Four Seasons of Romance (21 page)

On July 19, 1984—Catherine’s fifty-ninth birthday—he checked
himself in to the Zebulon Rehabilitation Center in Pikesville, Maryland. At
Pikesville, he began the slow and painful process of breaking free from old
patterns, learning to manage his moods and appreciate sobriety. He peeled back
years and years of self-loathing and examined all the ways he’d self-soothed in
destructive ways.

Leo had never imagined himself as someone with a self-esteem
problem, but he finally understood how he’d been mired in dangerous
self-judgments since he was a child, from his mother’s abandonment to his
father’s apathy. It was something that created a void in him, a void he’d
filled with drugs, alcohol, and easy women when Catherine wasn’t around. And
that’s what caused him to lose her in the end.

Leo graduated from the program sober and went to daily
meetings in the beginning, when the temptation to drink and use was still
strong. His initial attempts to stay sober failed, as he would bump into the
wrong person at the wrong time, but, patiently, he checked back in to rehab and
started the process again. And slowly, the old addictions loosened their hold
as he found a renewed enthusiasm for life. Finally, after countless years of
blocked creativity, he threw himself back into his art with dedication, desire,
and maturity.

Using the name Leo Ellis—a testament to his new lease on
life—he began creating pieces with stunning prolificacy as if the floodgates
inside him had opened, and all that pent-up creativity burst out of him
unfettered after being locked in for so many years. It took years to build a
list of contacts and to start getting a steady flow of projects again, but with
his clear mind and passionate heart, the new Leo could not be stopped. Over the
next twenty years, he created some of the most celebrated, controversial, and
critically acclaimed sculptures in North America.

In 1986, he met Elizabeth Carter, a thirty-one-year-old art
student thirty years his junior. In many ways, she reminded Leo of his Parisian
girlfriend Nicole—artistic, young, and achingly talented. Making art was their
shared passion, and they delighted in it.

A true modern woman, Elizabeth proposed to him. “Why don’t
we get married?” she said one day, as they sat on the floor of Leo’s studio.

“I’ve never been married,” Leo said.

“Me, neither.
Why
not?”

 They married quickly and moved to Philadelphia,
Elizabeth’s hometown, but Leo did not intend to look up Catherine. Instead, he
was happy his name had changed; he didn’t want to draw her attention again.

Leo’s marriage to Elizabeth ended in 1992, cordial split.
She wanted children, and her childbearing years were fast ending, and he
encouraged her to find someone to fulfill that dream.

“You’re too young to settle down with an old coot like me,”
he told her.

“Thank you,” she said. “I still care about you. You’re going
to accomplish great things, Leo. I hope you know that.” Then, she kissed him on
the cheek, packed a bag of her things, and left. 

He was content to stay in Philadelphia, but never attempted
to reach Catherine, even after his marriage ended. Leo managed to avoid his old
habits of drugs and alcohol this time, though, focusing on his work instead.

If he were going to accomplish great things, he had better
get started. So, since then, he devoted himself to his art alone; endowed with
renewed clarity, his work took on epic dimensions as he continued to work with
metal and plaster, but also made giant sculptures from granite, bronze,
limestone, and concrete. A year later the Whitney in New York and LACMA in Los
Angeles commissioned his work for the first time. Eventually, he did a special
exhibit using nothing but paper and packing tape for the Tate Modern in London.
His installations, often reflections on depression and addiction, were the talk
of the town all over the art world. 

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.

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.