“My dear Patrick, I’m so sorry, so very, very sorry,” Ilona whispered, tears filling her eyes as she knelt in front of the Virgin Mary holding Baby Jesus, her tears clouding her view of Mary’s beatific expression. The irony not lost on Ilona, she turned to see her son, the kindest soul she knew, attempting to make his way into conversation with his brother-in-law, William, the one who had taken his place at the table. She prayed for forgiveness, that her decision to spare him the battle would be worth the cost of the war. She wanted him to have a happy, fulfilled life.
“Sweet, Sweet Cadmus,” she murmured while doubting he would have a life as enchanted as his sister’s. What was Patrick thinking as he looked down upon them? She looked at Baby Timothy, another male destined to carry on the legacy, society already placing more expectations on him than on Grace or Lillian.
Timothy greeted her with more warmth than Michael had. She knew with distance came a gift of understanding, but Michael was too leery to be called out, even all these years later, to offer anything more that the most rudimentary welcome. Ilona managed her most placid expression that covered even the declaration of godparents: Cousin Thomas and his wife. Cadmus was left out once again.
“Honestly, Mother. You really think Cadmus is an acceptable role model for the Catholic faith?”
Callista’s words, said before Timothy’s birth, echoed through Ilona’s mind, an overlay to the images of the chosen godparents, who unabashedly showed their disposition at the Dunn holiday party, drunkenly shouting their achievements and New Year’s plan for the construction of a new mall. Ilona made a silent vow to continue shopping downtown, and she did not care one bit if her neighborhood had fallen so far out of favor. She loved its history, and there was always hope for a comeback.
Ilona could barely attend the brunch at Callista’s home, overcome with emotion on the christening of a grandson. It was as if she had lifted a stone in the garden, noting the creatures that teamed with life underneath. If she had remained with Patrick that night, he would have lived. His very life, however, would have taken the family on another course, one in which the grandchildren, Grace, Lillian, and Timothy, may not have manifested. Cadmus would have had a real chance at the business, perhaps as an architect rather than networking. With his father by his side as a mentor, Cadmus’ intelligence and prudence could have fashioned Doyle Construction, a company that needed only one D—a D strong enough to stand on its own.
Ilona took a seat on the bench in Callista’s front yard until Cadmus could pull the car around, the thoughts too much for her to bear. Her misfortune resulted in good—good for her daughter and good for Doyle & Dunn. She returned to The Doyle House with a throbbing headache and a slice of cake for Dear Ernestine, vowing to make more sense of things during her walk in the garden the following morning.
THE TEXTURE OF THE BRICKS was smoother than she thought it would be, and the coolness they emanated from a night of slumber made for soothing steps. Ilona had lived in the house for thirty years and not once had she taken off her shoes in the rose garden. She could not remember the last time she had taken off her shoes anywhere other than in her bedroom, come to think of it. The novelty brought her joy.
She continued along the path, her fingers caressing each rosary bead as she made her way through the Joyful Mysteries. As she came to the path near the pecan tree, she noted the bricks raised from the growing roots. Countless walks in the garden, yet this was the first time she had noticed this change.
Several weeks passed since she first visited her mama at the diner, but she had yet to act on anything related to teaching. She felt most confident, most limitless at night, when she opened the window with the curtain gently moving in the breeze, and in the garden before dawn, when she meandered down the paths, noting the tiny veins that ran through the petal of a rose. Anything seemed possible in those moments of stillness. Her retreat to the library to engage in any real constructive planning, however, left her at a loss.
She began to visit Lawndale more and more often. Breaking bread with her parents was slowly chipping away at the distance built up over the years. She had always admired her parents’ strength, but she realized it was something she took for granted, assuming it was a God-given gift rather than the result of years of toil. The same line of thought carried over to her mama’s detached expression, a trait she now realized had been assumed after her brother’s death. Intellectually, Ilona knew this causation, but she had buried its relevancy, consumed for years in her own grief and guilt.
Her sprinkling of memories when they were a family of five included a bright, summer day in the backyard. Her mama bellowed with laughter as she removed the clean laundry from the clothesline while Ilona, Cadmus, and Arianna wore the sheets like ghosts, shrieking and spinning around the yard, Ilona falling to the ground after bumping into the chain-link fence. Her baba opened the back door, yelling, “What you doing? Ss-eets clean!” Mama waved him away before placing a sheet over her own head and howling “boooooo” as her children laughed at her uncharacteristic rebuff to their baba.
At Lawndale, her mama sat next to Ilona at the counter, motioning for the waitress to bring her a cup of coffee. Her baba was at the register reading the paper. Ilona thought she had fallen asleep for moment, as her mama’s eyes remained closed for several seconds longer than normal. Ilona wondered how long she would be able to work at Lawndale as she glanced at the old photograph of her baba and uncle that hung behind the register.
“Callista like the baby blanket I knit, yes?” Mama asked, taking a sip of coffee.
“I believe so, I …”
“Coffee es burnt! Old from morning … Make fresh pot!” Her mama yelled out to the waitress, pushing her cup to the side in disgust. “Hard find good help these days,” she continued, shaking her head, eyes bearing down on the countertop in front of her.
