When the Cypress Whispers by Yvette Manessis Corporon Page A
Authors: Yvette Manessis Corporon
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Parthenon. As much as she knew her father wanted to see the falls for himself, Daphne was shocked when her parents actually left Theo Spiro in charge of the diner, packed up the Buick, and headed north for a two-day getaway. Baba never left the diner, never.
But as impressed as Baba was with the ferocious beauty of the falls, it seemed he was even more taken with the vibrating beds at the Howard Johnson’s. Daphne had fed quarter after quarter into the tiny slot and watched as Baba smiled peacefully, his enormous belly shaking and jiggling like the giant bowls of cream-colored tapioca Mama served every Sunday. Daphne knew that for Baba, this twenty-five-cent indulgence was the epitome of luxury and success. For him, a man accustomed to standing on his feet behind a hot grill, flipping burgers for sixteen hours a day, a pulsating bed in a $69.99-a-night motel room decorated in a palate of Nathan’s mustard yellow meant he had indeed made it, that he was finally living the American dream.
Daphne reached the lecture hall a good thirty minutes before the start of class. She hated getting here so early, but since the train from Yonkers to Manhattan ran only twice an hour, Daphne often found herself sitting alone in lecture halls, waiting. Some of the other commuter students often met for coffee and cigarettes in the cafeteria across the street, but Daphne hated their gossipy small talk and crude flirtations. She preferred to just sit alone and wait.
Grateful to be out of the cold, she began the process, unpeeling layer after layer. First, the bulky black down coat came off. Then she removed the yellow cardigan, followed by a brown cotton sweater, and finally the diner-scented scarf. There was no way Daphne could fit it all on the back of her small lecture-hall chair; she had to pile everything on the floor next to her aisle seat. She detested doing this, but with no place else to stash her winter wardrobe, she had no choice. Nothing screamed commuter student like a pile of warm winter clothes and an entire day’s worth of books lugged around in a backpack.
Daphne knew she wasn’t like many of the students who lived on campus in a haze of bong hits, dorm parties, and guilt-free sexual exploration. But sometimes, sitting alone in a lecture hall, she liked to pretend that she was. Maybe it was really possible? Maybe she could be mistaken for a tousle-haired co-ed who had just raced out of her boyfriend’s bed and sprinted across the street to make it to class in time. Daphne relished her daydreams of being like the other students. But then, inevitably, her eyes would once again fall on the telltale pile of clothes and books beside her. She was again reminded that instead of an intoxicating mixture of incense, patchouli, and morning sex, Daphne’s signature scent was diner grease.
Daphne would never forget that day in her History of Theater class. It wasn’t the bone-chilling temperatures that made the day memorable. It was him. It was Alex.
She had seen him around campus a few times, but she never really thought much about him other than a fleeting notice of his all-American good looks. But that day, when Alex stood up in their theater class to give his oral presentation, Daphne realized that appearances could be very deceiving. This was not the one-dimensional privileged American boy “who only wants one thing from a nice Greek girl like you” that her mother had so fiercely warned her about. The moment he began to speak, Daphne knew there was so much more behind those cornflower blue eyes than football, keg parties, and the latest sorority girl conquest.
Daphne would never forget how his voice cracked and his hands shook as he stood in front of the class, holding his paper. His shirt was worn and wrinkled, and his khakis were creased in all the wrong places.
“In my opinion, Christopher Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus contains one of the greatest, if not the greatest, passage in theatrical history,” Alex began. He
But as impressed as Baba was with the ferocious beauty of the falls, it seemed he was even more taken with the vibrating beds at the Howard Johnson’s. Daphne had fed quarter after quarter into the tiny slot and watched as Baba smiled peacefully, his enormous belly shaking and jiggling like the giant bowls of cream-colored tapioca Mama served every Sunday. Daphne knew that for Baba, this twenty-five-cent indulgence was the epitome of luxury and success. For him, a man accustomed to standing on his feet behind a hot grill, flipping burgers for sixteen hours a day, a pulsating bed in a $69.99-a-night motel room decorated in a palate of Nathan’s mustard yellow meant he had indeed made it, that he was finally living the American dream.
Daphne reached the lecture hall a good thirty minutes before the start of class. She hated getting here so early, but since the train from Yonkers to Manhattan ran only twice an hour, Daphne often found herself sitting alone in lecture halls, waiting. Some of the other commuter students often met for coffee and cigarettes in the cafeteria across the street, but Daphne hated their gossipy small talk and crude flirtations. She preferred to just sit alone and wait.
Grateful to be out of the cold, she began the process, unpeeling layer after layer. First, the bulky black down coat came off. Then she removed the yellow cardigan, followed by a brown cotton sweater, and finally the diner-scented scarf. There was no way Daphne could fit it all on the back of her small lecture-hall chair; she had to pile everything on the floor next to her aisle seat. She detested doing this, but with no place else to stash her winter wardrobe, she had no choice. Nothing screamed commuter student like a pile of warm winter clothes and an entire day’s worth of books lugged around in a backpack.
Daphne knew she wasn’t like many of the students who lived on campus in a haze of bong hits, dorm parties, and guilt-free sexual exploration. But sometimes, sitting alone in a lecture hall, she liked to pretend that she was. Maybe it was really possible? Maybe she could be mistaken for a tousle-haired co-ed who had just raced out of her boyfriend’s bed and sprinted across the street to make it to class in time. Daphne relished her daydreams of being like the other students. But then, inevitably, her eyes would once again fall on the telltale pile of clothes and books beside her. She was again reminded that instead of an intoxicating mixture of incense, patchouli, and morning sex, Daphne’s signature scent was diner grease.
Daphne would never forget that day in her History of Theater class. It wasn’t the bone-chilling temperatures that made the day memorable. It was him. It was Alex.
She had seen him around campus a few times, but she never really thought much about him other than a fleeting notice of his all-American good looks. But that day, when Alex stood up in their theater class to give his oral presentation, Daphne realized that appearances could be very deceiving. This was not the one-dimensional privileged American boy “who only wants one thing from a nice Greek girl like you” that her mother had so fiercely warned her about. The moment he began to speak, Daphne knew there was so much more behind those cornflower blue eyes than football, keg parties, and the latest sorority girl conquest.
Daphne would never forget how his voice cracked and his hands shook as he stood in front of the class, holding his paper. His shirt was worn and wrinkled, and his khakis were creased in all the wrong places.
“In my opinion, Christopher Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus contains one of the greatest, if not the greatest, passage in theatrical history,” Alex began. He
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