A Grievance Too Great

A

Grievance

Too Great

Louise Cabral

A Grievance Too Great

Copyright © 2013 Louise Cabral

ISBN: 978-1-4759-4749-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-4751-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-4750-2 (ebk)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Although based upon historical events, people and places, this book is a product of the author’s imagination.

Published by iUniverse

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Edited by:

Michelle Fletcher

mandala_music_circles@yahoo.com

Cover Design by:

Carlos Yanez

The books of Louise Cabral may be ordered through booksellers, the publisher or by contacting the author:

Louise Cabral

818-707-0589

cabralwritenow@yahoo.com

www.louisecabral.com

www.islandsofrecall.com

Contents

Acknowledgement

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Epilogue

To Michelle, the courier of my words, the recipient of my love ~

Acknowledgement

There were so many on the path that led me to the writing of this book. Those who have helped me on my literary journey will never be forgotten. Michael Gardner, Kerri Grant, Valerie Kruely have assisted me in ways that allowed me to give my full attention to my work. Michelle Fletcher to whom this book is dedicated, has done everything humanly possible to function in answer to my every need even far beyond the editing, marketing and publicity for which she was originally hired. During the course of her working with me she became a dear friend as well as a most proficient assistant. Carlos Yanez, my son in-law, (recently promoted to son), created the cover for this book as well as a previous one. He is one of those miracle workers who can do anything from helping with research to fixing anything that’s broken and has made himself indispensable. Lastly I would like to thank in memoriam, the two men who I called my husband: Flavio Cabral 1916-1990 recognized as a great artist and Paul Wyler 1929-2011, an honored judge who loved the law. They involved themselves in my writing and supported me in every way. They will never be forgotten.

Chapter One

Brooklyn, N.Y. 1905

Deme’ Xenopolos pressed his nine-year-old face against the cold windowpane. Rain gushed down in sheets of water.

He stepped backward. The silvery, wet world was washed away and the warm, richly furnished parlor swam into view.

Wedged between the piano and the pink lamp shade was his own reflection: coffee bean brown hair, wide spaced brown eyes, a complexion no less fair than his blonde mother’s. He was biting his lip that moment for he had to make a difficult decision.

When the doorbell rang, he was not too surprised. He heard the footsteps of Hestia, their housekeeper, as she walked toward the door, he heard the voices of a man and a woman as they demanded to see his parents and then he heard his mother’s voice from the top of the stairs.

Who is it, Hestia? He did not want to turn around to look at anything that was not reflected in the window. The circumference with the boundaries of the glass was all the world he could handle at the moment.

He caught his mother’s mirrored image as she descended the stairs.

People always asked, Aren’t you proud to have such a beautiful mother?

Only then would he become aware of the golden ringlets framing her face. He would look into her eyes, wide open translucent blue, and sometimes reach his small hands around her tiny waist.

Mr. Revenko, she repeated the name as the man at the door introduced himself and his wife. Please come in. You must be soaked from that awful rain. Take off your coats.

Deme’ could no longer see his mother in the window now where the two visitors were visible in the glass, but he continued to stare into it as he listened to the voices.

Please, Missus, he heard the man say. We come talk to you and husband. Husband be home?

Well yes, he is, he heard his mother answer. But he’s in his study and very busy at the moment. There was the smallest silence, then, Here, give me those wet coats.

Hestia, she called to the housekeeper, please bring us some ouzo and some of those wonderful little cakes you baked.

When they were seated, Deme’ could see all three of them in the glass. The window reflected their weariness, their sorrow and their rage. Hestia entered carrying a tray with a carafe and baklava; the man ignored it and stood up.

Please Missus, he intoned. We did not come for visit. We came to see you and husband together. It is matter of importance. Kindly to call husband.

Silence followed. Won’t you tell me what the problem is? Deme’ heard his mother say at last. I’m sure I can help you without disturbing my husband.

No. Mr. Revenko demanded. Must speak you and husband.

