Drops of Cerulean: A Novel

by Dawn Adams Cole

  “She knows, Robert. And trust me, someone with as much money as her always needs an attorney or two in her pocket. Just a lunch meeting with a prospective client, if anyone asks,” Cadmus assured.

  Robert straightened his tie in the rearview mirror while waiting in line for the valet. No one would take him for a gay man; his demeanor and disposition were overly masculine and daunting. Cadmus had inherited his father’s chiseled face, but he was often referred to as beautiful in a tone that embodied the feminine. He had to work harder to conceal his sexuality.

  “Genesee, party of three,” Cadmus said.

  “Yes, Mrs. Genesee is here. Right this way,” the maître d’ replied as he led them into the dining room.

  “Cadmus!” she exclaimed, drips from her martini glass making their way to the white cloth as the table shook from her efforts to rise.

  “Aunt Margaret, stunning, as always,” Cadmus said, pulling her into an embrace that was much tighter than intended. She held on a second longer, whispering in his ear, “It’s going to be fine. I promise you.”

  She turned to Robert, and Cadmus knew she was fighting the urge to wrap him in one of her signature hugs, knowing his reservations to meet at such a high society place with his boyfriend.

  Smiling, she extended her diamond-clad hand and in her most genteel, Southern drawl whispered, “It is an absolute pleasure to meet the man who has made my godson so very, very happy.” And with a wink, they took a seat, Margaret gesturing the waiter to bring two more martinis.

  Cadmus wanted Aunt Margaret to meet Robert. He regarded her as Ilona’s proxy; she was someone who had loved his mother for who she was and who accepted him unconditionally. He also knew the lunch would be a hit; the martinis that oiled the conversation certainly made it livelier than he predicted. And while he was eager for the introduction, he knew another outcome: His mother would be brought to light.

  His guilt over Ilona acted as an undercurrent, always present but taking full force when he least expected. Enjoying a lively class discussion; holding Robert as they talked about what a union would look like given their circumstances; watching the sunrise from the garden bench as the rose petals opened to the warmth of the sky: These were the kinds of moments his mother had been destined to enjoy for many more years had he not vulgarly rebuked her.

  “Now, are you planning on introducing Robert here to Callista?” Margaret asked, nibbling on her olive.

  “Margaret, you know she is not open to our lifestyle, as she calls it,” Cadmus replied, his fingers in air quotes.

  “Yes, well, I didn’t say it would happen. I just asked if you planned on it … at least to offer. Cadmus, trust me … time will give the paddle to fit her fanny!”

  “Margaret, if I were a straight man, I would be after you in a heartbeat!” Robert chuckled, taking the last sip of his martini.

  “And I would gladly accept your advances, handsome and smart as you are,” she retorted before continuing. “But in all seriousness, Robert, Ilona would have given you the stamp of approval. She was the dearest, kindest soul I have ever known. I am sure Cadmus has told you.”

  “He hasn’t said much at all,” Robert replied, challenging Cadmus from across the table.

  “In due time,” Cadmus said, motioning for another round of drinks.

  “Now, I highly recommend the calamari. Can’t find anything like it in Houston,” Margaret said working to diffuse the building tension.

  “What a fine idea, Margaret,” Robert said. “We are always ready for new things, isn’t that right?”

  “Be careful when you speak of new things. See that couple over there?” Cadmus and Robert glanced across the room at the corner table to see a young woman draping her arms over a man old enough to be her grandfather.

  “Well, that is the third woman he has brought here this week. You should have seen the one from Monday night,” Margaret entertained, taking another sip. “I’m dead serious. Ask the waiter.”

  “No, we do not need confirmation on that one,” Cadmus assured.

  “Look, my point is that your love story will not be a big deal one day. Too many other salacious happenings in this town. Mark my words: One day, you two will celebrate your union publicly and with approval!”

  “I’ll toast to that!” Robert said, the alcohol affording him the confidence to give Cadmus a wink at the swankiest place in town.

