When the Cypress Whispers

by Yvette Manessis Corporon

  “Yes, Yianni. That stupid fisherman. He was so rude to me, Yia-yia. He doesn’t even know me. It’s like he’s judging me because I live in New York and make my living cooking for what he calls rich Americans. Like staying here catching fish from a damn boat automatically makes him a better person.”

  “Ah, Yianni.” Yia-yia smiled as his name escaped her lips. “Don’t be so hard on Yianni. He is a good man, Daphne. He has been a good friend to me. Talk to him some more, and you’ll see for yourself.”

  “Talk to him? Yia-yia, did you see how rude he was to me? I don’t want to talk to him, I want to slap him.” As the words came out of her mouth, Daphne heard the front gate creak open. She felt the blood draining from her face as she snapped her face toward the gate to see who had come to join them for lunch and in doing so had witnessed her little tirade.

  “Who, who are you going to slap? How exciting.” Popi hurried to the table, kissing everyone on the cheek before grabbing a chair and settling in next to Daphne. She reached over the table and grabbed a handful of Yia-yia’s fries. “I see I came just in time. So, who are we slapping?”

  Oh, thank God it’s just Popi. Daphne reached out and squeezed Popi’s soft, round thigh.

  “Yianni,” Yia-yia announced as she placed an empty plate in front of Popi without waiting to hear if Popi had already eaten. “Your cousin wants to slap Yianni.”

  “Ah yes, the sexy fisherman.” Popi nodded in agreement, the corners of her lips curling up. “I’d like to slap him a few times myself, but not on those cheeks.” Popi leaned over the table and helped herself to a generous serving of spanakopita while Daphne and Yia-yia erupted in uncontrollable laughter.

  “Ella, ella. Enough talk of spanking and silliness. The food is getting cold. Come on, eat.” With that, Yia-yia began to unfold a square packet of aluminum foil that sat in the middle of the table. Her bent fingers unwrapped each of the layers until the contents of the pouch were revealed. Daphne watched as a thin stream of smoke escaped from the foil and then fanned out, gently lifting, swaying, and finally disappearing into the afternoon air.

  “Yia-yia, your baked feta,” Daphne cried. Inside the aluminum pouch, the one-inch-thick slab of cheese had been generously drizzled with olive oil and smoky paprika, then topped with just a few slivers of fresh peppers.

  Daphne couldn’t be bothered to wait for the feta to be served on plates. She reached over the table, dipped into the pouch, and shoved a forkful of the soft, savory cheese into her mouth. As she felt the cheese slowly melt away on her tongue, so did the stress she felt throughout her body. She dug her fork back into the dish again and again. As always, Yia-yia’s cooking began to work its magic. With each exquisite bite, Daphne slowly but surely began to feel the knot in her stomach unravel and the pain in her temple dull.

  “Daphne mou. When is Stephen arriving? When do I get to meet this man?” Yia-yia leaned over and squeezed half of a lemon on to the succulent chicken breast she had placed on Daphne’s plate.

  “He’ll be here next week, Yia-yia. He wanted to come sooner, but he just can’t get away from work for that long. It’s a busy time for him right now.” Daphne lifted the chicken breast to her mouth and tore away at the juicy flesh with her teeth.

  “And a busy time for us, with a wedding to plan,” Popi added as she reached for more fries.

  “Ahh, Daphne mou. Daphne, Daphne mou.” Yia-yia swayed and sang as the mournful singsong escaped from her lips.

  Daphne cringed with the first syllable.

  “I never thought you would find love again, Daphne. I never thought you would look for love again. Even though he was not a Greek, Alex was a beautiful man. I never thought you would replace him.” Yia-yia dabbed at her eyes with the hem of her white apron.

  Yia-yia’s words stunned Daphne. She’d never felt like she was replacing Alex; no one knew more than Daphne how utterly irreplaceable Alex was. When Alex died, it had been as if Daphne had lost a part of herself. But like an amputee, Daphne had learned to live with a missing piece of her heart. She had no choice. Emptiness had replaced Alex as her constant companion.

  “I’m not replacing anybody.” The words came out harsher than she had intended them to.

