The Hawk: Part Nine Read online

The Hawk: Part Nine

  By Anna Scott Graham

  Copyright 2016 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 157

  For the rest of her life Lynne would recall learning how President Kennedy had been assassinated. Seated at the kitchen table, Marek to Lynne’s left, Laurie had answered the telephone. It was Sam, who had just heard the news from his father. Marek toted Jane into the living room as Laurie clutched Lynne’s hand, walking slowly. Once Lynne was seated, Jane on her lap, Laurie turned on the television. The adults remained on the sofa for much of the afternoon, although Laurie did speak to Stanford, who called an hour after Sam did. Only after Jane was in bed would Laurie share the particulars of their conversation, but other subjects had also waited to be discussed in detail. That afternoon all Lynne, Laurie, and Marek could do was sit in amazement, often in silence. It seemed unfathomable to consider that the president had been killed, yet such mayhem was utterly true.

  As a mother, Lynne’s heart immediately went out to Mrs. Kennedy, followed by fervent prayers. Lynne also considered Renee, whose children were about the ages of Caroline and John-John. Lynne wondered how the Aherns and their families felt considering the Catholic connection. Had that been what drove this despicable action, or was it merely a political assassination, as Marek noted. Laurie wondered about the timing; Kennedy would have run for a second term, was that the motivation, or was it engineered by the Soviets? There were many possibilities, but regardless of why, the awful reality couldn’t be dimmed. A man not much older than Stanford had been shot dead in broad daylight with his wife seated beside him. The governor of Texas had also been struck, but it seemed he would survive. Lynne prayed for Governor Connally and for those who loved John Kennedy most. Theirs was a large family, but close-knit, and here was another lost before his time.

  What Lynne knew about the Kennedys wasn’t much different than what most realized; oldest brother Joe had died in World War II, eldest sister Kathleen lost in a plane crash a few years later. But it was the second born who shone the brightest and now that man, the first Catholic elected to the highest office in the country, was ripped not only from his clan but also his nation, and as Lynne had glanced at Marek, the world at large. Then Lynne pondered the violent manner in which her president had been murdered; what sort of world was Jane inheriting? As Lynne laid her daughter to sleep, she prayed for her children, and those that day made fatherless. Lynne closed the nursery door, taking careful steps downstairs. Reaching the living room, she gazed overhead, also praying for Eric’s safe and swift return.

  When she entered the kitchen, Laurie and Marek stopped speaking. Laurie stood, then embraced her. Lynne was grateful for his presence; she couldn’t imagine waking with only Jane in the morning. As they parted, she smiled at Marek, who nodded. Then she sat between them, grasping their hands. Strong squeezes were exchanged and Lynne took a deep breath. Releasing the men’s hands, she exhaled with another sigh of relief, in that Stanford had felt compelled to call. “So,” she began, “what did he say?”

  She looked at Laurie as he rolled his eyes. “Just wanted to share the news, or that’s what he said.”

  “How did he sound?” Marek spoke softly, then leaned back in his seat.

  “About as you’d expect. Shocked, but….” Laurie shrugged. “Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but he seemed a little chastened. He said Agatha had come to work, but he’d sent her home as soon as, well, she was able to leave.” Laurie cracked his knuckles, then sighed. “It doesn’t seem real. How in the world can he be dead?”

  Lynne nodded, then grasped Laurie’s hands in hers. “I think about the Aherns and their families, what this means to Catholics all over. We’ve gotten so attached to that family in a few short years. And now Mrs. Kennedy’s a widow and….” Lynne shut her eyes, then she opened them. “The children are so little, only Caroline might remember him.”

  Then Lynne gasped, breaking into unexpected sobs. Laurie pulled her close and she wept hard. Marek patted Lynne’s back, speaking in Polish. She didn’t wonder what he was saying, for it sounded like the Lord’s Prayer. Funny how that could be discerned, and she grew calm as Marek’s gentle tone filled the room. When he was done, Laurie released her, and she stared at her pastor. “That was just what I needed.”

  He nodded, then smiled, blinking away a few tears. “I have a sermon to craft, but all good notions start with that prayer.”

  “I suppose you’ll have a church full,” Laurie said, also wiping his eyes.

  “Indeed. I think I’ll open up tomorrow as well.” Marek looked around the room, then returned his gaze to Lynne and Laurie. “I’ll call Sam and Renee in the morning. I’m sure they’ve been speaking with relatives all day.”

  Lynne nodded. “Will you write to….”

  “I’ve been thinking about that.” Marek folded his hands in his lap. “I don’t have her phone number, otherwise I’d be tempted to call. But I am glad Stanford telephoned.”

