The Hawk: Part Seven Page 6

  Early on Monday, the nineteenth of August, Stanford finalized the latter half of what was turning out to be one of his greatest accomplishments as an art dealer. None of his other clients had ever been featured at so many European galleries, nor had any of his father or grandfather’s artists. But Eric Snyder was becoming famous all over that continent, and with a completed list of venues, Stanford felt an overwhelming sense of satisfaction, that if not for one niggle would bring him intense pleasure. Well, two issues. One was bound up in Florida. The other was…. Stanford sighed, glossing over those last dates on the tour, which now were set in stone. Eric’s canvases wouldn’t return until late March of next year, not with all the Italian and French museums that had been added to the itinerary. But now those who had clamored for a chance to show the paintings were included, and woe to the Soviets who had to have heard of how gifted was this American painter. Stanford felt badly for those behind the Iron Curtain, missing the opportunity to admire his client’s talent. Then he sighed long and loud. Once again Eric was missing out on such gushing adoration. But this time Stanford would let his client make the first move.

  Stanford wasn’t going to badger Lynne, in part that she was pregnant and that…. He set the papers to the side of his desk, staring at the door. There was some element of Eric’s life that was simply beyond Stanford’s need to know. He had no idea what it could be, which before had vexed him. Now Stanford had to move past the mystery, and maybe it was good other topics existed, although Seth’s sharp decline wasn’t exactly what Stanford wanted to consider. What was worse, he then wondered, turning his chair to face the window, that again Eric had abandoned his pregnant wife or that Laurie’s cousin was in such poor straits that shock therapy was again being administered. Laurie had broken down on the phone last night, relaying that information. Dr. Sellers had no other choice, Laurie noted, and he wasn’t going to visit his cousin for a few days. Stanford had hoped Laurie would say he was coming home, but instead Laurie had mentioned doing some sightseeing. Stanford had nearly offered to fly south, but several clients needed his attention. Stanford almost told Laurie to go west, but then he didn’t want Laurie to know that Eric was gone. As far as Stanford could tell, Laurie had no idea, which further strengthened his belief that Lynne and Jane were alone. Well, they had each other, Stanford considered. And the baby, which made Stanford shudder. What in the hell was wrong with Eric Snyder now?

  Maybe it was akin to whatever had plunged Seth into the deepest depression in his life. Then Stanford smirked. What kind of life was worth living if only to be shuttled from one institution to another, having to undergo the most powerful psychological treatments, and this for the second time? Before, Stanford had felt detached from Seth’s trauma. Maybe he had made the discrepancy based upon Seth’s tenure as a vet, a realm Stanford couldn’t broach. Yet now Stanford felt an inkling of Seth’s pain, which he permitted was in part due to his own mother’s passing. The other part was from…. Stanford shook his head, but gone were the days when he could easily dismiss unpleasantries from his bearing. His sessions with Dr. Walsh were far and few between, but that shrink had made inroads toward a notion Stanford still loathed assessing. And how ironic that it was during psychoanalysis that Stanford had even begun to allow thought toward something so esoteric. A man’s soul had to be considered, Dr. Walsh had blandly said in early July. Otherwise, what purpose was there to living?

  Stanford hadn’t pondered that subject at the time, for Laurie was gone, the tour in Europe was still unsettled, Eric still dwelled at home…. The last time Stanford had spoken to Eric was right before the Fourth of July, about the time Seth was moved into the Kerr Mental Hospital. Stanford couldn’t recall their conversation, probably about adding dates to the exhibit. But he did remember that Eric sounded distracted, edgy almost, or did Stanford now project that qualifier, for now Eric wasn’t at home, Stanford would bet money on it. He hadn’t asked Lynne, or Sam Ahern. But if Stanford wanted proof, all he had to do was call Eric’s pastor, offhandedly inquiring as to Eric’s whereabouts. A man of God wouldn’t be able to lie, not even one so well-versed in discretion. Another master of subtly was that Pole, Stanford clucked aloud. How intriguing that Eric could be friendly with such a diverse range of characters.

