The Hawk: Part Four Page 16

  A flurry of long distance calls jammed telephone lines nationwide, but early in the hours of Tuesday the twenty-third Eric finally reached Stanford. An artist and his dealer spoke only for moments, but right off Stanford made it clear that regardless of what happened, he and Laurie were staying in New York. If the Soviets were crazy enough to fire those missiles, it wouldn’t only be the East Coast in danger.

  By the end of Tuesday, Stanford’s words hung heavy in hearts all over the planet. Not since the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki had nuclear weapons been detonated other than for test purposes. Yet that horrific devastation was clear in the minds of those who could recall those incidents, less than twenty years in the past. Lynne and Renee spoke about it when Renee was home from work; how could world leaders be so blind as to the very real consequences of such insane actions? Renee said that it was because those leaders were men, then she grew quiet. Clearing her throat, Renee then told Lynne to pray. At this point, it was all any of them could do.

  Lynne and Eric did just that, aware they weren’t alone in that action. They went to church on Wednesday evening, finding St. Matthew’s packed. Pastor Jagucki gave a short sermon which Eric found very stirring for its brevity. The pastor said nothing about the Second World War, but his meaning drew straight from that event, and that people everywhere had a duty to seek peace. It would come from prayer, and perhaps in other manners. No longer were conflicts confined to a single nation or territory or even one continent. Technology encompassed the whole of Earth; no more were the days when one’s backyard was all a person knew.

  Like millions of others, Eric and Lynne tried going about their usual activities, but everything was now touched by What if? Eric’s feverish pace had ground to a halt, but those collected paintings underlined the fragility of life, in what now was being coined the nuclear age. Eric and Sam spoke about the changes wrought since Korea, that while nuclear bombs had been available, there had never been a consideration to using such damaging weapons. But something had altered, perhaps only the public’s realization to the widespread possible deployment of these terrible armaments. It was one thing to read about the destruction of islands in the middle of vast oceans. But the ruin of an entire section of America was wholly different.

  By Thursday evening, Eric had grown weary of watching television, reading the papers, or speaking with Sam, Stanford, and Laurie. Everything had been put on hold, which grated on Eric, for how two governments had effectively strangled their citizens’ lives. All it would take was one irrational man to make a phone call or push a button. Eric had no idea how Khrushchev and Kennedy were keeping in touch, but he hoped they were. The nightly news carried little insight to exactly how those leaders were talking, but they must be. Suddenly Eric felt inspired. He found his wife giving Jane a bath, then told those ladies he would be in the studio. Lynne gave him a look. “It’s awfully dark out there.”

  Eric nodded. “I know, I probably won’t be out long. I just need to….” He squatted beside his wife, then gazed at their daughter. Jane was splashing in the tub, impervious to the deep gloom that had settled over all of the adults in her midst.

  “Go on,” Lynne said. “Or you really will be painting in the dark.”

  He nodded, caressing Jane’s head, then his wife’s. Eric set a quick kiss on Lynne’s cheek, then stood, heading from the bathroom.

  When he reached the studio, stars were starting to twinkle in the sky. Eric could make out the storage building, and turning back, the house blazed with light. Yet, he needed to set something to canvas, although he didn’t wish to work in the sunroom. He wasn’t sure what bubbled inside him, other than a sense of purpose. Perhaps this was how President Kennedy felt, his hands just as tied. Yet Lynne had been right, it was too dark to work. Taking another look upwards, Eric admired the night sky, chuckling at himself. Then he walked around the studio, standing in front of the storage building. Something tugged at him from within, so he pulled the key from his pocket, opened the door, then flipped on the light. There on an easel was the portrait of Marek and Jane.

  Stepping into the small building, Eric couldn’t look away from his daughter. She wasn’t that small now, even if he’d painted this a few months before. Before made Eric shiver, for all that had occurred since this painting, right up to that very evening. Jane was inside, probably being dressed for bed, with no idea what was happening in Washington and Moscow. She had no clue as to what others had suffered since, she was only a baby. She also had no manner to discern all that had occurred to the man holding her, but for the first time, Eric had an inkling, and it made him shudder. Marek’s brown eyes glowed with an eerie knowledge, propelling Eric to step closer to the canvas. Leaving just one foot between himself and the painting, Eric peered at what he had created, but seeing far more than layers of paint. In Marek’s chocolate brown eyes, Eric saw a multitude of horrors, more than any one person should realize.

  Yet, instead of being repulsed, Eric traced around Marek’s eyes, sensing how such misery could, over time, become beauty. Eric had translated something similar, yet carrying much less emotional weight, when he painted the blue barn. Sam and Laurie and Stanford had asked how Eric did it, and there was no verbal manner in which to answer that question; Eric had simply picked up a brush, dabbed it onto his palette, then transferred those feelings onto canvas. He had done the same when painting Marek and Jane, but while Jane’s eyes held only joy, Marek’s possessed a deep well of sorrow hinting to the unmitigated catastrophe that somehow that man had overcome. Suddenly Eric stepped back, in awe of such tragedy having been healed. The loss of Marek’s entire family didn’t prey on that man’s mind, or within his soul. Marek’s soul was protected by Christ.

  The last two nights Eric and Lynne had made love, but not as they had been for the last few weeks. Lynne had purposely used her diaphragm, telling her husband she didn’t feel the timing was right to actively try for another baby. Her unspoken message had been clear and Eric hadn’t argued. The world was still a terrible place, nothing was certain. Eric had wondered if Sam’s fears about becoming a father would be exacerbated by all that was happening, but how could this compare with previous disasters in human history? If Khrushchev gave the word, would the destruction of America’s East Coast be worse than The Holocaust in Europe? Would it be more evil than what sat plainly in Marek’s brown eyes?

