Drops of Cerulean: A Novel Read online

  Ilona arrived at Lawndale Café, frustrated with herself for her reticence and for her inability to speak her mind on command. The power of her words came incidentally; she longed for a stronger constitution. Reaching for her apron in the storeroom, she caught sight of herself in the mirror, and unbeknownst to herself, she was mouthing the words your type in a most unattractive expression. It startled her to see her face contorted in such a fashion, and she could not help but giggle. In seventeen days, she would be rid of Millie and her friends. She would also be relegated to Lawndale Café for a while, but thoughts of her move downtown more than compensated—same restaurant setting but different people, more people, city people. She closed her eyes and tied the apron strings around her waist, praying for an openhanded gesture from God.

  Pushing open the double doors from the kitchen, she scanned the restaurant. It was the normal crowd, a smattering of people at the counter and at the tables along the windows. Mrs. Jilufka’s face perked up when she saw Ilona. Her elderly friend lifted her left hand from the countertop in a weak wave as she took a last bite of pineapple-coconut cake.

  “Come talk to me, pretty girl,” Mrs. Jilufka called from the far end of the counter in her shaky voice.

  “Pink looks good on you, Mrs. Jilufka. Brings a glow to your cheeks.”

  “Not sure about that glow, but I’ll take the compliment,” she replied, using both hands to steady her coffee cup. Ilona grabbed the pot to refill the cup and a rag to wipe the counter. “I sure am jittery today,” Mrs. Jilufka continued, shaking her head. “I’ll miss you so when you head to the new place, but I imagine you’re glad to have something new.”

  Ilona kept her eyes on the coffee to avoid looking her friend in the eye. Lawndale Café was home, which was away from most other Greek families who settled closer to the heart of the city. Her baba selected their home based on a neighborhood in desperate need of a restaurant, but it was farther east.

  “Find need and create!” he declared, pounding a fist onto the kitchen table that made the silverware skip, as her mama shook her head, unsettled to be so far away from her closest friends. He found a prime spot, ensconced in a charming, working-class neighborhood in need of “good, good food” to fill men and women on their way to factory work on the west and to the ship channel on the east. Uncle Demetrius’ stake in the neighborhood was only due to her baba, who had encouraged his younger brother to serve as partner in the hopes of opening more restaurants around the city.

  “Church where we see our people. We make money, move, see them all time when we have big house and have big party,” he said. Ilona’s connections were with the likes of the bohemians, the Novaks, the Rascheks, and the Jilufkas, God Bless Mr. Jilufka’s soul.

  Ilona offered a grin in acknowledgment before taking the seat at the far end of the counter, readying the salt and pepper shakers for refills. Chores would remain chores regardless of the downtown location or the new name, Franklin Street Diner. And the layout would remain the same even though the capacity would double: ten window tables and twenty counter seats to host city patrons. The most exciting difference was the foundation itself, with the windows poised north to face the Merchants and Manufacturers Building that opened a month prior. Ilona knew the M&M Building was one surefire way to keep her nose out of a book, her mind poised to weave the stories behind the countless windows of the building conceived at the seam of Buffalo and White Oak Bayous. As she secured the lids on the shakers, Ilona decided she would attempt to keep a journal alongside her books underneath the register counter. Perhaps she could put her musings to paper and experiment with writing.

  For the past two years, conversations about the M&M circulated among the Lawndale patrons—men eager to work and prosper in Houston, a city well on its way to becoming an industrial power. She strained to hear bits and pieces as she cleared tables on those summer mornings, the cacophony of clanging utensils and sizzles from the grill teasing away her focus.

  The city energy was palpable, and Ilona absorbed the excitement, methodically studying the construction from a distance, in awe of how something so seemingly impregnable appeared delicate at the same time: a copulation of glass, stone, and lumber that framed the burgeoning city. She looked at the M&M as a collective being, a marriage of hope and of what truly could be, with the dreams of Houstonians offering nourishment. She was not keen on continued work in a restaurant, but at least she had a front-row seat at the register one block away on Franklin Street, its ten windows facing the thousands of the M&M, a building now teaming with life.