Very well, Deme’ heard his mother concede. I’ll see if he can come out and talk to you.

He listened as she knocked upon the door of his father’s study and sent, through the panel of Oakwood, the message that there were neighbors insisting upon speaking to both of them.

Deme’ heard the door squeak open and listened to the awesome footsteps. His father was followed by a trail of cigar smoke that wafted all the way to the window where he stood. But it wasn’t until his father was standing beside the other two people that he could pick up his father’s reflection.

Ulysses Xenopolos was a big man, standing six foot two. Both his eyes and his hair were obsidian black but perhaps the most striking thing about him was his beetle black eyebrows; unusually thick and heavy. He was masculine in every movement and expression, bigger than life and fearsome when angry. He could kill with a single look.

I am Sasha Revenko. In the window Deme’ watched the man extend his hand and lose it in his father’s big palm.

Ulysses’ smile shone white and brilliant in the window, Mr. Revenko, what can I do for you?

They all sat down at once.

We have only one son, Mr. Revenko began. We come this country through many hardships because we think we come to better world. Is not much better. He sighed.

No, not better, his wife agreed.

I am very sorry, Ulysses sympathized, that you are disappointed with the country. He moved a glass on the table as though it were a very important thing to do. "Naturally, I cannot change the country for you. What can I do for you, Mr. Revenko?"

Mr. Revenko stared in bewilderment. You do not know? He turned to his wife with a look of incredulity. They do not know! he repeated.

What is it that we do not know? Ulysses demanded impatiently. Mr. Revenko shifted his weight. There was an ‘accident’ at the school today. Our boy, our son, Misha, he was taken to hospital in ambulance.

Oh! How awful. Laura Xenopolos exclaimed.

Mr. Revenko turned to face her. But was not accident, he asserted.

Laura wrinkled her brow. You mean someone injured your son deliberately? she asked, her blue eyes wide with disbelief.

Somebody, yes, Mr. Revenko accused. Your son, your Sophocles trip him when he go downstairs.

That sounds like an accident to me, Ulysses sprang to his son’s defense at once.

Mr. Revenko barked. No accident. First Sophocles trip him then push him. Is point on end of railing, bottom of stairs. Sophocles push him into that.

He fell on eyes, Mrs. Revenko sobbed. Eyeglasses break. Glass go in eyes, blood like rain. Misha blind, can see nothing. Doctor say he try save eyes but could be blind for all life, Mr. Revenko inserted grievously.

Ulysses stared at him indignantly. You are blaming this unfortunate accident upon my son?

Yes.

You are making a very serious accusation, Mr. Revenko. You surely must have proof.

Yes, Mr. Revenko nodded with certainty. His wife nodded in unison.

And just what proof do you have? Ulysses questioned him.

Misha, Mr. Revenko answered.

Misha, Mrs. Revenko echoed.

Misha? Ulysses asked, almost amused.

Yes. He tell us in hospital. Eyes bandaged, can see nothing. He tell us how Sophocles stick foot in front him when he take step to go down. He tell us how Sophocles push him hard into point of railing. He tell me, ‘Papa, Sophocles bad, must to be punish.’

Deme’ could see from his father’s expression reflected in the window that he dismissed the last part of Mr. Revenko’s comment without even considering it. Ulysses drew a breath and released it. You have a witness? he asked. The victim cannot be his own witness. Is there anyone else who claims he saw my son trip and push your boy?

Plenty, Revenko hastened to reply.

For only an instant Ulysses’ face registered concern. Where are they? he asked.

Now the window showed Mr. Revenko’s crestfallen face. They would not come.

Why? Deme’s mother asked. If they said they saw it, why would they not come?

Mr. Revenko’s face turned to brine. They be afraid. Sophocles do bad, very bad. Look what he do with my Misha.

Ulysses’ face was suddenly awesome. He held his anger on a leash as though it were a ferocious wild animal, about to spring. Be careful what you say about my son, Revenko. Unless you can prove it, he barked.