  If Stanford asked Sam, he would hem and haw, and while he wouldn’t give up Eric’s secret, he’d make Stanford feel ashamed to be harassing him. Renee would be worse, plus Stanford still had a hard time talking to her without wishing to roll his eyes at most of what she said. Lynne would make Stanford squirm, for in her few words Stanford would feel the massive weight shouldered in being married to such a genius, not to mention bearing his children. Then Stanford grew angry; Lynne was again pregnant, damn Eric! Where was that bastard?

  Stanford stood from his chair, stepping right in front of the window. He refrained from placing his hands on the glass, although he wanted to. Yet, that wouldn’t bring Eric home, nor would it alleviate his anxiety, or Laurie’s. Damn both Seth and Eric; what in the hell was it with those two, causing Stanford so much…. He gripped his chest, which now ached with ferocity. He slumped back in his seat, taking deep breaths, feeling sick to his stomach; was he having a heart attack? He suddenly prayed that no, he wasn’t, if only not to drag Laurie north for something so wretched. The pain and sickness immediately abated and he sighed in relief. Then he inhaled deeply; what had just happened?

  Slowly Stanford wheeled his chair to face the door. Yes, he was alone, which made him twitch. Why had he thought someone else was there? Maybe he too was losing his grip on reality. That had been Laurie’s phrase, that Seth had lost his grip, constantly referring to some hawk as a he, that he needed to go home, that some woman was waiting for him. For it, but Laurie never used that pronoun when referring to the bird of prey that had arrived not long after Seth was admitted to the mental hospital. At first, Laurie had thought it an amusing anecdote, but soon he spoke about the hawk in every phone call, which Stanford made to the Goldsmiths’ home after Agatha had left for the day. The men talked nightly, mostly in that their lengthy separation was taking its toll. Never before had they been apart for so long and Stanford often woke aching for his…. He never thought of Laurie as his husband, that was absurd. Partner was occasionally used, if only inwardly, but lately lover was Stanford’s term of choice, again employed only within Stanford’s…. Then he shook, for how much he missed Laurie and for how empty his heart seemed.

  But it wasn’t merely Stanford’s chest muscle in distress; far deeper went the pain, which was how he could relate to Seth’s lapse into…. It was more than mental illness, perhaps akin to how badly Stanford had missed his mother once she no longer recognized him. He’d thought it miserable as she fell further and further away, asking who he was, then recalling her eldest child as though her memories weren’t faulty. But the worst had been when she no longer called him by name, staring at him like she’d never seen him before, then asking who he was in a fearful tone as though he was a dangerous stranger. Was that how Seth felt toward Laurie, Stanford wondered. He didn’t consider how terrible his own father must have felt, for if Stanford did that, invariably he would return to another abandoned by their spouse. And what about a little girl, living without her father?

  Stanford trembled, then reached for his glass of water, draining it. He set down the empty cup, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. At least he’d been a grown man when his mother lost her mind. There had been nothing he could do for his sisters, which occasionally he regretted, nor anything he could have done to make it easier on his dad. Sometimes people just slipped away, but Jane was so little, she didn’t even know who Eric was. He was a great painter, he was a good man, he was…. Pounding his right hand on his desk, Stanford swore loudly. Never before had his life felt so upended, how could he have lost his grip on….

  Slowly the door was opened, Emily Harold peering around the corner. “Mr. Taylor, are you all right?”

  Stanford nodded, feeling himself turn c
rimson. “Of course, just um, dropped some papers.” Hastily he glanced at the floor, noting only bits of dust. Then he gazed at the secretary, who now stood in the doorway. “Would you mind getting me more water please?”

  “Certainly sir.” Miss Harold retrieved the empty glass, filling it from the cooler there in the room. The sound of hollow gurgles made Stanford flinch, he could have easily gotten up, or could he? His legs felt wobbly, his chest resounding with echoes similar to those gurgles as the cooler was drained. He looked at it, the water line near the bottom. What he would give to leave work and find Laurie at home, waiting for him.

