The Hawk: Part One Read online

  Stanford did attend the dinner that following weekend, raving about Sam’s pork chops and Lynne’s pie. By then, the Aherns’ paintings were back on their wall, and Stanford had seen the rest of that series, which filled the extra room at the Snyders’. Stanford had been awed by those canvases, but the Aherns’ had prepped him for a leap in Eric’s work. He loved the horses, was silenced by the fire scene, which like Lynne thought, seemed to emanate heat. Stanford had also cursed at Eric; how was he supposed to squeeze in another exhibit this year?

  The dealer said nothing about that over pork chops, then boysenberry pie, but he did gaze at his slice, then at Lynne. One of the paintings hadn’t been a part of new series; it was of Lynne’s knitting, although not of her doing the knitting. Eric had smiled, noting that he was hoping to start painting his wife amid her pastimes, but not at work, even though she remained a nurse. Stanford wondered why that was; Eric’s earnings could now provide for the couple, unless perhaps…. Stanford shook his head; his father had always told him to steer clear of an artist’s private life. Shared dinners were acceptable, but that was as far as Stanford went. And it worked both ways; Stanford didn’t want clients peering over his shoulder. Besides, what were a few pork chops, and boysenberries, between friends?

  And maybe, if the Aherns ever fell on hard times, they would kindly seek him out, to put their paintings on the market. Stanford had to decline very generous offers, especially for the blue barn, the details of which he had mentioned during dinner. Eric had laughed, Lynne had smiled, but Samuel and his wife had nearly gone into shock. Then Sam had chuckled, thrilled that he owned artwork that others would practically kill for. One man, in particular, Stanford revealed, would do nearly anything to add that barn to his Eric Snyder collection.

  “It belongs in a museum, if anything,” Renee had scoffed, softly twanging her husband’s ear. Then she had clucked, that those New York types didn’t understand the simple joy of sharing Eric’s work with others. They just wanted to buy it all up and….

  Stanford had tuned out; while Renee Ahern might be a good nurse, she knew little about art collectors. She seemed an odd complement to Sam, sort of brassy, certainly opinionated. Her coloring was striking, and Stanford couldn’t escape her hypnotic eyes. Then he had stared at Samuel, and for moments Stanford was fixated on that man’s irises; they were the same shade as the barn Eric had painted.

  During dessert Stanford had pondered that, and how these two couples were tightly entwined. He chalked that up more to their childless households than to Lynne and Renee’s profession. It wasn’t to do with the men’s occupations; Sam didn’t even have a regular job. He was a Korean War vet, who was very capable in the kitchen. His friendly demeanor reminded Stanford of…. Then the art dealer had excused himself. When he returned, he made noises that it was late, and he needed to be on the train early the next morning. When dinner parties stoked personal memories, it was time for Stanford to leave.

  He shook hands with both Aherns, but Lynne and Renee shared hugs, and Eric and Sam almost did. Then Renee hugged Eric, as Lynne and Sam awkwardly embraced. Stanford noted all those nuances, then he sighed when the Aherns kept what remained of the pie.

  The ride back to the Snyders’ was quiet; Stanford sat in the front with Eric, Lynne in the back seat. Stanford thanked them for including him; he had been perfectly willing to relax at Eric and Lynne’s, but Lynne claimed that Sam would have been offended if the dealer hadn’t accompanied. Plus there had been the pie, which Stanford had assumed the Snyders would bring home with them. If he’d known they were leaving it there, he would have eaten a second piece.

  As it was, he was stuffed, for Samuel was a talented chef, how Stanford thought of him. To label him simply as a cook would have been an insult, which he shared with Eric and Lynne. “He puts my Agatha to shame.”

  “He really does enjoy it, but he’s sneaky.” Lynne laughed. “He gave me his custard recipe, but I think he left out a key ingredient. Mine never tastes as good as his.”

  Stanford chuckled. “Write it down before I leave. I’ll give it to Agatha when I get home, and she’ll figure it out.”

  “You’ve got a deal,” Lynne smiled.

  When they reached the house, Lynne headed to the gate first, allowing the men to chat. Stanford again thanked Eric for including him, and asked if Lynne could also give him the Aherns’ address. He wanted to send a thank-you note, both for the meal, and for lending their paintings to the show. “But I must say, they could make a mint off of them.” Then he laughed out loud. “Actually, they should hold onto them. When Renee’s ready to retire, they’ll be worth….” He shook his head. “God only knows what that barn painting will go for.”