Mr. Revenko raised his voice to match his volume. I prove, he warned. I find way to prove if I have to talk every boy in school.

You go ahead, Ulysses invited. I’m sure you’ll find out your boy was injured in an accident and that Sophocles had nothing to do with it. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .

Mr. Revenko folded his arms across his chest and bit down on his lip. I don’t go without to see Sophocles. You ask him, in front of me and wife what happen. You hear lie yourself.

Ulysses considered this demand for a long moment then he turned to his wife. Where is Sophocles?

He’s upstairs, Laura answered, in his room.

Call him down.

Soph came bounding down until he was mid-way on the stairs. He leaned over the banister. Yeah, mom?

Laura looked up at him.

There was enough resemblance between Deme’ and Soph that one could see they were brothers but there were also distinct differences. Deme’s demeanor showed many of his mother’s characteristics. Soph’s face was stamped almost entirely with his father’s features.

Sophocles adored his father and he modeled himself after him.

Come down at once, his mother said without her usual smile or pleasantness. Her voice made clear that she meant business.

Sophocles came down. His lips were pursed, pressed into sweetness.

Deme’ watched his brother in the window. In the white vapor he wrote the word no on the pane with his finger. Then he thought ponderously, erased the word with his hand, breathed on the glass once more and wrote yes.

Come here, Sophocles. Ulysses beckoned his son to him. Sophocles drew closer to his father. You know Mr. and Mrs. Revenko?

Soph offered only a slight nod. Misha’s folks, he said. A silence followed, then, Say, I sure am sorry about what happened today.

You sorry? Mr. Revenko’s chin became granite. First you do, then you sorry?

Do? Soph took a step backward. Hey, Mr. Revenko, I didn’t do nothing. I was just behind him when he tripped. Hey, I even tried to catch him. Did he tell you I . . . hey, he musta gone crazy from the fall. I’d never hurt Misha he’s my buddy. Now the lower lip came out. Soph was looking terribly injured at the accusation.

Ulysses stood up. Well, you see, he said. It is a matter of your son’s word against mine. I don’t think anyone is lying but sometimes an accident will happen so fast it seems to be one way to the victim when, in reality it is entirely different.

It was at this moment that Deme’ took the leap, making the transition from being a watcher of windows to a participating actor. Wait. Wait, he shouted, leaving his post at the glass to join the others. I am a witness. I saw everything that happened.

He had everyone’s full, immediate attention. A glance at Soph told him he would suffer death at an early age if he continued. He could not let that deter him. There was no turning back now. He had summoned every ounce of courage at the window, remembering every word his mother had taught him about being honest and true to his own conscience.

They were waiting for his next word so he spoke. Soph tripped Misha, he declared. His knees were shaking and his voice was high pitched and quivering. I was right behind him. I saw Soph stick out his leg and put it right in front of Misha’s leg when he was going down the stairs. My brother did it on purpose.

In a glance as fast as a knife stab, Deme’ thought he saw his father’s eyes fill with loathing. Then his expression took on objective impartiality again. Mr. Revenko smacked his open palm against his forehead in a gesture of victory. His wife’s swollen eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

He’s crazy! Soph shrieked in protest. "That’s what he thinks he saw. He directed his appeal to his father. Papa, what really happened is I took a step too soon and my leg got tangled up with his leg."

Deme’ had not come this far to turn back. You pushed him, he accused. At the same time you tripped him you pushed him. You put your hand on his back and you pushed him real hard, right into the point of the railing.

The heads of both Mr. and Mrs. Revenko were nodding up and down, half in bitterness, half in satisfaction at the revelation.

Soph’s face was livid. You rotten little snot-nose squealer! he hurled at his brother. Papa, he’s lying! He looked for his father’s sympathy once more. He just wants ta’ get me into trouble.

His mother looked on at the scene without saying a word. The shocked expression on her face, however, spoke volumes.

