Drops of Cerulean: A Novel

by Dawn Adams Cole

  With May came a sense of relief that the end of the school year was in sight, the summer days ahead filled with new fantasies of what could be. They were learning about Ancient Greece, a topic that made the fifty-minute period drag to a standstill. Acropolis, Sparta, Pericles … but then her ears perked at a term that reminded her of last summer’s romance—Delphi.

  While Miss Matthews droned on about the ancient capital, Patricia’s mind meandered to the forty-five turning on her record player—the Del-fi label of “Pintor” upon which she gazed as it made revolutions in time to the island sounds. Perhaps the summer of 1964 would offer a new chance for reinvention, or at the very least an opportunity to yet again indulge in an intoxicating fantasy sans interruptions from the humdrum daily routine of school.

  Later that month, when her brother received the Sacrament of Confirmation, she heard Annette Kopecky’s chosen saint name, Delphina, when she approached the altar. Enchanted by the beautiful resemblance to the record label that once nourished her dream, Patricia decided that she would also select this name when her time came for Confirmation, not knowing that Saint Delphina took vows of chastity and poverty, which was far from the life Patricia envisioned.

  By the time July rolled around and “The Girl from Ipanema” became the rage, Patricia indulged in an exotic fantasy once again, this time with another foreign sound that called to mind a faraway place, a place where she would fall in love with an olive-skinned man and have a daughter they would christen Delphina.

  CADMUS

  Winter 2014

  “I DON’T KNOW HOW MUCH longer I can work here,” murmured a voice from behind the nurses’ station.

  “You get used to it. You can learn a lot from being here,” a woman with a throaty voice responded while shuffling papers into an even stack before paper clipping them together.

  “Yeah, like learning it’s hell getting old,” the first one said with a rueful laugh.

  “Don’t you think it’s better than the alternative?” she said, rising to file the papers in a cabinet behind the desk.

  “Well, that depends.”

  “On?”

  “On if you’re alone. I can’t imagine doing it alone,” she answered, nodding her head in the direction of Cadmus seated in his wheelchair, legs wrapped tightly in the blanket, catatonic in the sitting area near the window.

  “Be careful. You do not know what he is thinking. Hearing is the last sense to go, and he may very well be listening.”

  CADMUS

  Autumn 1973

  TURQUOISE FLECKS PEPPERED HIS BOOTS, an odd addition to the worn, brown leather that carried a story within each dusty crease. Cadmus, kneeling and looking through different sizes of sketchbooks on the bottom shelf, kept his eyes downcast while his ears attended to the conversation overhead.

  “I understand the cotton canvas is primed and ready, but I want to prepare the linen myself,” Robert enunciated slowly, attentive to every syllable and annoyed by the clerk’s questions. “Yes, I will gladly pay more coin in advance of the order. Please forgive the perceived lunacy of such an extravagance. There certainly must be a benefit to my day job of practicing law.”

  The faint Texas twang, discretely nestled within a calm, deep tone, elicited the spontaneous smile that spread across Cadmus’ face. He looked up to meet Robert’s eyes, and, unbeknownst to himself, he had been nodding in agreement.

  “You know what I am talking about, don’t you, brown eyes?”

  They spent over two hours casing the art supplies, Robert explaining in detail the varietals of paints he favored for different pieces: oil, watercolor, and gouache. As a litigator, he loved winning arguments with his intellect. He supposed this was because of all the times he had been bullied and beaten in the trailer park by strangers and family alike. Robert spent long hours at work downtown but equally loved to come home to his bungalow and lose himself in the art studio he had fashioned from the living area and second bedroom.

  A wave of heat seared across Cadmus’ face as he heard the word bedroom. He followed Robert’s words, nodding and smiling in his usual reticent fashion, completely captivated by this rugged man: a hybrid of cowboy, attorney, and artist. Cadmus remained a pace behind Robert, wanting to be closer but not knowing for certain if Robert felt the same way.