  “I doubt they’d ever sell, but I’ll pass that along.”

  When they reached the house, lights were shining in the kitchen, where Lynne waited. “Anyone for coffee?” she asked.

  “Oh not me.” Stanford yawned, then chuckled. “All I want is some sleep. This country living wears me plumb out.” He drawled the last words, making the couple giggle.

  “Well, you know where your room is. Just don’t try to sneak any paintings on your way. I know exactly how many are in there and….”

  Stanford laughed, and then he sighed. It felt good to be out of the city, in this small enclave. The Aherns weren’t exactly bumpkins, and Eric and Lynne could speak on most subjects. Stanford wasn’t a decade their senior, and at times felt much closer to their ages than to forty, what he would turn next year. He looked that age, what with his thinning hair, glasses, and meticulous bearing, but all of those were genetic. At least he wasn’t bald, like Samuel, or heavy-set. He would never marry, but that wasn’t an issue either. Stanford didn’t want a family, although he suspected both couples wished their quiet homes rang with the sound of children, especially the Aherns. Stanford had no quarrels with Catholics; he had no overt prejudices of which he was aware. In his business, all that mattered was art, and art was one of the most subjective topics in the world.

  As the couple made small talk, Stanford waited for a break in the conversation. He found their banter soothing, then it made him ache. Lawrence rarely left the city, busy with his own artists, but those were sculptors. The dealers rarely crossed professional paths, but perhaps that made their home life less messy. It was hard enough being homosexual, although New York was one of the easiest cities in which to live as honestly as the men could manage. Paris would have been good too, but both were too attached to their shared birthplace; no other metropolitan area was more exciting than New York. Stanford would spend his entire life based in that city, with sojourns here and there when necessary. Tomorrow night he would lay next to Laurie Abrams, telling him of Eric’s genius, and about the tastiest, although definitely non-kosher, meal he’d eaten in ages. Laurie would smile about the chops, but Stanford wouldn’t say a thing to Agatha; she wouldn’t agree to discern the missing ingredient in the custard recipe.

  “Well Stanford, you look ready to fall over. Go get some shut-eye. When do you need to be at the station?”

  Stanford smiled at Eric, who stood close to his wife. In moments like these, Stanford wished he could break that cardinal rule, but the lives of an art dealer and artist demanded separation. Yet, if Laurie was here, Stanford could ask Eric to take a walk, perhaps to the studio, while Laurie and Lynne chatted about…. “Need to be there at ten. Train leaves at eleven.”

  Eric smiled. “Punctual as ever. Ten it is. I assume you’ll share breakfast with us in the morning?”

  “You assume correctly. Too bad there won’t be any pie to eat.”

  “Pie?” Lynne stared at Stanford. “Don’t tell me you would’ve had pie for breakfast?”

  “I would’ve had another slice at the Aherns had I known you were leaving it there.”

  Lynne and Eric laughed, and Stanford did too. He was well past Eric’s absence of last month, especially since it didn’t seem at all related to a break in Eric’s marriage. Stanford had thought that perha
ps Eric had a mistress, what artist didn’t? But now it was moot, for the show was over, already another in the works, perhaps for fall. Then, depending on how much Eric painted over summer, maybe another next spring. Stanford usually kept to his tried and true methods, but at times edicts were meant to be tweaked. Not that he would share any of his private life with the Snyders, but Eric’s talent was exploding at a rate never before seen in Stanford’s tenure. His father Michael had gone to the exhibit several times, mostly to see that blue barn, as had Laurie’s cousin Seth. Everyone Stanford had talked to mentioned the structure, and how they all seemed to see right into it. Had Eric painted contents, then covered them, giving the aura of items within that outbuilding? But if he had, why did everyone see something different? Stanford wanted to capitalize on Eric’s gift while it was hot. Another show, in autumn, wouldn’t be overkill. Best to get the most from him now, while he was so talented. And so damn prolific, Stanford smiled.

  But that spring, Eric felt anything but inspired. He had cleaned out the studio, or had gotten a start, but as Lynne mentioned to Renee, it was more tidying than Eric had done in all the years they had lived there. Eric said that the place was a mess, and he couldn’t work in such conditions. But well after Stanford left, Eric was still clearing out bags of rubbish. By the end of March, the studio was spic and span.

