Drops of Cerulean: A Novel

by Dawn Adams Cole

  “No need to thank me. She is a remarkable young woman who no doubt would have matriculated without my thoughts on her essay,” Cadmus had replied when Mr. MacDougall called to thank him the day she received her admissions letter.

  The invitation to a dinner at his home came after fall midterms. “It has been too long since I last saw the incredible Dr. Doyle! Clementine loves his class; it’s all she talks about,” Mr. MacDougall said to Robert.

  “It’s easy to attack what you don’t know,” Robert defended when Cadmus was critical over the self-serving nature of the invitation. Now that Clementine admired Dr. Doyle, her grandfather followed suit.

  Robert swirled his wine, continuing, “You hold tight to the wrong memories, Cadmus. You need to remember the joyous times with your mother, the ones that far eclipse your falling out. She knows you are sorry. Opening our home might be a way to heal.”

  “How do you know she’s forgiven me? You don’t. All I know is that my last words to her were ‘leave me the fuck alone.’ And she certainly has!” Cadmus replied, taking a deep breath as his agitation rose. “I won’t open our house to the public. I can’t. I can’t write bit narratives for the docents about figurines and fixtures. I can’t have them traipsing over hallowed ground where she died, ogling over the garden and the house.”

  “Isn’t all ground hallowed?” Robert questioned, lawyering up. “What do you think was here on this land before 1904? You think it was all peace and happiness? Do you know how many trailers in my neighborhood rested their wheels on the earth, leaving stamps of pain and suffering before they headed to the next place? And long, long before the trailers, the place hosted the Battle of San Jacinto. Think of how many of our men and Santa Ana’s men died a bloody death? Hell, Cadmus, who will be in this house in fifty years? One hundred years? They won’t know she died here.”

  “Enough!” Cadmus shouted, his chair screeching back as he pushed away from the table. “We will not open our home to the tour, and that’s final.” Taking his wine glass, he headed out the back door for a walk in the garden.

  He and Robert rarely fought, not necessarily because they always agreed, but rather because Cadmus never wanted to part ways angry, like they had in New York. Although he understood why his mother left his father at Shadyside that night, he knew it was a decision based on emotion, just as it was when he left her to die alone.

  All these years later, he could not think about the words he shouted without closing his eyes to still his dizziness. He could count on one hand how many times in his life he had been profane. He had tried, especially when he had been a teenager in an attempt to appear tough, but it never took. That day with Ilona, however, his words were said with such conviction that it shook her to the core. She died thinking he hated her.

  Before he met Robert, Cadmus spent the years following Ilona’s death in isolation. Aside from the long delay in finishing his studies, teaching classes, and spending minimal time in his office at the University, he had preferred to remain at home, alone with his books and thoughts. The few dates he had were awkward. Cadmus, an old soul, did not have much in common with other men his age. Cadmus’ Irish family had disowned him while leaving him wealth, but it was the wealth, alongside his sexuality, that distanced him from his Greek family. He was on his own.

  He also had something most gay men did not: the fortunate, rare experience of a fully supportive parent, who created a nurturing environment for him for twenty-seven years. He never struggled to know who he was; he had known it since he was born. He conceded the fact that he did not know how he would have fared had his father lived, but he knew for certain that his mother had been a living example of unconditional love.

  And then there was Dear Ernestine, another beautiful soul who had loved him unconditionally. He looked up to her old window of the garage apartment, feeling the occasional surprise that surfaced every now and then that she had passed from a heart attack nearly twenty years ago.

  After his mother died, he drove Dear Ernestine to her sister’s house so she could get a few things to prepare for the funeral reception. Before Ilona’s death, she only stayed on the premises a couple of days during the week, not needing to reside permanently as she once had when the children were young.

  He had sipped a cup of coffee in her sister’s tiny kitchen, playing peekaboo with the little ones peeking their heads around the corner and trying not to overhear their discussion in the next room, where Dear Ernestine was reprimanding her sister, “Leave my Caddie alone, Ethel! He knows what it’s like to be black, black in his own way, trust me on that!”

  On the drive home, Dear Ernestine, still agitated by the conversation with her sister, quickly admonished him when he referenced his mother’s death.

  “Now stop saying ‘died’! We pass, Caddie, we pass to the next life,” she said, shaking her head in frustration. He took a sip of wine and laughed to himself, raising his glass to her garage apartment. She was the first Buddhist he knew.

  He made his way to the bench under the pecan tree, tracing his index finger along the crack where the paramedics split it in two. The stone company questioned his desire to cement it back together rather than buy a new one, but Cadmus remained firm.

  The snap of the screen door prompted him to look up at the house, noting that Robert was walking across the grounds toward him, carrying a bottle of wine and his glass. He and his husband made a successful couple, beating the growing divorce rate for heterosexual couples and ascending in both of their given professions. The Doyle House may not have the legacy that Patrick Doyle, Sr. had once intended, but it had a legacy of love.

  Robert refreshed his husband’s glass and took a seat next to him, reaching for his hand.

  “Okay,” Cadmus replied, much to Robert’s surprise. “Let’s do it. But there’s one thing … Can you imagine Callista’s reaction?”

