“Looks like you have had quite a night!” he replied, his eyes looking to the beer bottles.
“Yes,” she giggled, knocking one of the bottles to the floor as she tried to collect them. “I guess there is a first time for everything.”
Mr. Pennington darted over to Cadmus, bearing the expression of an apologetic teenager who had been caught.
“I hope you know it was never my intention for your mother to become tipsy,” he implored, looking into Cadmus’ eyes. “I had no idea it only took two beers. She seemed fine after the first one.”
“Mr. Pennington, it’s fine, really it is. It is wonderful to see her so happy.”
As Cadmus made his way upstairs, he realized that he could see his mother marrying this man. Perhaps not in the near future, but somewhere down the road, so long as she could continue working out the knots surrounding his father. Cadmus had seen her from the window the other morning, walking the rose garden paths, her lips moving but no rosary in hand.
“Who were you talking to out there?” he asked.
“Your father, of course,” she responded quietly, her right index finger caressing her engagement ring. “I miss him every day, and every day I tell him how much I love him and how sorry I am.”
“But you like Mr. Pennington?”
“Mark?” She looked at her son, her cheeks blushing and lips breaking into a girlish smile. “Oh, yes. I do like him so very, very much,” she whispered.
CADMUS GREETED MR. PENNINGTON AT the front door, his hands extended to take the irises nestled in a white box tied with a white, satin ribbon that he had bought for Ilona.
“Thank you, Cadmus, but I do take such pleasure in giving them to her myself,” he replied. “I’m enchanted.”
Cadmus smiled, not knowing what to say.
“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. Tell me about your studies. How are things progressing?”
“Coming along quite well. I am still on target to finish my dissertation.”
“Terrific! Perhaps you and Thomas can join us next weekend at the art museum. Lunch afterward? I’d love to hear more about it.”
“Thanks for the invitation,” Cadmus replied, his stomach fluttering at hearing him say his boyfriend’s name aloud, something very few people did. Mr. Pennington had met him a few months before as they were leaving the house for a movie. Uneasy at first with the initial introduction, Mr. Pennington could not have made his approval clearer with his warm handshake with one hand and his other arm patting Thomas’ shoulder.
“I am so pleased to meet you, Thomas,” he had said with sincerity and enthusiasm that left them marveling, thinking this is how heterosexual couples are treated. A week later, Ilona hosted a Sunday brunch for the four of them at The Doyle House, a wonderful afternoon of intellectual conversation. Callista politely declined the invitation. She did not approve of what she considered to be Cadmus’ “choices,” and the fact that her mother’s only interest since her father’s death was with a high school principal left Callista less than enthused.
“Please make yourself at home in the library. I’ll tell my mother you are here.”
He walked into his mother’s room to find her dabbing perfume behind her ears and wrists. She met her son’s eyes with a wide, toothy smile, looking beautiful in her new pale yellow A-line dress, with its wide collar wrapping around her shoulders.
“He’s here,” Cadmus said, not knowing why his nose began tingling. “You look beautiful, Mother.”
“I feel beautiful. I am happy,” she said, walking over and raising her palms to cup his face, teasing, “Now when did you get to be so tall?”
Cadmus only smiled and, placing his hands over hers, bent down to kiss her forehead. As he lifted his hands from hers, he noticed she was not wearing her wedding rings.
The banging at the front door jarred them from the moment. They ran into the hallway to find Mr. Pennington standing at the front door with Callista pushing past him, screaming for her mother.
“What in the hell are you doing?” Cadmus demanded.
“Oh, I’ll tell you what I am not doing. I am not putting up with Mother’s bullshit any longer!” Callista shouted.
Mr. Pennington placed the flower box on the hallway table and walked toward Ilona, an instinctive action to protect.
“Callista, what on earth has happened?” Ilona shrieked.
“I know the truth, Mother,” she fumed.
“Truth?” Ilona responded, brows down in confusion.
“Having a son certainly frames things differently, does it not?”
