THERAPEUSW by Jeff Martin
In the fall a bunch of fathers die and we’re all taking ancient Greek. Mrs. V explains there is no “yes,” there is no “no.” Are you going to the marketplace? she asks us. We are going to the marketplace, we say. Do you worship the goddess? she asks. We do not worship the goddess, we say. But there is also a dance that weekend, so we are mostly lying.
The fathers die like fuses, one after another. There are four in the end, and Mrs. V talks about proportions. This is disproportionate, she says. In a class of seventeen, what are the odds? Rahul says they must be pretty good and he looks terrible because his dad is one of them.
There’s no way to kill someone in ancient Greek. It’s very precise, we learn. I bring about your death, we say. You have brought about my death. I write a note to Ginny Hayes. Is she going to the dance? I ask. She is going to the dance, she says. Will she go to the dance with me? I ask. She does not answer. I write again. You are bringing about my death, I say.
Rahul doesn’t ask anyone to the dance. No, he says, I’m θάνατος inside. It would be good to try, I say. What’s the worst that could happen? And he looks at me because the odds are four in seventeen that the worst could happen.
There’s an entire page of verbs just for fear. We look at them on the bus ride home. This is very precise, I say. Rahul is chewing gum because it keeps him from puking. He has been chewing gum for weeks. I fear, I say. Me, too, he says.
I write another note to Ginny Hayes. This one is in Greek. I tell her she is a goddess who can heal me. Θεραπεύσω, I say. Therapeusw. I am being healed. She does the worst thing possible, which is write back in English.
Rahul’s dad was in the garden when his death was brought about. Rahul says it was his heart or his lungs, it was hard to tell. He was planting basil. I don’t even like basil, Rahul says. It makes everything taste awful. I agree.
On the last day of October I write another note to Ginny Hayes. Last chance, I say. If you decline, I will whip the seas with my anger. You will whip the seas with your anger, she writes back. This is my τιμή, I say, this is my honor. You will whip the seas with your anger, she writes again.
That night Rahul and I walk through a field near the school. We’re too old to trick or treat.
Therapeusw? I say.
Rahul is chewing gum. No, he says, I fear. I am in the act of fearing.
Jeff Martin’s stories have appeared in Mississippi Review, The Greensboro Review, Sou’wester, Mid-American Review, and Meridian.