  But Lynne had no such luxury, and was balancing motherhood and pregnancy on top of being alone. And while Laurie had his aunt and uncle for company, he couldn’t speak freely to them. They didn’t want to hear much about Seth, and certainly nothing to do with Laurie’s…. With the man Laurie loved, Stanford huffed as Emily closed the door behind her. Stanford stared at that door, then spied the filled glass, waiting on its coaster. Had she spoken to him before she left? He hoped she didn’t think him overly rude, she must have said something, but he’d missed it. He picked up the glass, which felt cool in his hand. Slowly he sipped the water, but while his belly felt better, his chest still seemed empty. He placed the cup back where it belonged, then set his hand over his heart. It must be beating, for he was breathing. But the ache bothered him. Perhaps it was age, he was over forty now. Yes, that must be it. He was in middle age and….

  As he reached for the Snyder tour itinerary, Stanford was seized by a pain so strong, he wondered if middle age was all he was going to experience. Gripping the sides of his desk, he shut his eyes while riding out that wave, bracing himself for the next. This must be a heart attack, or perhaps a stroke he assumed, his eyelids still closed, his hands grasping smooth wood. But nothing further occurred and after several seconds, he opened his eyes, seeing a few stars, or maybe they were merely remnants of light. The room didn’t spin; it looked just like always. He glanced around, finding nothing amiss. Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught the depleted water cooler.

  Was that his destiny, to be so empty, so worn, so…. Stanford was tired of going home and finding only Agatha at the apartment. She’d been hinting for him to travel south, or even west, but under no circumstances would he call on Lynne unless Eric was there. Could he leave work right now? He glanced at the completed itinerary; it had been his biggest hurdle. His clients wouldn’t miss him for, say, a long weekend perhaps. Not that he would visit Seth or Laurie’s relatives. But Stanford needed time with…. “My better half,” he mumbled to himself. Studying his calendar, he nodded, then scribbled down notes. He would make plane reservations from home, then call Laurie. Unless all flights were booked, Stanford would spend that weekend in Miami.

  Later that week, as Stanford flew south, a letter was delivered in Oslo, Norway. The postman had been careful to watch that envelopes were collected each day, for it was the time of month that Mrs. Henrichsen made her usual getaway. She never asked for a hold on her mail, one of her neighbors gathered it for her. But the mailman always took it upon himself to confirm that indeed what had been placed in that box yesterday was in the care of someone else. He never thought the worst; this was a respectable if not older section of the city, where folks remained all their lives. Mrs. Henrichsen had been living here since he took this route, and that had been well over a decade ago. This was the first time she had received mail from anywhere outside of Norway, and as he gingerly put it in the box, he wondered if more would follow. He smiled to himself, feeling a little self-important. When he saw her next, might he be so bold as to inquire about that particular piece of post?

  That evening, a stack of mail sat in the hands of Sigrun Vang, who now stood at the door of her best friend. Sigrun had knocked once, but had a key for the house, which was three doors down from her own. The women had been neighbors for the last thirteen years, and for most of those, these were the shortest visits. Sigrun would hand over the mail, then excuse herself for a few days, during which time her friend would retreat into a world in which Sigrun never shared. Then her company would be sought out, and for the next three weeks, they would enjoy the occasional dinner, chats over weekend coffee breaks, and the daily trek to the bus stop, where they sat side by side on their ways to work. Little was said on those mornings, for Sigrun wasn’t an early bird, but on their commutes home they spoke about their jobs, neighborhood gossip, and whatever else seemed relevant. Sometimes it was politics, sometimes it wasn’t more than how slowly the bus took to reach their street. They walked together as far as Sigrun’s front gate, then said see you tomorrow, unless it was Friday. And even on Fridays, they might see each other the following day at the market or library or cafe. Oslo was a big city, but this section seemed as small as the village where Sigrun had grown up. Yet, that evening, she felt like a little girl, staring at the still-lit summer night sky, feeling no bigger than a speck of dust. She gripped the pack of mail and knocked once more. A letter from America waited at the bottom, and felt to burn Sigrun’s palm.