  Lynne gazed at Laurie, who seemed nonplussed, although he tried to hide a grin. Finally a smile formed on his face. “We’ll see what comes of that. Maybe between this and when Eric gets back, Stan might change his mind. My God, what the hell’s this world coming to?” Laurie stood, then stepped to the far kitchen counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ll tell you both this: I have no idea what happens now, not in my life or yours, other than your baby and Eric coming home.” Laurie stared at Lynne, then at Marek. “And as for you, write to Klaudia, tell her there’s no time to waste. We just have no, no….” Laurie threw up his hands, then shook his head. “No guarantees about anything. Last year during the Missile Crisis I felt helpless, but this is beyond anything I can dream up. Your husband Lynne, that’s one thing. But this’s….” Laurie grew angry. “This’s a fucking waste, excuse my French. He was a good man, not perfect, nobody is, but he was a damn good president, a father, a husband, someone’s son. They’ve already lost one and now another’s dead. Thank God there’s a lot of them, but you can’t just replace him, he was….”

  Marek stood, then approached Laurie. “He was blessed by God for this task. And now we’re left in dismay, and in pain.” Marek grasped Laurie’s hands. “But from these ashes a better America will rise, of that I am certain. His legacy will go far beyond his call for space travel and such marvels. It will start here on this night, and in so many other places around the globe. Evil might triumph for a moment, but in the morning, hearts will recall his goodness and courage. In our confusion and sorrow, those are the traits we must gravitate to, making them our own.”

  Lynne felt as if the gist of Marek’s Sunday sermon had been spoken. She joined the men, then grasped their hands. Marek again spoke the Lord’s Prayer, this time in English. Lynne said it with him while Laurie remained silent, but he offered his affirmation by firmly gripping Lynne’s hand. After Marek and Lynne said Amen, Laurie did too. Then he hugged Lynne, wiping her damp cheeks. His green eyes were cloudy, but he managed a brief smile. He said goodnight to Marek, taking his leave for the evening.

  Marek didn’t stay much longer, noting that he would reply to Klaudia, most likely as early as tomorrow. He would include his telephone number, which made Marek’s eyes twinkle. Lynne nodded, her smile unhidden. “I hope she calls you, or at least writes back soon.” Then Lynne patted Marek’s hand. “I’m not surprised she named her son for you. But I am sorry he’s….”

  “Yes, it’s a bittersweet honor. But as I said, God blesses us in myriad ways. Now I wil
l be off for you need your sleep.”

  “Not sure how much I’ll get tonight.”

  “I think it will be a restless night for many.” Then Marek gripped Lynne’s hands. “Eric has no idea this has happened. I wonder….”

  “I was thinking that too. Nothing to this scale has ever occurred while he’s been away. I suppose I’ll tell him once he’s cognizant enough.”

  “Yes, all in due time. Right, that’s my cue.” Marek walked to the coat rack near the door, then put on his jacket and scarf. Lynne met him there, a tin in her hand. Taking the slices of pie, Marek smiled, then kissed her cheek. “We’ll speak soon.”

  “We’ll see you Sunday.”

  Marek nodded, then opened the door, shutting it behind him. Waiting a few seconds, Lynne then locked it. A few dishes remained in the sink, but she left them. She was tired, but her mind buzzed. Turning off the lights, she checked the fire, only dying embers remaining. She placed the grate in front of them, then took the stairs, seeing no light from under Laurie’s door. Lynne listened for Jane, but only heard soft snores. Then a mother headed to her room, shutting her door for the evening.

  In Oslo, Klaudia sat in her kitchen, no sleep having been found. She had smoked half a pack of cigarettes, and her eyes burned. News that had greeted her long after her work day was done still seemed unreal, but America’s late president wasn’t the only man on her mind. What did Marek think of all this, she wondered. And had he yet received her letter?

