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, r
ight? 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.
Catherine had become fixated on her pursuit, and there was hardly time or space for anything else. She quit her job without a week’s notice and embraced her new purpose in life—finding Leo.
*
“I’ve decided to stop working at the Chamber,” she informed Walter the next day. “I’m going to devote my time to charitable causes.”
Walter didn’t mind; he had always been concerned what the neighbors, not to mention the boys at the club, would think of his wife’s day job. He didn’t want people to gossip that he was a bad husband, or worse—that he couldn’t provide for his family.
“I think that’s wonderful, dear,” he told her. “I’m glad to hear it. In fact, I’ll try to tweak my schedule so I’m home earlier in the evenings. Perhaps we can start having dinner together, as in the old days.”
Catherine fought the urge to roll her eyes. Naturally, now that she was no longer working, Walter expected her to retie her apron and make him tasty things to eat.
“Yes, dear,” she replied, ever the dutiful wife, “of course.”
“Wonderful. Let me know which charities you choose to support and if there’s anything you need from me.”
The only thing Catherine needed from Walter was for him to look the other way, which he’d been doing for years, anyway. No “charitable causes” were on the docket. Instead, she began to take daily trips to Baltimore without her husband’s knowledge. If she left the minute Walter departed for work in the morning, the trip took about two hours; the return trip took slightly longer with traffic, but she still had a good three hours in Baltimore before driving home to cook dinner. It was intense, but she quickly became addicted to the adventure.
In two weeks, Catherine had scoured every art gallery in Baltimore, asking whether anyone knew a sculptor named Leo Taylor; she put personal ads in the Baltimore Sun and the independent weekly papers, all with no results. She spent the third week scouring Baltimore’s bars and taverns. She got enough spontaneous propositions—she was a very attractive woman, even at fifty-two—but no good leads. By week four, Catherine was walking the streets, asking locals whether they knew or had seen a man named Leo Taylor.
November came, and the air was frigid. As she wandered the streets of Philadelphia, the phrase that came most often to mind was “needle in a haystack.” The cold wind whipped at her cheeks and hair, running right through her, revealing the emptiness inside her chest.
One chilly afternoon, she ducked into a café to regain feelings in her fingers and toes. Exhausted, she sipped a piping hot coffee and reflected on her search. This is it, she decided. This trip to Baltimore will be my last. She had wasted a month of her life in a fruitless pursuit, a frivolous dream of a married middle-aged woman. What was she doing? What was she thinking? Sometimes, Catherine was shocked by her life choices, especially at this age.
As she stared into space, her tired eyes focused on a shop across the street, a shabby storefront, unexceptional save for the vaguely familiar sign hanging in the window. Where had she seen it before?
Then, she remembered: the sign reminded her of one Leo had welded in Philadelphia, showing it to her proudly; he then covered her eyes and led her down the street to look. They’d feasted on bread and Brie in an alley behind the shop afterward, the storeowner setting up a table, especially for them. She’d recognize Leo’s handiwork anywhere: even the signs he made were unusual and edgy.
Catherine fished a few dollars from her pocket and left it on the table to cover the coffee. Then, she crossed the street in a daze, staring at the flowing artwork on the glass window that announced “The Bizarre Bazaar and Smoke Shop.” As she pushed the door open, the thick smell of cannabis hit her in the face. Catherine had heard of these places, but she’d never been inside one. Of course, she was hardly the target market for a store that sold drug paraphernalia.
She wasn’t sure what made her dizzy, the cloud of pot smoke or the prospect of finding Leo after all these years. Either way, she rubbed her eyes and staggered toward the counter where a stout, bearded man read a copy of the Daily Racing Form.
“Excuse me,” she said, “who welded that sign in the window?”
He didn’t look up. “I did.”
Catherine shook her head, trying to clear it. The disappointment seeped into her skin, much as the pot smoke was doing at that moment—another dead end.
She was almost at the door when something caught her eye. It was something the man did—a subtle gesture, perhaps, the way he flipped the page of the paper or the familiar slope of his shoulders. Whatever it was, she studied the man’s face, captivated with expectation. He didn’t look at her, so she couldn’t take in the eyes, but her gaze roved over two full lips hidden behind scruffy facial hair. She knew those lips, and in that moment, her world shifted.
“Leo?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
The man looked up. His eyes, already glazed from what he’d been smoking, widened at the realization that the prim woman standing in front of him was Catherine, the woman he loved, the woman he lost and never thought he’d see again.
“Catherine?” he asked, hardly trusting his voice. Leo fumbled his way out from behind the counter. “It can’t be… Is that really you?” he stood there, his gaze transfixed on her.
She ran to him, and he swept her up with such force, as if she weighed no more than the locket she’d given him all those years ago. In disbelief, Leo stroked her hair and touched her arms, her face, and her hands. Neither thought they’d ever see the other again, and the reunion sated them with sweetness. After many years, their feelings reemer
ged with a sweet, fervent ache and a dash of bitterness.
Catherine recounted the weeks of phone calls she had made, the long journeys through the streets of Baltimore, kissing him over and over. Never mind that Leo had put on weight or that his face was so wrinkled she barely recognized him at first or that his hazel eyes, once so fiery and gold-flecked, had lost much of their luster. The important thing was that they had found each other at long last.
As if their breakup never happened, they stayed up through the night talking about their lives and what they did. Leo told her about art school and Chicago, the arrests and jail in his hippie days. Catherine shared all about her kids (while concealing her favorite son’s name), social clubs, and misadventures as a homemaker. And for a moment, they felt natural, intoxicated by each other’s presence and the currents of feelings it brought. But despite all that, one question hovered in the back of their minds that they couldn’t answer. That question was now what?
*
For the first few months, Catherine continued her daily sojourns to Baltimore. Her covert two-hour drive now formed the backbone of her daily routine. Sneaking off to Baltimore became her guiding principle, and being with Leo was her raison d'être.
Their interactions felt different from before. That much was obvious to both of them, as Leo was more sedated and less erratic than he’d been as a young man. But occasionally, the old Leo would reemerge—that smirk when he told jokes, the way he’d chuckle or simply tell a story, and the way he’d look at her—all the things she loved. And although now, they wouldn’t spend all their time making love or running around, she felt happy listening to him, holding his hand, and reveling in the feeling of togetherness his presence brought.
But soon, Catherine noticed that many other things about Leo had changed. The Leo she had once known was charismatic and passionate, sometimes to a fault; the Leo today carried a dash of deep sadness, even when he smiled or laughed. Furthermore, as she discovered, Leo lived in an ever-present swarm of desolation, his former spontaneity had evolved into something far more cynical—now, he seemed cold, unconcerned about anyone’s well-being, not even his own.
Four Seasons of Romance Page 13
