In July, Sam saw very little of Eric Snyder, except for three evenings, all spent at the Snyder residence, which Sam thought was now more like a showplace. He did appreciate their larger kitchen, but he missed the coziness of the small living room. Sam had enjoyed fine conversation with Eric during those get-togethers, as their wives chatted separately from their husbands. The men had explored the grounds; Eric showed Sam where next spring, part of the thicket would be removed. To the left of the studio, Eric pointed, another acre would be cleared, although Eric and Lynne weren’t quite sure what they were going to replace it with, other than more boysenberries, Eric had laughed, leading Sam back to the house. Eric had deftly avoided the studio, and Sam hadn’t gazed that way, not wanting to see any nudes of Lynne.
Sam knew that was what had kept Eric and Lynne so busy; Lynne had told Renee, and Renee mentioned it to Sam, in passing. By the end of July, when Sam bumped into Lynne at the grocery store, Sam had set it out of his mind. Amongst canned fruit and vegetables, Lynne was her usual self, although she seemed tired. They made small talk, that Sam would love to fix dinner for them one evening, and Lynne quickly agreed, noting that July had slipped away too fast. But Stanford and Lawrence were coming on Friday, the eighteenth of August, and Sam should save Saturday the nineteenth for a barbecue.
He nodded, then others stepped into the aisle, all women, Sam realized. But Lynne didn’t seem eager to leave, and they moved their carts so people could pass. “It’s been too long since we got together,” she sighed, then smiled. “But I know Renee’s been busy and….”
“You’re still getting the house put back together.”
“Something like that.” Lynne giggled, then she gazed at him. “Whenever you want us to come over, just say the word. Or give me a day, so I can make a pie. I think we’ll fill a lot of that extra land next summer with berries. Lawrence wrote to me, wanting to confirm I’ll make plenty of pie while they’re here.”
Sam laughed. “Well, I suppose that means extra custard, correct?”
“Indeed. Depending on what you and Renee have going that weekend, we’d love to have you join us on Sunday too. They’re not going back until Monday, so….”
Sam had stopped listening, staring at Lynne’s face. Dark circles hung under her eyes, and she wore a kerchief over her hair. She looked like a housewife, but not the sort he normally encountered at the market; Lynne seemed bedraggled, then Sam blinked. It had nothing to do with Eric’s transformations. This time, Mrs. Snyder was changing.
Before, her appearance had always been tidy, keeping in line with a nurse’s mantra of cleanliness. But now she had embraced the role of the artist’s wife, stealing time to buy the necessities, then returning home to be her husband’s muse. Her smile was fetching, for she didn’t care how she looked, only that she and Eric had something to eat at the end of the day. Their lives weren’t like others, and while Sam’s wasn’t either, he had routine to keep him occupied. Lynne and Eric’s schedules were wholly unlike regular people.
They stayed up late, Sam imagined, then tumbled out of bed when hunger woke them, hunger or more passionate urges. Maybe they ate a large breakfast, then spent all afternoon in the studio, only returning to the house to eat and…. Sam smiled, pleased for their newfound lifestyle. Not everyone had to punch a clock, and Eric was a brilliant painter. Lately Sam had been studying the three hawks staring into the sunset, as well as an unassuming landscape that Eric gave to them last year. But there was nothing simple about the thin trees and small brook and scattered wild animals, the brushwork so delicate, new details emerging every time Sam stared at it. Eric’s talent set him apart, and Lynne was now fully wound into her husband’s magic. Then she spoke, stirring Sam from his reverie, but her question was so odd that he wondered if he had made it up in his head. “What, whatdya say?”
She stepped close to him, then cleared her throat. “I was wondering if I could go with you and Renee to mass this Sunday. I’ve been meaning to ask, but things keep cropping up and….”
“Of course, my goodness, certainly.” He smiled, then chuckled. “Lynne, that would be wonderful.” He felt giddy inside, then realized she hadn’t mentioned Eric. “Would it be just you or….”
“Just me. I’ve spoken about this with Eric, and he thinks it’s a lovely idea. I just want to, well….”
“See what’s there.”
She nodded. “Is that all right? I don’t wanna appear as a voyeur, but….” Lynne closed her eyes. For a moment she swayed, and Sam wondered if she might faint. She took a deep breath, gripping the side of her cart, then she smiled. “Goodness, maybe that was a sign.”