Ilona waited several seconds more before attempting a return to the conversation, glancing at the waitress, who came to retrieve the cup as she glared at her mama in frustration.
“As I was saying, yes, I am sure she loved it. I have not spoken to her since the christening. I was not there when she opened the gifts.”
Ilona prayed Callista would write her ya ya a thank-you note, especially since she had more than likely already sent one to every Irish family member and friend who attended Timothy’s baptism.
Mama’s eyes rose to meet hers, signaling she had something to say. She reached for her daughter’s hand, causing Ilona’s stomach to swirl, because her mama was not prone to physical displays of affection.
“Ilona, I glad you visit me here. My heart full when I see you come home.”
“And I am so happy to be here, Mama, I …” her mama waved her index finger in the air to silence her.
“I say with love … you need find your way and way not in café. Home will be your home but not home in same way, you know?”
Ilona knew she was right, but it left her crestfallen and even a bit shocked. Her mama was kicking her out of the café, at least as a frequent visitor as she had become over the past few weeks. She was back to the drawing board.
“HEY, MOM, I’VE BEEN THINKING,” Cadmus shared as they made their way through Kaplan’s.
“Of course you have been thinking … That is all you seem to do!” Ilona playfully replied, giving him a wink as she linked her arm through his.
“I’m serious, Mom,” Cadmus replied, stopping and turning to face her directly.
“I think you need to go to Heights High School to inquire about a job.”
“A job? I’m not qualified to teach.”
“You are qualified in the purest sense of the word, but you are correct in terms of hiring.”
Her heart picked up a beat, knowing he had an idea in mind—an idea that just might be viable.
“I think you would make a wonderful tutor, someone to help the students who are struggling, and I can tell you, there are plenty who struggle.”
“You really think they would hire me t
o tutor?”
“Well, maybe not hire for pay, but perhaps as a volunteer.”
Ilona beamed, excited by a viable possibility.
“DO YOU HAVE AN APPOINTMENT, Mrs. Doyle?”
“No, but I do know Mr. Murray. My children attended Heights; my son was valedictorian many years ago.”
“Mr. Murray retired, along with his secretary. Mr. Pennington and I have been here now five years,” the assistant crossly retorted. “He is available tomorrow at 9:30 a.m. for fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you, and I do apologize for the imposition,” Ilona replied, baffled by the rude reception.
She walked back to the school the next day, and while she awoke with a clear head and bolstered confidence from stillness gained in the rose garden before dawn, the thought of the brusque secretary allowed anxiety to creep back in not more than a block away from her house. She was early, and rather than head straight to the principal’s office, she impulsively turned right after entering the main doors and walked confidently down the hall with purpose. She did not know where she was going, but she needed time to gather her thoughts.
Noticing a group of students entering the auditorium, she fell in queue. She ducked away to a seat in the far right corner as the procession made its way to the front of the stage. Throngs of students began entering from all three sets of doors by the time she sat down, the noise acting as a cloak, attention drawn to settling the students for the assembly.
She often saw students walking through the neighborhood after school hours, never more than a handful together, their energy spent from a day of studies. Aside from Callista’s and Cadmus’ respective graduations, this occasion marked the first time she was part of a mass gathering, the rowdiness leaving her somewhat stupefied. She surmised the children could easily take over the adults had they but desire and leadership. Tutoring one-on-one would suit Ilona just fine. Perhaps she missed the window for teaching, too much time spent alone on The Boulevard left her stiff.
1930, 40, 50 … she tapped her thumb to each finger, marking the decades to herself even though the counting was simple. It couldn’t be, she thought, as she confirmed the number. Thirty-two years since her graduation from Milby, which had but one year on Heights High, the building erected in 1928. She thought about the countless souls who had graced the halls and classrooms during that time. How many students had sat in her very seat in the auditorium, with their hands on the armrests, palms down, warm from the blood pumping through their veins, providing the opportunity to fulfill their dreams through the gift of life.
Thirty-two years but my blood is still pumping! she silently cheered, playfully pounding her fist on the armrest. Glad to find her resolve, she quietly sat up in her chair just as a handsome, dark-haired gentleman walked on stage, eyeing her all the way in the back as he greeted the students over the microphone. Keeping her head down, she made her way out of the auditorium, tiptoeing and carefully squeezing through a door that was slightly ajar.
When she entered the school office, Ilona received a curt nod in exchange for her best smile.
“He will be with you shortly,” the secretary said, waiting to reply until after her gaze returned to the typewriter.
A good ten minutes passed before Ilona heard a back door open and shut. She recalled then that the principal had another entrance to his office. The secretary’s ears perked up, and glancing at Ilona, she made her way back.
Although muffled, she clearly heard the words, “The old Doyle widow is here to see you.”
The crude description stabbed at Ilona’s heart. She stared intently at the floor, hoping that her legs would move as soon as she was called.
“Mrs. Doyle?”
Ilona looked up to see the man from the stage. His dark hair peppered with a healthy sprinkling of gray up close, he offered her an apologetic smile, seeming to know that his secretary uttered her comments loud enough to be overheard.
“I am Mr. Pennington, and I am so sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said, shaking her hand and walking her back to his office.
