Merope, one of the seven sisters known as the Pleiades, is depicted in a statue at the MIA as a woman searching, casting about for the family that deserted her for the act of marrying a mortal, Sisyphus. One can only imagine the trauma of that separation. Thus:
“The Lost Pleiad,” by Randolph Rogers, is on display at the MIA in gallery G332.
Merope Calls Home to Sort Out Her Thanksgiving Plans
“Electra! How’s it going?”
“Oh, you know. Birthing babies left and right. Glaukos is already 5, if you can believe it. So, I just wanted to check in on Thanksgiving. I’ve figured out the cheesy potatoes: it’s all about the mozz for bulk, the aged cheddar for flavor. Are we eating at 11 in the morning again? Because that was really too early…”
“‘Plans are undefined?’ We’re 10 days out. Get on the horn with mom and sort this stuff out already.”
“Electra, seriously. You’re kidding, yes?”
“OK, let’s assume you’re for real here. Why, exactly am I not invited to Thanksgiving?”
“What the hell does that even mean, ‘because of Sisyphus’? He’s my husband!”
“Uh-huh. Mortal, right. And he’s got a ton of other, more relevant qualities. He’s got red hair. He’s a capable amateur carpenter, and he’s surprisingly good at karaoke when he’s had between two and four drinks…”
“So that’s it? I’m not invited to Thanksgiving because, apparently, you’re all racist?”
“You absolutely can use ‘racist’ that way. Ever heard of the human race? And—hey. You know what this reminds me of?”
“Why shouldn’t I? You’re always bringing up the shoplifting thing.”
“Well, you can replace property. You can’t replace feelings.”
“It was just a purse! Oh my God. I… can’t even. YOU stuff it. No, you!”
“This is mom talking, right? The chain of logic is pure mom. Let me get this straight: We’re Olympians. Superior to humanity in every way. And we’re so confident in our superiority that we have to be insecure, smug, bigoted, horrible…”
“I have every right to be angry. You’re my FAMILY, Electra. And now I can’t visit you on the holidays because of who I married? Did you seriously just say, ‘Bring shame to the house of Atlas’? What a load! When’s the last time dad painted the stucco? The neighbors talk about it, you know that, right…?”
“Ha! Standards? How about this: You’re dragging yourselves right down to the level of mortals you’re supposedly superior to with this kind of thing. Right down there. Even assuming there’s anything worse about mortals, who, last I checked, run around raping, murdering, and stealing from one another just like the gods do. Pretty much exactly like that. Except when mortals do it, it doesn’t create eight-headed fish-lizards or consume entire cities in pillars of blue fire or stuff like that.”
“I don’t concede at all that we’re better. We’re just bigger. So, seriously: am I invited to Thanksgiving or what?”
“All right then. Fine. No Thanksgiving. I’ll see you at Hanukkah.”
James Norton is the author of several non-fiction books about food and a new book of humorous short stories about gods and spirits suffering the tribulations of the modern world. It’s called The Wendigo’s Credit Card and is available at the Store at MIA, Moon Palace Books in Minneapolis, Common Good Books in St. Paul, and online. He lives in Minneapolis with his wife (photographer Becca Dilley), their son, and three semi-competent cats.