  By the middle of April, Eric and Lynne had spoken about other aspects of their life; he wanted her to quit working. They no longer required her income, which seemed as odd as Eric’s pristine studio, and his inability to paint. They discussed that perhaps he felt another transformation was imminent, and he didn’t want to start the next series, then be whisked away. He catalogued the paintings in the house, setting aside those he felt weren’t strong enough to be shown. He gave one to the Aherns, and another to Sam’s sister Fran, who brought her youngest and oldest children for a long weekend spent with Sam and Renee. Lynne had worked while they visited, but Eric was asked over for Saturday breakfast, mostly because Fran was dying to meet the artist who had somehow brought her brother’s blue eyes to life, then thank him for the picture. The only time Eric felt inspired was during that morning; he quickly sketched Fran, her eldest daughter Sally, and baby Helene, who spent most of the time in Renee’s grasp, if she wasn’t at her mother’s bosom. Eric didn’t sketch Renee cuddling the baby, but he didn’t set aside that image. It was too poignant to forget.

  Then Eric had asked Fran if he could sketch her as Helene nursed. Fran blushed, but then laughed, that if Eric really wanted to, she would be honored. Feeling a rush within his right arm, he started quickly. Suddenly the whole scene emerged, and he inhaled deeply, trying to draw that magic into the rest of his body. But when Helene pulled away from her mother, crying loudly, Eric was depleted. The sketch thoroughly impressed Fran and Sally, and Eric signed it, then gave it to Sam’s sister. She fell into tears, which Renee chalked up to hormones. But days later, Sam told Eric that Fran was beside herself, for Helene was going to be her and Louie’s last child. To have such a gifted artist capture one of Fran’s favorite parts of motherhood, Sam said, would make it easier on Fran, as she and Louie fended off carnal desires. Then Sam had shrugged, wishing he and Renee had such problems. Eric nodded, in full agreement.

  Lynne knew of those sketches, not that she had seen the one of Helen nursing, only that of a mother and her oldest and youngest offspring. She encouraged Eric to paint it, or if not, to give that drawing to Fran. But he stewed instead, and nearing the end of April, still not a single new painting had emerged.

  Lynne spoke of this with Renee, but Eric felt awkward talking about it with Sam, and he certainly didn’t want to tell Stanford. With Sam, Eric spoke about baseball; Sam kept tabs on the Red Sox, but Eric didn’t follow any particular team. The men also discussed why Lynne didn’t want to quit work. But again, Eric trod lightly around that subject, for he knew her reasons, one being that she dreaded his next disappearance. At least if she had the hospital, she wouldn’t go crazy during his absence. Yet if she was home, Eric might be able to entice her to sit for him. She hadn’t acquiesced to his request, but she also understood the reason for his dry spell. But Eric wouldn’t guilt her into posing for him.

  One evening after the couple finished dinner, Eric said he was going for a walk. Lynne kissed him, and he left her giggly, making her lose several stitches of a baby sweater she was making for Helene. “Go on, you’re horrible,” she smiled, stroking his face.

  “Pearl one, pearl two,” he teased, heading out of the French doors.

  He got as far as the gravel, then looked back, noting that one new glass pane. Lynne had never pointed it out, but Eric had seen it as soon as he was thinking straight. He had asked Renee about it, not wishing to bring up that time with Lynne. It was surprisingly easy to speak about those days with Renee, and she explained what had happened. Now Eric wondered if he should replace the whole door; they had the money, and he was tired of being reminded of a moment that while mostly forgotten was also as much of their lives as….

  As the baby they couldn’t have, as his impending departure. Not that an absence was around the corner, but often Eric woke to dreams of his father. They weren’t nightmares; these were almost worse, for they were from before Eric had suffered his dad’s brutality, from before Eric’s foot was ruined. That incident hadn’t spurred Eric into immediately turning into a hawk, but maybe it had set later events into motion.

  Eric’s mother hadn’t told the physician how it had happened; instead Emma had blamed herself. Eric never wondered why the doctor hadn’t inquired further, but from as far back as Eric could remember, his foot was misshapen, and often sore. He wore a specially made shoe, and while it had healed better than the doctor had imagined, it was still an obvious injury. It had kept Eric out of Korea, for which he’d been grateful, Lynne too. And as he aged, the ache had lessened, which he considered might be due to his transformations. Over the years, the bones had knitted back together, not completely, but at least Eric could hike, and standing for prolonged sessions had never bothered him.

