Four Seasons of Romance (17 page)

Whenever he looked at himself in the cracked jailhouse
mirror—made of well-shined stainless steel so inmates wouldn’t injure
themselves—he knew he had regrets. The man staring back at him from the
polished steel realized the best years of his life were ending, and the future
had little in store for him.

After his release in 1974, Leo decided to leave Chicago,
selling most of what he owned, including his remaining sculptures, with just
enough money to move back East. He settled in Baltimore where one of his former
Chicago friends owned a head shop, spending the next three years working for
him. Leo still thought of Catherine, but most of the time, he purged those
painful memories by smoking pot, drinking whiskey, and waiting to die.

It was fall of 1977 in Philadelphia, and the oaks,
hickories, and sugar maples lit up like fireflies. Disco might have ruled the
city’s club scene, but the trees stood tall and majestic, untouched by the
shifting world beneath them. The leaves sprouting from their limbs painted
Philly with a dazzling palette—bronze and vermilion, crimson and rust, gold and
scarlet.

Catherine had always loved the fall, the crispness in the
air that whispered of beginnings, the velvet carpet of leaves underfoot, and
the faint whiff of smoked hickory she drew in with every breath. In the
mornings, she rose early, sometimes even before Walter, to go for long,
meandering walks through Fairmount Park. Wandering across the banks of the
Schuylkill River, she was reminded of the Connecticut and the
Ammonoosuc
from her childhood as the coursing water carried
her away on a steady flood of fond memories.

On one of these walks, Catherine found herself walking down Broad
Street toward Independence Hall, the first time she had come there in years.
She stared up at the grandiose buildings and was filled with the same mixture
of awe and wonder. Without even thinking, Catherine found her old footpath and,
in a matter of minutes, found the façade of the Morton-Folsom Insurance Company
where she used to work.

She was in her twenties, working as an accountant on the
second floor, the days at the desk, balancing numbers and making order out of
chaos… and the fond memories of the day Leo surprised her in the foyer...

Catherine couldn’t let her feelings go, and then she
thought, if she couldn’t bring Leo back, she could at least try to fill her
life with other things to keep herself occupied, like getting a job. So, in
September of 1977, at fifty-two, Catherine went back to work as a bookkeeper in
the city of Philadelphia’s commerce department after completing a few special
courses, which she did with ease. She did not need the money or the job, but it
gave her something to do other than think. Her kids were in college, and her
husband’s presence was sporadic at best. As the leaves on the ground turned
from soft velvet to stiff paper, Catherine thought that she, too, was running
out of time to make something of her life outside motherhood.

Walter and Catherine were still seen together at important
social events, maintaining the proper image of a couple from one of
Philadelphia’s elite neighborhoods. Their relationship was less tense since
Catherine had lowered her expectations of intimacy, but she still longed for it
just the same. Walter had parlayed his inherited wealth into a small fortune
through shrewd moves in stocks, and he played golf or cards as he always had.

 Despite her job at the Chamber of Commerce and in the
absence of her children, Catherine thought more and more of Leo Taylor. Often,
she stared into space instead of working and reflected on what her life might
have been; she couldn’t help wondering what had become of her Leo, though she
knew she had no right to call him “her Leo” anymore.

The days grew shorter as the final days of September slipped
by, and darkness hovered outside by the time Catherine left the office. A chill
in the air made her pull her checkered camelhair coat close, and as she walked
the streets of Philadelphia they had once roamed together, she dwelled on the
past and Leo more than ever.

Finally, she gave in—the affair, the job, dinners with
girlfriends—nothing could quiet the intense wish she held inside. To stop
wondering what became of her Leo, she’d find him just to see him for a moment,
just to check if she’d still feel anything toward the person she hadn’t seen in
decades. Of course, there was more to her wish to see him, but she wouldn’t
allow these wishes into her conscious—not yet, anyway.

One Wednesday night, Walter was off for poker night with the
boys, and Catherine had the house to herself, so, she boiled hot water on the
stove and poured
herself
a cup of black tea, then
settled next to the telephone in the kitchen.

