Dendrites is set in crisis-ridden 1980s Camden, New Jersey, among a community of immigrants trying and failing to realize the American dream. Ex-hippie Susan and her husband Basil, a second-generation Greek American, along with their daughter Leto, decide to take in orphaned Minnie and react to Minnie’s arrival in ways that cause old family scars to flare up again. The following excerpt takes place right before Minnie’s mother dies after the disappearance of her brother, and is the first time Susan lays eyes on Minnie.
Dendrites, Kallia Papadaki’s debut novel, was awarded the EU Prize for Literature, shortlisted for the Anagnostis Best Novel Award, and won the Clepsidra Best Young Author Prize.
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lily:
out of water …
out of itself
Nick Virgilio
When he’s worried or upset Basil throws himself into cooking—the bigger the problem, the more complex the dish—and as a result Susan has enjoyed the most inventive delicacies of her life after their biggest arguments, at moments of personal disappointment for her husband, and during his intermittent periods of anxiety over their precarious finances, which recently seem to be cropping up more and more frequently, or maybe it’s just her imagination, a byproduct of suddenly finding everything so overwhelming, their tentative decisions, the love they share, their daughter, how every day reminds her of days gone by.
Nine years ago Leto was still a toddler—how old was she then, two? three?—yes, she’d just turned three when the fires broke out and the whole city burned for three days and nights, for three days and nights stores and houses were looted, the smoke seemed to trap and incite unspoken fears, things had flared up seemingly out of nowhere, at the end of August two police officers beat a Hispanic motorcyclist so badly he ended up in intensive care, the news spread quickly by word of mouth through the projects, blacks and Puerto Ricans grabbed crowbars and torches, formed uneasy alliances in a single night against the threat of white brutality, swore retribution in the name of Horacio Jiménez, and while he fought for his life in the ICU, Susan, fearing the worst, prayed that the doctors would fight tooth and nail, too—and as Horacio’s body let its soul go free in the early hours of the morning, Basil wondered what had gone wrong, what had inspired such hatred and rage, what had stirred this flaming tongue that emerged from the depths of night to devour the entire city. In what seemed like a matter of hours, for rent or sale signs sprang up in store windows and outside of houses along the streets of Camden, and within a week property values had hit rock bottom, homes and fortunes were left behind, abandoned forever in a way most of their owners could never have imagined—and there amid the human and residential ruins sat a dazed Susan and Basil and their little Leto. Susan has been sunk in thought for a while now and hasn’t noticed the white-and-orange U-Haul truck into which the few possessions and dated furniture of the family next door are being loaded, or maybe she saw it out the corner of her eye, unconsciously registering the early-morning back and forth between truck and house, and it’s dredged up the long-buried realization that life is irrefutably comprised of actions and events, and while the houses we inhabit are built of concrete, glass, brick, and wood, the only thing that’s really free and accessible to all is the unmoored muddle of our thoughts, our dreams and aspirations—and Susan is standing stock-still at her five foot ten in the same position, hands at her waist, mouth numb from chewing and swallowing words, and thinking, thinking, she wishes she could stop thinking, and she suddenly spins around and sees Basil behind her, grabs him by the shoulders and shakes as if something momentous and important has just occurred, something that’s escaping him, but she still doesn’t speak, doesn’t tell him about the decision she’s made to up and leave—That’s it, enough, fuck it all—just stands there and silently pleads with him, her crystal blue eyes deepening a shade until they resemble the harbors and coves of the feverish Mediterranean.
“I made pancakes with orange zest,” he says, bringing Susan back down to earth. “There’s maple syrup on the table, and honey, too,” he calls as she hurries past him and rushes up the stairs, because it’s 7:15 and Leto is still up to her ears in sheets and blankets, dead set on staying home from school, she’s been pretending to be sick since last night, faking a cough, claiming a fever and a sore throat, an earache, a sinus infection, or maybe it’s bronchitis, even pneumonia.
Leto rubbed the thermometer between her palms, heated it against the radiator, even snuck a few cloves of garlic out of the kitchen cupboard and tried keeping them under her tongue because she’s heard that sometimes does the trick, but the most she could raise her temperature was a fraction of a fraction of a degree, the thermometer stuck stubbornly below the 99-degree mark, and before going out to the car she played her final card, thrashing on the floor, banging her legs, shouting, crying, a toddler-style meltdown as her mother looked on coolly, almost calculating, with those transparent blue eyes that betrayed no emotion at all, so Leto raised her right arm and slammed it hard against the wall. It immediately bruised and swelled up like a balloon, and when Susan grabbed her by that same arm to lift her up Leto let out an inarticulate cry of actual pain, and so now here they are, mother and daughter, sitting in the emergency room at the public hospital as a friendly, white-haired Dr. Malone wraps Leto’s arm in plaster, supervised by a sardonically smiling adolescent girl who’s just missed a test in American History, and by her mother’s scowling Bavarian gaze, which can be traced back through at least three generations of long-buried Suzannes.