  Baba’s use of the word diner for the restaurant was the result of a bit of fantasy on his part. Diners were common in New York, and although her cousins could not afford to experience them firsthand, Ilona knew from descriptions in their letters and her studies that he gratuitously used the term. Contractors created Franklin Street Diner in a space more generous than a prefabricated car arriving by rail as traditional diners were. She preferred the Greek blue script that would beckon customers from the façade of their new diner, but she knew it was very different from the steel exterior of the diners in the northeast. While Ilona knew most customers would not recognize the discrepancy, either out of ignorance or out of hunger, the naming still left her with a hesitation, making her wonder if she were more like her baba than she thought—someone who wanted to be something she was not meant to be.

  The sound of the bells on the door signaled the arrival of her baba, jacket in hand and Homburg on head.

  “Ilona, let’s go Franklin. I check on new diner construction. We stop by Anthony’s place and say hello,” he announced as he entered.

  A trip downtown was certainly enough to raise her spirits, even if it meant paying a visit to Anthony’s Grocery. Anthony Senior, convinced that Ilona and his son were a match, was increasingly forceful in his approach, suggesting family dinners and outings so the children could get better acquainted. Images of Anthony Junior flipped through her mind, his elongated, bony face resembling a cursive V, from the dark curly lock that rested on his left temple to his pointy chin. She was not keen on a visit, but it was a quick jaunt, and his intentions were manageable in small doses.

  “Nice young man, Anthony?”

  “Yes, Baba. He is a nice man.” Ilona watched out the window as their car moved in tandem with the streetcar heading into town along Harrisburg.

  “The store es doing good, very good. They want new one, two stores even though times …” he tapered off, waving his right hand in a so-so gesture.

  “That’s wonderful, Baba.”

  “You will go supper with Anthony tonight? He take you home after.”

  “Baba, I have homework this evening. I need to study for my history exam. Maybe another night,” she replied, her stomach becoming increasingly unsettled by the disturbance in her late-afternoon reverie.

  “You good student. You make me proud. Now es time, Ilona, think about life after graduation. Time think about family, about business.”

  Ilona closed her eyes, deciding at the spur of the moment to take a chance. “Baba, I’ve been thinking about teaching. I think I’d be a good teacher, and of course I’ll …”

  “Nose in book make you better?”

  “No, Baba, no … I am not better, just different. There is so much to learn, so many things I want to do.”

  “We need you, need your help, Ilona. Arianna married with own family. Your brother, God rest his soul, he would not let us down if he still here!”

  Baba played the trump card, referencing her brother’s passing. He had been the eldest child in the family and was poised to carry on the Petrarkis name had he not succumbed to tuberculosis at twelve years old. Ilona had but a handful of memories of Cadmus, the dearest when he drew hopscotch for her and her friends on the sidewalk in front of their house. His buddies impatiently yelling for him with baseball bat, balls, and gloves in hand, Cadmus shouted, “You can very well wait for a few minutes! Remember, one day I’ll be pitchin’ for the Buffalos.” They g
roaned in frustration but did not protest, knowing that he, very well indeed, might play for the Buffalos. His death placed an indelible scar on her parents’ souls.

  Silence filled the car; Ilona surmised that her baba’s thoughts, as hers, were turned toward her brother. As she offered a silent prayer and sent her love to the heavens, the car turned onto Franklin Street, the diner coming into view. As her baba pulled alongside the curb on the opposite side of the street and turned off the motor, Ilona’s gaze locked on the M&M, and her thoughts filled with excitement that she, too, was now a downtown tenant.

  She placed her hand on his shoulder and said, “Congratulations, Baba. You did it.” And as she turned to face him, she saw his face beaming with pride.

