For two weeks, Lynne managed to keep Eric’s absence to herself. It didn’t help much that Renee knew, because they couldn’t speak about it at work, and now Lynne felt the weight of Renee’s guilt. Renee didn’t like lying to her husband, but Lynne had told her to tell Samuel the truth. Renee had scoffed at that idea, but it didn’t ease Lynne’s mind. And when she went home to a quiet, cold house, the despair was even worse. After the initial few days, which Lynne had weathered many times before, each morning and evening seemed endless. She took extra shifts, but invariably she was home alone. When Stanford called and Lynne was there to answer it, she nearly blurted that her husband had abandoned her. It was the truth, but also a lie, and Lynne attempted to bridge that gap as best she could. “Well Stanford, as soon as he gets back, I’ll tell him to call you. Yes, I know the show is just ten days from now. But he told you he might not be there for it and….”
And the worst part of it all was how uncertain she felt. Had he been injured, or what if that long stretch made it impossible for him to revert back into a human being? Lynne pushed away those thoughts, staring at the telephone, wishing she could contact Eric, send some kind of message. Did he ever ask passing birds to fly to their property, but even if he had, in the middle of winter, Lynne wasn’t outside to receive those missives. She stared at the repaired French door, rain falling hard just beyond it. She had married him knowing he wasn’t like other men, she had accepted so much in loving Eric Snyder; she did love him, missing him at night, in the morning, even at work, because she knew he wouldn’t be home when she stepped from the bus. Initially she had continued taking public transportation, not to arouse suspicion. Now she went home with Renee, who dropped her off at the house, instead of Lynne trudging along their gravelly road in downpours. Before, Eric would have collected her from work, or waited at the bus stop. Before was a word Lynne tried to avoid. She wasn’t sure at all about the future.
She knew few things for certain. The show would go ahead as planned, whether or not the artist was in attendance. Lynne wouldn’t travel in Eric’s stead, but she had monitored the paintings as they were carefully packed, then put into a truck. Renee had done the same when the Aherns’ two pictures were removed, and she lamented their absence. And, she said half-jokingly, she hoped the art dealer wouldn’t sell them by mistake. Lynne trusted Stanford, and felt badly about lying to him. She felt worse when Sam Ahern stopped by, telling him once again that no, Eric wasn’t around. Or that he was busy, in the studio. Which was empty, cold, and as forlorn as Lynne herself.
That afternoon, alone in her house, she pondered previously unconsidered notions. If Eric didn’t come home, she had power of attorney, and was his designated beneficiary. But those chilly details were about all she knew. Stanford was expecting record sales, not that he often talked to her about money, but without Eric to run interference, Stanford’s joy spilled over onto the artist’s wife. Lynne had listened with half of her attention, trying to balance her husband’s possible fame and fortune alongside her isolation. Or was it his probable notoriety, should he not return. Then she shook her head, stepping to the French doors, pressing her palms against the glass. For a few seconds, when Renee learned the truth, Lynne had traced the poky shards, contemplating suicide. Not that telling Renee had been particularly difficult; it had been harder on Renee than on Lynne. But the thought of life without the man she loved had turned Lynne’s stomach. Money didn’t matter, celebrity was useless. At night she crawled into their bed, shivering, and woke again just as chilled. He wasn’t there to talk to, he wasn’t there to hold. He wasn’t there, which now bothered her more than what he was at that moment, a hawk. But she had never realized that before: before. She hated that word, because before implied an afterwards. Now Lynne wasn’t so sure afterwards was waiting for either of them.
Rain pelted the ground, and inside the studio, the noise would be deafening. A few times in summer they had stood under those glass panes, pummeled by a thunderous roar that had nothing to do with thunder itself. Eric loved it, Lynne tolerated it. If she stepped out there now, not only would she be soaked within a minute, but the studio would be freezing, and he wouldn’t be next to her. Could she live without him, if these two and a half weeks lingered into four weeks, a couple of months, a few years…. How long did Lynne have without Eric beside her?
She hadn’t sliced open her wrists in front of Renee mainly because Renee would have stopped the bleeding. Lynne wouldn’t do it now; smashing glass during a storm would make an utter mess, and there was still the exhibit to consider. She wanted Eric’s transitory paintings to receive their due. Hordes of canvases waited in that extra room, but if he never came back, what would she do with them? What would they mean if he was…. Not necessarily dead, although if he was dead, she would never learn of it. But if he never came home, as a man; Lynne hadn’t cried for him since right after the paintings were collected. Had she wept for his work, as well as him? Finished canvases were right above her head, but they carried no importance if he wasn’t there to add to them.
