini. “I always wanted a white car,” she said. Friedman speculated that Marlowe’s burgeoning interest in social work came from her proximity to his mother.
They chugged north up the mountain to the corner of Thira. Blue-trimmed buildings, vividly painted balconies, and private swimming pools balanced above the aqua-marine sea. They had to pull aside to the cliff’s edge when a tour bus barreled down the narrow, rocky pass. Friedman took Marlowe’s waist and leaned them away from the overhang. Large stones tumbled off the cliff. At the top of the mountain, they parked on an abandoned plateau and beheld the red ball of sun casting a spotlight over the dark, rippling water. They held hands on the edge of the cliff, their silhouettes darkening as the sea swallowed the sun.
“It’s beautiful,” Marlowe said.
“Perfect,” Friedman said.
He glanced at Marlowe’s amber-colored face and reached inside his shoulder pouch. His sister, Sharon, had helped him pick out the ring. She’d reviewed Friedman’s pictures and recommended a yellow diamond with octagon ring. He’d freed up five grand by selling off shares of a burgeoning AI start-up. The stock had doubled and split since he’d bought in, and though he knew AI would continue to boom — that people hated to think for themselves — he knew how Marlowe had helped him since retiring from IBM. She’d taught him yoga and photography. His investments allowed him an early retirement, and when Marlowe worked, he played the market and practiced collage — an art he’d learned from his mother.
Marlowe looked to him expectantly, as if she knew what was coming. The wind picked up, flapping Friedman’s linen shirt.
“What is it?” Marlowe said.
“Nothing,” Friedman said, his chest a hollow pit.
“I know that look.”
Squeezing the ring in his fist, Friedman imagined how long it must have taken for the diamond to be hewn from coal. He felt the terrible temperature and pressure. And as he shuffled his feet, a rock tumbled off the cliff into darkness.
“We should start back,” Marlowe said. “The drive down is going to be killer.”
***
Friedman received the news the following morning, before he and Marlowe set out for the caldera. He’d used the hotel bar’s phone to check on Goliath, Marlowe still asleep. Buck answered the phone in a hoarse voice.
“She’s gone.”
“Gone where?” Friedman imagined another escape attempt.
“Son, she gave up the ghost.”
Friedman tugged the phone cord, not sure he could speak. Buck had already called Sharon at her new firm. “She’s planning the service,” Buck explained. “Your sister is on top of things. We didn’t know where you were staying.”
“We’re on vacation,” Friedman said. He’d not checked his phone for days.
“The funeral’s the end of the week,” Buck said.
Buck described the garden hose slung over the showerhead. “She just sat down.”
Friedman held the phone to his ear even after the line went dead. He should have been crying, but he wasn’t. At IBM, it took time debug code, to check that data flowed correctly through the processor’s memory cache. Like a high-tech game of telephone, you sent a message through and made sure it came out whole.
The sun ran its warm, rosy fingers over the hotel’s pool and thatched bar. Friedman took a large sip of coffee, choking on the rich liquid.
“Opa,” said the bartender. “Go easy.”
In his coffee cup, Friedman saw the black bile of his mother’s prophecies. He’d thought she’d been doing better, and he wasn’t sure how much blame to shoulder for allowing her to live with Buck. He hated to consider how her release had freed him from the facility’s exorbitant fees and how that may have factored into his decision. He downed the rest of his coffee in one large gulp, leaving behind a sludge-like sediment of leftover grounds.
“You’re up early.”
Friedman jumped at Marlowe’s touch. He steeled himself for what he had to say, but before he could describe the phone call, Marlowe took his free hand.
“I’m having a really good time.” She rubbed his back. “Last night you sure let go.”
***
That afternoon, they rode a tour boat to the caldera, a dazzling skyscape behind them — white buildings spread out like icing over Fira’s brown cliffs. Friedman stood with Marlowe on the boat’s upper deck, a strong, cool wind pressed against their faces. He didn’t tell her about the phone call. When the boat docked, Friedman recoiled at the smell of sulfur. The caldera had last erupted in the ‘50s, and it was sure to erupt again. The tour guide led them from the boat onto the dead planet, their shoes crunching over destroyed black earth. The heat was amazing. Steam rose from the craters beside the trail, the group marching single-file along a winding, orange-cusped path. An American behind Friedman asked what he thought of the Red Sox relievers. Scratching his head, Friedman realized that he was wearing his baseball cap.
A lone figure stood in the distance over an enormous crater, steam and haze rendering it a ghostly blur.
“Let’s go back,” Friedman said.
“No way,” Marlowe said.
She pushed herself along the path, striding to the head of the group, pumping her arms and flexing her thin calves. Friedman wiped sweat from his brow and rejoined the formation. When he looked back over his shoulder, the lone figure was gone.
The path dropped down to a lagoon nestled between the black hills, and the group found respite in its hot springs. Up to his waist in water, Friedman felt the shift of plate tectonics.
Marlowe splashed him, and he retaliated in kind. He saw them both on Io, the far away Jupiter moon.