  CADMUS FOUND HIMSELF IN HIS usual routine late that night, puttering around and making a pitiful attempt to write at his father’s desk. As the clock struck a quarter past two, he returned to the bathroom for aspirin, cursing himself for ordering a third round of martinis. His low tolerance for alcohol served as another reminder of his deficiency as a Doyle.

  Returning to the library, he grabbed his latest purchase from the bookstore, hoping the prose would carry him far from his worries. Regret, his companion for eleven years, remained steadfast by his side. He struggled to understand how it could manifest so acutely, even to the point of feeling his heart piercing—his thoughts of his row with Ilona center stage in his mind.

  He heard the creaking of the stairs and opened the book, making the best attempt to disguise his night as an ordinary bout of insomnia. Robert walked up behind him, and placing his hand on Cadmus’ shoulder, said, “Tell me the story of Patrick and Ilona.”

  The two men sat side by side, their reflections in the bay window stark against the night sky. Cadmus told the story as he knew it and as it had been told to him, from the day his parents met at the Merchants and Manufacturers Building to their Roman Catholic wedding in The Heights. He described his father’s magnetism, how it attracted good fortune but also caused his ultimate demise, his imagined vision of his father’s bloody, lifeless body wedged in the car that crashed into an oak tree along Montrose Boulevard in his attempt to race back to The Doyle House to reclaim his life with Ilona.

  For the first time in his life, Cadmus spoke the words that his father’s death freed him from a life he knew he could not have lived, and although he knew this truth when he was but a child, it did not impede the overwhelming rage he felt the evening he learned of his mother’s actions that severed all business ties with the company. He now knew Uncle Michael’s characterization that “she jumped at the opportunity to offer your shares” was inaccurate given her modest life as a widow.

  He had already known his uncle was untrustworthy given the attempted rape and whatever had happened at Callista’s engagement; he should have known better than to believe his sister. Although he had tried to convince her of Michael’s intentions, she was already too entrenched in their way of life to see things differently. Callista remained scornful of her father’s promiscuity, her mother’s actions, and Cadmus’ sexuality. Michael’s side gave her the image she wanted, and without a father, he became a natural substitution. He did not really know his nieces and nephew, although he sent birthday and holiday cards in good faith.

  He talked about his Greek cousins, now owners of a successful restaurant chain that spanned the city. They were polite when they saw him, which was not very often, seeing that his childhood was spent largely in The Heights, his mother cocooned in regret while he poured over his studies.

  “Regret is part of the Doyle inheritance,” he said with a rueful chuckle as the early dawn broke the night sky, dissolving their images from the window as he concluded with the last words he ever said to his mother, the words he believed shattered her heart, ushering her ultimate demise. Ilona was never more than a thought away anywhere and at any moment, and his desperate hope would always be to see her but once more to make amends.

  After several minutes in silence, Robert reached for his hand. They walked outside to the rose garden, making their way throughout the grounds. Cadmus, visibly exhausted from lack of sleep and shaken from sharing his story, stared Robert in the face, half expecting him to get the hell away from someone so broken. Robert caressed his cheek, and in a soft tone markedly different from his accustomed demeanor, he told Cadmus h
e wanted to spend the rest of his life with him.

  CADMUS LOOKED UP AT ROBERT with a coy smile as he made his way up the stairs to the third-floor landing, carrying three precariously stacked boxes, the last of Robert’s supplies for his new studio in The Doyle House. He scanned the attic walls, knowing the light was perfect for his husband’s work. It was a bigger space than Robert had thought, especially after Ilona’s garment boxes had been removed. It did not take much convincing, but Cadmus had to work harder than he had originally thought when he initially suggested The Doyle House become their permanent residence.

  “We can be ourselves here,” Robert would repeat when they debated neighborhoods. And it was true. Montrose was a burgeoning community of artists, writers, gays, and activists. Although they were two gay men, they were remarkably boring by the neighborhood standards—an attorney and a professor. Their simple desire to hold hands over coffee was not worth noting compared to the homeless misfits and drag queens who filled the streets.