Ulysses kneeled down to his younger son. Demetrius, he said, "sometimes something looks one way but it really is different from what you think you saw. Now try to remember what happened. Are you sure you saw Sophocles trip Misha and push him? Do you think maybe it just looked that way to you?"

Deme’ was entirely overwhelmed. He was not accustomed to being the focus of his father’s attention. Ulysses made no attempt to disguise the fact that he favored his older son. It was Soph who accompanied their father to the steam baths, the wrestling matches and the gym, while he stayed home with his mother. If only he could lie now, he might win his father’s approval. He had long nurtured the dream that his father would love him someday. He was sorely tempted, but committed to the truth at any cost.

No, Papa, he said. I didn’t make a mistake. I saw Soph trip Misha on purpose and then push him on purpose.

Again the eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Revenko gleamed with victory. Ulysses cast an icy glare at Deme’ that froze him. But Soph had already picked up a cue from his father. I lost my balance, he cried, when my leg got tangled up with Misha’s I just reached out to stop my fall. That’s probably why my dumb brother thought I pushed him.

Soph, Laura said at last, we can do without your insults.

Well, you see, Ulysses said, turning to the Revenkos, I’m sure it seemed to your boy that my Sophocles tripped him and pushed him. Everything happened so suddenly. But the truth is it was an accident.

Mr. Ravenko had grown sullen. Was no accident, he said in softer tones of defeat. His victory had been short lived. We tell story to police. Let them to decide.

Ulysses chuckled in his throat. You go to police they will laugh you out of there. Even if you could prove something, which you never could, you think they would be interested in a schoolboy accident? I understand you are upset. And so, he reached into his coat pocket and brought out his checkbook. Permit me to help a little with the medical expenses. They are very costly, I know, he said while writing a check as he spoke. He tore the check out of the book and handed it to Mr. Revenko. Take it, he insisted.

Mr. Revenko reached for the check and took it out of Ulysses’ hand. He glanced down at it. Clearly, the amount had impressed him. He glanced at his wife with subtle approval.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have been neglecting my work, Ulysses said with feigned politeness. Hestia, he called looking toward the kitchen.

Hestia came on summons, wiping her hands on her clean white apron. Please show Mr. And Mrs. Revenko out. Hestia handed the guests their wet coats. No one said a word. The silence was thick and heavy. As the front door opened, they could see the rain splashing down. Hestia watched as the Revenkos walked away.

Chapter Two

When their visitors were gone, Laura confronted Soph. I want to know the truth, she demanded. What happened with the Revenko boy?

Soph’s face became angelically innocent. I told you the truth, Mama. I missed a step going down and I stuck my hand out to stop the fall.

Ulysses, standing with one hand on his office door, looked in on the scene and smiled.

Laura considered Soph’s explanation but something didn’t seem quite right. Your brother seems to think you tripped and pushed Misha deliberately, she challenged.

Deme’s a dumb sissy, Soph declared. He just wants to get me in trouble. He was performing mainly for his father and he kept casting an eye in Ulysses’ direction. Ulysses remained where he was.

Laura took a few steps away from Soph as an attorney might, then turned back to him. Deme’ is your brother, she reminded. Why would he want to get you in trouble?

Soph scratched his head as though he might find the answer among the tangled strands. Because he’s jealous, he explained.

I am not. Deme’ objected. No one seemed to hear him.

Laura placed a dainty hand on each of Soph’s shoulders and looked right into his eyes. Now why would your brother be jealous of you? she inquired.

Soph looked over at his father who was still standing in front of his office, and decided to plunge ahead. Because Papa likes me better, he declared.

Laura turned to her younger son. Is that true? she asked.

Deme’ had an answer that was overflowing but all he could produce was Well . . . which came out in a kind of boy soprano squeak.

Are you unhappy because Papa takes Soph to the steam bath with him and to the wrestling matches? Laura inquired of her younger son.

Deme’ thought about it. No, he told her honestly. I’d rather go to concerts and plays and things with you.

Is there any reason you can think of, Laura asked Deme’, that would cause Soph to say you have bad feelings toward him because of your father?