  Cadmus shared with Robert that his love for art came second to literature, although he considered himself a man of humanities in general. He wove in that he lived alone in The Heights to see if Robert’s disposition changed, while following it with the fact that he enjoyed time in museums apart from his work at Rice University. He enjoyed sketching and was interested in formal study, but he had yet to find the time. He was currently busy working on a collection of poems and short stories.

  They made it back to the canvas section, Robert detailing the canvases, palms open, gliding across the textures. When he began talking about the viscose, he grabbed Cadmus’ hand, and laying it squarely on the fabric, he placed his hand on top, explaining how the “delicate canvas is not as common, but you know when it is right.”

  Later that evening with Robert fast asleep, Cadmus gently peeled himself from the embrace and headed into Robert’s studio. One piece spanned the entire wall, abstract shapes like a jigsaw, coming together to create a mélange of hues juxtaposed to elicit pure emotion, a sea of blues and greens cascading across the canvas. Cadmus sat on the hardwood floor, hypnotized by the piece, his heart beginning to race and eyes filling with tears as he felt his mother’s presence settle in around him. It had been ten years since her death, and his regret was still a noose that continued to entrap him even in the home of a new lover.

  Cadmus knew his mother had been supportive of who he was, a fact that amazed him more and more as he aged. He was convinced that he had robbed her of life, prompting her early death. And as a recipient of his mother’s unconditional love and compassion, he wanted to serve as a good steward of her blessings. He wanted to live a life that would have made her proud, a life that was rich both professionally and personally. He had known Robert for less than a day, but this was the first time Cadmus could envision the real possibility of sharing his life with someone.

  His eyes absorbed Robert’s piece, its serenity giving a moment’s respite to his pain, as if Ilona brought them together, giving her blessing to the union. He whispered, “I love you, Mom,” and returned to the bedroom. Raising Robert’s arm and resting his head on his breast, he stared at the diagonal lines formed by the neighbor’s porch light that streamed through the gap in the curtain, amazed by his developing accomplishment of spending a full night alone with someone.

  CADMUS WAS ENDEARED BY THE way Robert touched him on the cheek. Even after their most intimate nights making love—and it was only with Robert that he first and ever used those words to describe sex—it was the gentle stroke to his face that invigorated Cadmus with the most intense feelings of intimacy.

  They had just finished lunch on a Saturday in October, meandering through the streets to return to Robert’s craftsman bungalow. Heady from the chardonnay, Cadmus knew what the afternoon had in store. It was a windy, brisk day for early autumn, a retreat from the summer that notoriously overstayed its welcome. The day was a gift, an unexpected pocket of time that had been unfathomable only a few weeks ago when Cadmus first met Robert at the art supply. With its gentle hands, the wind spiraled the fallen, yellow leaves that lay in front of Robert’s home. They laughed in disbelief at the enchantment of the moment, pausing beneath the limbs of the oaks that formed an arch like ballerina arms, so high overhead.

  Robert turned to Cadmus, having to look up into his eyes ever so slightly, gently caressing his temple with the backs of his fingers, dark brown waves of hair falling on his hand, and then following the path down Cadmus’ cheek. He jerked his head away after a few seconds, realizing that someone might see them. Robert smiled reassuringly and whispered, “We are safe in this neighborhood,” as he pulled Cadmus to him, gently kissing him on the lips. Cadmus reciprocated,
and as the seconds passed and intensity strengthened, he could feel his inhibitions beginning to evaporate. It was the first time he had ever kissed a man in public.

  The green and gold of Robert’s eyes even more brightly illuminated in the afternoon sun, coupled with the contrast of his callused thumb softly brushing his delicate face, prompted Cadmus to think of his father. An exaggerated image of Patrick’s face seared through Cadmus’ mind like a camera flash. He held a sprinkling of memories of his father, but he clearly recalled the sense of longing he had felt as a child, yearning for the desire to connect with someone with whom he had no connection. Cadmus often heard people referring to family as blood: Blood is thicker than water; blood binds families together. Never regarding it as an intimate description, he viewed it as clinical, sterile—a dissonance. And now he had fallen in love with a man who resembled a worker from the lumberyard, like the distant cousins and recent immigrants his father and uncle had hired to do the laboring. Cadmus smiled, holding Robert’s stare, as they joined hands and stumbled up the sidewalk to his house.