  Montrose was a sign that the times were changing for the gay community, but Cadmus remained anchored to his history. Leaving would mean abandoning the place his family’s souls had entered and exited earth’s plane, and as such Cadmus chose The Heights despite its decline and its reputation as a dumpy neighborhood. Many historic homes had been razed because of dwindling funds and lack of interest in their upkeep, as prosperous families had moved west long ago. The Doyle House stood strong, roses cascading throughout the grounds with abundant funds that allowed them to create a fortress amid the shabbiness.

  Although Cadmus was adamant about The Heights over Montrose, he had a difficult time making room for his husband. It had not occurred to him that they would take his parents’ room; his face held a vacant stare when Robert suggested new bedroom furniture. They moved most of Ilona’s belongings to the garage apartment, which was evolving into a makeshift shrine. Robert attempted to convince him to give the things away and start fresh, but he stopped short when he saw a flash in Cadmus’ eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Robert said, pulling him into an embrace. “Too much, too soon. At least consider paying Callista a call, or perhaps write her a letter. She may very well want some of your mother’s belongings. Lord knows she has room for it. And don’t you think she might be a little curious to know her little brother is in love?”

  Cadmus vacillated on whether to contact Callista, a pit developing in his stomach at the thought of hearing her voice. They spoke twice per year on their birthdays. Even Christmas had been relegated to a card since her family traveled so often. Callista’s greeting always arrived on extra heavy cardstock embossed in gold and silver. The phone calls were obligatory contacts, and they never met in person, although they lived only a few miles from one another. A quick, formal phone call with the same standard exchange: “And I do hope you are still working on your own writing? You are a keen observer, Caddie. I know you have more to share with the world.” Well intended, but he found her comments infantilizing.

  Callista had the dark locks of her mother, but her Irish ancestry shone through her sharp, green eyes. Her efforts after graduation from Heights High School to reintegrate herself into Houston society resulted in enormous success. She continued to invoke The Doyle House as a reference that she was worthy, a descendant of a prominent Houston family, deserved of her place in River Oaks.

  One afternoon, Cadmus decided to place the call. He looked out the window at the intersection, remembering the streetcar that had run by his home so long ago. He forced himself to conjure a good memory of Callista, one that heralded her as a kind soul who did not seek to ingratiate herself to a better standing.

  He recalled the sound of the strokes of the grandfather clock echoing through the stillness of the house, the aroma from the funeral flowers turning rancid, petals falling to the hardwoods. His mother sat in the library, draped in a blanket and staring out the window toward the garden.

  “Here you go, Mrs. Doyle, fresh cup of Earl Grey tea, just as you like it.” Dear Ernestine said as she placed the teacup and saucer next to Ilona on the end table. “Afternoon sun sure is rising. Let me lower the drapes a bit.”

  Cadmus made his way to the sitting room, where he found Callista reading a book. She looked at him, her eyes swollen from crying, and motioned for him to join her on the sofa. He rested next to her, placing his head on her thigh and his thumb in his mouth. She ran her fingers through his hair and caressed his back.

  “Why does Dear Ernestine do that? Why does she keeping bringing Mommy tea she won’t drink?”

  “Hope. Because she hopes she will drink it, just as she hoped she would get out of bed, and she finally did. Dear Ernestine is trying to make things normal for us again.”

  “Normal?” Cadmus wondered, almost rhetorically, as he returned his thumb to his mouth.

  “We must figure it out, together,” whispered Callista, stifling her tears and assuming a brave front. “It will be fine. We will be fine. We will find our way, Caddie, you and I.”

  With this memory fresh in his mind, he picked up the phone and quickly dialed her number.

  “Good afternoon, Dunn Residence.”

  “Yes, good afternoon. May I please speak with Callista Dunn?”

  “May I ask who is calling?”

  “Cadmus Doyle.”

  “One moment, please.”

  A good minute passed, and Cadmus wondered if the call disconnected.

  “I’m sorry, but Mrs. Dunn cannot come to the phone. She will call you at her earliest convenience.”

  Cadmus hung up the phone and looked out the window to the rose garden as Robert entered the library with a box full of records.