“Are you okay?”
“Just felt a little lightheaded. I’m sure that was a sign.”
“Maybe,” he chuckled. “Would you like us to pick you up? It’d be no trouble.”
“Yes, that would be fine.” She again inhaled deeply, then nodded her head. “I didn’t eat much breakfast this morning. We woke late and….”
Sam stifled a laugh. “Well, maybe you should just get what you have, and call it a morning.”
Lynne stared at the few items in her cart. “I need to bring home more than this or we won’t have food for dinner.”
“Tell you what. Give me your list, and I’ll get the rest. You go sit in your car, and I’ll follow you home.”
“Oh now Sam, that won’t be necessary.”
He took the grocery list from her hand. “I won’t take no for an answer.” Sam set her few groceries into his cart. “Go on, catch forty winks. That way I’ll get to say hello to that husband of yours. Haven’t seen him enough this summer anyways.”
She nodded, then hugged him. “Thanks. Maybe I’m coming down with something.”
“Model flu,” he whispered.
She giggled, grabbed her handbag, then headed toward the entrance. Sam left the empty cart, and began shopping in earnest.
Eric thanked Sam for looking after Lynne, and while Eric walked her to their bedroom, Sam put away the cold items. He had purposely not bought any for himself and Renee, hoping to chat with Eric, and the men did share a cup of coffee on the new patio. Eric said little, other than taking up Sam’s dinner invitation for that weekend, and reiterating Lynne’s invite for the Aherns to join them when Eric’s dealer was in town. After Sam finished his coffee, he made his excuses, and Eric didn’t press him to stay. They would chat in another day or so, to arrange a time for dinner on Saturday, then Eric gave Sam two twenty dollar bills, to cover the shopping. Sam almost didn’t take them, but Eric insisted. Sam drove home, slightly worried about Lynne, but eager to tell Renee that they would have a guest on Sunday morning.
Eric walked back to the house, glad that Sam had been at the market that morning. Lynne hadn’t looked well when she left, but he had been painting, and they had nearly run out of food. If they weren’t working, either in the studio or occasionally in the sunroom, they were making love, which incorporated a variety of places, but most often it was in their bedroom, or under a ceiling of glass, separating them from the outdoors by the slimmest of margins. Both sported suntans, and often Eric painted in the nude, no reason to put on clothes when at a moment’s notice he might gaze at his wife and need to touch her. One caress invariably led to another, why they had so badly needed groceries that day. Who thought to shop when entangled in such bliss?
That was why she hadn’t yet joined Sam and Renee for church; they had simply been too enraptured in each other. And then there were the paintings, which now filled the studio. His initial slow pace had given way to a flurry of canvases, in a multitude of styles. But perhaps that was indicative of all the ways Eric loved his wife, which streamed from his right arm through brushes onto flat surfaces, yet Lynne emerged as a three-dimensional vision, or that was how Eric saw her. He vacillated about whether or not to share a few with Stanford and Lawrence. Not the first paintings, for those were only for the artist and his wife, not that they were vulgar, but so intimate in what the couple had shared throu
ghout their relationship. But two that Eric had recently completed might be acceptable; in one, Lynne sat on the stool, her arms spread wide, her eyes shut. Her smile was beatific, her head pointed toward the heavens, light pouring down on her from right overhead. He had purposely obscured her from the waist down, focusing on her outstretched upper limbs, and her intense bliss. Eric thought it was one of the most meaningful pieces he had ever painted.
In the other, she was standing at the studio’s back wall. Her hair, now to the middle of her back, reached her buttocks in the picture, and she shielded her eyes, gazing into the thicket. Eric had depicted the entire length of her body in dipping afternoon light, but the greenery just outside the windows was vibrant, the contrasts evoking some memory of when he had left her. He had ached to return, but nature could not be denied. Still, she kept watch for him, and when he showed her the finished piece, she had nodded her head, silent tears trickling down her cheeks.