  “Ah, all right then. Yes, you know best. Of course.” Yia-yia waved her hand in surrender. It was the standard Yia-yia reply on the rare occasions when granddaughter and grandmother disagreed. But until now their minor squabbles had usually been a clash of culinary culture, like why an old broom handle was better for rolling out filo than the expensive marble rollers Daphne’s French pastry teachers insisted on using.

  “Kafes, ella. I’ll make kafes,” Yia-yia announced.

  “Yes, kafes. Perfect. I’d love some, Yia-yia,” Daphne agreed—eager for both the coffee and the change of subject.

  “Thea Popi, will you come with me to see the baby chicks?” Evie jumped up and down as she pulled at Popi’s arm. The question was more a formality than anything else; by the way Evie was tugging at Popi, it was clear she wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  Daphne attempted to intervene. “Come on, Evie. Wait just a few moments, let Popi have her kafe.”

  “No, cousin. That’s all right,” Popi insisted as she held Evie’s face between her hands. “How can I resist such a sweet girl?”

  Evie looked up at her aunt. She smiled sweetly for just a moment, then stuck her tongue out and crossed her eyes before breaking free and running toward the chicken coup. “Ella, Thea Popi,” she called out as she ran. “Ella.”

  “How can I resist? It is impossible.” Popi shrugged her broad shoulders at Daphne and turned to follow Evie toward the chicken coup. “I’m coming, Evie mou,” she shouted as she barreled down the stairs.

  Yia-yia returned with two demitasse cups of her thick Greek coffee. Despite the afternoon heat, which was now rising to the point of sticky discomfort, the coffee tasted wonderful. In four generous sips, Daphne had drained the cup and placed it on the table in front of her.

  “Yia-yia . . .” Daphne gazed into the mud that remained at the bottom of the tiny cup. “Yia-yia, read my cup for me. Read my cup like you used to do when I was a little girl.”

  It was another of Yia-yia and Daphne’s treasured traditions. They would sit together, side by side, draining cup after cup of thick black coffee just so Yia-yia could read the grounds and tell Daphne what the future held for her. Time and time again, Daphne would try as well. She would lift the cup to her face, turning it this way and that. But where Yia-yia saw birds in flight, long winding roads, and pure young hearts, Daphne never saw anything more than a sloppy, drippy mess.

  “Ne, Daphne, mou. Let’s see what we have.” Yia-yia smiled as Daphne took her cue and lifted the cup. She swirled the grounds three times in a clockwise direction, just as Yia-yia had taught her to do as a child, then quickly turned the cup upside down and placed it back in the saucer, where it would sit for a few moments as the mud settled to reveal her fate.

  After two or three minutes, Daphne lifted the cup and handed it to Yia-yia. Yia-yia stared into the muck as she twirled it in her wrinkled fingers.

  “Well,” Daphne asked, leaning in to get a closer look, “what do you see?”

  Seven

  YONKERS

  MAY 1995

  Daphne watched as they stumbled through the doorway of the diner; a tangle of wrinkled taffeta, smudged lipstick, and pale, lean limbs. A sinkhole opened in her stomach, and she prayed that she would drop dead right then and there, behind the counter cash register.

  “Table for six,” the tall blond girl announced to no one in particular. “I’m starving.” She moaned as she tripped on the hem of her yellow prom dress and wrapped her arms around her broad-chested date, running her fingers along the lapel of his tuxedo as she attempted to steady herself.

  “Daphne, ksipna. Wake up.” Baba leaned through the grill opening and waved his spatula at her. “Come on, koukla.” His bushy mustache didn’t quite conceal the space left vacant in his smile
by two missing molars. “Customers.”

  “Ne Baba. I’m going.” Obedient, as always, she counted out six menus.

  Of all the diners in town, why, lord, did they have to pick this one? Why her?

  Daphne ran down her mental wish list. She wished she were anyplace else but here; she wished she didn’t have to spend her weekends working at the diner; she wished that she too could know what it felt like to rest her tipsy head on the lapel of a rumpled tuxedo.

  But Daphne knew those luxuries were not for girls like her. Prom dates and drunken diner breakfasts were not an option for girls trapped between old traditions and a new world.

  She approached the group of teens. “Right this way.” Her words were no more than a whisper.