Deme’ shrugged and a spoonful of bitterness came out with his words. Papa never even sees me, he complained, letting feelings he had kept inside for so long surface at last. When I bring home medals and gold stars from school he never looks at them. That time I played George Washington in the school play he forgot to come. He said he was working late but I know he forgot.

Well, your father’s work does take up much of his time, his mother suggested weakly.

Not for Soph, Deme’ objected. It was all coming out now, everything he had kept to himself out of fear of his brother; once he started he couldn’t stop himself. Soph gets bad reports from his teacher. He plays hooky, beats up little kids, cheats on his schoolwork, and Papa praises him. He takes him to his nightclub and to the steam baths and the wrestling matches. He never takes me any place.

Laura Xenopolos listened to the entire indictment. Then she directed an accusatory look toward her husband that clearly indicated the topic of this inequity had been previously discussed between the two of them. Her expression seemed to ask, Well, are you finally going to do something about it?

For once Ulysses paid close attention to his younger son. He kept his eyes on Deme’ throughout the entire recitation. Finally, he said, Come here, Demetrius.

Deme’ walked slowly, somberly to where his father had seated himself on the sofa. Even sitting, Ulysses was taller than Deme’ standing. He took both small hands into his big ones and drew him close. Laura, at the foot of the stairs and Soph, draped over the banister, leaned forward in an effort to hear every word. No one noticed Hestia, standing behind the doorway of the kitchen, listening and studying the scene.

So, Ulysses began. You think your Papa doesn’t like you.

Deme’ had no alternative but to look directly into his father’s eyes. Well . . . was all he could dredge up.

His father cleared his throat. Speak up, Demetrius, he encouraged. Don’t be afraid. You think I like your brother more than I like you?

Deme’ felt himself become bold. Yes, he said.

I can understand that you would think so, Ulysses conceded. "But that can show how something can seem to be one way and actually be another."

Waiting for his father’s explanation, Deme’ had almost stopped breathing.

Now, Demetrius, his father continued, can you remember when your brother was nine years old?

Deme’ strained to recall. I think so, he said, his little boy voice still retaining some shyness.

How old were you?

He had to think. It was like an arithmetic problem. His brother was three years older than he—three from nine—six, he came up with.

Good, his father finally gave him a word of praise. He instantly swelled up and grew to twice his size.

Now, Ulysses said. Do you remember when Sophocles was six years old if I took him to the steam baths with me?

Deme’ looked into the mist of three years past. I don’t think so, he told his father.

You don’t think so because it was not so, Ulysses assured his son. Can you remember if I ever took Sophocles to a wrestling match when he was six years old?

Deme’ thought back. The truth was it had only been in the last year or so that his father had begun to take Soph with him.

Well, his father lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. Laura, Soph, and Hestia, each at their own station, leaned forward even more. You are beginning to see something that you didn’t understand before. Now, I will tell you something that I want you to always remember: You and Sophocles are both my sons. I love you both alike.

Even though he could not bring himself to believe this was true, it pleased Deme’ to think his father cared enough to lie. Indeed, the fact that Ulysses was focusing his complete attention upon him flattered and overwhelmed him to the point where the words he spoke were secondary to the beating of his happy heart.

But even though I love you both, Ulysses continued, you must realize, Demetrius, your brother is almost a man and you are still a child.

Deme’s relief was enormous. He had assumed his father had ignored him because he considered him unlovable and unworthy. Now he understood it was merely a matter of his age. Someday he would be as old as Soph and inherit the privilege of his father’s love and companionship. His father would take him with him to exciting places and he would enjoy as a man all the paternal love he had missed as a child. He stopped breathing. He could not believe he had fallen into such good fortune. Perhaps he wouldn’t even have to wait for his father’s affection. Deme’ was enraptured.

Now, lean a little closer, Demetrius. I am going to tell you a secret.

The words excited him so much he began biting his lower lip.

I am going to buy a motor car, his father recited.