“We’re cratering,” Marlowe laughed. She embraced him and tried to dunk him, but they tumbled over. Her arms tangled around his neck, and Friedman heaved her away.
“Jesus. What’s wrong?” Marlowe said.
“Nothing.” Friedman retrieved his glasses from the water. “You caught me off-guard.”
She splashed him again. “Loosen up, Dingo.”
“I am loose,” he said.
“Right.”
Friedman kissed her cheek and then they joined the tour on its hike back to the boat. Their wet bodies offset the heat. The sea was bluer than blue, its waves undulating like someone was gracefully making a bed. Safe on the boat, he risked a look back.
***
A ferry strike routed them around Naxos to Mykonos, and from the second level of the old, massive boat — the only available vessel — Friedman could see the unfinished Temple of Apollo, a floodlit stone archway that shone through the thunderstorm racking the midnight sea. There were few seats on the boat, its two floors comprised of large, open areas. Passengers leaned against each other for support, cats crying from wicker baskets, birds rioting in wooden cages. Black-shrouded grandmothers moaned with each pitch of the boat, teenagers — who had to be their grandchildren — clutching their wrinkled hands. A congregation of young backpackers slept on the ferry’s floor. After Naxos’ gate vanished, Friedman pushed his way to a corner of the boat where he could better insulate himself from the crowd.
“There’s so much black,” Marlowe said, taking in the crowd.
“There’re widows,” Friedman said. “They wear black for the rest of their lives.”
Friedman’s linen shirt was spotted red from last night’s dinner — a rich soup made from baby tomatoes, the dish as thick and dark as blood.
Lightning flashed from outside the ferry’s window, and Friedman caught himself before he cracked his jaw. Smoke filled the ferry’s lounge, static-filled TVs hanging from every wall. Friedman found a seat at the bar and ordered an eight-euro bottle of water. After cracking open the bottle, he downed a Codeine stolen from Marlowe’s bag. The woman next to him frowned at this. She wore all black, white locks of hair creeping out from under her hood, a silver chain around her neck. She studied Friedman, and then, with a hand to her chest, opened her eyes wide and pronounced something Greek.
“She says you have it.” A teenage girl stood beside the old woman. “The evil eye.”
The old woman nodded, drawing up the chain around her neck to reveal a blue, glass oval.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Friedman said.
“Are you dizzy?” the girl asked. “Do you have weight on your head? A tight chest? It’s the jinx.”
Before Friedman could respond, the old woman reached out and overturned his arms, her fingers cold needles. She squeezed his hands and then poured water from his water bottle into an empty glass.
“She can cure you,” the girl said.
The old woman made the sign of the cross over the glass and produced a vial from her frock. Her lips moved in silent prayer while her shaking hands unplugged the vial. Once open, she tilted the vial over the glass and added a drop of oil to the water. Instead of floating on the surface, the oil sank to the bottom of the glass. Thunder sounded from outside.
“This is proof,” said the girl.
Friedman looked around for help, but the rest of the passengers were focused on the TVs.
“That’s enough,” he said. “Please.”
The old woman dripped oil onto her middle finger then placed a drop on Friedman’s forehead. Then two drops on his clavicle.
“Stop,” Friedman said.
“It’s done,” said the girl.
***
They landed on Mykonos, and the woman in black haunted Friedman’s dreams. The next morning, Friedman pretended to sleep while Marlowe changed into a bathing suit. He rolled over and touched a finger to his forehead. Marlowe stuffed a towel in her bag and glanced over her shoulder before leaving the room.
After a scalding shower, Friedman detached the showerhead from the wall and cinched the cord. The foggy mirror blocked his reflection. He tossed on his cargo shorts and a sandy undershirt. Then he slid on his sandals, grabbed his backpack, and braved the city’s maze. The island’s labyrinthine, cobbled streets required a ball of yarn to navigate. Gold and silver shone from the windows of expensive jewelry stores while pelicans strutted on ledges, their beaks clucking like castanets. Fish lay outside restaurants in barrels of ice, their heads gaping up at pedestrians, gyros vendors using fat blades to carve chunks of lamb from vertical spits.
An old man walked in front of him, the hand behind his back manipulating a set of worry beads. The man moved the beads one at a time down their string, making a clinking sound. Unable to push past him, Friedman followed the man to a café by the shore. He found a seat away from the man, ordered a coffee, and retrieved his book on Greek sculpture from his backpack.
The Delphi Museum included a bronze charioteer holding a broken bridle. The Rein-Holder. The charioteer’s robe, cinched at the torso, hovered just above his bare feet, his free arm broken off above the elbow. The bridle straps were splayed apart, the charioteer’s fist grasped tight. The statue stared resolutely straight ahead like he was leading his horses on a march, but there were no horses, and the closer Friedman examined the figure, the angrier the charioteer looked. It was the gemstone eyes, or rather, their yellow color that seethed with coiled menace, for despite the broken bridle, the charioteer refused to relinquish control.
“Delphi,” the server said. “You see the Oracle?”