Any nerves she had been feeling evaporated when she sat down in his office, their conversation beginning so naturally and escalating at such a rate that she took a pause, realizing the extent of her loneliness. She shared how her dreams of teaching had taken a turn when she met Patrick, and while she knew her skills were a bit dull at fifty years old, she hoped she could be of service to the students at Heights High.
He shared that she was a young one at fifty; he was fifty-two. He asked her to tell him a favorite piece of literature, to which she easily replied, “E.E. Cummings … ‘somewhere I have travelled, gladly beyond.’ He published it the year I married Patrick, although I only discovered it in the past few years.”
They talked for nearly an hour in his office before he suggested a brief tour of the building, his secretary staring them down as they made their way out of the office. Ilona attempted to say goodbye, offering a kind nod and thinking it would be reciprocated once the secretary had seen that Mr. Pennington accepted her. Turning her head back one last time, Ilona noticed the Holy Family calendar posted next to the woman’s typewriter. She realized then that her reputation might very well have preceded her.
“I believe you’d be a wonderful addition to our staff,” Mr. Pennington beamed as he walked her to the front entrance after the tour. “I need but a day or two to get the teachers on board. If you’d kindly share your number, I’ll call when we are ready to move forward.”
ILONA’S FACE BROKE INTO A grin as she read Helen’s essay on Of Mice and Men. A painfully shy student who had recently moved to the school, Helen was well on her way to repeating her sophomore year. The principal and Helen’s English teacher figured they did not have much to lose when the “old Doyle widow” arrived at the school, offering to volunteer as a tutor. Seeing the red-inked A– written at the top of the paper filled Ilona’s heart with joy, as if she had written the essay herself. It was kind of the teacher to allow Ilona a first peek at the grade, and it was even more generous that she asked Ilona if she wanted to be the one to share the news, knowing how much time she had spent working with Helen in the library during lunch and after school.
The teachers from the social committee entered the library with holiday decorations and trays of food for the afternoon faculty Christmas party. Ilona returned the essay to a folder and began packing up her bag.
“Ilona! Please say you are staying for the party,” one of the teachers asked.
“I would love to attend, but I don’t want to impose, since I am a volunteer.”
“Volunteer-shmolunteer! We are thrilled to have you here. And the work you are doing, well … let me put it this way … you are a teacher.”
Ilona did feel like one of them. Aside from the prickly secretary, nearly every other person on campus could not have been kinder. The English and history teachers were among the most welcoming, thankful for her assistance in helping the reluctant learners.
Ilona arrived at Heights High thirsty for purpose, and once there, she fully realized how thirsty she had been for company, for the invitation to be part of something. The school community filled her with joy, even the students extending invitations to her for basketball games and concerts. One of the most endearing gifts came with their use of her name: Ilona. Mrs. Doyle, her moniker for so long, was first based on marriage and then wealth, and now as a natural consequence of age. Hearing the faculty and staff call her Ilona made her feel young, more of an individual. She found herself coming out of the carefully constructed shell she had nurtured for so long.
She and Mr. Pennington had also become quite friendly, their countenance to one another garnering the attention of the faculty. He could not help but wink as he playfully referred to her by the name his secretary uttered but a month ago. He later confessed his astonishment the moment he realized the old Doyle widow was the beautiful lady he first spotted in the back of the auditorium when introducing the speaker.
He asked her to
the Yale Diner for lunch over the Christmas holiday. When he ordered a patty melt, she looked around to see if Patrick was watching. Mr. Pennington must have sensed her emotion, asking whether he had said something wrong, but she just smiled, offering a simple, “Sorry, I’m a little new to this,” which garnered her a sympathetic nod. He had not been on a great many dates since his wife died, but he had a “bit more familiarity” in the arena. He could not say it gets easier with time, but he learned to anticipate the chain of emotions, and over time, his initial feeling of guilt changed to a feeling of curiosity over whether his wife would approve.
“And?” Ilona lightheartedly asked, waving her hand around her head.
“A standing ovation,” Mr. Pennington replied, with a wide smile and watery eyes. “May I escort you to a dance at the SPJST Lodge on Saturday?”
CADMUS
Spring 1963
A FEW WEEKS BEFORE HIS mother died, Cadmus quietly let himself into the house, thinking his mother might be asleep. Gingerly opening the back kitchen door, “I Fall to Pieces” drifted from the library. He heard her giggling, followed by an apology for stepping on Mr. Pennington’s foot. He had never stayed over this late. Cadmus figured his best option was to attempt discretion and tiptoe upstairs to avoid an interruption.
As he made his way down the hall, his mother appeared for a brief second, the twirl and swish of her skirt taking a peek into the hallway as she returned to her dance partner. It was the first time Cadmus had seen her dance; her joy was magnetic. He was at the door for several seconds before they noticed him, giving him time to count the empty Lone Stars resting on the table.
She screamed when she saw his figure standing in the doorway, and the rapid change of her expression from joy to fear caused Cadmus to burst into laughter. “Caddie! You scared me to death!” she gasped, hand over her heart, laughing.
Drops of Cerulean: A Novel Page 18