  She placed the letters in her other hand, tapping her foot. Just as she was about to reach for her key, the lock was turned, and the door opened. “Oh Sigrun, I’m sorry. Come in, come in.”

  Stepping over the threshold, Sigrun considered how best to share that special letter. It had only arrived that day, sitting like a beacon in the post, what with that fancy postmark, not to mention several stamps featuring Eleanor Roosevelt and what looked like one honoring the Red Cross. Sigrun didn’t know any English, and she had always assumed her friend didn’t either. They were simple women, nothing noteworthy of their backgrounds other than…. But this had nothing to do with her friend’s monthly sojourns. Sigrun cleared her throat; she didn’t wish to tarry longer than usual, her husband Harald would become suspicious. She hadn’t told him about the letter; it wasn’t anyone’s business but to whom it was addressed, Mrs. Gunnar Henrichsen.

  Sigrun had studied that greeting, funny to see her friend’s married name presented, in somewhat illegible penmanship, she would admit. No name accompanied the return address, from one of the United States Sigrun didn’t recognize. There were so many of them, she had sighed to herself in the brief moments she had examined the envelope before Harald had come home. He didn’t mind the women’s friendship, but he sometimes expressed his contempt for…. Sigrun shook her head, then looked up. Curious eyes were upon her, but a smile accompanied. “So, looks like the postman was busy while I was gone.”

  Sigrun nodded. “Oh well, just the usual.” Then she choked, inhaling through her nose sharply. The air was cold going down her windpipe and she felt ridiculous. “Here,” she stammered once she could speak, handing over the stack of mail.

  “Are you okay, do you want some water?”

  “No, no, just that dinner’s on the stove and….” Harald hated to wait for his supper, but first this errand had to be attended. Sigrun crossed her arms over her chest, watching the woman thumb through the letters. What would she do when she reached the last, Sigrun wondered, one addressed so formally, yet steeped in intrigue?

  If Harald knew of the letter, that element would drive him crazy. He hated anything different, anything strange. He tolerated the women’s friendship because on the surface it wasn’t more than hens cackling. He didn’t mind that Sigrun collected Mrs. Henrichsen’s mail, for that was what one neighbor did for another, although the reason for Mrs. Henrichsen’s absences was never topic for discussion. Actually, Harald spoke as little as possible about Gunnar’s wife, but maybe that was due more to Gunnar than his widowed spouse.

  As Sigrun considered all that, she missed how her friend had stopped examining the letters. Sigrun was lost in all of the years she had lived on this street, like no other corner of the world existed. She had met Harald on a rare visit to Oslo, during a school trip when she was sixteen. He was twenty and it had been love at first sight for both. He had implored her parents to let him court her, but once
they realized his intentions, they quickly permitted Sigrun to marry this seemingly settled man from the big city. She had outgrown their small hamlet and moving to Oslo as someone’s wife appeared like the best solution; she would stay out of trouble, or at least not cause her parents more grief. She hadn’t stirred any calamities for Harald either. They had two grown daughters, both married but no grandchildren yet. Sigrun had been a young mother, but then so had her friend, who now trembled in front of her. Sigrun felt foolish, approaching the shaken woman. “Oh sweetie, are you all right?”

  Only one letter was gripped; the rest had fallen to the floor. Yet, the envelope remained sealed, as if once it was opened, misfortune would result. Sigrun led her friend to the table, pulling out a chair, then seating her. She stared at the discarded mail, then shook her head. All that mattered was the piece still gripped tightly within the owner’s hands. Sigrun stroked those hands, which were chilled, although the room wasn’t. It felt stuffy, but the house had been closed up all week. “Do you want some water?” she asked. She was parched and would get herself a cup as well.