Now Deme’ was in a state of ecstasy. He had a passion for motor cars. Most people were still going about in horse drawn coaches and carriages but a few modern, advanced people invested their money in beautiful, shining motor cars: Fords, Oldsmobiles, Hupmobiles, Daimlers and Stanley Steamers. To him they were miracles, each one.

Ulysses continued to keep his lips close to Deme’s ear. I am going to take only one person with me to select the motor car. Guess who that one person will be?

By now Deme’ was in a dream of delight. Me? he asked scarcely believing that possibility.

His father nodded magnanimously. Deme’ glanced up to see if his mother was still there. He wished there was some way he could tell her how overjoyed he was. She had moved to the dining room table where she was arranging silk flowers in a glossy, blue, ceramic vase. He knew she was there because she didn’t want to get too far from him.

Soph was still on the staircase but he was sitting now, bouncing a small rubber ball against a lower step.

Now, Demetrius. This time Ulysses’ voice became louder. No longer a whisper, he seemed now to be playing to an audience. Let us, he suggested, go over one more time, what happened in school today with the Revenko boy.

Deme’ felt the muscles of his face droop. His mouth fell open. But he was far too much under his father’s spell now to refuse him anything.

I already told you about that, he reminded weakly.

Yes, his father sat back. But sometimes, when we examine things for a second time we begin to see them differently. He took both of Deme’s hands in his. Start from the beginning, please, Demetrius. You were coming down the stairs behind Sophocles.

Yes.

Now try to remember exactly what you saw.

Deme’ swallowed. The mood of an amiable, father-son companionship he had yearned for all his years was gone. It was like bright, sun shining days, he could remember which suddenly became overcast when dark clouds blotted out the warmth and the light.

I—I saw Soph stick out his leg and trip Misha Revenko. H-he pushed him at the same time.

A heavy, cumbersome silence filled the room. Finally, Ulysses said, Now think carefully, Demetrius. Is it possible that your brother might have taken too big a step and gotten his leg tangled with Misha’s?

Deme’ reviewed the moment once more. He knew what his father wanted him to say and more than anything in the world he wanted to please him. His mind drifted back to school, the two straight lines of boys, walking down the stairs and suddenly, yes, it could have been that way.

To his father he said, Maybe Soph missed a step. Maybe that’s why his leg shot out that way.

Ulysses gave him a broad, approving smile and a nod. Now, Demetrius, he said. When someone feels they are falling they reach out to try to stop their fall. Isn’t that so?

I-I guess so.

You guess. For the first time, there was a trace of impatience in Ulysses’ voice. "It is not a guess. It is a fact. Now, could it be that Sophocles hand shot out to save himself from the fall so it appeared to you that he tripped and pushed the Ravenko boy? It only seemed that way to you but now that you remember it more clearly, you can see that it was an accident. It was an accident, wasn’t it Demetrius?"

Deme’ felt the moisture of tears gathering behind his eyes. There was a lump in his throat. He didn’t know why he suddenly felt like crying. It was difficult for him to speak so he nodded in answer to his father’s question.

Say it, Ulysses demanded.

The sob had grown inside Deme’s chest. I-it w-was an accident, he confirmed.

Say it louder. I can’t hear you.

It was an accident.

Again.

It w-was an a-accident. The sob preceded his words. Ulysses was satisfied at last. Now, if anyone ever asks you, make certain you remember that. He rose in a manner that constituted a dismissal and walked toward the dining room. His wife left some of the flowers she had been arranging on the table and walked slowly to meet him. Well, she said, when she was standing close to her husband. You washed one clean and perjured the other.

Ulysses frowned and made an attempt to get past her. Laura, he said, I have no idea what you are talking about.

She blocked his escape. You know very well what I’m talking about. It’s very easy, isn’t it, to seduce a little child, hungry for your approval and affection.

Laura, I told you I don’t understand your big English words. Now, if you’ll excuse me I . . .