  Perhaps this would further delay him from writing; he was probably trying to soothe parishioners. She smirked at that idea, but soon she shivered. If she knew his telephone number, she would make a very long distance call and damn the charges. Sigrun would love that tidbit, but Klaudia wasn’t sure if she would share such an impetuous notion, for then Sigrun would never let it drop. But that Klaudia felt so compelled was significant, yet the terrible news almost demanded an evocative response. Not that Klaudia was political, nor was she pro-American. But she couldn’t get the images from her head, those of President Kennedy in West Berlin, of Jackie Kennedy in France, or countless photos of the couple and their small children. Their little boy reminded Klaudia of her son before Marek was so far behind his peers that Klaudia could imagine he was fine. Then she trembled. Marek Jagucki knew about his namesake and perhaps Klaudia hadn’t needed to share any other detail to describe her feelings. Yes, her son was a teenager now, but Klaudia’s heart was just as inclined as all those years ago. And on that early morning, her heart was exceedingly tender. Rare were such moments, she mused, lighting another smoke, inhaling deeply. She hadn’t felt this way since…. Not for a very long time, she sighed, placing her cigarette in the ashtray. She turned around, staring at the phone near the kitchen counter. How difficult would it be to call him? She wouldn’t need to use English, the operator would handle that. Then they would speak in Polish, which would utterly confuse anyone trying to eavesdrop. That notion made Klaudia smile, then chuckle out loud. But what would she say once the pleasantries were made? He wasn’t a native of The United States, she wasn’t trying to console him. How did he consider himself, she then mused. She didn’t think of herself as Norwegian, was she still Polish? Maybe they were citizens of the world, transplanted abroad due to a horrific….

  Was what had happened to President Kennedy any worse that what she had suffered, or Marek? Why were they so touched by one man’s death? He was merely one person, flawed of course, yet he was vital, or he had been. Charismatic indeed, with a beautiful wife and adorable children and a vast family who all seemed blessed. She frowned with that word, for how could one be blessed and cursed at the same time?

  Unlike Americans, Klaudia had the good fortune to know a little more about the Kennedys, or at least about their eldest daughter. Kathleen had married an English aristocrat, who had not been Catholic. Klaudia didn’t recall his name, but he’d been killed in the war, and Klaudia assumed the older Kennedys hadn’t been overly troubled by his death. Klaudia hadn’t been in Norway long when Kathleen died in a plane crash, Marek only a baby when it happened in May of ’48. Then Klaudia shivered, for she clearly recalled reading about that incident, in an English newspaper no less. Gunnar had just taken away their ailing infant, leaving a distraught mother much time to contemplate other miseries.

  Klaudia hadn’t told Marek Jagucki any of that, would she ever share such intimate memories? While pining for her child, Klaudia had wondered if Rose Kennedy at all mourned her daughter, who had gone against the family in marrying a Protestant. Maybe their situations weren’t that dissimilar, for even though Klaudia’s son was less than a month old, his health was precarious. Gunnar had told her he was doing this for her benefit. The baby would die soon enough, he’d said coldly, and best that she not grow attached.

  But fifteen years had passed, and Klaudia’s son was still alive. Would Rose Kennedy have ever forgiven Kathleen for marrying outside their faith? What rubbish, Klaudia mused, picking up her smoke from the ashtray, taking a long drag. Religion was for the weak, although Klaudia had never thought Marek Jagucki was delicate. How was he that night, she wondered, again turning around, staring at the telephone.

  Did he know anything about that family, did he feel a great loss had befallen a nation, was he thinking of her? Klaudia finished the cigarette, then stubbed it out. It was nearly five in the morning; how many hours back was it where Marek lived? She wasn’t sure, but it certainly was enough that if she called, most likely he would be awake. Maybe he was having an equally hard time finding rest. How much would a call to America cost, and might the lines be jammed what with so many trying to contact loved ones? Did she still love him popped into Klaudia’s head. He loved her, she knew that implicitly, and she had signed her letter with that sentiment attached. Could she be so bold as to….

  The telephone rang, making her jump. She trembled all over as it rang again. On the third ring she stood, deciding that yes, someone was trying to reach her at this ungodly hour. Picking up the receiver, she coughed. “Hello?” she said.

  She didn’t think how hello was similar in Norwegian, Polish, and English. Only as the speaker said the same did she realize the coincidence. And as that man asked to talk to Klaudia Lisowski Henrichsen she then knew exactly who was on the line. “Marek?” she said, her inflection distinctly Polish. “Is that you?”

  Those words were said in her native tongue, and were answered exuberantly in that language. “Klaudia, oh my goodness. Yes, it’s me.”

  “Oh my God, oh Marek!” She began to cry, feeling silly, also giddy, and so thankful that he’d had the same idea. “I was just about to pick up the phone to see if I could get in touch with you.”

  His chuckle warmed her all through. “Well, that is wonderful to hear. I received your letter today, this morning actually, before….” His pause was brief, but Klaudia felt a great power in that short silence. “Before I learned what happened in Texas. You have been on my mind a great deal today, and before I went to bed, I just had to, well, try to contact you.”

  “Marek, I just can’t believe he’s dead.” She sighed, for while that was true, even more strange was speaking to a man who for ages Klaudia had assumed was also deceased. “I suppose it’s been taken very hard over there.”

