“And don’t you worry one bit about the M&M occupancy. You got in at just the right time,” Patrick assured.
The older gentleman replied, “Patrick, I’ll take you at your word. And I suppose even last year’s flood and the economic conditions of the north can’t wash away all the dreams in here.” The man then looked to her with approving eyes, gladly shaking her hand. “Absolutely charming, you two,” he said nodding as if he was making the final determination whether they, indeed, complimented one another. “Yes, charming.”
Ilona’s eyes followed the gentleman as he opened the curtain to the main lounge. Elated with the man’s conclusion, she turned her attention back to Patrick. His eyes intent on hers, he moved closer.
“Charming. Now that is really something. He’s not an easy one to impress.”
Ilona smiled demurely, surmising her best route at this point was to keep as still as possible in the hopes the room would follow suit. Her focus was shattered by the imposing figure standing at the curtain: Uncle Demetrius. After nodding a thank you to the waiter who pointed him in her direction, he made his way to the booth. He offered a quick glance to the cocktail glasses and then met her eyes with a raised brow before turning to Patrick.
“Demetrius Petrarkis, uncle of Ilona,” he said with poise, after which Ilona whispered another “Eucharistia” under her breath.
“Patrick Doyle. I hope you do not mind that I stole your niece away for an early cocktail. It is a rarity to meet such an intelligent soul.”
“Yes, she es our gem,” he slowly nodded as he turned to face his niece, his eyes betraying the façade and revealing his utter bewilderment at her choices while he had been upstairs. “Ilona, time we head back.”
He placed his hand on her back as a signal for her to follow; however, Ilona’s legs took a cue from her chin and struggled to comply. Sensing her trouble, Uncle Demetrius wrapped one arm around her to help her from the booth, and Ilona gripped his arm as if they were walking down the aisle.
“Thank you for a lovely afternoon,” she managed to mumble as she left the table.
“Yes, you’re quite welcome,” Patrick stammered, rising from his seat. “And may I …” he attempted to continue as her uncle ushered her away into the main lounge, leaving with a look that signaled to Patrick that he should leave Ilona alone.
CADMUS
Autumn 2014
WHEN CADMUS ENTERED THE OAKS, he vowed to enjoy supper in the dining hall as often as his health would allow. He admired the strict dress code of jacket and nice slacks, not only because it mirrored how he had dressed most of his life, but also, more important, because he hoped it would delay the inevitable. He did not want to see his fellow residents in their dressing gowns and robes, propelling their wheelchairs forward with crusty, bare heels. Everyone would be in that condition soon enough.
Exhausted from moving in that day, he took his supper quietly in his room. Clementine, along with a few hired hands, decorated the apartment with his family’s rugs, Robert’s paintings, and of course, his books. She exercised special care in assembling his study—his ornate mahogany desk displaying the accoutrements of a life well lived, including photographs of Cadmus and Robert in New York, Paris, and Key West. She made certain to fill his stationery tray with a fresh, crisp stack of ivory paper, knowing full well that the likelihood he would compose one of his beautiful letters was becoming more and more remote. His inkwell was full of his signature deep blue tint, and she rested his fountain pens on their stands before dusting his other photograph of Ilona, which was lovingly housed in a gold-plated frame with a flowing bow positioned above the black-and-white profile shot. Cadmus never revealed the details regarding his falling out with his mother to Clementine, the secret shrouded in such shame and regret that it was only well into his relationship with Robert that he could bring himself to expose such vulnerability.
His first night alone brought waves of trepidation. Lying in bed, he studied his new bedroom, reconciling his personal belongings nestled in a new space. The fresh paint on the walls bore a stark contrast to the worn, sweet wood scent of his childhood home. He was never particularly fond of anything modern or seemingly brand new. Clementine had woven the two worlds as best she could.