She knew Leo had been heading for suburban Maryland when
she’d seen him last.
If I’m lucky, he’s still there
, she reasoned. With
these thoughts, Catherine dialed directory assistance and waited while the
operator checked for a Leo Taylor in each suburban Maryland
city
in the DC area. Bethesda.
Silver Spring.
Chevy Chase.
College Park. The response was the same. “I’m
sorry, ma’am. No Leo Taylor listed.”

Much as Leo had done twenty-four years earlier when he
relentlessly combed through the Philadelphia phonebooks, Catherine made it her
mission, determined to find him wherever he was. She called directory
assistance in Philadelphia, just in case he’d decided to stay, but her
suspicions seemed correct. Leo had left Philly, and, knowing him, it only made
sense.

She called New York, New Hampshire—any place she could think
of where Leo might have gone. Instead of going out for lunch, she ate a
homemade sandwich at her desk and spent lunch hour huddled over the phone,
making calls; in two weeks, she’d covered most of the Atlantic region.

“I’m looking for a Leo Taylor in Atlanta, please.
Possibly Leopold.”
“In Charlotte.”
“In Richmond.”
The answer remained the same.

Then, Catherine tried Ohio, thinking Leo might have gone to
live with his father, although she knew they were never close. Eventually, she
found a number for Leopold Ellis Taylor, Sr. outside Toledo and eagerly called
it. As she waited for the first ring, her breath quickened, but her dreams were
dashed when the operator resurfaced to tell her the number had been disconnected.

This is the best lead I’ve had yet
, she thought.
I
have to dig deeper
. She reconnected with the Toledo operator and asked that
her call be put through to the local phone company.

“I’m wondering when Ellis Taylor’s phone line was
disconnected. He was at 4… 1… 9…”

“I’m really sorry, ma’am,” the phone company clerk replied,
cutting her off. “But we can’t give out that information unless you’re in law
enforcement.”

Her lunch break was over, so she tried to pull her attention
back to the work that had been piling up all morning, her mind already
concocting the plan for the evening.

When she returned home, Walter was gone without a
note—hardly a surprise. But for once, she didn’t feel lonely. An empty house
meant more time to devote to her new project, and she knew exactly whom she was
going to call.

She located herself by the telephone again and reinstated
the search. At her request, the operator connected her to the local newspaper
in Toledo,
The Blade
. Fortunately,
for Catherine, enough people were working late to meet the early-morning
deadline.

“Yeah?” said a young voice on the other end of the line.

“Yes, hi, I’m wondering whether you can help me—I’m looking
for an obituary of a dear friend.”

“Buy a paper, lady, and look for yourself.” The line went
dead,
then
the operator came back on and asked whether
she’d like to be reconnected.

“Yes, please,” Catherine replied.

This time, a much more cordial woman picked up.

“I’m looking for a Leopold Ellis Taylor,” Catherine
explained. “We lost touch some years ago, and I fear he might have passed
away.”

“You’d have to talk to someone down in Archives,” the girl
said. “They’re out for the day. I’d try back tomorrow.”

“Do you have a name of someone I can contact?”

“Sure. Try Cynthia Bell. She’s the clerk down in the Morgue.”

“The what?”

“The Morgue.
That’s what we call
the Archives. We keep all the reference stuff down there. Don’t
worry,
no bodies!”

Catherine laughed. “All right then. Thanks very much.”

She was a knot of nervous energy; if she could find Ellis Taylor’s
obituary, it would surely list the name and whereabouts of his only son. This
was the best and perhaps the only hope she had; she slept hardly a wink that
night.

The next morning, she called Cynthia Bell, a reserved woman
with a deep, hoarse voice. Catherine pegged her for someone who had lived the
life of a hard-drinking, hard-smoking journalist before settling into an office
job. If her name weren’t Cynthia, she probably would have taken her for a man.

“I only have ready access to the data for the last two
years,” the woman rasped. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

The five minutes Catherine was on hold seemed interminable,
but then, the phone clicked back to life.

