This story is by Arthur Gardiner and was part of our 2023 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.
Shaking the worst of the snow off his head like a dog, he grimaced at his muddy sandal tracks. He shrugged. Oh, bugger! She’d get over it. That’s living on a mountain for you: it’s always cold and usually snowing. Sure, it’s private; but there are warmer places, like an island, perhaps.
He wasn’t that late, was he? He decided he’d try the ‘booze and schmooze’ line: it generally worked, unless she was hungry. Now he mentioned it; he was peckish, so she was probably famished.
“Hi, sweetheart. What’s for dinner?”
“Don’t you ‘hi-sweetheart’ me, you bum! Where have you been?”
It wasn’t as if it was past midnight, so she must be hungry, right? Well, put on the contrite face and weather the storm.
“Sorry I’m late. Went for a quickie on the way.”
His toe eased off one sandal, slopping a second puddle of clay; and the other sandal created a third puddle. Would ‘showing willing’ by mopping up quieten her?
A tumbler ricocheted off the lintel. Ooo—maybe hunger wasn’t her only problem. Tossing a towel from the rail onto the puddles, his foot swirled it while he steadied himself with a hand on the wall. Tsk, the towel didn’t clean up the mess; it just spread it around. Bugger it again: grubby hand-prints on the wall now. Maybe she wouldn’t notice.
“I saw Maia this afternoon, and she says…” said she.
“Maia? She never did like me.”
“But she liked you enough to bear your bastard, didn’t she?”
Maggots! That was centuries ago, and the child was already grown up. Dear Maia… not adventurous, but sexually sporting.
“It was long ago. Anyway, in my position…”
While he rattled his mind for a strategy, another tumbler missed his ear by a hair. He scuttled behind the brass-studded oaken door. After a pause, his tentative nose poked around the door-frame. It almost met a third glass, pitched with the same lame accuracy as before. He dipped away, then peeked around the door again. There was no missile this time.
“What’s all this about?”
“Maia says you’ve knocked up that hussy, Elara.”
“Elara? I don’t know an Elara…”
He crept around the door, meeting her glare, but ready to duck and retreat at any moment.
“You mean the kid, Larissa? Knocked up by me? She should be flattered.”
As he advanced, his mind was in overdrive, searching for an alibi, an escape clause. What a pity! Larissa was an enthusiastic little thing, but…the wife could be vindictive over such little things. Last time she’d taken an eon to cool down.
“Hera, my turtledove, it was nothing. An innocent flirtation at the office party.”
“A flirtation so innocent she’s pregnant?” snorted Hera. “Haven’t you enough bastards from your divine mistresses that now you’re screwing mortal bimbos? Office party indeed! You don’t even have an office, you twerp. Now, there’s going to be another little Herakles running around.”
No more glassware was airborne, so … was there humor in that last remark? The antics of that brat Herakles always diverted her. Brilliant! Talking about the child would be an excellent diversion.
“Herakles, honey? Now what’s he done?”
“He’s gone naturalist, wears only a lion skin, with his todger showing, and now he’s into poaching. Never mind that. Did you get the fish and chips, like I asked you?”
“Fish and chips?”
Pork Feathers! He’d forgotten. No wonder she’s hungry. Think quick.
“Um, no fish and chips, my dear. Poseidon’s Chippie closed early today.”
Well, at least it’s not some bimbo’s trivial pregnancy upsetting her. She’s just hungry. No big deal. A cocktail always soothes her savage breast. The first one calms her, but he’d best keep her intake below four, or she’d become pugnacious again. Slopping the muddy towel into a corner, Zeus edged towards the booze cabinet, hoping at least two tumblers had survived.
“Drinkie-poo, honey?”
“Mmhff!” she grunted.
The ‘mmhff’ sounded promising, so he followed his luck.
“Ice?”
“Mmhff!”
Better and better. Taking ‘mmhff’ as affirmative, Zeus chose an amphora from the cabinet, and set up two crystal goblets. A couple of ice cubes into each… but before he poured, he erred.
“Is there anything to eat in the house?”
“Anything to eat? Your lunch is in the usual place: it’s in the dog.”
