After squandering his talent for so many years, Leo finally made his mark on society, transforming his angst and regrets into brilliant pieces of art with profound and lasting impact. The Washington Post called him “a late bloomer with talent of such epic proportions, one can’t help being reminded of another Leo.” He smiled for three days straight after reading that article. He’d earned a comparison to Leonardo da Vinci, after all.
Toward the end of his career, Leo won a slew of awards, including the prestigious Bucksbaum Award, but by then, arthritis had set in his joints, making it difficult for him to continue working; the years of drinking and hard labor had taken their toll, after all.
In 2004, he unofficially retired and, from then on, worked only on select pieces, taking long walks through nature for inspiration, and picking up drawing as a hobby. He preferred to work in three dimensions, but sketching with charcoals was enjoyable and easier for his aching hands. He maintained many friendships, but no relationships, claiming he was too old and tired.
For the first time in decades, he had a good life. A space to create art, a comfortable bed to sleep in, and a community of friends. When he thought of Catherine now, it was the way one remembers a good dream—faint, shadowy outlines, but with a gentle sweetness that lingers still.
Part Four: Winter
Never was a city lovelier than Philadelphia at Christmastime. The whole town came together to dress up for the holiday season. Shopkeepers hung reindeer antlers in their windows; bakers made legions of gingerbread men with gumdrop buttons; plump old men put on Santa suits and sat for hours in shopping malls, smiling at the children who sat on their knees. In other parts of the world, there were wars and famines, but in the City of Brotherly Love, there was warmth, laughter, and tidings of great joy.
Parents bundled their children in heavy fleeces and overcoats and bustled through the city to partake of the many holiday festivities. Fortunately, for them, it seemed that every square had holiday crafts, cookie decorating, or a tree ceremony. The Macy’s Holiday Light Show brightened the city with more than 100,000 twinkling lights, paying special homage to the recent addition of pyrotechnic snowmen. For those who preferred a more traditional celebration, actors in colonial dress retold A Christmas Carol at Dickens Village. All over the city, families joined their mittened hands in holiday cheer.
It was December of 2006, and Catherine Murray was eighty-one. One morning, her son Leo called on the cell phone he’d given her as a birthday present. She still wasn’t used to it, but tried her best to be “tech savvy,” as her grandchildren put it.
“It’s your first winter alone, Mom,” he said. “I’m worried about you.”
“I have central heat, you know,” Catherine said.
“That’s not what I mean.”
Catherine told him she’d managed to survive just fine on her own since Walter’s death. Why would the winter be any different?
“What about some company for the holidays?” he asked. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“What did you have in mind?”
Leo laughed. “Okay, full disclosure. The kids want to spend Christmas with their grandma this year.”
Doting on her grandchildren was one of Catherine’s chief delights; she often thought that being a grandmother had many advantages over being a mother.
“I’d love that!” she said. “Stay as long as you like.”
“You say that now, but let’s see how you feel in two weeks’ time. Ask Susan; these rascals are a handful!”
Catherine giggled, relishing her son’s energy and enthusiasm. Besides, she adored her grandchildren, and the thought of Christmas with Leo and his family brought her great joy. Indeed, she was proud of the man her favorite son had grown to be.
The day after school let out for winter break, Leo, his wife, and their two children piled into their car in Massachusetts and set a course for Fox Chase. When they arrived, Catherine had her special eggnog bubbling on the stove.
“Merry Christmas!” she cried.
“Merry Christmas!” her grandchildren chirped as they sated themselves on a feast of kisses and laughter all around.
Later that night, Catherine sat drinking eggnog by the fire with her son and daughter-in-law, children tucked in bed in a room down the hall.
“I have to get your recipe,” Susan said. “Your eggnog is the best.”
“It’s all in the nutmeg,” Catherine winked. “It has to be freshly ground.”
“Don’t tell me you’re growing nutmeg trees in the garden now,” Leo said.
At half past ten, Susan yawned. “I think I’m off to bed, love.” She kissed Leo on the head and Catherine on the cheek. “I love you both.”
Once she was gone, Catherine smiled. “What a beautiful family you have,” she said, her heart sparkling with happiness at her son’s good fortune. Leo had found love and married into it—something his parents had failed to do.
He stared at her for a long time without speaking. She could tell there was something weighing on his mind and even knew what it was; a question he had brought up several times before, but she always avoided.
“I want to ask you something, Mom. A question that’s been nagging at me for years.”
Catherine rested her eggnog on the coffee table. “I’m all ears.”
His mouth opened, and then clammed shut. “I always felt like the odd one out growing up,” he began. “The girls had their fair skin and blue eyes like Dad. I looked as if I came from elsewhere. Somewhere different. I never felt as if I belonged.”
She felt the familiar stab of regret. “I know you were never as close to your father as you would have liked. Your personalities were so different.”
“I know, and we always had so little in common… including our looks.” He leveled his gaze at her. “I’ve asked you this before, and maybe now is not a really good time to bring it up, but what I want to know is… was he really my father?”
