Mrs. Panayiota didn’t know how to get the mattress out of the house. It was November and Platres was empty again, minus some Russians who visited the village on Sundays in their glittering best, posing for photos by the wrought iron fence of her house. 

On the phone, her kids said the truck driver would carry the new mattress to the bedroom. But what about the old one? She couldn’t do it. Her shoulders hurt just from gathering a few mandarins. 

Seated in her floral armchair, she called her cousin. While she waited for Amalia to pick up, she stared at the burdened branches outside the window. This was the first year she had to watch the olives fall, unable to harvest them. They piled helplessly like dead bodies. 

Amalia couldn’t think of a solution either. Her grandson wasn’t driving up this week. 

*

The next morning Mrs. Panayiota tried the grocery store, slowly following the sweeping curve of the downhill road. Above her the mountain rose steep, shadowy, and uncaring. Maybe, she thought, maybe the guys who brought supplies in the mornings could come and get the mattress out. 

“Those guys are useless,” sighed Sofoula at the grocery store, “they can barely bring cheese and milk on time. As if they’d do us any favors!” 

* 

On Sunday Mrs. Panayiota waited for Father Methodios in the churchyard. 

“Father, there’s something I’m concerned about –” 

Methodios stopped her with a lifted palm. 

“Was your late husband’s name day not the other day?” 

“Yes, Father. St. Demetrios.” 

“I did not see you here.” He pursed his lips. “You can’t just come to church when you need something. I’ve got errands every day, the church needs repairs, the deacons are looking for me, there are the poor families to think of.” 

“But I was here for the memorial service, I brought kollyva. You know, I get tired walking.” 

His phone started ringing, plaintive bouzouki chords echoing off the tiles and up into the broad chest of the slope. 

“I’m sorry, it’s important.” 

He fled, speaking on the phone. Mrs. Panayiota was left looking at the swish of his robe as he entered the sanctuary, where she was not allowed to follow, and where he remained until the start of the service. 

*

On Wednesday morning she saw the truck driver looking at the house numbers from the pavement. 

“I’m Mrs. Panayiota,” she called out from the window. Even in her own mind, she was never just Panayiota. “I’m so sorry,” she started while the driver rubbed his shoes on the doormat, “I haven’t found anyone to move the old mattress, and I can’t lift it myself.” 

Her eyes were filled with tears as she spooned some fruit preserve onto a small plate. What a crusade, and to have failed so spectacularly at such a simple mission. She who had spent her life in the fields, tending to crops and animals, strong like the earth she cared for, cheeks bronzed by the sun like baked clay.  

The driver, a young man, tanned and unshaven, shrugged. “That’s fine, I can move it.” He smiled uncomfortably while she thanked him. 

Later, Mrs. Panayiota watched him speed down the slope’s winding road, thinking what a sad old woman she must seem to him.