Eric stepped in the house and could hear her soft snores. He smiled, then walked to the studio, where they did spend nearly all of their time. They used the sunroom in the evenings, for he loved portraying her in the fading light; he wanted to paint her in every conceivable fashion. But the studio was where he captured her best, and afterwards, the love they made seemed even more powerful. In this space, he acknowledged, they were the true essence of their existences. If the opportunity arose, Eric would paint other scenes. But he could happily spend the rest of his life interpreting his wife. And now, with seven full months separating when he had last changed into a hawk, perhaps that was the key. Painting Lynne kept him as a human being, and Eric hoped those five months apart last year were the last they would have to endure.
He stood in front of those two canvases, then nodded to himself. If Lynne agreed, Eric would share these pictures with Stanford. Eric wouldn’t sell them, but perhaps he would exhibit them, in a couple of years. The show in October might be the last one for a while, and Eric hoped the canvases would fetch good prices, for that income would sustain them until he produced a series carrying less personal significance. Then he shook his head. If he got his way, the next series wouldn’t be sold either, although it would be shown. Eric smiled, staring at his wife’s outstretched arms and Cheshire cat grin. Then he paused, gazing at how he had painted her breasts.
He had used a hue similar to the light pink tulips for her nipples, but suddenly that shade seemed incorrect. It wasn’t the light, for it was nearly noon, and he squinted, then peered closely at the canvas. Had he misrepresented the color? He wasn’t that much of a perfectionist, but he had meant to match it as closely as possible to that first canvas he had painted of her, months ago. Curious, he headed to the house, still hearing her steady snores. Quietly Eric took the stairs, then slipped past their closed bedroom door, entering the storage room. All of these canvases would be heading to New York, after Stanford had given his final approval.
Eric carefully pulled that canvas from its slot, then propped it on an easel. The light wasn’t bright enough for him to compare, and he grimaced. If he took it from the room, he might wake Lynne, but the desire to know was overwhelming. As quietly as he could, he hefted the canvas down the stairs, placing it in the sunroom. Then he fetched the other canvas, setting it alongside the older painting.
The poses weren’t identical, nor was the light the same when they had been painted, yet Eric’s vision was very keen, as was his memory. But clearly the shades were different; her nipples were darker in the actual nude, and they were larger. Then he tapped his left foot. No one else would be able to discern the changes, for in the first painting, Lynne’s breasts were a creamy wheat field, her nipples a bright spray of tulips. But Eric knew her body very well. If she wasn’t upstairs sleeping, he would ask to see her upper torso. Then he shook his head, nearly sprinting to the studio. His most recent canvas might answer his question.
But that painting only demanded further inquiries; Lynne lay on her back, taking up the length of the sofa, but her breasts seemed curvier to Eric, and he had painted her nipples an even darker shade of pink. He stared at the image for several minutes, wondering if he had subconsciously chosen a deeper hue, or had her nipples changed color? Then he walked back to the house, but didn’t go in the sunroom. He made himself a sandwich, then sat at the kitchen table, looking at the calendar, hanging on the near wall.
July had been a quiet month, and Eric had appreciated that morning’s chat with Sam. Otherwise, the Snyders and Aherns had hardly seen each other, compared to before. Then Eric smiled. Now when he used before, he couldn’t help but hear Lynne’s thoughts about how brutal she had once considered that word. It was as if they had spent all of July exorcising what before used to mean, perhaps they had needed to be shut away from the rest of the world. In those moments, whether he was painting or she was posing, they were discovering a new level of affection and purpose within themselves and in their marriage. Now it was time to step back into reality, or what they needed, which was contact with friends, those local and some faraway. Eric considered Stanford as his friend, although maybe Stanford might not see Eric that way. And Sam was Eric’s brother. Their morning chat had been brief, but fulfilling, and Eric looked forward to a longer visit on Saturday, which as he peeked at the calendar, was the twenty-ninth. August was right around the corner, an entire year gone by since Eric left his wife and friends for the longest sojourn of his life.
Eric finished his lunch, then took his plate to the sink. Lynne was still asleep, and he smiled, then again peered at the calendar. It was devoid of engagements, and he lifted that page, seeing Stanford and Lawrence in ink for the middle of August. Then Eric returned to July, which looked so empty. Yet it had been filled with revelations for a husband and wife. Still, something nagged at Eric, all those blank squares, day after day. Paintings waited in the studio, it wasn’t like they had been idle all that time. But something was missing, something was….