  CADMUS’ VISIT WITH MR. PENNINGTON the following day would be his last, and perhaps he would not even know Cadmus was there, seeing that he had been moved to acute hospice care. The two men only visited once a year over the holidays, but the infrequency was not an indicator of the bond held. Aside from Callista and God, Mr. Pennington was the only person who witnessed Cadmus’ vitriolic reaction toward his mother, the evening he misunderstood her deep love for pity and doubt. His humiliation and regret initially kept him from accepting Mr. Pennington’s request for a visit all those years ago, but one day Mr. Pennington appeared at Cadmus’ door unannounced, pleading to indulge him in just one visit. That one visit beget a friendship, but not one of traditional standards. They were bonded in tragedy and love, both fiercely loving the same person.

  Attempting to hypothesize his parents as an elderly couple left Cadmus at an impasse. Whether it was because he held few memories of his father or if it was because his parents seemed so different, he did not know. Alcohol held a presence in his early childhood as if it were another member of the family, like an invisible coating that distanced his parents.

  Mr. Pennington, on the other hand, joined his mother for tea in the library, the couple spending evenings reading and talking, whether it was about literature, music, current events, or the birds in the garden. Cadmus once saw them kiss before he left home for the night, a passion so delicate and full of wonder, perhaps the effect of already having lost a love, understanding impermanence firsthand. He knew his mother had found a new love, and Mr. Pennington had adored her as she deserved to be adored.

  Silence met his taps at the door. Cadmus opened it slowly and crept into the room to find Mr. Pennington asleep, breath rattling. He pulled a seat next to him, studying his wrinkles and gray hair. Had his mother lived, she would have been the one by his side, a widow for the second time. He felt a wave of jealousy at the possibility that Mr. Pennington and Ilona would soon be face-to-face in the heavens.

  “Pardon me,” the nurse said, startling him from Cadmus thoughts. “I need to check his vitals.”

  “Certainly. Has he been awake today?” Cadmus asked.

  “No, he’s been asleep since yesterday morning.”

  “Will he wake up again?”

  “Can’t say for sure. Souls tend to do their own thing when the time comes to transition,” she replied with a gentle smile. “But based on his signs, I would venture not. He can still hear you though, you know.”

  After she exited the room, Cadmus reached for Mr. Pennington’s hand.

  “I’m sorry I did not come sooner,” he choked. “I have important news to tell you, news that I want you to pass on to my mother. I think I’ve fallen in love. He’s a wonderful man, someone I know you and my mother would have liked.”

  His lips parted wider, as if he wanted to say something, but his breath continued to rattle.

  “I’m so sorry I cheated you from your time with my mother. Knowing what it feels like to fall in love … I’m sorry, Mr. Pennington, so very, very sorry. Please forgive me,” Cadmus said as he caressed his hand.

  ROBERT MARKED THE FIRST, OF what would become the only, romantic relationship Cadmus welcomed into his home. It was true that he thought of his home as a sanctuary, considering it was where his soul entered the world and his mother’s exited, but its sanctity was not the only reason behind his reluctance.

  Cadmus maintained clear boundaries, because he knew visiting The Doyle House begged questions, from the design itself to the contents and from the photographs of his family to the gardens that pristinely graced multiple lots. He found the vulnerability and stamina needed to answer the questions unnerving. His encounters, albeit few in number, had taken place at the apartments of his past lovers, with him leaving before the next morning.

  “Goddamn, this place must have some stories,” Robert said as he meandered through the rooms on the first floor.

  “That is certainly one way to put it,” Cadmus nodded, steadying his breaths in preparation for the questions to follow.