  Chin to her chest, she led them toward the back of the diner. She motioned to the largest corner booth, hoping they wouldn’t notice the gash in the vinyl seat or that they knew their waitress from homeroom.

  They slid into the booth, buttered by the afterglow of a perfect prom and the easy laughter of lifelong friends.

  “Coffee,” they said in unison, never bothering to look up at the girl whose job it was to serve them.

  “Oh, and water,” the blond girl added as she scanned the menu. She finally looked up at Daphne, never recognizing the girl who sat next to her in chemistry, seeing nothing more than a waitress. “Lots of ice. I’m dying for something cold.”

  Daphne didn’t know which hurt worse, being different or being invisible.

  She walked back to the counter, grateful that her back was now to the table. She pulled the lever on the silver coffee server, but her hand was shaking so badly that the hot liquid spilled all over the saucer and burned her skin as it splattered on her arm.

  “Come on, honey, what’s eatin’ you?” Dina, Daphne’s favorite waitress, was on her. Dina’s pink talon nails scratched Daphne’s hand as she leaned in to steady the cup and saucer. She flipped the lever to stop the coffee’s flow.

  “Those kids say somethin’ to you?” She motioned to the teens in the corner booth.

  “No.” Daphne shook her head. “They didn’t say anything to me.”

  Dina narrowed her kohl-lined eyes and poked at her black bun with the tip of her pencil. “You sure now?” She looked again at the teens. “I’m here if you need me.”

  “I know, Dina.” She nodded. “I know.”

  “Well, you just say the word. And I’ll take care of them.” Dina turned to grab the cheese omelet and fries from the pass-through and tossed the dish on the counter in front of a hungry customer.

  “It’s fine. I’ve got it.” Daphne nodded.

  She filled the cups with steaming coffee and the glasses with ice water. Placing them all on her tray, she carried it to the table. Daphne bit her lower lip as she served the drinks and pulled her pad from the pocket of her black polyester apron. She looked down at her pencil and paper as she wrote, taking their breakfast orders without daring to look up. Trying in vain to stop the pencil from shaking, she scribbled while the teens giggled and kissed. Finally, when the last order was placed, she walked back to the kitchen pass-through and handed the paper to Baba.

  “Here you go.” She forced a smile as he took the paper from her hand. “Dina, can you cover the front, please? I’ve got to use the ladies’ room.”

  “Sure, Daph. I’ve gotcha covered,” Dina shouted from the counter where she was refilling the napkin holders.

  Daphne walked to the back of the diner, away from the noise of the dining room and the manic preparations of the grill. She opened the door to the supply closet, stepped inside, and immediately fell to the floor in a heap of tears. She wept quietly, shoulders and stomach convulsing with each muffled sob.

  She would have stayed hidden in the closet longer had the ringing phone not interrupted her bacchanal of pity and self-loathing. She dried her tears on the hem of her apron, opened the closet door, and reached for the wall phone.

  “Plaza Diner.” Despite her best efforts, her voice sounded hoarse and scratchy.

  The line crackled with static, the voice distant yet distinct. “Ella, Daphne mou.”

  “Yia-yia!” Daphne screamed while attempting to rub the tears from her eyes. “Yia-yia, what’s wrong? Are you all right?” Panic crept into Daphne’s voice. “You never call us here.”

  “I know, koukla mou. But I needed to hear your voice. I wanted to know if you were all right.”

  “Of course I’m all right.” Daphne sniffled. “I’m fine.”

  “You can tell me, koukla. You don’t have to be brave for me.”

  “Oh, Yia-yia . . .” Daphne couldn’t hold back any longer. Sobbing into the phone, she couldn’t speak for several moments. “How . . . how did you know?”

  “There, there, my sweet girl. I knew something was wrong,” Yia-yia replied. “I could hear you crying.”

  Eight

  “Evie, come on. There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Daphne pleaded. “The water’s not even deep. Come on, Evie, you’re going to love this.”

  “No.”

  “Come on, Evie. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “No.”

  “Evie, come on. I promise to hold on to you. I won’t let go.”

  “No. I don’t want to,” Evie said as she turned her back on her mother and marched from the shoreline back to her blanket in the sand.