“Mrs. Murray?” Cynthia asked.
“You still
there?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Sorry, but I looked everywhere for an obituary of an Ellis
Taylor. No luck.”

Catherine’s heart sank. “Thank you,” she muttered, but did
not get off the phone until Cynthia had Catherine’s number and promised to
contact Catherine if anything turned up.

“Will do,” Ms. Bell said, and then coughed. “But don’t hold
your breath.”

As she hung up the phone, Catherine felt like
weeping—another dead end. Now, she had to go on with her miserable life,
knowing it just wasn’t meant to be, which didn’t give her much comfort.

The air grew colder as September turned into October.
Besides her checkered coat, Catherine put on a scarf and mittens in the
mornings, her evening routine remaining solitary—a cup of black tea and a TV
dinner; she seldom cooked with Walter away on most nights.

Then, one evening, she was sitting at the kitchen counter
doing a crossword puzzle when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Catherine Murray?”

“Yes, this is she.”

“This is Cynthia Bell.
From the
Toledo
Blade.”

Catherine’s heart was caught in her throat. “You heard
something?”

“Yes, you asked me to call if I found anything. I really
didn’t think I would. But the Blade recently acquired ownership of the weekly
paper in Ottawa Hills down the road. Guess who got the job of archiving the
recent editions? Me, that’s
who
. But as it turns out…
it’s your lucky day.”

Catherine gripped the pencil so tightly; her knuckles were
stark white. “Does that mean you found something?”

“Sure did. Right here on page twelve of the Village Voice.
I’ve got an obituary for a Leopold Ellis Taylor.”

Catherine’s heart pounded; Cynthia paused at the silence on
the other end of the line

“This is what you wanted, right? I’m sorry if this is
upsetting news…”

“No, no,” Catherine assured her, “it’s not upsetting.
Please, read it to me.”

“All right.
It’s from the first
week of August, so a few months ago. Leopold Ellis Taylor, Sr. died in his
sleep at seventy-eight…”

As Catherine listened, she felt as if she’d been transported
into a dream world. Could it really be possible? Ellis had died a month before
she began her search. For once in her life, she felt the stars align, her heart
deafening in her ears as Cynthia read the obituary. Ellis had remarried and had
four children with his second wife before they divorced, and he lived alone at
his time of death.

“He is survived by…,” Ms. Bell continued.

Catherine felt as if the whole world, the meaning of her
life, depended on that rough voice at the other end of the line, and of course,
it did. She took in the list of those left—children and grandchildren.
How
much has happened
, Catherine mused,
since we left Woodsville years ago
.

Then, finally, the name came she was waiting for. “…
his
son from a previous marriage, Leo Taylor, of Baltimore.”

Baltimore! The word had never sounded so beautiful in her
ears. Baltimore, the city of second chances, revived passions, and
closure—closure and peace, hopefully.

She thanked Cynthia Bell profusely and resolved to send the
woman a bottle of brandy as an expression of gratitude. She then called
directory assistance for Baltimore, realizing her initial hunch that Leo was in
Maryland had been correct but wondering why her original calls to directory
assistance yielded no results. She had only checked the DC suburbs, though,
which left many other options open.

“I’d like Leo Taylor in Baltimore, please,” she said, unable
to conceal her enthusiasm.

“Sorry, ma’am,” came the age-old response. “I don’t have
anyone by that name.”

The woman offered the same list of Taylors Catherine had
heard a dozen times: Larry, Lenny, Lisa, and Langston Taylor, among others, but
no Leo. She tapped the pencil against the kitchen counter, deep in thought as
the line went dead, her cup of tea growing cold beside her. Knowing Leo—that
is, if he was still the same Leo she’d always known—he probably lived in an
apartment without a phone or with an unlisted number. For all she knew, he
could be squatting on a friend’s couch.
Yes,
Catherine decided,
I
imagine he hasn’t changed much. And if so, I’ll never find him through a formal
route.