Catherine didn’t know how to answer. He’d hinted at it before, but this was the first time he’d asked her directly. It was a secret she’d harbored in her heart for years, but now, here was Leo, the spit and image of his father… his real father… asking her for the truth. Would she be brave enough to speak it?
Leo reached into his satchel and pulled out a dog-eared copy of The Song of the Lilies, balancing it on his knees. “I’ve read this book three times. It feels real and honest.” He flipped to the first page. “It says right here: All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.” He shut the book softly. “But is that part really true?”
Catherine held his gaze now and did not look away; his eyes were flecked gold like Leo’s eyes; she knew she had to tell him.
“The male lead in this book is named Leo,” he said. “And I know you named me because of your grandfather, but I’ve always thought the content was not entirely fictional.” He cleared his throat, and the vulnerability of the gesture made Catherine want to wrap her arms around him as if he were still a child.
“Was there another man?” he asked. “My biological father?” She remained silent.
“Look, Mom. I know something’s up, okay? I know all about my blood type and that it’s different from both yours and Walter’s. So, just answer me honestly. Was there another man?”
She could no longer keep the truth from her son and no longer needed to. Catherine nodded, her eyes dewy. “Yes, Leo, there was.”
For a moment, time hung on a tenterhook, and she saw a look of victory in her son’s eyes—after a lifetime of doubt, his hunch had paid off. But she also saw the pain; he knew he had been robbed of a relationship with his biological father. She wondered whether he would be angry with her; in a way, he had every right to be.
“The Leo in the book really did exist,” she said. “His name was Leo Ellis Taylor, and he was your father. Your intuition did not mislead you.”
Catherine had kept this secret from her husband and
others for fifty-one long years. Her son’s blood type made it biologically impossible for him to be Walter’s son, a fact Catherine tried to hide from everyone.
Though Leo wasn’t surprised to hear her confession, he wanted to know more. Catherine poured them another glass of eggnog as he bombarded her with questions. “What happened to him?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. Unlike the way I’ve told the story in the novel, it didn’t end well.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“1978.”
Leo whistled.
Catherine didn’t say what she was thinking—that, based on his drinking and drug habits, she was afraid Leo’s body had given out on him years before.
“Where was he when you saw him last?”
“Baltimore. But your father was a transient soul; he could have ended up anywhere. I wouldn’t be surprised if he went back to Paris.”
Surprisingly, talking about Leo had brought the color back to her cheeks, even after all these years.
“Come with me,” she said, standing. “I want to show you something.”
They tiptoed down the hallway and up the stairs to the attic, where Catherine used an old key to open the door.
“Be careful, Mom,” Leo entreated. “The last thing I want is your falling through the ceiling.”
She shushed him and carefully picked her way through dusty furniture and boxes toward an old wood chest, beckoning Leo to follow her.
“I knew it was up here,” she said, tenderly stroking the wood panels. “It’s been so long.”
With a muted pop, she opened the trunk. Inside, she found what she was looking for—two small trinkets wrapped in a pink swatch of silk—and handed the bundle to Leo.
“Open it,” she said.
Slowly, cautiously, as if he were examining one of the ancient paintings from his curriculum, he unfolded the cloth. Inside was an arrowhead made of bright-white stone, crumbled pieces of clay all around.
“What was it?” he asked, running his thumb through the ruins.
“Me,” she replied. “It was I, made of clay.”
They took the treasures back downstairs and examined them by the crackling fire. “You
kept all this after all these years,” he said.
“Your father gave them to me when we were teenagers. I’d never throw them out. Not for all the world.”
“So why didn’t it work between the two of you?”
“Most of what was written in The Song of the Lilies is true,” she said, rising to put out the fire. “If you want to know more about your father, it’s all right there. The only difference is he faced his demons and changed in the book, whereas in real life, it never happened.”
“Did you ever try to find him?” he asked.
“He would never forgive me for my mistakes, so I never tried. I don’t even know whether he’s alive anymore, he wasn’t taking care of himself when I last saw him. Sometimes, I wish…” Her voice trailed off.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing. I’ll go to bed,” she said.
Leo kissed her goodnight, and then watched her disappear down the long hallway. He paced in front of the fireplace, playing back everything she’d told him, deciding not to pursue the topic any further—not with his mother, anyway. His questions were far from answered, but this revelation had opened new possibilities. If there was one thing he’d learned from his many years as an art historian, it was that there was always more beneath the surface, and as the embers from the fire faded from orange to black, Leo Murray began to make his plans.
The following morning, he launched phase one of his plan. Catherine, Susan, and the kids were getting ready to go Christmas shopping; Leo begged off by saying he wasn’t feeling well.
“Should we stay home?” Susan asked, feeling his forehead.
“Not at all! Go out and enjoy yourself. It’s just a bit of a headache. By this afternoon, I’ll be good as new.”
After a bit more convincing, they headed out in scarves and matching knit hats, leaving Leo alone to prowl the house. He went to the computer immediately—another gift he’d given his mother. When he had to boot it, he realized she probably hadn’t turned it on since the day he spent three hours teaching her how to use the mouse. Confound it, he thought. Why won’t she learn how to use the damn thing?