As he attempted to absorb his new reality, a train whistle sounded in the distance. An initial, quick burst gave way to a full-fledged roar, emphatically transporting Cadmus back to where the railroad intersected his neighborhood, the image of The Doyle House suspended between Downtown Houston and the Texas countryside, as it once had been at the turn of the previous century, well before his birth, near the time the Doyles had built the family home. Acting as a lullaby, the train’s whistles lulled him to sleep with images of his childhood and scents of rose from Ilona’s bedtime caresses.
CADMUS PROUDLY BEGAN PREPARING FOR supper early that afternoon by laying out his navy suit and mustard-colored bow tie. Vacillating on whether to wear his owl pin, he finally decided to fasten it to his lapel. Perhaps it would serve as a good conversation starter. He could easily regale his table with stories about his time at Rice as a student and as a professor, a much better option than divulging his sexuality. He often found it ironic that his Heights neighborhood, once so rooted in Victorian etiquette, had blossomed into an accepting haven for diversity, with rainbow flags prominently displayed in stores along Nineteenth Street. His family history and his lifestyle had been eagerly embraced in the mid-nineties, with he and Robert even opening The Doyle House to The Heights Spring Home Tour. He strongly suspected that residents at The Oaks would not be as welcoming, because most people his age were not.
Cadmus made his way to the dining hall, standing at the entrance for a moment to get his bearings. The room was exquisitely set, draped in soft whites with large windows that framed the setting sun. The china, fresh cut flowers thoughtfully displayed, and long white candles in silver candelabras confirmed that he was getting his money’s worth. He knew he was lucky that he never had to worry about money, even more so with his inheritance from Robert, but he also knew that the expense of receiving this luxury was too great a price. He had no one.
“Good evening, Dr. Doyle, and welcome to The Oaks,” smiled a woman well dressed in a crisp white blouse and long black skirt. “My name is Josephine.” Just as she said her name, Cadmus noticed the gold metal nameplate attached to her collar.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” he replied, making sure to extend a strong handshake and noting the tag once again, Josephine.
“Tonight, I reserved a seat for you at a special table, one that we reserve for new residents. A few veteran residents from the welcome committee serve as hosts of the table, which offers an introduction of sorts to help you meet your neighbors.”
“What a lovely notion! Thank you for the consideration,” he replied, very pleased to have one less thing to vex over, noting the many tables from which to choose. It was impossible not to notice the looks he had received during his brief time in the lobby and dining hall. Clementine had warned him that the women residents would be quite eager to meet him, seeing that he was still quite handsome, even at seventy-eight. Oilmen, doctors, and lawyers were all common at The Oaks. A professor, or, more important, a wealthy professor, was a fine catch, indeed.
As Josephine escorted him to his table, he rehearsed his lines to himself: Although I have been a widower for nearly a year, it pains me greatly to speak of my spouse, even more so now that I had to leave our home. He would say it in a manner and tone that would certainly, he hoped, dissuade further questions.
“Mr. and Mrs. Frazier, please allow me to introduce you to Dr. Cadmus Doyle, Professor Emeritus of Rice University,” Josephine announced as they arrived at the table.
Mr. Frazier rose from his seat, offering his hand, “Nice to meet you. Please call me Robert, and this is my wife, Ernestine.”
Cadmus responded with an incredulous smile when he heard their names, figuring the universe was sending him a sign that he was in the right place.
A new female resident, along with two others from the welcome committee, rounded out his remaining supper companions. Aside from Robert and Ernestine, he could not recall their names, but thankfully, his wits allowed him to navigate skillfully through the first course without making direct references.
“Doyle. Not a common name, but I did once know two men, two brothers, by the name of Doyle. Benjamin and Andrew—fine men with whom I collaborated to build a series of shopping centers along Westheimer Road. It was farmland not so long ago! Doyle & Dunn Construction. What a great venture that turned out to be! Any relation, by chance?” Robert asked.
Cadmus took a sip of his coffee, buying time before offering a weak smile and shaking his head, “No, sir. I am but an old professor of literature. No relation.”
“Yes, well, I suppose Houston is quite a large city now, a far cry from when I was born.”