Friedman shook his head. The charioteer didn’t embody loss, but loss frozen mid-transit. Its eyes were fixed in pleading astonishment, and Friedman was afraid to see what they saw. He touched a thick drop of coffee to his forehead. People stared. The old man clacked his worry beads and an Australian couple looked up. They’d been cinching each other’s backpacks, preparing for the ferry to Delos. The Australians wore oversized water bottles and high-cut shoes, and Friedman envied their resolve. He wiped his forehead and watched the windmills spin. He ordered a salad, and when it arrived, he sucked on a purple-black olive, resisting the urge to bite down.
***
When he returned to the hotel, he found Marlowe in the bathtub, her face screwed tight in pain.
“Jesus Christ!”
“It’s all right,” Marlowe breathed. “It looks worse than it is.”
There was a wound on her thigh — a large semi-circle of fat, red marks.
“Was it a shark?” Friedman said, falling to his knees.
“Jellyfish,” Marlowe said. “Stings like a bitch.”
Friedman took the showerhead from her hands. “Don’t scare me like that.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
His heart still pounding, Friedman reattached the showerhead to its hook above the tub.
“Are you crying?” Marlowe asked.
“No.”
Marlowe laughed. “You’d think you were stung.” She shifted in the tub and then grabbed her leg. “Ouch. It’s hot.”
Friedman placed his hands over the sting and felt its radiant heat.
“I should have been there,” he said.
“Don’t be stupid,” Marlowe said. “You couldn’t have stopped it.” She pointed to the showerhead. “I need more water.”
“Water won’t help. You need vinegar.” Friedman rose to his feet.
“No. Don’t go.”
“Hold on,” Friedman found Codeine in the next room. Marlowe swallowed the pill dry and Friedman lifted her to sitting.
“I’ll get the vinegar,” he said.
“Wait,” she said. “I don’t want to be alone.”
She hugged herself, her wounded leg outstretched. She looked small, jetsam from the Aegean, and though she was the naked one, Friedman felt exposed.
“Talk to me,” she said.
“How many Jewish mothers does it take to screw in a light bulb?”
“Stop it. I know you’ve got something to ask me.”
Friedman caught his breath. “You know?”
“It’s okay,” Marlowe smiled. “You can say it.”
Friedman swallowed hard. She must have called home.
“She killed herself,” he said. “I was going to tell you.”
Marlowe stared at him. It looked like she’d been slapped.
“My mother,” he said.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You said you knew.”
“I found the ring when I was looking for aspirin.”
“The ring,” Friedman sighed.
“How could you not tell me?” Marlowe said.
“I’ve never proposed before.”
“No, asshole. About your mother.”
Friedman could have lied, but with Marlowe wounded and naked in the tub, he had to tell her the bare, complete truth. Even how he’d faked a call home the other night, pretending to check on the dog.
Marlowe breathed hard, tonguing the backs of her teeth.
“None of this changes anything,” Friedman said. “We don’t have to leave.”
Marlowe pushed herself to her knees. “We don’t have to leave? She’s your mother for fuck’s sake.”
***
After proposing, Friedman imagined renting a car and driving north with Marlowe to Apollonas, traversing the rising mountains and yellow valleys, passing through every city to eat handfuls of olives and figs.
Why hadn’t he proposed on Santorini? On its stony beaches, Friedman had walked a narrow path, one misstep above the tremulous sea. “Pain comes in the dark,” his mother would say. “It comes in the dark and we call it wisdom, but it is pain.” As a child, he imagined that his mother’s black bile allowed her to walk through walls. Friedman tried contact lenses in high school, and one morning, struggling to center his left lens, he stood at the mirror digging three fingertips into his eye.
“You’re hurting yourself.” His mother apparated beside him.
“That’s rich,” Friedman said, his left eye throbbing red with angry fault lines.
His mother caught his hand. “It’s not in there. You never put it in.”
Friedman screwed open the case and found the lens floating in its well. “No,” he told the demon in the mirror. Pain throbbed with amazing white heat. “No,” he repeated, “It was there.”
He left Marlowe in the hotel and wandered the Mykonos streets, his arms and legs working as if pulled by strings. He was supposed to cry, but how do you mourn someone who was never really there? His mother was always a specter to séance, corrupted code destined to crash its compiler. Friedman had expected something more dramatic with her — Icarus, not Daedalus — a fiery splash into the sea instead of a meek surrender.
At the shore, the water was calm, black as oil. Friedman rubbed his clavicle with his fist. As the sea lapped the docks, Friedman ripped out a hangnail and held that terrible white heat. He worried those bloody fingers, wishing for a set of beads. He needed the perfect pair, amber or resin or coral. The old men at the docks divided their beads into two groups between their thumbs and middle fingers. They flicked their wrists and swung their beads to clack without moving their arms. The sound drove seagulls to scatter and echoed along the water. It would take practice, but Friedman could master it. Yes, he’d get there. Clack-pause-clack. He felt it — the beads, the knot, the string.
Image by Sander Crombach on unsplash.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
- Friedman at the Reins - March 28, 2025