All that remained of Eric Snyder were those paintings, and Lynne sighed. If she killed herself, no children would be harmed by their departures, most of their parents were dead. That left Renee and Sam, maybe Stanford too. The Snyders had a very small circle, but the love they had shared was so encompassing, who needed more people? Lynne sighed, then stepped from the doors, heading into the kitchen. She made a cup of tea, then sat at the table, flooded with a previously unknown relief. It was just the two of them for a reason. Perhaps children would have been the biggest mistake of all.
Ten days later, Samuel Ahern considered driving over to the Snyders’, but once again, he stayed at home, stewing. Eric had been gone for nearly a month and while Lynne’s initial excuses had eased Sam’s mind, now he was tired of her lies. And those of his wife; Sam felt that Renee knew where Eric was, but for some reason she wouldn’t tell him.
Sam stood in his living room, staring at a blank wall. He had grown so used to reveling in those paintings that he still wasn’t accustomed to their absences, and he wasn’t used to Eric being away either. Lynne seemed fine, then he grimaced. She had lost weight, looked haggard, and her voice always seemed right on the verge of tears. He had seen her yesterday, at the market. Before Eric left, it was the men to meet up for groceries, not that they had planned it, but maybe it bolstered them in a store crowded with women. They would head up and down the aisles together, checking their lists, but Sam was a better cook than Eric, or maybe Sam just like to eat more than a slender but fairly healthy painter. Or at least Eric had always seemed in good shape.
Sam carried extra pounds, but before Korea he had been slim, well, stocky, but not pudgy, as he’d been since 1953. For the last seven years, Sam Ahern carried weight that he knew he should lose, but Renee never complained, and she wasn’t exactly skinny. They liked to eat, and he enjoyed cooking, and if he wasn’t helping out at the Veterans Hospital, Sam was home, waiting for Renee to return. Sam and Eric were a lot alike, in that their wives held steady jobs, while the men farted around, or Sam putzed about. Eric had a gift, and Sam ached for that blue barn and the scared mice; those mice were frightened, but Sam hadn’t wanted to see it. It had reminded him of combat; had Eric understood that when he gave them that painting?
Eric had said it was about the kingfisher barn, a structure the same color as Sam’s eyes. Not that Eric had thought about that when he painted it, but that as the painting developed, the blue became the focal point, or it was to the artist. To the recipient, the barn was life-like. If Sam stared at it long enough, he could see inside it, tools and hay and horses. It was a barn for a tall gelding, a gentle mare, perhaps some ponies for children. The blue evoked a family farm, coziness, home. But the mice meant something else.
The mice were soldiers, some brave, some unaware, some terrified. Sam had encountered all those types of GIs during a service to his country that had left him maimed and…. He shook his head. He and Renee had been married a f
ull year before he left, and she hadn’t gotten pregnant then. During his first months at basic training, he had waited for her to write, telling him she was finally expecting a baby. Right before being shipped overseas, he had gone home for a weekend, and Renee had been in the middle of her cycle. Then in Korea, he waited for her to write with good news, but letters came, with nothing special being shared. After two months, he accepted it. Once his tour was over, they would be sure to make an Ahern.
Few things were worse than being an infertile Catholic. All of Sam’s siblings, Renee’s too, had kids. Sam had expected to add to those broods, wanting Renee’s amazing eyes on their daughters, his blue irises for their sons. They would have had as many as God wanted them to, until it became apparent that God hadn’t wished any offspring for them at all. Sam had grown used to infrequent and spontaneous erections, but his orgasms were always dry, utterly worthless in trying to conceive a baby. Making love with his wife whenever it happened to occur was a blessing, but he still wasn’t comfortable with being a childless Catholic. And since possessing Eric’s barn painting, the fear of warfare had again clouded Sam’s dreams. Then Eric Snyder went missing.
Eric wasn’t painting in his studio, not in this nasty weather. He wasn’t hiking in it either. He wasn’t napping or reading or anything of the sort. He was missing, and now that Sam had the proof…. That morning, Stanford Taylor had called the Ahern residence. He wanted to know if Sam had heard from Eric, because Stanford had grown weary of pestering Lynne, and the show was scheduled to open that night. Sam lied as best he could, because the last he had been told, Eric had taken a sudden trip to New York, to be present for that first evening. Renee had mentioned this two days ago, when Sam had again badgered her. Not that he liked nagging his wife, but since she had spent that long afternoon at the Snyders, Eric hadn’t been seen or heard from by anyone.
