The Hawk: Part One Read online

The Hawk: Part One

  By Anna Scott Graham

  Copyright 2015 by Anna Scott Graham

  This is a work of fiction. Names and characters, incidents and places are either products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  For my husband. And for my Father.

  Chapter 1

  In the evenings, Lynne sat in the living room, her embroidery or knitting in hand. Depending on the season, she might occupy herself for a few hours, or just moments. Eric would work in the studio as long as the light was good, and she remained in their house, not wishing to distract him.

  He never asked her to model for him, and she was glad for that; she had never wanted to be more than his wife. Being married to an artist wasn’t a small task, especially since over the last three years, Eric’s paintings had found a larger audience. Bird lovers still made up the bulk, but a wider range of collectors now sought out Eric Snyder’s talents. Lynne was proud of her husband, and grateful for the additional income. They had finally finished the upper floor of the house, where she had a proper craft room for her yarns and threads.

  But she preferred stitching or knitting downstairs, for the light was better, the fireplace often crackling, even in summer. And from the first floor, she had a direct view of her husband’s studio, and how the light shone into it. From one glance, Lynne could tell when Eric’s time with paint and canvas was ending, and she would tuck away her projects, stand from her chair, smooth down her skirt or slacks, then smile. The rest of the night was for them alone.

  Lynne gazed out the large picture window, noting that Eric probably had another ten or fifteen minutes left to paint. That didn’t include cleaning up, but for that she would join him; he appreciated her presence, wishing aloud that she would spend more time in his studio. Yet, Lynne preferred him to expend all his energy in solitude. The couple had married in 1952, and for the last seven years he had not lost any affection for her, even when in the middle of an engaging piece. If Lynne approached him, he would lose focus, which was gratifying to her, also slightly troubling. Didn’t most artists shun all else until a painting or sculpture was finished? But then, Lynne sighed, peering from the window, Eric wasn’t like anyone else she knew.

  She set down blue yarn, which she was turning into a baby blanket for one of her co-workers. Staring out of the huge glass pane, she could almost see him, standing in front of the canvas, studying the emerging image. He was fascinated by fowl, occasionally mixing it up with other natural features. They often hiked in their part of the state, and he sketched during those excursions, but only to use the woods as backgrounds for the main emphasis, which were usually hawks, sometimes falcons. His color palate was drab, browns and grays and flat greens, but recently he had begun adding vibrant blues and yellows, crimson as well. Lynne loved the new hues, having grown bored with the same shades. But these fresh colors also scared her, although she had kept her anxieties hidden. It would do no good to worry Eric with what at that moment were unsubstantiated niggles.

  Lynne stared at the back garden, full of blooming flowers, trees leafy and tall. Halfway to the studio a fountain bubbled, a bird bath three feet from Eric’s workspace. Lush foliage bordered their property, which was now tame compared to when they had bought the twenty acres, mostly for the privacy, and for the studio, which at the time had been in better shape than the house. For the first two years, Eric had concentrated on making their home livable, painting in his spare time. Lynne had been the breadwinner then, and she still was, although Eric’s last exhibit had been an unexpected success; all the paintings had been sold, and for more than the couple had imagined. Eric’s dealer hadn’t been as shocked as his clients, but then, Eric and Lynne hadn’t dreamed that one day Eric’s art would support them. Yet Lynne would continue working. There was little else for her to do.

  Using her hand, she shielded her eyes as the last rays of sun glinted on the studio’s many windowpanes. While the windows in the house were mostly solid pieces of glass, the studio was a mish-mash of architecture, looking more like a greenhouse than a painter’s studio. Eric believed it had originally been a hothouse, then was converted, and he had loved it as soon as the realtor presented it to them. It had cleaned out Eric’s savings, or what college hadn’t depleted, and Lynne had used the last of her inheritance, but through careful budgeting and the sales of paintings, the couple had paid off the mortgage last year. Then Eric had used extra money to complete the upstairs, which now made the home roomy, what with it just the two of them. All of their parents, except Eric’s father, were dead, and both had been only children. Eric and Lynne lived on their property unbothered, although now when visitors did need a place to sleep, an actual guest room was available, with a private bath. Eric had put that in especially for his dealer, Stanford Taylor, who had waived some of his commissions just so that when he spent the night, he wasn’t required to use the house bathroom.

  But that was due to Stanford’s fussy nature, not that Eric and Lynne were untidy. Lynne chuckled to herself, thinking of that man’s recent stay, and how pleased he had been with his own room, and bath, all the way on the other end of the second floor. Three other rooms, and the house bathroom, separated the master bedroom from the guest room; one was Lynne’s craft room, one was where Eric stored his paintings. The other was empty, but Eric had plans for it, either as an office, if one day he was famous enough to require such a luxury. The other was…. Lynne grimaced; that idea wouldn’t come to pass, and while Eric seemed to carry hope, Lynne had set it aside. Better to concern herself with those in her view, which now included her husband, as the final bit of sun slipped behind the horizon. The studio’s windowpanes no longer caught the light, and Eric would be setting his brushes to soak by the time she reached the outbuilding.

  She walked slowly. He might say he wanted her there, but he had his ways when closing up his work for the day. He painted daily, regardless of holidays, the weather, or his health. The only time he broke that rule was if Lynne was sick; then he was the nurse, he would joke, caring for her as she tended to patients at the hospital. Three years ago she had picked up the flu, and he had spent a week looking after her, ignoring the studio. He also used that time to correspond with those who appreciated his work, and he did a little drawing. Otherwise he was at his wife’s bedside, reading to her if she didn’t need to be fed or required other care. Lynne had felt miserable, mostly from taking Eric from his craft. Her bout with flu was the result of ministering to the sick, nothing she could do to prevent it. Fortunately Eric hadn’t caught it, and once she was better, he went back to work as if the interruption hadn’t occurred. But just a few months later…. Lynne shivered, passing the gurgling fountain, then approaching the bird bath. Eric was humming, which lessened the pain of that memory. He hummed when he was happy, and she shoved aside the unpleasantness, as he added words to the tune, none of it making sense. Then he laughed, which roused Lynne’s smile. By the time she reached the studio door, she had forgotten all about….