“I’m from Dallas,” piped in the other new resident. “My husband passed away several months ago, and I moved here to be closer to my children. Dallas is critical of Houston, but I admit I’ve always favored it. I do believe it’s much more sophisticated than they realize.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” offered Ernestine.
“Thank you. I throw myself a good pity party every now and then, but then I remember I had him for sixty-four years. It was a beautiful marriage.”
“How long were you married, Doctor?” Ernestine asked.
Cadmus stared at Ernestine, stupefied by the question.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s fine,” he replied, his heart racing at the potential threads of conversation. “Thirty-nine years.”
“Ah, you married later in life. Was she in education, as well?” Robert asked.
“No. H … She … she was …” Eloquence lost, Cadmus looked down into his lap, struggling with how to respond. Changing the pronoun left him feeling stripped of his fidelity to Robert. The thought of fabricating his spouse’s profession made him feel even more sickened, but women their age were not lawyers. A litany of questions would accompany this answer.
“Forgive me for asking, Dr. Doyle. Sometimes I am too nosey for my own good.”
“I second that declaration!” Robert replied.
A round of laughter punctured the weight suspended above the table as the attendant arrived with dessert.
Cadmus returned to his room, his thoughts heavy with his life’s composite of shame. Those few lines uttered in the dining hall tapped into his rawest sense of self, beginning from his failure as a son and heir. Had he been stronger, he would have forged more memories with his father, and as a stakeholder in Doyle & Dunn, he would have never had a reason to usher his mother’s death. The confluence of thoughts elicited even more consternation, for had they come to fruition he would have never met Robert. Thoughts of his life taking a traditional trajectory prompted him to feel as if he were forsaking his soul mate for the second time that evening.
He felt a fool to think he could create a façade from which to project during meals at The Oaks. Underneath his sophisticated veneer, Cadmus was an unexceptional gay man who paid a high price for his sexuality, as so many had before him and even more would continue to do after him, despite the changing times. As he returned his owl pin to its box, he sighed in resignation that he had yet to pay off his debt. He would not return to the dining hall, to the place where the residents shared their life stories, an opportunity to assess their life’s accomplishments with other diners. To participate in such an exchange would call for him to disavow Robert, the one person other than his mother and Dear Ernestine who had loved him unconditionally. Perhaps he would have a change of heart, but for now, he would remain in his room, spending his days in restitution.
ILONA
Autumn 1930
ILONA DID NOT RECALL LEAVING the M&M. She awoke to find herself in the car with her uncle heading down Harrisburg, the sound of the streetcar’s horn jarring her awake.
“No, dear, you might be sick. Leave down. No sick in car,” Uncle Demetrius said as she fumbled to roll up the passenger window.
“I must get back to the diner. Baba is expecting me to run the supper shift.”
“You no go diner. You go home.”
“I’m sorry, Uncle. I … I …”
“Now you know danger of the drink. Be careful of men who want you drink, Ilona. You pretty young woman,” her Uncle Demetrius warned.
“Baba will be so upset, so very, very upset,” Ilona cried.
“He no need know everything. You get sick. People get sick, eat things that go bad. I take you home, put you in bed.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” Ilona said, brushing her hair away from her face, the strands blown about from the rush of the outside air. She turned to look out the window, her eyes having trouble following the moving streetcar that was also heading east, away from downtown. She smelled Patrick’s cologne on her hands as she wiped her eyes. It had been barely over an hour, but the time she had spent with Patrick, the stories shared and hands held, confirmed her belief that she could change the trajectory of her life.
ILONA AWOKE, WELL BEFORE DAWN, to the sound of the whistle from the train signaling twice. Her head pounding, she reached over to her nightstand to turn on the light. A bottle of aspirin and a glass of water greeted her, as did a trash can thoughtfully placed next to her bed. Uncle Demetrius had served her well. Ilona took two pills and drank the entire glass of water. She could not recall a time she had ever been so parched.