Sometimes people slipped away, without any last goodbyes. How many soldiers had Sam watched get blown into bits, but those deaths hadn’t been vanishing acts. Yet to their families, it was how those men had faded from…. They went to heaven, even if they weren’t believers. Sam never said that to anyone, not even to Renee, but he couldn’t imagine anything else. Any man on a battlefield had earned the right to rest in Mary’s arms, the Son’s long and healing shadow erasing the physical ills and emotional wounds. Not even the Nazis escaped Sam’s clemency; they hadn’t known any better, well, the leaders had. Maybe Hitler was in hell, leaders of the SS too. The rest were safe. They had to be for what they had suffered.
But where was Eric? He hadn’t gone to Korea, due to his bad foot. Against Renee’s objections, Sam had enlisted, for he had been too young to fight in World War II, and patriotism ran deeply within his family. He had assumed that upon his return, parenthood would fall upon him and Renee like it had the rest of their brothers and sisters, sometimes like a plague. Her brother Ritchie had nine kids, Tommy had eight. Sam’s oldest sister Fran was pregnant with her seventh, but she had married late, and was already forty-three. Sam didn’t keep track of all the nieces and nephews, but Renee did, and they attended baptisms and first communions whenever possible. He was a godfather to a few, but not to any born after he came back. Yet Sam hadn’t pulled away from those to whom he was godfather; when he wasn’t counseling other vets, or cooking for his wife, he visited with or wrote letters to those nieces and nephews who called him Uncle Sam, always with a giggle afterwards. The bonds he shared with them were stronger than with the rest, just like the relationships Sam still had with those from his platoon, and with another man who understood life without children. But for some strange reason, even here in America, one had disappeared on Sam Ahern’s watch.
Sam stepped into the kitchen, wondering if Eric was dead. And if he was dead, was he in Mary’s arms? Then Sam shook his head. Eric wasn’t dead; Lynne wouldn’t be so stoic and Renee wouldn’t be so furtive. But Sam didn’t think they knew where he was, just like Stanford Taylor had no idea. When Sam had hung up the phone, he felt miserable for lying to that man, then he wanted to wring Renee’s neck. He also wanted to wring Lynne’s, but that wouldn’t give him answers. And it would have made for more explanations. Then Sam smiled. Killing in war was permissible, but not outside such conflict.
He stared at the clock; in half an hour he would pick up Renee from work. There was no time to run over to the Snyders to check on Eric, not that it would have done Sam any good. But now, Sam had leverage. It didn’t make him feel much better; he would have to confront his wife, whom he adored. Rare were the times Sam was angry with Renee, life was too short for such nonsense. Besides, God wouldn’t appreciate it, and Sam wanted to stay on the right side whenever possible. But Eric Snyder was out there somewhere, like those with whom Sam had laughed, bickered, wept, and prayed. Some had slipped from his grasp, and even when he saw them again, it wouldn’t be as he had seen them before. Sam didn’t fear death, not after Korea, but he liked life, even if it was complicated and unpredictable. It was also wickedly funny, warm and tender, and sometimes it was spent making love with a woman that now Sam would have to nag. He would nag Renee about this until she told him the truth.
He waited until they got home, because she was tearful, although the pounding rain had concealed it from the women with whom she stood under the hospital’s awning. Or maybe she hadn’t needed to hide it from them. Sometimes a nurse’s job was exacting, no way to keep out the less stellar parts.
After they were home, Sam poured her a shot of whiskey, which she downed as quickly as any military man Sam had known. Some in Renee’s family were drinkers; her brother Ritchie liked to whoop it up at family parties, Tommy did too. Renee used whiskey medicinally, but sometimes it covered more than colds. She didn’t ask for a second shot, and Sam didn’t pour her one.
They curled up on the sofa. Sam glanced at those empty spots on the wall across, then he cleared his throat. “Honey, I wanna ask you something.”
She nodded, snuggling against his chest. “Whatdya wanna ask me?”
Her voice was soft, and he smiled. She was in the mood, not that he would get much out of it, then he grimaced. He took great pleasure from her bliss, and even a little of his own satisfaction. But that would happen later, unless he made her so mad that she didn’t want him to…. “Renee, where’s Eric?”
“What?” she said in a dreamy voice.
Sam winced. She wanted him to make love to her, which might stir something for him as well. It had been a while, a long while, now that he thought about it. Not that thinking about it would do any good, although not thinking about it wasn’t exactly helpful. Then Sam sighed. “Renee, where’s Eric Snyder?”
“What?” Now her tone was that of surprise. She sat up, her eyes like stop signs. “He’s….”
“Don’t tell me he’s in New York for the show’s opening. His dealer called here today, wanting to know if I knew where he was.”