  For the last few nights, Eric had dreamed about his childhood, before that damage, but he wasn’t sure how much were actual memories and what was fantasy. His father had been somewhat kind, unless he was drunk. When Howard Snyder drank, he turned into another being. Perhaps that was why Eric changed into a bird; his father had been a beast. Then Eric shook his head, taking a deep breath. He was ready to walk to the front gate, when something glinted off the studio ceiling.

  He stepped in that direction, wondering if Lynne was watching him. Then he smiled to himself. If she would just say yes, then he could paint until the end of time. He wanted to put her on canvas, whether she was knitting or rolling out pie dough, or coming home from work. That was the other reason she wouldn’t quit. If she did, Eric would never stop pestering her.

  He entered the studio, and was again surprised by how clean it was. Then he laughed out loud. It might take ages to grow accustomed to the bare floor and how spacious it seemed. That was the biggest change; sound echoed off the walls, bouncing against the tile floor, then back onto glass like it was a church. It was his cathedral, but something was missing, and it had bound Eric’s hands. Then he sighed. He couldn’t blame this on Lynne, or his dad. Sometimes artists had dry spells. Eric had, in college, after his mother had died. He wasn’t sure he would pursue art until he met….

  “Honey, I thought you were going for a walk.”

  He smiled, then saw her, standing in the doorway. “You know me, always drawn to the garden.”

  Lynne’s smile was small. “Been a while since you’ve gone this way.”

  “C’mere you.”

  Her smile grew, then she was giggling in his arms, as he tickled her. Then he kissed her. It lasted several minutes. “I need to put a bed in here. Summer’s coming and it’s clean now….”

  “I don’t think so, I don’t care how famous you are.” Lynne snuggled against him. “But maybe, maybe….”

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sp; He stroked her long brown hair, his other hand caressing her hip. Since his return, their affections had deepened, and they were made manifest by this intimacy. Although, he smiled, making love to her in the studio was still ages away.

  He dreamed of that too, perhaps that had been the impetus behind his cleaning frenzy. He told her that, and she tapped his ear as Renee had done to Samuel. Then they laughed about that couple, and Stanford’s few words about them. Eric hadn’t been surprised by Stanford’s observations, but then, the dealer only saw the exterior of the foursome’s friendship. Then Eric sighed. “I’m starting to wonder if this fall’s show is gonna be my last.”

  Lynne stepped back, then touched his right arm. “Can you explain it?”

  “It’s like why? Maybe you feel that way about quitting work, why should you? I’m just gonna go away again and….”

  “If you really want me to quit, I will.”

  “I want to paint you, that’s why I want you to quit.” Saying the words made him feel less burdened. Then he turned away from her. “I’m sorry, just forget I said….”

  “Eric, what about this?”

  He turned to find her seated on a stool she sometimes sat on, if she felt like watching him work. Her hair hung loosely over her shoulders, and as he stared at her, something shined overhead. He glanced up, sunlight glinting, what had caught his eye, bringing him out there.

  “Oh Lynne, no, you don’t need to….”

  She put out her arms, and he joined her. She wrapped him closely, then pecked along his t-shirt. He grew hard, but it wasn’t just from her kisses. “Paint me, if you really can’t think of anything else to paint. I think you should paint Fran and her girls first, but if you can’t, then….”

  He went to one knee, staring right into her eyes. “I haven’t painted a portrait since college. Maybe it won’t be any good.”

  “Somehow I doubt that,” she smiled. “If you paint me, in here, would you paint them next?”

  “Can I paint you in the kitchen first?”

  “In the kitchen?”

  “Making a pie. I really wanna capture that.”

  She giggled, which turned into laughter. “Are you serious?”

  He nodded. “Oh yes, absolutely.”

  “Is that because I’ll need to make a lot of pies while posing for you?”

  Now he laughed hard. “Oh yeah, sure. That’s the reason. If you have enough berries left in the freezer, of course.”

  Her lower lip trembled, and he stroked it with his thumb. She put that digit into her mouth, eliciting a soft moan from her husband. Then she let him go. “Eric, if that’ll make you happy, then of course, you can paint me doing whatever you want.”

  He gripped her legs for support. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Well, let’s see how me making a pie comes out.” Her voice was soft. “And then you paint Fran and her daughters. Then….”

  “Oh my God, yes, whatever you want honey.” Eric buried his face into her lap as she rubbed his back, focusing on his right shoulder. They didn’t make love in the studio, but by the end of the evening, Lynne was standing in the kitchen, rolling out a pie crust, as Eric began outlining his next series.

  Chapter 16