  Robert burst into laughter, raising his eyebrows in agreement as they clinked glasses to the tour.

  DELPHINA

  Spring 1993

  DELPHINA DID NOT REALIZE HER commute would be one of her favorite parts of college. Her high school classmates took great joy in thoughts of dorm life, and even though a part of her longed for that normalcy, she knew having a roommate would be miserable.

  Her nightmares, her bouts of depression—as labeled by Dr. Stilton—and her restless nights would out her from the start. She knew many restless nights resulted from worrying over her daddy working the graveyard shift, but she figured the worry could even transfer to her roommate if they became true friends. And if they could put up with her eccentricities, they would no doubt reach that friendship status.

  Delphina mentally scanned these reasons like a checklist to combat the tinges of jealousy that surfaced at the thought of college students on their own. Her new used car gave her a taste of that independence, which she would have soon enough.

  She cherished the time spent nestled in her own world, listening to her music while thinking about her studies and the life she wanted to create. Driving west on I-10, she admired how the industrial part of the city gave way to downtown. She preferred her view of the skyline, the view from the east side, with older buildings acting as stepping-stones for the newer ones. She wondered about the Gulf Building, noting how it reminded her of a stack of golden Chinese boxes. She still did not know the name of the one that inspired her to write so long ago, the bronze anachronistic structure with columns placed so high that still made her wonder who, if anyone, had ever graced the top.

  The times she and her momma drove home from The Galleria, she appreciated the view from the west: modern, glass skyscrapers that contrasted with the older ones on the east. It was as if they acted as a shield to the grittier part of the city. She knew the west view belonged to the wealthy.

  Out of habit during her first year at college, she made the sign of the cross as she drove past Catholic churches, but she disregarded the gesture as she regained her sense of self when it came to organized religion. Life’s p
urpose, God, her spiritual journey: These topics often surfaced during her drives. Even at age nineteen, she held firm to her childhood observations made at church all those years ago. During that first year of college, she returned home one autumn evening with confidence to follow her spiritual beliefs, believing in her heart that the truth had more to do with the sky and sea than it did with man’s word. She picked up the statues she had kept in her room for so long, offering a final kiss to each one before placing them in a box under her bed.

  “Are you ready, sweetheart?” her momma called from the kitchen, car keys in hand.

  “Just another minute,” Delphina called from her room as she stapled the cover page to her midterm essay that was due on Monday. She was looking forward to spending the day with her momma in The Heights. Although her new doctor was in another part of the city, The Heights had served as their sacred space since she was in seventh grade; it gifted her the purest sense of peace. They had a day planned starting at Kaplan’s and ending after a walk on Nineteenth Street with sandwiches at Carter & Cooley.

  “I don’t mind driving, Momma,” Delphina offered.

  “Save your gas. And your focus needs to be on updating me about school,” her momma replied, making her way to the garage.

  Delphina found it easier to talk to her momma, or anyone for that matter, in a car. The windows offered places to rest her eyes, which it made it much easier than looking someone square in the face. She shared how much more she enjoyed her college studies. There were more opportunities to select unique classes, like the one she wanted to take the following year on world religions. She told her momma about a girl named Jane who was also majoring in English. She planned on attending law school, which prompted Delphina to question her decision to teach.

  “Sweetheart, it’s up to you, but I can’t imagine you doing anything other than teaching. You are a beautiful thinker, Delphina.”

  “That might just be the nicest compliment I’ve ever received,” she said, preferring that take on her propensity for intense reflection.

  They parted ways as they usually did after entering the store, with Delphina heading to browse the stationery while her momma moved toward the home interiors section. She selected a box of paper with a light blue cursive D at the top. As a child, she found it frustrating that Delphina was never found on notepads, stickers, or cups from souvenir stands marking your travels. But with time came an acceptance of her unique name, and the simplicity of a cursive D that stood on its own proved quite appealing.

  Delphina glanced down the aisle to her right to see a man studying her, the weight of his eyes having summoned her attention. He was older but quite handsome, his kind face drawing her interest. They stared at one another for several seconds, and despite its peculiarity, there was no awkwardness. Another man approached him, breaking the spell as the two headed to the other side of the store.

  Stationery in hand, she meandered down the aisle in the hope of catching one more glimpse. He must have had the same urge, because he looked back and met her countenance again, his eyes widening in surprise that she reciprocated. Her momma waved her over from across the store, and Delphina was glad to have a reason to continue walking in his direction.

  “Look at these beautiful flowers,” Patricia said, her eyes captivated by the colored crystals that formed the petals.

  “Amazing detail. I wonder how long it takes to make one?” Delphina asked. “By the looks of the price tag, I imagine quite some time,” her momma replied.

  “Good point, indeed.”

  “I’m going to check out. Want anything else?”

  “No, this is all,” Delphina said, handing her momma the box of paper. “Don’t forget the tickets to the home tour.”

  “Yes, and guess what? The big one is on it this year!” Patricia cheered.

  “The big one?” Delphina questioned, glancing around for the man, who had vanished.

  “The big house on Heights Boulevard, the one with the rose garden,” Patricia said with excitement.