  Daphne stood waist-deep in the water, hands planted on her hips, staring at her little girl. How is this possible? she thought. How could a child who comes from a family of fishermen be so afraid of the water? Daphne wasn’t kidding herself. She knew the answer as well as she knew the mantra of if only that she repeated over and over in her mind.

  If only . . . she had taken some time off, made the effort to come here and visit every summer. If only . . . it hadn’t been so much easier to just lose herself in work, then she might not have already lost so much of Evie. If only . . . Alex hadn’t taken that late-night overtime assignment to help pay for the pastry class she so desperately wanted to take. If only . . . the truck driver had not been drinking the night he crossed the divider and crashed into Alex’s car. If only . . . her parents had not been in the diner that night it was robbed. If only . . . Baba had just shut up and opened the cash register for the junkie with the gun. If only . . . Mama had listened, not run to Baba’s side, to hold and comfort him as he lay dying on the linoleum floor. If only . . . the junkie had noticed the picture locket around Mama’s neck, the photos of Daphne and baby Evie, and realized that she had so much to live for, that she was needed, and that she was loved. If only . . . he could have known the pain he would cause when he pulled the trigger again and took her too.

  If only she hadn’t lost everyone she ever loved.

  If only . . .

  There was no changing what had happened. There was no bringing Mama, Baba, or Alex back to help her raise Evie and shower her with the love and attention she so deserved and craved. Daphne was only thirty-five years old, but she felt as if she had lived a lifetime of loss, that she too was shrouded in black mourning like the chorus of widows at the port. But songs of lament and black headscarves are not acceptable in the culture of Manhattan. Daphne learned to wear her mourning internally.

  She knew she could not change the past. But watching Evie walk away from her, Daphne knew that from this point on she could and would change the future. Now that she was going to marry Stephen, she would have the free time, as well as the financial freedom, to give Evie everything she wanted and deserved. She had to. She had lost too much already; her husband, her father, and her mother. And now Daphne realized that in many ways, her own child was growing up without a mother as well. She would be damned if she would lose Evie too.

  Standing there in the cool, clear water, watching Evie play on the sand as the gentle waves lapped against her thighs, Daphne made a vow. She would be there for Evie, in ways she had never been able to before. She would open up new worlds for her daughter. Evie had no idea what she was miss
ing. How could Evie understand the exhilaration of charging into the water at full speed when she watched her own mother take nothing but careful, measured steps through life?

  “Evie. Evie, honey,” Daphne shouted. “I’m just going to swim for a few minutes and then we’ll go up to the house, okay?”

  “Okay, Mommy.”

  Daphne turned and faced the open sea. She bent her knees, raised her arms above her head, and took a deep breath.

  Still sitting on the beach, Evie stopped digging her castle. She stood and turned toward the thicket. “Mommy, why are those ladies crying? What’s wrong with them?”

  But Daphne didn’t hear her daughter. Just as the first faint cry reached Evie, Daphne sprang up and out, breaking under the water with a quick, crisp whoosh. She opened her eyes. Barbounia, tsipoura. They were all there. Six years later, and nothing had changed.

  Six years later, and so much had changed.

  Nine

  “Go to the garden and pick some fresh dill for me, koukla mou. I don’t think I have enough,” Yia-yia said as she sprinkled flour on the indoor kitchen table. Feeling refreshed after her early-morning swim, Daphne practically ran down the back steps and snipped a generous helping of dill from the garden.

  She smiled as she waved the dill under her nose. Its delicate featherlike leaves tickled as they danced across her lips. “It’s so nice to actually pick fresh herbs from the earth and not a big icebox.”

  “I wouldn’t know, Daphne mou. I’ve never done this any other way.” Yia-yia took the dill from Daphne and placed it on the olive wood chopping board. She picked up her large knife and began chopping the green leaves into tiny threadlike pieces. Years ago, Yia-yia had taught Daphne the importance of finely dicing herbs. She insisted that they were meant to infuse a dish with flavor, not be bitten into like a piece of souvlaki.

  “Yia-yia,” Daphne cried as she spotted her old pink cassette player on the shelf above the sink.

  “Ne, Daphne mou.”

  “Yia-yia, my old radio,” Daphne squealed, remembering how she would sit and listen to Greek folk music for hours.