  For the first time since President Kennedy’s announcement on Monday night, Eric didn’t worry about his future, or Lynne’s, or Jane’s. Perhaps this was another step on his journey as a Christian, or as an artist, or simply as a man. If the very worst occurred, it wouldn’t be the absolute end of the world, for the worst had been recycled time and again. In just that century, two world wars had ravaged across much of the globe, millions of lives lost, so much desolation accrued. But in a small town on the West Coast, Eric had fashioned beautiful paintings; he couldn’t deny that. Assuming Kennedy and Khrushchev negotiated a way out of this mess, by the end of November, this painting, along with others, wouldn’t even be where Eric could see them; they would be in New York, then onto London, then to…. Eric smiled, the first real joy he’d felt all week. Making love with his wife had been a balm, but actual happiness rumbled inside him, in part from peace, and from the truth within Marek’s eyes. If Eric learned the facts one day, they wouldn’t be any more vile than what he had implied within that man’s gaze. Yet, anguish wasn’t the essence of what Eric had portrayed. Love covered all that wretchedness, so great a love that grief and loneliness and abject despair hadn’t been able to stay.

  Then Eric shivered; whatever had sent Seth to Korea was a similar kind of devastation, yet Seth hadn’t been able to fight himself free. Eric wondered if perhaps Seth had been molested, but Seth and Laurie were so close, if that had been the case, Laurie would know. Or maybe not. Then Eric considered the figures at Stanford and Laurie’s apartment. That man and woman had been fashioned by someone with a tremendous will to live and to love. Nothing dark clouded those statues, f
rom their hopeful stances to their vibrant hues. Two vivid blues of differing shades enhanced those figurines; Seth hadn’t made them in the throes of depression, but in youthful optimism. But that optimism had been short-lived. Laurie had mentioned Seth wasn’t exactly soldier material, that he’d had a few issues even before he’d enlisted. What had he thought going to Korea would accomplish, and once there, what had he seen or done that had so tarnished his soul?

  Again Eric gazed at Marek, but not at his face. This time Eric studied how tenderly Jane rested in the pastor’s grasp, almost with as much affection as Eric held his daughter. Marek had never spoken of a lover, maybe a woman had been left behind in Britain or in…. Marek had been a teenager during the war; might he have lost a girlfriend alongside his family? Eric ached to know, then he sighed, feeling chilled. He turned off the light, locked the storage building, making his slow way back to the house with as many questions, albeit about different subjects, than as when he had headed outside.

  In the morning, as soon as the sun was high enough in the sky, Eric went to the studio. He painted until lunchtime, then shared that meal with his wife and child. Lynne didn’t ask questions, but he smiled at her, speaking to Jane in a rather cheerful tone. Lynne grinned at him, then inquired about his afternoon plans. Eric wiped his mouth with a napkin, then took Jane from her high chair. He leaned back in his seat, bouncing the baby on his knee. “Actually, I think I’m done painting for the day. You mind if I run over to St. Matthew’s?”

  Lynne stared at him. “No, I don’t mind.” Then she smiled. “That’s a bit unusual.”

  “Unusual times we’re living in. I need to ask Marek a few questions.”

  Jane laughed, but her mother’s smile slipped away. Lynne fidgeted with her silverware, then she stood, taking her plate and the baby’s to the sink. Then Lynne gripped the sides of the counter. “Eric, what difference does it make?”

  “I need to know.”

  She turned around, blinking away tears. “Why?”

  “Because the world’s on the brink of disaster and I need to know how he….”

  Lynne waved her hand, then she nodded. “Whatever you feel you need to do.”

  Eric stood, then walked her way. Jane babbled and Lynne took the baby from her father. Jane continued squawking, not seeing the tears falling down her mother’s face. Eric brushed away that liquid, then kissed his wife’s damp cheek. “I won’t be long,” he said softly. “He might not even be there.”

  “I bet he is,” Lynne warbled.

  “Yeah?”

  She nodded, then sighed, wiping her face with the back of her free hand. “You didn’t go outside last night to paint.”

  Eric chuckled. “Well no, but I did paint this morning.”

  “What is it of?”

  Eric smiled. “Something that might end up in Minnesota.”

  Lynne nodded, then took a deep breath. She let it out slowly, then switched Jane to her other hip. “Well take your time, with Marek I mean. I think Jane and I are gonna sit down and see if someone’s hungry.”

  Eric caressed Lynne’s face. Since Monday she had been trying to entice Jane to nurse more, with some success. Eric knew it wasn’t related to Lynne using her diaphragm; this was solely to ease a mother’s aching, bewildered heart. Jane had no idea about world events, but Lynne knew all too well about the possibility that could occur.

  Yet, that tragedy wasn’t set in stone. Eric smiled, kissed his wife, then his daughter. “You two have a quiet afternoon. I’ll probably be home before she wakes up. And if you’re both sleeping, maybe I’ll spend the rest of the day in the studio.”

  “Better that than staring at the television,” Lynne said.

  “Indeed it is.” Eric kissed her again, then stepped back. Lynne took their daughter into the living room, leaving her husband to clear the table. After that chore was attended, Eric found his family on the sofa, Jane nestled against her mother. Lynne’s eyes were cloudy, but she smiled at him. Wordlessly Eric said his goodbye, leaving through the kitchen door.

  Chapter 77