  “Well?”

  “I think it’s safe to say she’s not interested,” Cadmus replied, eyes intent on the garden.

  DELPHINA

  Summer 1978

  THE STOPLIGHT CONTRASTED AGAINST THE early dawn sky, and Delphina wondered why her daddy obeyed the red signal knowing there was not another car in sight. She wondered if he already missed Granger, the shadow over his eyes visible in the dim light peering from the dashboard of the car.

  “Houston, here we come!” her momma squealed as the light turned green, and Delphina fell back into slumber, wrapped in her blanket as her heavy eyes watched a star in the violet sky. She said a prayer that Houston would make her feel better, and she hoped that in the new city she could reinvent herself and not be known as the odd kid. Closing her eyes, Delphina dreamed of the life she was leaving behind, images of her skipping through the countryside and twirling with her head toward the heavens.

  She jolted awake as their car hugged the edge of downtown, mid-morning sunlight showcasing the buildings, her attention drawn to the one closest to the interstate. It was not very tall as it was long, the countless number of windows framing her new city. They continued heading east, making their way to the industrial end of town. As Benny exited I-10, Delphina sat upright in her seat, watching the shopping centers give way to the newly planted trees that lined the neighborhood.

  Their car inched along the street, Delphina taking note of the homes that dotted the way, so new compared to their old home in the country. Her momma stepped out of the car with a stretch, her legs stiff from the long drive. She looked across the street to see a neighbor kneeling down next to her flowerbed.

  Patricia grabbed her pocketbook from the front seat, offering a “Wish me luck. I can’t remember the last time I met a new friend.”

  “And you had plenty of friends back home,” Benny teased as he removed his sunglasses, shaking his head with a rueful chuckle.

  Delphina hopped out of the car, and taking her mother’s hand, the two walked across the curbed street, a feature she had never given much thought.

  “Good afternoon! We are your new neighbors. I’m Patricia, and this here is Delphina.”

  “Why, hello!” the blonde lady bellowed as she removed her soiled gardening gloves to offer a greeting. “It’s nice to meet our new neighbors from Gra
nger. I’m Bea.”

  “Now how did you know we were from Granger?” Patricia asked in surprise, offering her hand.

  “I guess you could say our block is a small town of its own,” Bea replied with a smile. “I’m known as the Queen Bea for a reason, I suppose! Pardon my hands—they are quite rough from all this weeding.”

  “Then I have something for you to try.” Patricia replied with an eagerness to impress. “A little aloe vera does wonders.”

  Patricia handed her a small tube along with a most delicate handkerchief, the lilac cursive letter P discretely embroidered in the corner. Bea’s attempts to dissuade her from soiling her beautiful handkerchief were for naught, as Patricia dished about the time she scored them at Battlestein’s after-Christmas sale. Never able to keep a good deal secret, Patricia prattled on about the unbelievable price of the wicker bag she had in tow and how, “Yes, the style is from last season, but the lining is ever-so-delicate, and wicker bags, you know, are a staple after all.”

  Patricia charmed Queen Bea. She saw in Patricia what Benny noticed when he became smitten in high school, a time when the world seemed full of possibilities. She inspired him to believe they could move to Houston from Granger and harness the course of their lives. Her heartfelt belief, expressed in a tone and countenance of her fictional Jeanie, convinced them to dream that their newfound work, her as a secretary at the Maxwell Coffee Plant and his as a foreman at Arco, would take their lives in exciting new directions.

  “Please join us for supper tonight,” Bea offered as she then turned to Delphina. “My daughter, Stacy, will be so excited to have a friend her age who lives right across the street!”

  DELPHINA’S LOVE AFFAIR WITH THE divine began when she noted the perfectly appointed seeds of a strawberry, a reprieve from the anxiety that never abated despite the move to Houston. She examined her snack carefully that day during first grade, where Mrs. Wallace had been unable to suppress frustration with Delphina’s tendency to become fully engrossed in examining objects, from fruit to leaves to the designs that created a faux mosaic formation on the girls’ bathroom tile.