  The woman shook her head. “Do you have to go right away?” she asked, her voice quaking.

  “No, I mean, well, you know Harald.” Sigrun huffed for effect. Then she sighed, feeling the hint of a coming storm. It was in how stale was the air and how quiet was the room. Mail piled on the floor denoted a calm interrupted, as well as how cool were her friend’s fingertips. “I can call him, tell him I’ll be a few, if you want.”

  The woman looked up, tears all along her face. “No, don’t. He’ll get angry and….”

  Sigrun’s heart raced; very few things would rouse this woman’s sorrow. “How was your trip, did something happen?”

  Yet, Sigrun knew it wasn’t the trip to cause such upset. But what or who in America could bring this usually unflappable woman to such straits? “Listen, I’m going to call him. He can get his own dinner, it’s just waiting on the stove. And if he doesn’t like it, that’s too bad.”

  “No Sigrun, I’m okay, it’s….”

  “It’s not all right Klaudia. Now, just a moment. Then you can tell me about….” Sigrun didn’t continue, walking to where the telephone sat on the far counter. She asked for her own number, which was odd, she rarely called home now that her daughters were married women. Harald answered, and was shocked at her declaration, that she was at Klaudia’s and would be for the foreseeable future. She could see her husband, furious to have to spoon up his own supper. And he would be cross for a few days, mumbling choice phrases about how Gunnar Henrichsen never should have married that Polish…. But after a few outbursts Sigrun would cut him off, not that she would share whatever was causing Klaudia so much grief; it would be nothing Harald would care to hear.

  Yet Sigrun was very curious as to what Klaudia needed to declare, for a confession sat all over Sigrun’s best friend’s face. Sigrun filled two glasses with water, then brought those cups to the table. She placed them in the center, away from the letter, still clasped in Klaudia’s hands. “Do you want me to open it?” she asked softly.

  “In a minute. First I need to tell you about Marek.”

  Sigrun nodded. “Did something happen last week, is he all right?”

  Klaudia shook her head, nervously playing with shoulder length blonde hair. “No Sigrun, this isn’t about my son.”

  Sigrun stared at the woman beside her. Klaudia was nine years younger than Sigrun, but looked ages older, her blue eyes lifeless, deep lines along her brow, others creasing her mouth. Setting the letter aside, Klaudia reached across the table for a pack of cigarettes. She lit one, then offered it to Sigrun, who took a drag as Klaudia lit another. They smoked for a minute, then Klaudia placed hers in the empty ashtray. She grasped the envelope, fingering the handwriting. “I knew it was him as soon as I saw that painting. Nobody has eyes as brown as his.”

  “As who?” Sigrun had been the one to insist they went to the museum, but once inside, Klaudia had enjoyed herself, or she had until they reached the canvas of a pastor holding a baby. Sigrun hadn’t said anything while Klaudia stood mesmerized, nor had they spoken about it afterwards.

  Sigrun glanced at the letter, then she gazed at Klaudia. “Who is he?” she asked, her voice nearly a whisper.

  “Someone I thought was dead, someone I….” Klaudia took a deep breath, then reached for the cigarette. She smoked it down to the filter, stubbed it out, then traced her name written on the envelope. “He’s alive Sigrun, I never dreamed he was still alive.”

  Her plaintive tone made Sigrun shake, but it was her Polish inflection that caused Sigrun to weep. Klaudia spoke flawless Norwegian, delivered in a textbook intonation. Rarely did her native accent flavor her speech, yet that night Sigrun wished she understood Polish, for the tale that unfolded would have been better served in Klaudia’s own tongue, a story of lost opportunities and a horrific catastrophe rivaled only by what had happened to Klaudia’s son. Yet, his name hadn’t been given to remember a lost sibling, as Klaudia had always claimed. It had been bestowed to honor the only man Klaudia ever loved.

  Chapter 126