  “The trailer has stories, too. Just not draped as pretty as these,” Robert said and after another second added, “Everything does, you know?”

  “Yes, I do know,” Cadmus said with a knowing smile.

  They made their way into the library, Cadmus walking to the cabinet to prepare drinks. Robert liked a good whiskey, straight up. Cadmus chuckled at the thought of his father enjoying a drink with his boyfriend, a vision he could barely imagine. Cadmus turned to see Robert studying a photograph of Ilona and Patrick, champagne glasses toasting on top of a building that overlooked downtown.

  “Are they at the Niels Esperson Building?” Robert asked, incredulously.

  “Yes, how can you tell?” Cadmus wondered.

  “You can see the column from the cupola right there,” he replied, pointing to the left edge of the photograph. “I know the building well … that’s where my office is located, twenty-sixth floor.”

  “They were toasting the groundbreaking of a project on Main. It was taken before I was born.”

  “Well, I can tell you no one is toasting up there now. They closed off the observatory long ago.”

  Cadmus walked over to the bookcase to pick up the brass Doyle Lumber & Construction nameplate that rested on an easel.

  “This was my family’s original business.”

  “Holy shit! Doyle & Dunn are our clients … been so well before my time.”

  “You know them?”

  “I talk to them in passing, but I’ve never worked directly for them. Ben is the one I see most often.”

  “My cousin. My estranged cousin,” Cadmus nodded, returning the placard to the easel.

  “Damn. It’s a small world,” Robert said, shaking his head. “How in the hell could you be mistaken for an Irishman?”

  “Doesn’t happen that often, trust me,” Cadmus laughed.

  “I’d love to take a walk out there,” Robert said, his eyes cast out Ilona’s bay window to the garden.

  “Maybe another time,” Cadmus demurred. His heart warmed at Robert’s gentle smile, grateful that with age came maturity that there was time to understand the serpentine threads of their lives.

  Cadmus’ mind swelled with thoughts of the Esperson and Robert and of the new direction his life was taking. He never thought he would have a spouse, not only because marriage was not a legal option but also because he could not envision himself falling in love. He was a private, quiet soul reluctant to expose his own vulnerability despite the thoughtfulness he radiated to others. And now, he had not only fallen in love, but he had fallen in love with someone who worked in the Esperson—someone whose firm represented his family. He thought, perhaps, Ilona had a hand in this match, as if she were sending him signs that she approved of, what he hoped would be, her son-in-law.

  He had not stepped foot inside the Esperson since the Christmas before his father died—December 23, 1940 to be exact.
That was the only time he came face-to-face with the woman who caused his father’s death. He knew he could not visit Robert at work right away. He could possibly bump into his cousins, or someone from the firm might even link them as a couple given Cadmus’ mannerisms. Robert had worked for the firm for many years and was on the verge of partnership. He could not risk anyone confirming his sexuality at this particular time.

  “I bring in more money that any of those good ol’ boys; that’s for sure,” he once said. And although he was correct in terms of the bottom line, he knew things would be different should any wonderings be verified.

  Cadmus also knew he needed time to prepare to visit the building again, the building that was intended to house his life’s purpose to lead a company to develop Houston. Cadmus knew that one day, perhaps even in the near future, Robert would take him to his office after hours, after the Doyles and Dunns were long gone for the day.

  “I’M TRUSTING YOU,” ROBERT SAID as his car turned onto Post Oak Boulevard.

  “Of course you can trust me. She will love you, and remember, she’s the only person in my life who will,” Cadmus said.

  “I trust you on that one. I’m talking about trusting the restaurant she chose. After striking down the Petroleum Club for said reasons, I figured for certain she would select something more discrete. Lord knows who will be lunching there today. Might be the goddamn Queen of Sheba.”

  “Yes, well, then you would be in luck. What use does the Queen of Sheba have with a Houston attorney?”

  “I’m serious, Cadmus. I need to be discrete about us for now.”