There, he’d spilled the whole kettle of fish. Sam felt better for sweeping aside the bull, but Renee’s face registered more than her little white lie. Sam smiled at her momentary shock, but her eyes remained like warning flags. She stared at him, and for a moment Sam wished he hadn’t said anything. Then she blinked, her pupils shrinking, her mind spinning. Sam knew that from how long he’d loved her; he could read her the same way he peered inside that kingfisher barn. How had Eric painted that structure so accurately, allowing Sam to depict its contents? Maybe in the same way he’d painted those mice, the fear of death powerful in their haunted little eyes.
Death didn’t translate in Renee’s gaze, but anxiety did, and now it made Sam’s stomach roll. “Renee, what in the hell’s going on?”
“Sam, don’t ask me, all right?”
Sam took a deep breath. “Renee, he’s not in New York, so where the hell is he?”
“Did you tell him that, the dealer I mean?”
“No, I didn’t. I lied to him, just like you’ve been lying to me.”
Sam’s voice was pained. Harassing his wife mean
t admitting that she had withheld facts, and he preferred that even less. Or maybe nagging her was worse, he wasn’t sure. Either way, his heart ached and his guts churned. Then he felt dizzy. If Eric wasn’t in New York, and he wasn’t at home….
“Just tell me Renee. I don’t care what it is, just tell me what happened to him.” This was how mothers, fathers, and wives, brothers and sisters had felt when the knock landed on their doors, and in their souls, when a man Sam had once stood beside no longer stood beside him. Sam had cradled a number of dead men, closing their eyes at times, feeling their lungs give out, their wounds too hideous to overcome. Was he trying to channel Mary, was he hoping to give Catholic comfort? One of his best friends had been a Baptist, and had always accused Sam of sneaking in any little Catholic ritual, as if Sam was converting the dead. When Josh was hit by sniper fire, Sam had risked his own life to pull him to safety, but safety was relative, because Josh had a dozen holes in him, life pouring out while Sam said The Lord’s Prayer. Josh was still alert, trying to smile, as Sam cried out for a miracle. But none occurred that day, and afterwards, Sam didn’t attempt to get close to anyone. Anyone could disappear at any moment.
Befriending Eric and Lynne had been different. This wasn’t Korea, and Sam couldn’t live in isolation. He hadn’t pulled away from Renee, or his family, or even his godchildren. “Where is he,” Sam repeated. “Just tell me, okay?”
She shook her head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I did, so what’s the point?”
“Whatdya mean I won’t believe you?”
Renee sighed. “Sam, he’s…. Oh good grief, I don’t know where he is. Neither does Lynne, okay? We don’t know and….”
“Did he leave her?” Please don’t say he left her, Sam plead inwardly. “Renee, what’s going on?”
“I can’t tell you any more than I really don’t know where he is.”
“You can’t or you won’t?”
She rolled her eyes, making Sam shiver. “I can’t, because if I did tell you, you’d think I’d lost my mind.”
“But you could tell me, is that what you’re saying?”
“What I could tell you is beside the point, because the point is that I don’t know where he is!”
“But you do know something, correct?”
Renee got off the sofa, shaking her head. “Sam, please, just drop this because I….”
He joined her, grabbing her upper arms. “Renee, just tell me!”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“Sam, it’s, it’s….”
“It’s what? He’s what Renee, tell me right now!”
For several seconds both breathed hard, this being their most vociferous argument in a long time. Sam couldn’t recall their last fight, or what it had been about. Probably something far less important, for his heart pounded, he still felt sick inside. Eric was another of his brothers, not by war or faith but what they couldn’t give their wives, by Eric’s unnatural absence, by…. “Renee, for God’s sake, tell me.” Sam crossed himself. “Forgive me Father, but honey….” He started to shake, just like he had when Josh stopped smiling, then quit breathing. No matter how many times Sam had seen death, it never became less traumatic, always demanding some part of his soul. “Where is Eric, Renee?”
“He’s out there, flying around somewhere, who knows where? He’s a hawk Sam, does that make you happy? He turned into a bird, I swear to God, and he’s out looking for his father.” She said it quickly, and a little hysterically. Shaking off her husband’s grasp, she stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest. Then she smirked. “Now, you tell me you believe me, okay? You tell me: All right Renee, that’s all I wanted to know, the truth. The truth,” she huffed, tapping her foot. “The truth is that Eric Snyder turns into a bird. He does, I watched it happen. He turns into a hawk, flies away, then comes home and turns back into Lynne’s husband, the very same man who painted those pictures.”
Renee motioned to the blank wall. Then her lip trembled.
Sam couldn’t move, but he did glance at where she pointed. Her words bounced inside his brain, not making sense. Then he swallowed, his throat dry. He needed a drink, a shot of whiskey perhaps. Two maybe, several possibly. Sam wasn’t sure how many, but after a couple, he would probably figure out just how many more drinks were necessary.
Chapter 10
The Hawk: Part One Page 9