Armed only with his father’s full name, Leo started to search. In forty-five minutes, Leo had blazed an Internet trail that revealed his father’s dual identity, his artistic success, and his current whereabouts. No, he wasn’t at a cemetery dead from a drug overdose. Leo Taylor—who went by Leo Ellis now—resided in the Malvern Acres Senior Living Community in Malvern, Pennsylvania, just fifteen miles away from Philadelphia. He was easy to find; in retirement, the older Leo had even entertained himself by creating a Facebook page under his full name. Isn’t that interesting, the younger Leo mused. Perhaps he’s ready to be found.
He checked his watch. Catherine and Susan were likely to make the Christmas shopping an all-day affair. Did he have enough time?
His heart answered the question for him. In minutes, he’d put on his leather jacket, jumped in his Prius, and set the GPS for Malvern. His heart pounded as he drove and drove through the snowy streets on his mission of finally finding his father.
*
“I’m Bruce Nelson, with the Philadelphia Inquirer. I’m here to interview Leo Taylor, whom I believe goes by Leo Ellis.”
Leo Murray’s heart raced as the nurse looked him up and down. Surely, she would see through his disguise. What was he doing? He was a professor at Brandeis, and he had never impersonated anyone in his life.
“Mr. Ellis is in Unit 35,” she said, smacking her gum loudly. “That’s independent living. Go back out the door and make a right. You’ll see it at the far end of the complex. Big red door. Painted it himself.”
She disappeared down a brightly lit hall, and Leo went back outside. Maybe this is stupid, he said to himself. Why don’t I just tell him who I am?
But something told him to stick to his instincts on this one. As a fifty-one-year-old academic who spent most of his days holed up in the faculty office, he figured he might as well seize the opportunity to have a little fun as he headed toward the door like a spy from a blockbuster Hollywood film.
Leo could feel his heart beating as he strode down the sidewalk, the first time he’d ever come face to face with his real father. He knocked. In a few moments, the older Leo opened the door. For a moment, his son forgot the ruse, looking into this man’s eyes. Here was his father, the answer to questions he’d been wondering about since he was a boy.
Then, he remembered what he was doing and cleared his throat. “Hi, Mr. Ellis? I’m Bruce with the Inquirer. How do you do?”
“I’m well, thanks.” Despite his age, the man’s voice was clear as a bell. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s come to our attention that you’re the man on whom the hero in Catherine Murray’s most successful novel was based. I’m doing a story on what the real Leo is like. Not the one in the book—the man behind the myth. Enough of the fiction; readers want reality!” He realized he was talking too much, probably because of the nervousness.
“Catherine? My Catherine? I’m sorry,” the older Leo said. “I might be stupid in my old age, but what book is this?”
“The Song of the Lilies. By Catherine Murray.” The younger Leo looked at him in amazement. He assumed everyone had heard of the book, as it had been a New York Times bestseller for thirty straight weeks.
Leo’s eyes flashed with an unnamed emotion, and then vanished. “I’ve never heard of the book, no.”
Leo Murray hadn’t prepared for this, but then, he remembered he was wearing his satchel, so he thrust a hand inside and pulled out his much-loved copy. “Here you go,” he said, scribbling his cell-phone number inside the cover. “Consider it a loan. I’ll be back in a week to get it.”
His nerves had gotten the best of him; he couldn’t bear t
o stand there one second longer. With a slight nod, he hurried back down the path, leaving the older Leo staring after him.
The renowned sculptor shut the door and stared at the book in his hands, running his fingertips across the name on the cover. Catherine Murray. How it both pained and delighted him, seeing her name in print; he couldn’t help envisioning Catherine Taylor on the book instead.
So, Catherine had done well. He saw the “#1 bestseller” inscription and felt a sudden jolt of pride. Leo was surprised he hadn’t heard of the book, but then again, he didn’t frequent many literary circles and tended to spend his days drawing, not reading. When he did read, he preferred fast-paced, thrilling action books centered on murder and intrigue.
He glanced at his watch. The stretching class at the community center didn’t start for another couple of hours; he had time.
Leo stretched in his La-Z-Boy and read. He didn’t make it to the stretching class that night. He didn’t make it to dinner, either. For the next eight hours, he didn’t put the book down, reading all nine hundred pages in less than two days.
He laughed like a kid; he cried like a baby. Leo was living his life again—the only part of his life he really cared about—the one that had Catherine.
And when Leo finally closed the book, he had not only read it but also read between its lines. “She wrote this just a few years ago,” he whispered, realizing that her love for him hadn’t faded with time, just like his love for her.
He knew, beyond any doubt, that Catherine still cared about him and kissed her name on the cover. “Oh, Catherine,” he said, “there was only you. There was only ever you.”
*
At first, Leo wasn’t sure he should call Bruce, the nervous reporter who had given him the best gift he could ever imagine. Then, the man had come to his doorstep looking for an interview, hadn’t he?
Four Seasons of Romance Page 16