You understand very well what I’m saying. If you look at Soph’s record, it will be obvious that our son is not as innocent as you would like to believe. Maybe he didn’t intend the outcome to be so serious but there is little doubt in my mind that he tripped the Revenko boy deliberately.

You see that? You see that? Ulysses began to shout. "His own mother believes him to be guilty. His own mother accuses him."

Deme’ could see there was another fight coming on. He retreated to his favorite place, at the window. He always felt safer when he viewed the reflection of events, once removed in the glass.

Now, he could see in the window, how his mother placed her hands on her hips, looking up at her big, powerful husband. You know very well what I’m referring to. I lost count of the number of times Soph was sent home from school because he got into fights with the other boys.

In the window Deme’ could see just a little of his brother, still sitting on the stairs. Both boys knew better than to utter a word of intervention when their parents were in controversy.

Ulysses dismissed his wife’s reminder with a wave of his hand. He’s a boy. All boys get into fights, except sissies.

Deme’ stared at the glass to see if his father was looking in his direction. He was not.

Not all boys, Ulysses. Don’t you see? You’ve tried to make a man out of Sophocles. You’ve taken him to the nightclubs and the wrestling matches, the steam baths and the prizefights. He’s twelve years old, still a very young boy. You thought you taught him to be masculine but what you really taught him was violence.

Ulysses laughed ironically. You are a woman. You don’t know a man’s world. A man must be tough, clever and strong to survive in this world. If he wants to succeed, he must be tougher, more clever and stronger than other men. That is how I train Sophocles and that is how I will train Demetrius when he is older.

Deme’ shuddered against the windowpane. He wasn’t at all sure he wanted such training. He feared that he would earn his father’s contempt rather than his approval.

He heard his mother say, Physical strength is not the only kind of strength, Ulysses.

In the glass Deme’ saw his father look upon his mother with scorn. You talk nonsense. When a man is wrestling, he must be strong enough and clever enough to put down his opponent. That is how it is with life, he chuckled. Life is a wrestling match.

Laura gave him a bittersweet smile. But I am not referring to that kind of strength. I am speaking of a spiritual strength, the kind of strength that comes from faith in a union with the greater part of one’s being, that enables one to transcend all obstacles and difficulties in order to reach that which is best in oneself.

In the reflection of the window Deme’ saw his father hold up his hand. Stop! He demanded. I have heard enough of this Sunday school preaching. A little demonstration will soon show you which strength is more powerful. He grabbed his wife’s arm and bent it behind her.

Laura let out a scream of pain. Even in the window Deme’ saw how her face was drained of all color, its beauty twisted into a mask of agony. Let go! She cried. Ulysses, let go of my arm! You’re hurting me.

Deme’ clutched the windowsill until his knuckles went as white as his mother’s face. He could feel her pain and he understood now what his father meant. If he were strong enough now, he would kill Ulysses for tormenting his mother. But all he could do was pray that he would let her go.

Well, Ulysses demanded. Where is your strength now?

Laura was sobbing with pain. Let go. Let go of my arm, was all she could say.

Ulysses released her at last. Well, he said with a smug little laugh. Now you know there is only one kind of strength.

Laura brought back her arm, which still retained its power and slapped him hard on his right cheek. Thank you, she said with little sarcasm. You’ve taught me the same lesson you taught Sophocles.

Everything went into dead silence. His hand flew to his cheek. His face took on an expression of shocked disbelief and his black eyes became murderous. Then, with the kind of motion used to swat a fly, he raised his powerful arm and knocked her down to the floor. She toppled until she finally landed with a thud, as soft and boneless as a cat, and lay there.

Ulysses turned to Soph who was still sitting on the stairs, viewing the drama from the opposite side of the parlor to where Deme’ stood. Come on, Sophocles, he said with imperious defiance. We go to the wrestling match.

Chapter Three

Deme’ listened to the clatter of the door as it swung shut behind his father and his brother. The fleur-de-lis stained glass above the door trembled for an instant after they were