Greek?”
“French and Polish.” Marshall hunched over his coffee, his voice going quiet. “But, you know, for all their fighting, they stayed together. My mom totally lost it when my dad died, said he was the love of her life.” He chuckled softly. “All us kids could remember was yelling and flying shoes. But me and Violet? Things weren’t bad enough for . . . this.” Costa nodded. “Maybe she’ll change her mind,” Marshall said. “Come back, you know. Maybe she’s just . . . wanting some . . . space. Or something.” Marshall thought about Violet’s wedding ring, lying in a little dish next to the kitchen sink at home.
“Sure, maybe she’ll, you know, come back,” said Costa, but he looked down into his coffee when he said it, and Marshall could tell he didn’t think that was going to happen.
Costa locked the restaurant door behind Marshall with a sigh, shaking his head. He ran a hand through his thick hair. He had to admit, he felt sorry for the guy. After all, he’d been there. Costa had been Violet’s second husband. He was first generation American, the son of Greek immigrants, and grew up in his father’s restaurant in Detroit. Violet hadn’t liked Detroit, and she was even less fond of Costa’s conventional mother, Marta, who never let Costa forget he hadn’t married a Greek. Thin, pale Violet was a slap in his mother’s face, and when it got out that Violet couldn’t have children, his traditional mother was relentless. Every time she saw Violet she screamed obscenities, cried, and locked herself in the restaurant basement refusing to come upstairs until “that barren white whore” had left the premises.
For the sake of his own sanity, Costa’s father decided he needed to expand the business, and he set Costa up in Saginaw with a new restaurant. When Costa added a nightclub to the restaurant, his father was livid. Told him it would only bring trouble. Good thing he’d never told his father the club was Violet’s idea. She’d hated the restaurant and refused to work there alongside her husband the way Marta had worked alongside his father all their lives. But a club, she said, that could be her baby. She would be the manager and hostess. Unfortunately, what that really meant was Violet partying and flirting every night with the regulars. Costa was jealous, and they fought constantly, made up passionately. Emotionally speaking, they were always in high gear.
It was the childlessness, however, that broke the camel’s back for the couple. Costa’s cousin Niki and his wife came up from Detroit to help with the Saginaw enterprise, which was booming. The couple had a little girl, Eva. She was a gorgeous two-year-old with rosy skin and black hair, little wet brown eyes that flashed. Costa was enchanted.
Costa loved sharing their home with them—he’d missed having family around. His parents had never visited, always saying they were too busy with the Detroit business, but Costa knew it was because of Violet. He wished they could see in her what he saw—a woman who was beautiful, smart, vibrant. Violet ate up life like it was a baklava, full of sweet nuttiness, rich butter, and honey.
Violet, though outwardly congenial, soon resented the camaraderie of Costa, Niki, and his pretty wife, Olivia. She complained about their late-night drinking and laughter. She disliked having another woman in her kitchen, even though Costa teasingly told Violet she was not the most domestic woman in the world, so why did she care about the kitchen now?
But it was Eva of whom Violet was most jealous. The girl had Costa wrapped around her little finger. He would sneak home after the lunch rush, send the sitter out, and sit rocking the little girl to sleep for her nap, singing lullabies in Greek. He spoiled her with gifts, told her she was beautiful, sweet, smart—all of the things he used to say to Violet.
One night as he was reading the little girl a bedtime story, he heard a rustling in the hallway. He laid Eva in her crib and softly walked to the guest-room door, surprising a tearful Violet. She was wearing her coat and gloves, two large suitcases at her feet.
“What are you doing?” Costa asked her.
“I can’t stand it anymore.”
“Stand? Stand what?” He put his hands on her shoulders, but she shrugged him away. “Violet. I’m sorry. I’ll tell Niki he has to find a place. This week. I promise.”
“No, Costa,” she said. “I don’t care about that.” Tears streamed down her ivory cheeks. She looked tragically beautiful, heartbreaking. “It’s her.” She inclined her head toward the doorway of the guest room.
“Eva?” Costa was incredulous. “Violet, grow up. She’s a little baby.”
“She’s what I can’t give you,” Violet said. “Ever.” She picked up her bags. “I love you, Costa. But I have to go.”
At first, Costa hadn’t worried. Violet had left many times before, and after several passionate phone calls between the couple, she had come back. Each time it was like having a honeymoon all over again. It had gotten to a point that Costa almost looked forward to these little forays of hers. Really spiced things up. “Nothing like a little hot blood,” his father used to say.
But this time she really disappeared. He tried all her regular haunts. Her family’d never approved of him, so they would barely speak to him. Even the cops had been little help. Wives and husbands left their spouses all the time. To the cops, he was just some poor schmuck who’d gotten dumped. They’d reluctantly filed a missing person’s report, but it had brought no news. He had to face the fact that Violet didn’t want to be found. Costa was beside himself with worry and remorse, in complete despair. And then, three months after the day she left, divorce papers arrived in the mail from some little town up North. Next thing he heard, Violet was marrying some Hicksville guy.
Remembering what happened brought it all back. Violet had said she loved him when she left. Costa had been sure she’d come back—just like that poor sap, Marshall. Costa recalled it had been especially lonely when Niki, Olivia, and Eva left for their new house in the suburbs. He hadn’t even told his parents Violet had left him, and he threatened Niki with death if he revealed the truth. He didn’t want to suffer the I-told-you-so, the shame, his mother’s gloating laughter. Marshall was on his own. Costa knew the guy had a long road ahead of him.
After Violet left Costa, he’d had his own long road—in fact, he’d almost lost the restaurant, disappearing into drink, sitting in his house in the dark, in the bedroom he’d shared with Violet. If it hadn’t been for Niki, he would have lost everything. He owed his cousin his living. And more. But then, that’s what family was for, right? Violet had never really understood that.
He remembered his despair, the way he wanted to hunt her and her new lover down, the way her behavior in the club played over and over in his head. Pictures of Violet laughing, dancing, letting men buy her drinks. “Don’t be jealous,” she’d said. “I’m just being friendly—and they’re buying your liquor and food, tipping the girls. Don’t be a baby,” she’d said. A baby. He was no baby. He was a man.
But he remembered feeling like a baby, when he knew she was gone for good. How he’d lain in their bed, drunk and stupid, crying big man tears into the pillow. Trashing his own restaurant. It’d cost him a bundle to repair his own destruction.
He thought again about Marshall and how he’d broken the window and they’d smashed up the restaurant. Marshall was as messed up as Costa had been back then.
DATE: 09-22-2011
CLIENT: Violet Mary VanDahmm nee. Benjamin
CASE