  ILONA

  Autumn 1930

  ILONA STOOD IN HER CLOSET, vacillating on what to wear while giving thanks for her good fortune—her baba was allowing her to tag along with her uncle to pay a bill to the glass company in the M&M. The new restaurant was faring quite well with a few hired hands, despite the “bad luck of the greedy ones in New York,” but this did not relieve Ilona as a fixture at the register, where she alternated between greeting customers and stashing books under the counter. At least she would enjoy time off today after the lunch crowd dissipated, and it would be her first time in the M&M.

  Uncle Demetrius and Ilona made their way over the bridge on Main Street. Eyes wide, she walked closest to the edge, paying careful attention to the M&M Building’s ground floor dock off Buffalo Bayou, where a train pulled into the station, moments from fulfilling its delivery. The upper floors of the building housed offices and suites for an array of businesses, including the glass company her baba used for the restaurant. Ilona’s interest resided on the third floor that rested at street level, home to an arcade of stores, including a hair salon, boutiques, a restaurant, and a lounge.

  She smiled at the opportunity to shop at Morton’s Millinery. Her niece was to be baptized in two weeks, and her baba, ecstatic at the mere mention of his first grandchild, found it difficult to say no to her request for a new hat, since he wanted his family smartly dressed for the occasion. Ilona knew something was afoot with the repeated mention of a certain attendee, a gentleman who owned a restaurant on Main Street and who had an eligible son. Baba had attended a ball game at Buff Stadium with this man the previous week. A part of her could not help but feel sorry for Anthony Junior, who had fallen out of favor after the introduction of this more prosperous family.

  “I be on fourth floor, Suite 415, Sullivan Glass Company. I head to lounge after. Take your time, dear,” Uncle Demetrius said. And with a wink, “I be awhile.” Ilona knew he was happy to give her the opportunity to have time alone as an adult, something even the youngest of his three sons, a freshman at Milby, already enjoyed just because they were males.

  As he disappeared from view, Ilona paused to take in the scene. A freckle-faced boy with red suspenders walked hand in hand with his mother into a confectionery, his eyes captivated by the canisters filled with candies that lined the walls. Only having heard the word Morton’s, it took Ilona by surprise to see the name in print, an elegant elongated cursive script written in chocolate brown across a pale blue placard. The beautiful cascade of hats in the window confirmed it was the place, yet it still took her a moment to reconcile the abstract image she had in her mind with reality.

  Throngs of people moved through the arcade, men in suits striding with purpose to the upper-floor offices while men in overalls scurried down to the railroad. Whether they had soft hands or grease-caked palms, everyone was searching for something. The energy left her light-headed, surrounded by spirits propelled to create, to forge something new. Her mind drifted to the Franklin Street Diner, to the patrons nourishing their bodies with food while sharing their dreams of Houston.

  Ilona took only one step in the direction of Morton’s when the freckle-faced boy raced past her, causing her to take a few steps backward to stop herself from falling. The boy’s mother scurried after him, making apologies to those he bumped along the way. Wondering what could have happened in those few minutes they were in the candy store, Ilona watched the son and mother leave the building, shouldering past a handsome gentleman with sandy brown hair and gold-rimmed circular glasses.

  “Easy there, buddy,” he chuckled to the boy as he patted his back. As the man’s gaze returned to the arcade, his eyes squinting in transition from the Houston sun now at his back, she instinctively returned the smile that he wore through his eyes. And Ilona Petrarkis had never met anyone who could do just quite that.

  He walked right toward her with such assurance that she was sure he must know her from somewhere or have some news to deliver. She looked at the ground for a moment, her eyes darting as she tried to place how she knew him. He held out his hand, and as her eyes rose to meet his, he greeted her with, “Patrick Doyle, and you must say yes to having a drink with me in the lounge. It’s close enough to cocktail hour, right?”

  Ilona had yet to enjoy a drink, and she wondered where on earth he planned to order one given the law. She had only had a few sips of wine on graduation day months before when her baba offered a toast at the family’s celebratory dinner; the wine came from a few bottles he had hidden in his closet. It was a thoughtful gesture: She knew her baba was proud, and she knew he loved her and wanted her to have a happy life. And although he was a believer that America and Texas, in particular, were fertile for making dreams a reality, his dreams were not her dreams. She wanted to learn, to teach, to meet new people, and to be part of city life sans family business.