The old Plymouth Cricket groans around a curve, Leto is struggling with the broken seat belt on the passenger side, her cast won’t fit through the tangled loop of its straps, so Susan hits the brakes, pulls onto the shoulder, puts on her hazards, and sits there waiting for Leto to ask for help. Mother and daughter aren’t speaking, each has dug in her heels for her own just and unjust reasons, and as Leto’s face flushes with exertion and annoyance Susan turns on the radio and rolls down her window, letting the weak sunlight outline her pale face as the newscaster reports on the presidential race. Reagan’s campaign manager is concerned that Carter might secretly negotiate the release of American diplomats being held hostage in Tehran, trying to bring them home before election day so he can win over popular opinion and ride that wave to victory—and then the commentator’s voice fades out as the opening riff of Smokie’s “Stumblin’ In” takes over the airwaves. Susan leans her head against the door and quietly sings along, she doesn’t know all the words but the rhythm and melody are so familiar it’s as if she does, and when she turns to look out the passengerside window, she sees two dark eyes peering in at them, studying mother and daughter curiously, and Leto, sensing a change in the atmosphere, shakes her body and broken arm free of the seat belt, swivels around, and sees Minnie’s confusion and shy wave, before the girl quickly lowers her hand, hunches her shoulders, and dips her head as if she’s crossed an invisible border, then adjusts her unwieldy, overstuffed backpack that’s far too large and heavy for her small frame, and continues her lonely progression, limping slightly with her left foot because her shoes aren’t great and she’s already come a long way. A blister is forming on her pinky toe, but she’s sure that if she stops now she’ll never make it, and she’s secretly set a goal—after all, she’s always been told she can do anything she sets her heart on—to arrive at her destination, to make it to school even if she’s late, because she’s done all her homework, every single math problem, and the world rarely gives her any pleasure greater than a teacher’s praise. Susan asks her daughter who the girl with the crooked braids and enormous backpack is, but Leta just shrugs, sticking a mechanical pencil under her cast to scratch at her itchy arm, and her rudeness annoys Susan, who finds herself drawn to something about the strange girl, but she lets it go, she’s had a lot on her mind all morning, so she just switches off the radio, starts the car, and turns, the house isn’t far, another five minutes or so, and Minnie disappears for the time being from their rectangular field of vision.
Basil Kambanis is standing beside his adopted daughter, writing Get well soon, comet in thick permanent marker on her cast, and given that they’re not biologically related, it’s strange how much she resembles him, that stubborn tuft of hair that keeps falling over her right eye, how every so often she tosses her head or pushes it away with a gesture that seems like the most natural thing in the world. She resembles him too in how easily she can annoy Susan with her superficiality, her constant demands and mulish obstinacy—if the girl or her stepfather set their mind on something, there’s no turning back or giving in. Just now Leto shoves the lock of hair out of her eye so she can see what Basil is scrawling on her cast, and he winks at her, wondering out loud, “I mean, how did she just walk into a wall?” and when Leto doesn’t answer, Susan says with restrained naturalness, “She went to grab the thermometer as it slipped out from under her tongue, and she hit the wall instead,” and Leto snaps, “Just leave me alone, both of you,” and storms off, slamming the door behind her—how dare they make fun of her right in front of her eyes, which are now brimming with tears of anger and rage, because she can still taste that garlic, it’s still there, it seems to have made a nest for itself under her tongue.
Basil and Susan smile at one another conspiratorially, fine wrinkles like the roots of saplings sprouting at the corners of their eyes and mouths. Susan musses his hair tenderly, Basil takes her hand and kisses it, then wonders out loud, “What are we going to do with that kid?”—a rhetorical question that needs no answer—and Susan admits, “She takes after me,” Basil adds, “She doesn’t listen,” and they both conclude in unison, “It’s just a phase,” and the words blunt their pain with the recognition that things have to run their course, that time heals all wounds and smooths all the bumps in the road, those tiny fissures that haven’t yet become gaps, those vague worries that haven’t yet grown to engulf the body, those little white lies and their vague, misleading implications.
A few minutes later Leto clomps down the circular wooden staircase in the duplex dressed for practice, her jacket hanging loosely from her left shoulder since the sleeve won’t fit over the cast. “Where do you think you’re going?” Susan asks, narrowing her eyes. “To practice,” Leto answers drily, and Basil, momentarily at a loss, stammers, “It’s probably best to skip practice today, honey.” Leto snaps, “Who’s taking me? I’m late,” and Susan steps toward her daughter angrily, but Leto is feeling defiant, doesn’t care about the danger and insists full of nerve and annoyance that she’s fine. “Yeah, fit as a fiddle,” Susan shoots back, but it’s already too late:
Leto has swung the door open and is off at a run. Dashing across the street with her arm in the cast, Leto looks like a rudderless ship listing slightly to the right, and Susan props one arm against the front door and watches her run off until she disappears entirely. Basil comes and stands behind his wife and rests his palm on her arm, “Why did you let her go?” he asks, and when Susan gently shrugs and says, “What was I supposed to do?” her voice sounds less overbearing, almost apologetic, so much that it scares her, and her back turns and conceals the expression on his face, and the door with its heavy row of locks closes behind them with a lighthearted creak as their momentarily, provisionally ordered lives fit together once more.
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Dendrites by Kallia Papadaki was published by World Editions on September 3, 2024. The excerpt above appears here with the generous permission of the publisher. You may acquire a copy from Bookshop.org by clicking here.