  “Yes, it’s an enormous blow. I spent the evening with friends and even now it’s still quite unbelievable.”

  A small sliver of jealously reared within Klaudia, but she ignored it, gripping the receiver. “Well, I suppose as a pastor it’s your job to look after others.”

  “Indeed, but one can only do so much.” Again he paused and Klaudia concentrated on the sound of his breathing. She easily recalled their last conversation, joking about trivial matters only youngsters would consider. Then she had told him to sleep well, and he had grasped her hand, looking right into her eyes. How brown were his, she had thought at the time, and how warm was his touch upon her skin. That memory hadn’t faded, although his voice was somewhat deeper. But the inflections were as she recall
ed. Did she sound differently, she wondered, then he spoke, but she missed the beginning of what he said. “….and so I’ll be writing back soon.”

  “What?” Klaudia cleared her throat. “What was that?”

  “I asked if you might consider a holiday to America. I realize it would be a long trip, and I don’t want to take you away from responsibilities. We haven’t seen each other in ages, but I’m willing to brave some initial awkwardness. I would be happy to pay your fare if you felt….”

  She tried choking back sobs, but the idea of seeing this man not within a painting or as a ghost in her kitchen was overwhelming. Then she grew angry at herself, for this call was costing him a fortune and she was bawling on the other end of the line. But she couldn’t speak, for never had she imagined actually laying eyes on him. Months ago Sigrun had mentioned such an outlandish idea, but only as a joke. “I, I….” Klaudia wasn’t sure what to say, but she had to speak or Marek might think she had gone off the deep end.

  “Just think about it. Like I said, I’ll be writing you soon. Maybe a trip after Christmas, if your schedule allows.”

  “Yes, I’ll think about it, certainly.” She took deep breaths, but she coughed, wishing to blow her nose. “Marek, thank you for calling. I, I….”

  “I just needed to speak with you this evening. I wouldn’t have gotten any sleep if I hadn’t.”

  “Well, maybe now I can sleep.” But she wondered how, although she yawned loudly. Then she giggled, which turned into a languid sigh. “Marek, again, thank you so much for this. I know it’ll probably sound silly, but….” She bit her tongue, dare she say it? Then she smiled at herself. She had wanted to talk to him, but he had beaten her to it. “I kept thinking how this might keep you from answering my letter. I mean, that at this time, you’d be busy with your….” She sighed again. “Church. I’m sure you’ll be very busy now.”

  “Tomorrow I do plan to accept anyone in need of comfort. But you have been in my thoughts all day. This evening a good friend reminded me that time is short and as he put it, there are no guarantees.” Marek took a deep breath, then let it out with a chuckle. “I would like to see you again Klaudia, if you’re amenable to that, and sooner would be better than later.”

  “Yes, oh yes.” She spoke quickly and only for a second did she inwardly berate herself for that impertinence. “Marek, I’ll tell you right now, I would very much like to see you.”

  Within the passing silence, she could feel his joy as if indeed he stood right beside her. “That would be delightful. For now let’s agree on a 1964 reunion, perhaps in January?”

  “Yes, January. Uh-huh, certainly.”

  “Might the end of January be all right? A sibling to the girl in the painting is due in the middle of the month. I’d love to introduce to you Jane and her little brother or sister.”

  Klaudia hesitated only for a moment. “Of course, that would be fine.”

  “Wonderful! And please let me know if another time would be better. We can make the arrangements in a few weeks.”

  “Yes, of course.” Klaudia felt slightly numb. “Marek, thank you.”

  “Thank you for writing back to me. You can practice your English in the interim,” he chuckled.

  “Uh-huh, I’ll do that.”

  “All right, I’ll say good morning to you, although my prayers are for both of us to sleep at some point soon. Keep well and warm.”

  “Yes, uh-huh, I’ll do that.” She had already said those words, but nothing else came to her brain. Then she stared at the clock; it read 5:15. “Take care Marek and again, thank you for the call.”

  “You’re welcome Klaudia. We’ll talk again. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.” As she finished speaking the line went dead. But she didn’t hang up, as though the echoes of his voice could travel throughout her kitchen. Then she gazed at the receiver; instead of a phone it was like she gripped Marek’s hand. She shut her eyes, then inhaled deeply. Exhaling, she opened her eyes, then hung up the receiver, wondering if that conversation was another figment of her imagination. She would say nothing about this to Sigrun, merely wait for a letter. If Marek put an invitation in writing, then Klaudia would consider it as real.

  Chapter 158