“I’m sorry, I do not know what you mean,” Ilona replied, still confused.
“William and I talked to Uncle Michael and his father about our wills, Mother. Revisions for the inclusion of Timothy. It was a very informative conversation, indeed.”
Ilona gripped the banister, feeling the air leaving the room.
“Callista, no! Let’s talk in private. You don’t …”
“No, let’s talk here and now! Cadmus should know the truth!”
“What in God’s name are you talking about, Callista? This is ridiculous!” Cadmus shouted.
“What is ridiculous is that our mother sold us out, sold our shares in Doyle Lumber & Construction to Uncle Michael after he offered her a healthy profit.”
“No, the business went to Michael’s family after Dad’s death, the will …”
“No! Mom sold it to them, because you are weak. She knew it then as we all know it now. She knew a faggot could not carry on in Dad’s name! Uncle Michael made her an offer!”
Ilona could do nothing more than shake her head, unable to let go of the banister and dumbfounded as to why Michael would do such a thing after all these years.
“You are lying, Callista! Why are you doing this?” Cadmus shouted to his sister before looking to his mother.
“Oh yeah? You think I’m lying? Ask her,” Callista said, lifting her chin in defiance.
“Mom?” Cadmus whispered.
“It’s not as it sounds! Michael was awful, he is awful … a bully … he …”
“Was I supposed to …” Cadmus began, wide-eyed in disbelief. “Did he make you an offer to cut me out?”
“Yes, yes … but it was never for me!” Ilona screamed. “I wanted you to be free!”
“And the condition of the offer was that we would be out. Out for good!” she shouted. “Thank God I married a Dunn and have my share. Poor Cadmus … with no part of what I have now, which I can assure you is a hell of a lot more than this place!”
“Why are you doing this to us?” Ilona pleaded.
“Because you changed the course of our lives for your own ease! Your decision made me spend my life fighting for my place, and Cadmus has nothing to do with our business because of you. And tell him why you stopped going to Holy Family. Might as well let it all out.”
“Oh, God!” Ilona cried, falling to her knees.
“They made fun of you, Cadmus, had been making fun of you for years. And for her, too, for being so damn devout after Dad’s deplorable behavior and knowing you are a queer.”
“Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” Cadmus shouted. “How could you have kept this secret for so long?”
“I have always tried to protect you, my son! I always had the best of intentions!” Ilona wailed, struggling to get up to make her way to Cadmus.
“Who the hell are you? What do you have for me? Love or pity?” Cadmus screamed, pushing away her outstretched arms and storming out the door, with Callista not far behind.
ILONA
Spring 1963
MARK WALKED TO THE FRONT door, hoping to catch Cadmus’ eye to beg his return. Cadmus looked back only once at his mother, anger savagely animating his face, revealing in a second how he might have looked had life played out differently. He could easily have been mistaken for a wayward young man.
After locking the front door, Mark gently picked Ilona up from the floor and carried her to her bedroom, resembling a husband
carrying his wife over the threshold. Her cries for him to leave her alone were met with silence.
Her yellow dress thrown in a ball onto the bathroom floor, she curled into bed in her robe, sobbing uncontrollably. Mark lovingly hung her dress on a hanger, taking in the scent of her perfume as he hung it in the closet. He brought her a hand towel soaked in hot water to wash her face, the heat bringing relief to the tenderness of her swelling cheeks. He removed his jacket and shoes before crawling into bed next to her, drawing her close as she wept with her head on his chest.
“I lost my husband. I lost my children. I lost my son,” she whispered through chokes. “I’m to blame.”
“Give it time, Ilona. Time has a way of working things out,” he said, kissing her firmly on the forehead and pulling her closer.
The following morning, he asked her if she wanted him to call Dear Ernestine, who had been spending weekends with her sister. Ilona assured him she would be fine and to let Dear Ernestine have her well-deserved time off. She would learn of the events soon enough. He offered to stay and even to come back later, but she maintained that the time alone would serve her well. He gave her aspirin for her headache and kissed her goodbye, saying he looked forward to seeing her tomorrow at school and for her to call if she needed anything at any hour.