Silence followed, as he felt, rather than heard, her latest ‘mmhff’; which was less positive. Was asking if there’s anything to eat overplaying his hand? Dammit! He was hungry, and he’d done nothing drastically wrong. Forgetting to collect dinner wasn’t a capital offense, was it? What’s so bad about some bimbo blaming her pregnancy on him? Such a common event was hardly his fault. Now she’s squawking about his by-blow going native. Big deal: it’s not as bad as when the lad diverted that stream through that cowshed, is it?
“You were fixing me a cocktail. Will I get it before tomorrow?”
“Cocktail, my little peahen? Yeah, coming up.”
Where’s the tot measure? As he muddled fresh mint and honey into their glasses, Zeus chuckled about his son’s escapades. You don’t get figs from an olive tree, after all. He’d also been wild in his younger days. The affair with the boy’s mother Alcmena may have been a bit of a mistake because she was married, but it was as exciting as the orgy with Selena at Pan’s satyrs’ party.
“Where’s the apéritif you promised?”
Hera’s question broke into his reverie. He knew a highball would tempt her. After squinting into the amphora, he tipped out two generous tots of the glittering fluid. Three steps to hand her the glass of nectar, then he clinked their glasses together.
“Bottoms up, old girl. So what’s for dinner?”
Oops! As he said the words, he realized his mistake. He’d forgotten. Damnation! He’d forgotten the bloody fish and chips, and the chippie really would be closed by now. Steely eyes glared at him. Thankfully, Hephaestus limped in to lay the fire. Neither Zeus nor Hera spoke while he was busy, and when he raised his ugly mug, Zeus nodded.
“Thanks, Hephie, we appreciate it,” said Zeus.
“No problem, Pa. Anytime. Hi, Ma.”
When the bulk of Hephaestus disappeared, Zeus shuffled across to the fireplace. He stumbled as one slipper loosened, but avoided spilling anything.
“Cin-cin, sweetheart.”
“Mmhff!” said she, this time with feeling, but after a good pull on the goblet, her mood softened.
She drained the glass, fingering out some ice to crunch as she held the crystal out for a refill. Hah! The booze and schmooze strategy seldom failed with her. Zeus bounced to the cabinet to pour her another.
“If you’re hungry, there’s cold ambrosia in the larder,” said she.
Zeus should have been relieved at Hera’s back-off, but he almost blew it with his next thunderbolt.
“Ambrosia? Cold ambrosia? That’s it? You can stick it where a squirrel keeps his almonds. I’m sick of bloody ambrosia. Fried for breakfast, then roasted, boiled, or grilled for dinner. Cold on Thursday because it’s cook’s night off. Stick it! And what’s this naming today ‘Thursday’? How come Thor gets a day, so does Odin, even Freya? What do those bloody foreigners have that I don’t have?”
Hera raised a hand. Was she going to target him with the empty glass? She glared her Medusa glare, enough to turn any man to stone, if she had had the powers of her niece. Instead, she sighed, then waved her husband away.
“Oh! Can it, you big baby? Who forgot our fish and chips? If you want something instead of ambrosia for dinner, go out and get it. Why don’t you nip down to the Parthenon? There’s a nice takeout run by Demetrios in the agora, right next to the Akropolis. His mother, kyria Kalivakos makes spanakopita to die for. Get us some, and two lamb souvlaki and a Greek salad, but hold the feta on mine. You can get a half-dozen baklava for dessert.”
“What? I thought you’d eaten.”
Sly one, that; pretending only he wanted chow!
“Oh, Zeus, I was jerking your chain. I’m as sick of ambrosia as you are.”
“Hang on. Let me write it down. Spanakopita, lamb souvlaki, Greek salad, one without feta, half-dozen baklava. I’ll get tzatziki as well, to go with the souvlaki. Anything else?”
“Get a couple of bottles of decent wine, will you? Make sure it’s Domestica; I can’t stand their bloody Retsina.”
Hera rose, gathering her embroidered chiton about her as she drained the glass.
“While you’re fetching supper, I’ll have my bath; so, be a dear and tell your doxie Larissa to come and scrub my back.”
“She can’t come up here, my little chaffinch. She’s a mortal, remember?”
“Damn, so she is. Well, send in some water nymphs instead, but tell them to be properly dressed. It’s too depressing seeing those gorgeous, half-naked bodies at our age.”
ENDS
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