Drops of Cerulean: A Novel

by Dawn Adams Cole

  The library was impressive, oak-paneled walls lined with books and photographs of Michael’s family. She grazed her hands along the spines, doubting that anyone in the house ever cracked one open. She knew the wine conjured more emotions as she scanned the photographs, noting the milestones of the happy family of five and their physical resemblance to Patrick.

  She cast her attention to the oil portrait of Patrick Doyle, Sr. that once graced her home, his steely eyes taunting her from the mantle, as if to say You could have had all of this with Patrick.

  “Here you are.”

  She turned around to see Michael coming toward her, another drink in hand.

  “I really am glad you came today, Ilona. I think about you more than you might realize.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” she snapped.

  “I like that fire. I always knew you had it somewhere.” He smiled, tone softening. “How have you been?”

  “Not much different than before. My life has remained largely the same,” she acquiesced, knowing her world had been so very still since Patrick died.

  She accepted Michael’s motion for them to sit, dizziness from the morning of wine in effect. The sun shone through the front window, the breeze fluttering the azaleas that colored the windowpane pink.

  “How can you have so many azaleas?” she asked, realizing the foolishness of her question as soon as it escaped her lips.

  He looked out the window and laughed, “I guess it was my way of establishing a new tradition apart from roses. But roses always remind me of you.”

  She looked at Michael, her mind flashing to the morning spent with Benjamin and Andrew, Timothy, Richard, and William, now her daughter’s fiancé. Overwhelmed by the semblances to Patrick and to the life she might have had, she lost her resolve and let a few tears make their way down her cheeks.

  “It’s not too late for us to spend time together, Ilona,” Michael said, mistaking her tears for receptivity and placing a hand on her thigh. “I’m a successful man, but there is something, or I should say someone, who continues to elude me.”

  She looked up at him, frustrated by her naiveté and by her belief that he could have changed.

  “I have found ways to address Sybil’s continued deficiency in that area, but I do believe you could address them best.”

  Ilona jumped to her feet, confounded that he would proposition her after so many years and with his entire family but a few walls away.

  “You are a disgusting son of a bitch, Michael Doyle! I can’t believe you could be anything worse than you once were, but your success includes becoming an even bigger asshole than Patrick could have ever imagined!”

  She rose to leave the library, her chardonnay splashing her and the Persian rug. As she brushed it from her dress, her gaze met those of William, Callista, and Katherine, standing at the door stupefied.

  Ilona brushed past them to look for Cadmus, the walls appearing like a fun house, tilting as she stumbled to the veranda. She motioned Cadmus from the pool, and Sybil and Anne Dunn asked if everything was okay. Ilona walked over to talk to Cadmus privately, sharing that she would wait next to the car.

  In those few moments with her son, a makeshift group assembled that included the victim, Michael, along with his wife and the witnesses to what would become known as her “drunken assault,” something that Ilona’s friend Margaret later heralded as a “fine and most overdue achievement,” even though it obliterated any opportunity for Ilona to enjoy a full relationship with her daughter’s family.

  ILONA’S ASSUMPTIONS ABOUT HER SON’S sexuality were confirmed the summer after his graduation from Heights High School. He had a friend, Paul, with whom he hung around in the neighborhood, often grabbing a burger at Sander’s before heading home to study. Dear Ernestine gladly prepared an abundance at suppertime, encouraging Cadmus to bring friends home. Paul and Cadmus talked about girls and poked jokes about teachers, which made Ilona wonder what students would have said about her had she ever become a teacher. She idealized her would-be role in the classroom, but her lofty ideas may very well have subjected her to ridicule from the students.

  Paul’s frequent visits prompted Dear Ernestine to set a place for him regularly, which Ilona did not mind. She liked Paul as a person, but she also liked that he grounded her son. One of four children who lived in a neighboring bungalow, Paul was accustomed to doing more with less. His father, an accountant, was a kind man with a strong work ethic, using every opportunity to teach his children the value of a dollar. Paul’s mother took in mending for extra money, and although Ilona and Dear Ernestine were quite nimble with a needle and thread, Ilona sent a few garments her way here and there.