There was no sign of Cadmus, but she surmised he was with Thomas, which gave her a degree of comfort. Surely Thomas would help talk sense into him. She returned to bed after Mark left with her headache worsening, sleeping until half past noon.
The sound of the phone ringing woke her from her nap. Her heart racing, she ran to the phone in the library, knowing it had to be Cadmus calling.
“Hello?” she called loudly into the phone, gripping the receiver with both hands. “No, you have the wrong number,” she softly replied, crestfallen. She took a seat in the nook, her heart still racing from the hope that had sprung to life in those few seconds.
She picked up the phone and quickly dialed Thomas’ apartment.
“Thomas! Please put Cadmus on the phone. He’s there, isn’t he?”
“He doesn’t want to speak to you,” Thomas replied bluntly.
“Please, Thomas, please, for the love of God, please put Caddie on the phone!”
“As I said, Mrs. Doyle, he doesn’t want to talk to you, and quite frankly neither do I.”
“Please, please, let me talk to my son,” she implored.
“What part of Thomas’ words do you not understand, Mother? Leave me the fuck alone!” Cadmus shouted before hanging up the phone.
Ilona stared absentmindedly out the window and into the garden, the receiver still lodged in her limp hand, her temple pulsing. His words and tone marked a sharp dissonance from the son she knew, a man whose reflective capacity and natural stillness had marked him as a compassionate soul since the day he was born. She knew even people with strong constitutions bear moments of restlessness, and her actions unearthed a layer of vulnerability. She had been his rock since birth, since he knew he was gay, and now he doubted her character.
Returning the phone receiver to its cradle, she turned her eyes to the framed photograph of her wedding day resting on the table—she and Patrick looking at one another, smiling in the rose garden at the reception. A candid shot, it was by far one of their favorites. Only they knew the words exchanged just seconds before the shot was taken: We did it our way!
With Patrick’s parents deceased and her parents marginalized, she and Patrick had the luxury of planning a wedding on their terms. The traditional Catholic service was a given, but the reception was one area for freedom. They decided the rose garden was the most fitting for the occasion, a space large enough to host a respectable crowd while offering natural limitations on the guest list. Dear Ernestine attended as a guest and sat at the family table. Perhaps more important, however, it served as a benediction, a time to honor the next evolution of The Doyle House. She now questioned her way. What had she done to their family?
Ilona opened the desk drawer, fingering the fountain pens, pencils, rulers, and compass—relics from their early marriage that had not been touched in years. She thought about Patrick’s hands gripping the instruments, knowing they once reverberated with his love for Houston and wondering if they still bore even his slightest fingerprint.
She spread out an old map of the city, the frayed edges a sign that it had been useful at one time. Ilona squinted, hand to her temple, looking for Franklin and Main. Her eyes then wandered east, scanning to locate Lawndale, before heading west to find where she sat now on The Boulevard. She picked up Patrick’s compass, and placing the needle on the M&M and the pencil on Lawndale, she drew a circle. It perfectly intersected The Doyle House on Heights Boulevard as it made its revolution. Her life looked so small, the points of the three locations following a perfect 180-degree line, a circle of eight millimeters. Life looked simple from the bird’s-eye view, but she had done more than her fair share of ruining her family, from her rejection of the Petrarkises and her failure as a Doyle.
Ilona walked outside to the rose garden in her robe, barefoot and hair disheveled, disregarding the numbers of people along The Boulevard. She came up empty handed when she reached into her pocket for her rosary, realizing it must still be under her pillow. Taking a deep breath, she began her walk, counting each step and taking in the texture of the bricks under her feet.
The images came rapidly, Patrick appearing on the bench, looking at her with his high-voltage smile, waving her to come over and take a seat. “Give me a minute, my love,” she whispered as she made another revolution, hand rubbing her temple as the wind picked up its force.
