The Icon by Neil Olson Read Free Book Online Page A

stood by the window. Andreas could not see what the boy saw, but he knew from the turns they had taken that he faced east, toward the river. From the back, his grandson—broad shoulders, round head, black hair—looked like his father. The resemblance was otherwise slight, nor did Matthew particularly look like his mother. His grandmother, Andreas thought, not for the first time: my wife. The boy looked just like dear, dead Maria.
    “Babás.” A dry whisper from the bed. The old man turned to face the narrow-eyed gaze of his son. Had he been awake all along?
    “Ne,” Andreas answered. He did not trust himself to move swiftly, so he shuffled like an invalid to the bed.
    Alex tried to pull himself up. Desperate to help, the old man hesitated for fear of a rebuke. Matthew came over instead, dragging his father upright. Andreas quickly rearranged the flattened pillows, and Matthew set Alex back against them. The sick man pointed to a cup on the bedside table, and Matthew filled it with water from a white plastic pitcher. Alekos took it with a steady hand and sipped slowly without looking at them, in no hurry to speak further. Andreas’ legs trembled, but he would not sit.
    “How is that silent sister of mine?” Alex finally asked, in English, for Matthew’s sake, though the boy’s Greek was good.
    “Well. The children keep her busy, you know, and the husband is no help.”
    “Always defending her.” But Alex smiled, a tiny lift at the corners of his mouth.
    “When I am with her, I defend you.” And then, as an afterthought: “She will be coming to see you soon.”
    “Yes, as soon as you report on my condition. I have no doubt they will all be at my bedside, with holy water and a priest. I will count on you to keep the priest away.” Andreas knew better than to answer, and Alex looked to his own son. “You picked him up at the airport?”
    “Fotis did,” Matthew responded.
    “Of course. The conspirators.”
    “He sends his best.”
    “You must send mine back, at the next planning session.”
    Matthew laughed. “What are we planning?”
    “God knows,” Alex rasped. “Ask your Papou.”
    “He sent a man to get me at the airport,” Andreas said. “I was not expecting him. I haven’t seen Fotis in years.”
    “How was today?” Matthew asked quietly.
    His father’s hand flipped palm up, then palm under, a gesture both of the others recognized.
    “The same. They did some tests. They say I may go home soon. Babás, sit down.”
    Andreas nearly fell into the hard chair. He unbuttoned his coat and put his hat in his lap.
    “That’s great news,” Matthew answered. “So your blood looks better?”
    “A little. It’s not worse, anyway.”
    “But in that case, shouldn’t they go on with the therapy? How do they know it won’t continue to improve?”
    “It might. They tell me it might, but they don’t believe it, and I don’t believe them.” Alex spoke without anger. Profound weariness seemed to be the controlling tone in his voice. “Anyway, I can’t take any more of the therapy now. I need a rest. I can’t rest in this place.”
    “Of course not,” Andreas insisted. “You should be home.”
    “Well now. I think you may be the one who needs a rest, old man. You look worse than me.”
    Andreas could only manage to stare at his son, as at a car wreck, unable to take his eyes away, aware of all the naked emotions on his face but unable to hide them.
    “I am well. It’s the airplane. I have never gotten used to them.”
    The look on Alekos’ face was more gentle than Andreas had seen since his son was a child, and the past overtook him just then in a numbing wave. He reached to unbutton his coat and realized he had already done so; he unbuttoned the collar of his priestly white shirt instead.
    “Matthew, get your Papou some water,” Alex commanded.
    “No,” Andreas said. “We passed a coffee machine in the hall, you remember?”
    “You sure you want coffee this late?” The boy’s