  She knew Paul was just the right person to hire and work alongside Cadmus to paint Dear Ernestine’s guest quarters while she was away at her sister’s house for a few days. The extent of Cadmus’ laboring resided in his studies. Intellectually curious, Cadmus always matched the academic challenges presented by the faculty. Physically, however, he rarely broke a sweat. The work would be good for him.

  Ilona prepared fresh lemonade for the boys, carefully slicing an extra lemon into slices to float in the glass pitcher. She found comfort in the intentionality of cutting the thinnest of slices, of feeling the bumps and texture on the peel and hearing the fleshy sound made by the knife. She sliced each round and, for the first time, gave the lemon its due, counting twelve distinct geometric shapes that formed the circumference.

  Walking up the steps to the garage apartment with tray in hand and cuticles burning from the juice, she paused to look over the grounds from the outdoor staircase, a vantage point rarely enjoyed. She imagined a middle-aged Patrick walking through the garden, gray hair peppered throughout his sandy brown. Would he have still favored gold-rimmed glasses, or would he have donned a more modern look? If only she would have replied in kind that night, extending her hand to meet his in the Millers’ library. Things would be different.

  Patrick would have walked Callista down the aisle last month rather than Michael. And Callista would have welcomed a wedding shower at her family home had her mother not shot off her mouth at her uncle, the only father Callista knew. Ilona was thankful the wedding was over, after too much time tiptoeing, of seeking forgiveness, and of finding her place in the pecking order of the new family design.

  Michael and Sybil assumed the lead, considering the Doyle & Dunns’ membership to the River Oaks Country Club offered the gateway to the reception, and even though the event bore the stamp of business interests, as evidenced by the extensive guest list, Ilona conceded that it was a beautiful wedding. Given the need for airs, Michael and Sybil greeted her and Cadmus properly, which suited her just fine. She had no desire to share with Sybil, Callista, and Katherine that Michael, their rock, was a philanderer and bully, and their formal behavior allowed everyone to continue superficially without digging into the reasons for the discord.

  Taking a full breath, she resumed her flight upstairs with the lemonade, thankful for the peace at home with her son. Noting the door was open but a crack, she turned her back to nudge it open from behind. The smell of wet paint welcomed her senses: good progress made. And as she turned around to greet the boys, she saw her son in a most passionate kiss, with his shirt falling to the ground.

  ILONA

  Autumn 1962

  ILONA’S EYEBROWS ROSE AS SHE looked at each contestant with great anticipation.

  “Are you ready?” she called out with her wide, toothy smile.

  She received mostly eager nods from young girls, too shy to answer with a resounding yes.

  “Oh. I don’t think you’re really ready,” she replied, shaking her head, eyes downcast, putting on a show of false dejection. She continued to shake her head, pacing around the flattened grass from inside the booth.

  “We are!” piped a squeaky voice on the far left end, tapping her washer on a string that was placed smack dab in the middle of her number—3.

  “Okay, lucky number 3, then help me
!” Ilona enthusiastically called out, slapping her hands on her thighs. “Let’s try it again! Are you ready?”

  “YES!” the chorus of girls shouted, jumping up and down in front of their respective squares.

  “Then let’s see who our winner is!” she shouted as she turned the number wheel. She stepped back to observe the little girl’s eyes excitedly following the wheel, attempting to see where their numbers would fall as the wheel made its quick rotations.

  Ilona delighted in chairing the doll booth at the annual church bazaar. She and Dear Ernestine prepared dolls throughout the year: sewing, crocheting, and knitting an array of ensembles to adorn their small figures. These were the times that brought them closer as women, sharing stories and thoughts as if they were background music. With their attention on the dolls, sharing stories became easier, more natural without eye contact, and with no worry over when to nod or gesture, no concern to fill every moment with speech when there was another task to be done.