  “Where’ve you been?” He tapped his right foot as she stepped inside. “The sun went down hours ago.”

  His smile was a beacon, his gray eyes wide with joy. He spread his arms wide, his smock removed. A plain off-white t-shirt and dungarees slightly spattered with paint were his usual attire. Lynne walked carefully amid the shambles on the floor, which was littered with balled-up sketch paper, broken brushes, tattered bits of canvas, empty paint tubes, and crushed paper cups. Their house was clean, but this workspace was the haunt of a dedicated and sometimes irrational man.

  Stanford had told Lynne that all artists, be they painters, sculptors, even writers, were touched. He warned her that the m
ore famous Eric became, and it was only a matter of time, Stanford had assured her, the more messy and affected would be his mannerisms. But Lynne had taken Stanford’s admonitions with a grain of salt because the studio, while not pristine, wasn’t the most precarious area of Eric’s existence. Lynne often wished to tell Stanford that it was this edifice which kept Eric sane. The couple’s bedroom was his other sanctuary, not that they were inclined to odd sexual practices. Yet, Eric harbored a secret that no one but Lynne understood, or had witnessed. And if someone was to learn of it, a chaotic artist’s studio would be the least of Lynne’s problems.

  That evening nothing bothered the relatively young painter; Eric was thirty, Lynne a year his junior. He didn’t watch where he walked, even as his left foot thumped awkwardly across the floor. Despite that affliction, Eric approached his wife with enthusiasm. His embrace was forceful, but not vicious, and Lynne melted into his frame, which was marginally larger than hers. He wasn’t slight, but he wasn’t stocky. He was tall, standing six foot two, but she was lofty, at five foot ten. Both were slender; they kept fit by slow hikes and intensive gardening, and neither had large appetites. Lynne spent most of her days on her feet, as did her husband. The only time they grew lazy was in the mornings when she didn’t have to work; they would lay in bed, making love or recovering from lovemaking, until hunger or other urges forced them to move. His coloring was fair, while her complexion was ruddy, her cheeks and arms coated in dark freckles, matching her brown eyes. Her long dark hair was usually braided, then swept into her regulation nurse’s cap, but at home she wore it down, at his insistence. His blonde hair was in need of a trim, just curling along the nape of his neck, falling into his eyes. Rarely did Lynne consider what coloring their children would have inherited. Lynne had never become pregnant, not for all the intimacy the couple shared.

  Instead she stroked Eric’s face, then kissed his mouth, which led to him gripping her back, his torso pressed tightly against hers. They had never made love in the studio, no clear place on the floor, and the walls were mostly glass. Within their bedroom Lynne was fairly uninhibited, but nudity in the back garden wasn’t a consideration.

  She began to giggle, wanting him very much, but of course, they would have to wait until he had finished cleaning up. Their nearest neighbor was far away, but even as the wife of an artist, Lynne still followed typical moral standards, which might be slipping for some, as the 1950s came to a close. Part of her fortitude was her nurse’s training, in that while bodies were all the same, hygiene and modesty were important elements in the fight against disease. No telling the grime and muck the outdoors could offer, unless one was appropriately attired. Besides, Lynne like to tell her bohemian spouse, one never knew if a guest might knock on the front gate, be it Stanford or their best friends, Samuel and Renee, or one of Eric’s growing legion of fans. How could they live down being discovered in a state of indiscretion, even if it was on their own property, within his studio?

  Incessantly Eric teased her about that, but never to the point of humiliation, nor did he ever try to wear her down by brute force. He would release her, but only after she was fully aware of his desires, and that he understood hers. Then quickly they would tidy the space, making sure every brush was soaking, every rag collected. They would return to their house, locking the French doors behind them, only out of habit. Both had grown up in urban settings, and some traits were hard to erase. As Lynne went upstairs, Eric would bolt the front door, and set the grate in front of the fireplace, if coals were still glowing. Usually Lynne let the fire burn down as the sun set; once Eric was done working for the day, unless they hadn’t yet eaten dinner, the rest of the night would be spent in their bed.

  That evening was one such example of their usual nocturnal habits; Eric checked the doors, then placed the grate in front of dying embers. Then he headed upstairs, finding his wife in their room, her long hair spilling over her bare shoulders, concealing her breasts. Eric stripped his t-shirt and trousers, his socks and underwear too. Then he slowly approached her side of their bed, pulling back the comforter, revealing the rest of her naked body. Without delay, Eric joined her in that bed, and within minutes their passions had been spent. The rest of the night would be one languid session after another, until the need for sleep was overwhelming. Only then would Eric and Lynne relinquish themselves to slumber, but as they slept, they remained wrapped against the other. Lynne usually woke in her husband’s arms, or lying against his back, her limbs entwined with his. That they were still childless meant one of them was sterile, and Lynne assumed it was her fault. Eric thought it was his and blamed it on his…. Then Lynne would set a finger to his lips, wishing to keep that oddity from their minds.

  But as her husband slept, Lynne was powerless against an urge that Eric had battled since he was a young boy. Only when made one with his wife was Eric Snyder immune from that inexplicable desire, which at times ripped apart his soul.

  And in rare moments, it separated him from his wife. But on this night, Eric concentrated on fulfilling Lynne’s desires, even if, like a faint memory, the ache burned within his bones, spreading across every inch of his skin.

  Chapter 2