He turned back to June, scanning the few items, some in pencil, a few in pen. Lynne had gone to the dentist, a few lunch dates with Renee were scribbled. Then he noticed five consecutive X’s, starting on June eleventh, ending on the fifteenth. They weren’t larger than dots, in the left-hand corner of the squares. Lynne kept track of her period that way, also on a calendar in their bedroom, but the X’s were larger upstairs. Down here no one would notice, not that they had many visitors, maybe only Renee would have seen it. Lynne marked both calendars, and had done so for years. Her cycles were regular, although occasionally she had an odd long stretch, but six weeks had passed since….
Eric blinked, then flipped the sheet back to July. He couldn’t remember her being on her period this past month, and he scrutinized every date, finding no mark whatsoever. His heart pounded, and he steadied himself on the edge of the nearby counter. He didn’t allow the notion into his head; first he needed to see the calendar in their bedroom. Maybe she had forgotten to mark this one, or felt it was no longer necessary to note her cycle in two places. But Eric distinctly felt it had been a good number of weeks since any break in their sex life had occurred. Lynne didn’t like making love until she was fully over her period.
Then he looked overhead, where she was still sleeping. She never napped in the daytime, not even with all their extra activities. Sometimes Eric caught forty winks, and while he did, she was knitting in her chair, watching him sleep, or that was what she said when he woke. She would join him on the sofa, and they would curl into each other, talking about the upcoming show, or that she was still fearful of calling Lawrence Laurie. Then they would laugh, still nestled against one another. All summer long, whether builders or gardeners were present, Eric had felt a deep connection to his wife, but he had chalked it up to painting her. Yet, what if?
He smiled, then chuckled at himself. Then he took the stairs, but not quietly. He reached their bedroom, opened the door, noting a break in Lynne’s snores. She didn’t stir, however, which was fine with Eric. He stepped to where a calendar hung, near her dresser.
Not a single X was visible.
He flipped back to June, noting a large X from the eleventh through the fifteenth, the same dates as downstairs. Then Eric silently counted the days; on that Tuesday, the twenty-fifth, forty-five days had elapsed since her last period. He breathed evenly, but again his heart raced. Then he turned to see her starting to move. He closed his eyes, wondering if she knew.
Perhaps she had forgotten, or maybe she was aware, but not believing. She could have assumed she’d skipped a month, was waiting for August. Perhaps she hadn’t wished to alert him, instead keeping it to herself. Eric smiled, taking lively steps to their bed. “Hey, how are you?” he asked quietly.
Lynne blinked, then rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?”
“After lunch, sleepyhead.” Eric sat beside her, and she nestled against him. He stroked her head, the deepest sense of fulfillment rushing through every part of him. But he wouldn’t say anything, for she was still drowsy. He leaned down, kissing her cheek. “I love you. Did you dream anything?”
She shook her head, then sighed. “Well, maybe something about ponies.” She met his gaze. “Did you eat?”
“Yeah. You hungry?”
She nodded. “Did Sam leave?”
Eric laughed. “Hours ago. But we’re having dinner with them on Saturday. Did you mention going to mass with them?”
“Yeah, well, I think I did.” She sat up, then looked around the room. Eric gazed at the calendar. He had left it on June, and he wondered if she could see that. Maybe not, for she was still lethargic.
“Eric, you okay?”
He met her gaze, then stroked her face. “Uh-huh. Listen, why don’t I make you some lunch?”
She nodded. “That would be wonderful. Then I think I’ll take a shower. Sam was looking at me funny, probably noticed I wasn’t my usual self.”
Eric shivered, then smiled. “Well, you do look a bit….”
“In need of a bath,” she giggled, running fingers through the front of her hair. “Tell you what. I’ll shower, then come down for lunch. Then maybe we can….”
She laughed in a husky tone, making Eric hard. He kissed her gently, but she sought more, and within a few minutes, they were entwined on the bed. Then she pulled away, laughing again. “I need to pee. And I am starving. You go cook, I’ll shower, and then we can….”
He smiled, moving from the bed. “Whatever you want honey.”
Eric helped her to stand, remaining in that spot until she stepped into their bathroom. After she closed the door halfway, he returned the calendar to July, then headed down the stairs. He wasn’t sure what she suspected, however his instincts were certain.
Chapter 31
The Hawk: Part Two Page 9