  Ilona’s volunteer service made her wistful for Callista at that age, seeing the heartfelt, earnest look in the girls’ eyes as the wheel turned, willing their numbers to land under the arrow. She longed for a redo, a chance to build a stronger relationship with the adult daughter who regarded her with frustration and resentment. Feeling kindness and love from the little ones, albeit fleeting, filled a void.

  She also relished the theatrics she brought into the game, cajoling little ones to play and then good-naturedly teasing them during the games. She wondered how much of this part of her personality would have manifested in the classroom had she the opportunity.

  “Hey, Mom. Ready to break for lunch?” Cadmus asked as he approached the booth. There were times she could not believe this handsome young man was her son, the same baby born twenty-six years before, now in graduate studies at Rice University.

  “Soon, my dear, as soon as the other volunteer relieves me,” Ilona replied.

  “I’ll try my luck at the cake booth,” he said, gesturing to the booth a few stalls down the row. “Maybe I will win Dear Ernestine’s apple upside-down cake!”

  “You mean your great-grandmother’s, right? It’s her recipe!”

  He smiled and nodded as he walked away toward the booth. Although his dark hair and brown eyes were from Ilona, his profile was unmistakably Patrick’s. Her nose tingled at the sight of his dimple, as he smiled and waved to a friend. Her heart still ached for her husband, and not a day passed that she did not pray for him. She had even drawn from the well of compassion and prayed for Maureen. She, too, would still be alive had Ilona stayed behind that night.

  Cadmus was a good soul. She knew full well he wanted to spend time with Thomas, but he knew what the bazaar meant to his mother, seeing her work on the project in the library throughout the year. He had yet to confide explicitly that Thomas was his boyfriend, and she knew perhaps he never would. It was an unspoken understanding, evidenced by her tone when she asked about Thomas and by her warm greeting when she saw him.

  After the barbecue lunch, Cadmus and Ilona strolled around the bazaar, chatting with other parishioners and playing a few games. A good number of parishioners knew their circumstances, but time healed the awkwardness that had been in place in the early years after the accident, especially after she started attending the Women’s Club. It was a formal group, and the routine of meetings and volunteering served her well. Ilona kissed Cadmus on the cheek and thanked him for a lovely lunch date. She scurried to the ladies’ room before returning to her booth.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t know,” accused Bernadine in a shrill voice as she entered the ladies’ room. Ilona rolled her eyes in the stall. Bernadine was at it again with her gossip. Ilona chastised herself for not placing her own name on the ballot for president of the Women’s Club. Bernadine had a powerful platform from which to spew.

  “How could I? I’ve only been here a few months,” said the other woman in her defense.

  “Yes, it was awful, poor thing, to be cheated on so, and then have him die in such a horrific, public manner.”

  Ilona’s heart sank. It had been so many years. Why on earth would Bernadine do this to her?

  “It is a shame. Well, now I do not envy her as I once did!” the other woman said with a forced laugh for effect. “Can you believe she looks as good as she does? How old do you think she is?”

  “Nearly fifty, I’m sure. Too old to find love. And what’s even more regrettable is that she attends mass every day, probably praying for her husband and son. Her husband is already in hell, and her son … Well, he has a one-way ticket there, since he sleeps with men.”

  “No! Oh God, poor Ilona. He does seem effeminate come to think of it, like he’s too pretty to be a man.”

  “We all feel sorry for her, so pathetic in that big house alone all day and then coming to Sunday mass with her gay son.”

  Ilona unlocked the door and stepped out to the sink, looking straight into the mirror, straight into the wide eyes of Bernadine, a woman she thought was a friend, and the new parishioner. Their positioning and the mirror reminded Ilona of the night Margaret shared the news about Patrick and Maureen in the Millers’ powder room, where the mirrors made the moment even more surreal.

  Nudging the two ladies out of the way, Ilona confidently washed her hands while they stood there, speechless, eyeing one another, trying to determine who should speak first.

  “Ilona, we are so …” the new woman stammered, flashes of scarlet wrapping her face.