Her eyes teared at the sight of Callista picking a flower for her hair and twirling in the lawn barefoot, hands outstretched for her mother to join her in a dance. “Not your time, sweetheart,” she smiled, efforts to tuck her hair behind her ear at odds with the strong breezes. A storm from the Gulf was on its way.
Cadmus walked along the perimeter of the grounds, his left hand tapping every other picket and mouthing words to a story, his eyebrows moving with the telling of the tale. He stopped at the front gate and turned to Ilona, embarrassed, with a you-caught-me smile. She blew him a kiss and waved, “Keep telling your stories, sweet boy!”
As she headed back toward the pecan tree, she saw her brother sitting next to Patrick, both men talking for a moment more before noticing her approach. Her brother stood when he saw her, a warm smile breaking across his face and his head tilted to the side. Patrick followed suit and walked toward her, extending his hand.
“It’s time, my love.”
CADMUS
Spring 1963
CADMUS DID NOT RETURN HOME until Tuesday, and he would have stayed away longer had he not needed his papers for class. Pulling into the driveway, he noticed Callista’s car parked in front.
What in the hell is she doing here? he wondered as he gave his car door an extra-hard slam to let his mother know he was still upset.
Dear Ernestine threw open the back door screaming, “Where’ve you been, Caddie? We’ve been looking all over for you!”
Knees weak, he placed his right hand on the car hood. Something was terribly wrong. He kept his eyes on hers, mentally preparing for what was about to be said as she scurried down the stairs, wrapping her arms around him.
“Your mama’s gone, Caddie,” she cried. “She passed on Sunday.”
Cadmus looked up to see Callista’s tearstained face staring at him from the doorway as a rush of wind made its way through the trees.
The moisture from the rainfall saturated his pants, but Cadmus remained rooted under the pecan tree, the same location he had rested the night he said goodbye to his father.
“It would have been nice to know how to contact you, Cadmus,” Callista’s reprimand echoed through his mind. “Two damn days of being in this hell alone!”
Other than Ilona, no one knew much about Thomas. Other than Ilona, no one truly accepted him, Callista’s rebuffs growing stron
ger over time, especially after her children came into the world. What was he supposed to do? Give his boyfriend’s number in case of an emergency to his sister, who was disgusted by him? Or maybe it would have been better to give it to his seventy-something-year-old grandparents he rarely saw?
He looked at the stone bench on his right, broken in two pieces like bookends, the weight and jostling of the paramedics’ equipment fracturing it in half. Later, the neighbors from across the street had hesitated to share too many details, but they gave in to his pleas, “I must know what you saw in her final moments, please.”
The neighbor leaned on her broom, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m sorry, I’ve never seen someone die,” she choked, the screen door slamming behind her as she left her husband to explain.
It was Sunday afternoon, moments before the storm rolled into town. He and his wife had been planting annuals, trying to hurry as the first drops started to fall. Just as she stood to brush the soil from her pants, they heard the scream, a bloodcurdling scream from across the esplanade. They ran across the street to see Ilona’s body splayed in the rose garden.
“But where, where in the garden?” Cadmus asked.
“Next to the bench.”
The ambulance arrived a short time later, the paramedics doing their best to revive her, but she was gone, rain pelting her body as they lifted her on the stretcher.
“I never knew you could tell like that, tell the difference between sleepin’ and dyin’, but you can,” the man said, almost like he was convincing himself, still in shock at having come so close to death.
FATHER JOSEPH AGREED TO SPEAK at the funeral even though it would take place at a funeral parlor rather than a church. Callista put up a valiant fight to have it at her parish, but in the end, even her priest conceded it made more sense to have it at another location given the circumstances of her falling out with Holy Family and with the Church in general.
“The humiliation continues!” she raged, slamming the door to The Doyle House and speeding away down The Boulevard.
Drops of Cerulean: A Novel Page 19