  She nodded subconsciously at the remark that Gimlets are proof God wants us to be happy, which he took as a yes, that she would love one. As they walked to the lounge, she scanned the arcade discreetly to confirm that she knew not a soul in sight. Her willingness to take a chance wakened the latent sentiment for adventure that she knew she possessed, and she relished the happenstance a moment could bring.

  Her uneasiness grew as the waiter revealed a private room by opening a velvet curtain, a flimsy barrier that concealed a speakeasy. The other patrons, all men in fine suits and a couple of well-dressed women, all appeared at complete ease as they sipped cocktails in fine crystal glasses. This was definitely not one of the illicit, lowbrow bars around town she had heard her baba and uncle talk about late at night when they thought she was asleep. Patrick excused himself for a moment to shake hands with gentlemen at a nearby table, glancing back at her with his finger raised in the air, signaling he needed but a second more. Thankful for the moment to gather her thoughts, Ilona settled into the red leather booth and sorted through her catalog of memories once more; the affinity she felt surely meant she knew him from somewhere.

  “What brings you to the M&M today?” Patrick asked as he took his seat, the waiter placing two cocktails on the table.

  “Hope.”

  “Tell me more,” he said, taking a healthy sip of his drink.

  “I’ve watched this building from its conception, heard stories from the men in my parents’ restaurant. It’s giving people of Houston the opportunity to pursue their dreams. Exciting times for the city, and I hope for me.”

  She did not know how to regard his reaction, his gregarious personality now more subdued. At best, he was lost in thought, agreeing with her musings. At worst, he was considering how to extricate himself from such a queer young woman.

  “And I have one more hope, a trivial matter but one that is important to me.”

  “Yes?” he asked, his lips pursed in the infancy of either a smile or a smirk.

  “A new hat, for my niece’s baptism.”

  His radiant smile reappeared, and, raising his glass, he toasted, “To our hopes and dreams. I do believe our paths were meant to cross.”

  As they sat and talked, she listened to stories about his family’s lumber business, tons of lumber that had poured in from East Texas railroads at the turn of the century. The Doyles supplied the lumber for the M&M; Patrick was the buil
ding personified. Intoxicated with his sophistication and her growing confidence from the gin, she absorbed his spirit. No one had ever asked her so many questions about herself, not like this. Everyone she knew assumed they knew her, and as a result, the conversations remained at the surface level, pleasantries about the day and general interests. Why ask anything deeper when you knew the person, after all? She knew from her reading that people regard those they know well as flat and stagnant, that how they are is how they will always be. Strangers are afforded a more generous hand, one that honors their hopes with a reverence for the possibility of change.

  She confided her love of literature and her desire to be closer to the pulse of the city, and he responded with his shared love of books and an invitation for her to see his collection at the library in his Heights home on The Boulevard. He had traveled and enjoyed his time away from the city immensely, but “Houston is a very special place … has an energy. Ripe for new things.”

  She did not realize the waiter had refreshed her gimlet at some point in the conversation, but she did realize the numbing of her chin. An older gentleman with a gold pocket watch hanging from the vest of his suit came over to shake Patrick’s hand with hearty congratulations on a job well done with the M&M. At the man’s first pause, Patrick confidently said, “Please allow me to introduce you to Ilona. Surely you have graced her family’s new restaurant on Franklin?”

  As the men chatted about the M&M construction, Ilona gave a word of thanks for the distraction. “Eucharistia,” she giggled to herself. The room picked up its spin. She looked out the window to the bayou, attempting to still her eyes, but the windows and curtains remained slightly askew despite her deliberate blinks. Her mind drifted to her once imagined view of the glamorous people in the building, each pane framing a story. She was now one of the stories, gin-stocked and all. A moment’s decision, her heart echoed, can bring so many wonderful things.