  “Save your apologies. And be careful. There may be two more spots in hell waiting for the both of you,” Ilona retorted, for once able to respond boldly on command, as she exited to resume her shift at the booth.

  THE ARGUMENT WITH HER BABA over her conversion, held so many years ago, reverberated throughout her mind as she completed what would turn out to be her last stint as chair of the doll booth. She absentmindedly collected money for washers and spun the wheel with unusual force, as she silently cursed herself for taking solace in her fellow parishioners’ kindness over the past seventeen years. How many people were lying, their kind actions either stemming from pity or from a morbid curiosity to be so close to death or to another’s illicit behavior? And although it was only two women, there were probably more. A tongue speaking that freely had been bolstered by years of support.

  Ilona felt a fool, converting to a religion that had such resolute views on eternal damnation and then continuing its practice considering her family’s circumstances. No wonder Callista never wanted to attend mass with them at her childhood parish, even on holy days, preferring to remain at her own parish in River Oaks.

  Patrick can’t be in hell, can’t … she said to herself. He had so much good, so much good, she continued as mothers, noting that Ilona was slightly unhinged, ushered their daughters past the doll booth. Cadmus, so kind and sweet. Never hurt anyone. My sweet boy, she thought pacing around the interior of the booth, brushing blown leaves from the counters.

  As soon as the six o’clock tower chimes rang out, she packed up the remaining two dolls, returned the cash pouch to the church office, and made a beeline down Fifth Street to The Boulevard to head home. She was not going to stay for two more spins; the bazaar was officially over. The leftover dolls were returning to The Doyle House, one for her and one for Dear Ernestine. The irony was not lost on her that the dolls donned traditional Greek dress, always the outcasts, the ones no one wanted.

  The rose garden served as church the week following the bazaar. Rising before dawn each day, Ilona threw on her robe and slippers, reaching for her rosary on the nightstand before tiptoeing downstairs. A student of the night sky on scores of sleepless nights, she was accustomed to its dark hue, tempered by glass and framed by curtains. She spent those nights riddled by the guilt she assigned herself for killing Patrick and Maureen. She knew they had made terrible decisions, but she made the last one that set the final thread of events in motion. She could have been stronger, could have taken it one more time.


  Standing outside in the early morning air, she offered a prayer of thanks to the heavens, the indigo sky protecting her under its dome. The din of crickets and frogs greeted her from the rosebushes, nestled in among the soil moistened from the dew. She took a full, deep breath, lifted the rosary from her robe pocket, and began the recitation, making deliberate steps on the sidewalk that circled the garden.

  She wove Our Fathers, Hail Marys, and Glory Bes into the fourth movement of the nocturnal symphony. As the sky turned to lapis and cerulean, she found herself seated on the bench, the formality of prayer complete. Feeling quelling words, she placed her left hand on her heart with her right palm up. She sent love and peace to Patrick in heaven and to her son in his bedroom upstairs.

  ILONA MADE ONE ATTEMPT TO return to Holy Family. After a week at her garden church, she found the resolve to face the situation for what it was, hoping, perhaps, that the opinion expressed in the ladies’ room was that of a minority. She entered church the following Sunday, arm linked with Cadmus. As they made their way to their usual spot in the fourth pew, she attempted to convince herself that the stares were figments of her imagination, nothing more than a natural place a face may fall when looking around the nave.

  As they knelt in prayer, Cadmus whispered, “What is going on?”

  Ilona kept her eyes closed, only raising her prayer hands over her lips as a signal for him to be quiet. She was filled with shame that she had brought him back to the church, back to the parishioners who denigrated him in private. She knew there were those who did not fall into this camp, but she doubted they could muster the courage to defend her family, especially when the church viewed Cadmus’ sexuality as a mortal sin. That was when she realized that no one, not one soul, had reached out to her the week after the bazaar, and she figured the happenings in the ladies’ room were mentioned to at least a few if not the entire Women’s Club.