She looked around her room, coming to terms with how different she felt now versus just the previous morning. She felt more mature, as if she no longer needed her high school diploma and certificates of achievement that lined the walls, former indicators of her worth. Ilona had never felt the want for a man, and now she was overwhelmed with physical desire for Patrick, a man she barely knew. Being with him was like removing a veil, revealing a womanly soul ready to take on new experiences. She feared she would sleep with him if she saw him again: no questions asked, no promises needed.
Needing another glass of water but fearful of waking her family, she tiptoed to the bathroom rather than the kitchen to refill her glass. Fragmented memories from the night before slowly unfolded, from their auspicious arrival home to an empty house to her uncle gently tapping on the door to her room, asking how she was coming along with her nightgown. She remembered him sitting on the edge of her bed and kissing her forehead while muttering a profane word about the Irish.
After brushing her teeth and splashing cold water on her face, she studied her reflection. She saw herself as a latent soul, someone on the verge of blooming. Patrick’s attention, however, prompted her to see herself as something else. Her hair, usually tied in a low chignon, gave her a homely look. Closing her eyes and thinking of Patrick, she ran her fingers through her dark, thick hair, moving carefully at her temples that still throbbed from the gin. Raising her hair in a higher fashion, she turned from side to side, admiring the profile of a very different soul emerging. Smiling to herself, she made her way back to her room and curled into bed, fantasizing about the man who made her feel like a woman.
ASIDE FROM FEELING AS IF she was in a bit of a trance, Ilona thought she felt better when she awoke later that morning. Grateful for the dose of aspirin, she bathed and prepared herself for work, carefully arranging her hair higher, rather than at the base of her neck. She also added a bit of red lipstick, which left her mama staring, frying pan motionless in hand, when Ilona entered the kitchen.
“Your baba thinks you fell ill yesterday,” Mama said, slamming a glass of orange juice on the table in front of her, before turning back to the stove. “You break baba’s heart if know truth.”
Ilona sat at the kitchen table, searching for feelings of regret she thought she should feel. Truthfully, if she had the chance to do it over, she would do it again. The independence was invigorating. She took a few sips of juice and watched her mama at the stove, where steam from the
fried eggs wafted into the air. Mama shook her head, pausing on one side, her expression bearing more questions than upset. Before she had the opportunity to continue, her baba entered the kitchen, with his keys jingling in his hands.
“You feel better, dear? I worry,” he greeted Ilona, offering a kiss to her forehead, before sitting down at the table. “I so sorry you no find hat.”
“Yes, Baba, I feel better. Must have been a stomach bug,” Ilona said quietly, avoiding his eyes as her lie became palpable, infiltrating the room. She stared down at her juice and took another sip, waiting for him to sense her betrayal. Her stomach began to burn, the scent of the fried eggs summoning her queasiness.
“You need stay home today?” he asked, noticing her closed eyes and flaring nostrils.
“No!” Ilona said with such immediacy and force that it prompted both of her parents to look at one another and then back at her. “Pardon me. I want to go to work. I’m fine, really I am.”
Mama saw through her words, knowing her daughter wanted to make it back to Franklin, back to downtown.
“You work at Lawndale today. Close to home if you sick again.”
“No, Baba, I am fine. I feel fine. Please, please let me go to Franklin. The customers expect me.”
“Lawndale customers get treat see you again. They always ask how ‘city girl’ doing. You stay near home today,” he commanded while placing a napkin on his lap, before eating his eggs and toast. “We drop you off, and then I take your mama downtown. Good for her see new things, too, you know?”
“Pardon me. I need a minute,” Ilona answered, barely making it to the bathroom before she fell ill. She was foolish to think she had avoided this part of the hangover—the Monday morning virus, or for her, the Friday morning virus, she had witnessed firsthand from cooks and busboys over the years. “The drink, the drink,” her baba would say after he had fired a worker for repeated tardiness or for attempting to arrive at work in such a haggard state.
Drops of Cerulean: A Novel Page 3