Page 232 - And the Mountains Echoed (novel)

News of Thalia’s disfigurement had spread all over the island, and people kept

knocking on the door, fueled by curiosity. You would have thought the island
was suddenly running out of flour, garlic, even salt, and our house was the only
place you could find it. They barely made an effort to disguise their intent. At
the door, their eyes always flew over my shoulder. They craned their necks,
stood on tiptoes. Most of them weren’t even neighbors. They’d walked miles for
a cup of sugar. Of course I never let them in. It gave me some satisfaction to
close the door on their faces. But I also felt gloomy, dispirited, aware that if I
stayed my life would be too deeply touched by these people. I would, in the end,
become one of them.
The kids were worse and far bolder. Every day I caught one prowling outside,
climbing our wall. We would be working, and Thalia would tap my shoulder
with her pencil, tip her chin, and I would turn to find a face, sometimes more
than one, pressed to the window. It got so bad, we had to go upstairs and pull all
the curtains. One day I opened the door to a boy I knew from school, Petros, and

three of his friends. He offered me a handful of coins for a peek. I said no, where
did he think he was, a circus?
In the end, I had to tell Mamá. A deep red flush marched up her face when
she heard. She clenched her teeth.
The next morning she had our books and two sandwiches ready on the table.
Thalia understood before I did and she curled up like a leaf. Her protests started
when it came time to leave.

“Aunt Odie, no.”
“Give me your hand.”
“No. Please.”
“Go on. Give it to me.”

“I don’t want to go.”
“We’re going to be late.”
“Don’t make me, Aunt Odie.”
Mamá pulled Thalia up from the seat by the hands, leaned in, and fixed her

with a gaze I knew well. Not a thing on this earth could deter her now. “Thalia,”
she said, managing to sound both soft and firm, “I am not ashamed of you.”
We set out, the three of us—Mamá, with her lips pursed, pushing forth like
she was plowing against a fierce wind, her feet working quick, mincing little
steps. I imagined Mamá walking in this same determined manner to Madaline’s
father’s house all those years ago, rifle in hand.
People gawked and gasped as we blew past them along the winding footpaths.
They stopped to stare. Some of them pointed. I tried not to look. They were a