  “Now there is some history there.”

  “Yes, and I bet it is decorated quite nicely. Can you imagine the furniture?”

  “Can you imagine the stories?” Delphina playfully challenged.

  As her momma checked out at the register, she turned back to the delicate glass flowers. The vase on display hosted an array of stems, each one combining to form a kaleidoscope of color that brought delight to her face. She noted the beauty of the iris, gingerly lifting it to examine the fine glass piping and the stark contrast of the yellow streaked along the violet petals.

  “My mother liked irises.”

  She turned to see the man’s deep brown eyes studying hers. His gaze was not flirtatious, but she was drawn to him in a way she struggled to understand.

  “I like them, too,” Delphina replied, carefully returning the iris to its rightful place in the vase.

  “They represent the Greek goddess Iris. She helps guide souls from earth to heaven,” he continued, their eyes locked. “Do you attend Rice? You look very familiar to me.”

  “No, I attend the University of Houston.”

  “Ah, and what is your course of study?” he asked, a gentle smile breaking across his face.

  “English. I plan to teach.”

  “Another coincidence. I teach English at Rice. I know you from somewhere.”

  “I do visit this store often with my mother. Perhaps our paths have crossed here,” she said.

  “Delphina, let’s go!” Patricia called.

  “Delphina? Now that most certainly belongs to a Greek girl!” he replied with a laugh.

  “Greek? No, sir. I’m Czech,” she smiled. “It was nice to meet you …”

  “Cadmus,” he replied, shaking her hand.

  “Perhaps our paths will cross again,” Delphina said as she turned to catch up with her momma, resisting the urge to run back and embrace him, as ridiculous as it seemed.

  THE WEATHER WAS UNSEASONABLY HUMID, perspiration forming a diadem of beads around Delphina’s head that remained downcast. She closed her eyes for several seconds, attempting to use powers of the mind to still her heart as they waited in front of The Doyle House. She thought back to the man she had met at Kaplan’s a few weeks ago and the feelings she had not been able to dismiss. He had an unusual name, and it irritated her that she could not remember it. Opening her eyes, she scanned the crowds hoping she would see him, his large brown eyes so full of warmth. She looked forward to the home tour, and she was upset that her anxieties were kicking into full gear.

  Patricia was oblivious to her daughter’s state, her head bent as her eyes anxiously scanned the article detailing the home. Delphina took a few deep breaths and looked over to the grounds. Counting offered a source of distraction … ten pristine white pickets lined and bound to make the front gate; three black birds perched on the home’s tower watching all who entered; and forty-one people in line before them. At four or five people at a time, they were in for a wait.

  “For thirty-two years, the lady of the house was Ilona Doyle,” Patricia read from the brochure. “A Greek name like yours, but I must say I am partial to my Delphina,” she said, briefly glancing at her with a grin.

  “Rumor has it that she died in the house,” offered a voice from a lady behind them.

  “Really?” Patricia gasped.

  “Yes, and her husband died years before that in a terrible auto accident. At least, this is what I recall from my grandmother’s stories. She lived a block away on Harvard.”

  “How dreadful! The poor lady!” Patricia cried before returning to the article. “And now two men live here?”

  “Yep. Her son and his partner. I think that’s what they call it,” the woman said, smug with her insider’s knowledge tinged with judgment.

  Patricia pursed her lips in surprise and turned to Delphina, who had raised her hands to her forehead. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t feel well,” Delphina whimpered. “Must be the heat.”
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  “We need shade. Let’s go over there by the pecan tree,” Patricia ordered, wrapping her arm around her daughter to steady her walk. “Look! There is a bench.”

  A sign on the bench greeted them: Please do not sit.

  “Well like hell we are!” Patricia said, shoving the sign aside.

  Delphina tried to catch her breath as she lay on the bench, looking at the peak of The Doyle House’s tower contrast against the Magritte sky. She looked at the windows that faced north and wondered how many faces since 1904 had looked out to the rose garden. She grew increasingly weak, the roses blurring to seas of red, pink, and white as she closed her eyes.

  “We need water!” Patricia shouted over toward the people entering the house. “No, Deli! Stay awake!” she warned, fearing her daughter was losing consciousness.

  Tears streamed from Delphina’s eyes, gliding down the sides of her face as her head rocked from side to side.

  “What is it?” Patricia shrieked.

  “I’m so sad, Mom. So very, very sad,” Delphina said, shaking her head and sobbing as her momma knelt beside the bench, pulling her into an embrace.

  Patricia and Delphina never made it into The Doyle House. Patricia attributed it to heat exhaustion, and while Delphina knew it played a factor, she also knew that something else had also come over her. She stared out the window as her momma drove back to East Houston, weeping over an unknown sorrow and frustrated that years of therapy had not resolved her issues.

  Patricia put her to bed, turning down the air conditioner and resting a pitcher of iced water on her nightstand. Delphina remembered her daddy checking on her throughout the night, placing his calloused hand on her forehead to feel for a temperature as if she were a small child again. She drifted in and out of sleep throughout the day and night, the recurring dream of the mansion coming into focus, clearer than it had ever been.