On the second Sunday in Advent, Sam and Renee went to the Snyders for dinner. Sam brought custard, but wasn’t sure what sort of dessert it might be served with. He was still suspicious of Lynne’s pies, also curious about that Polish pastor’s sense of humor. Renee had teased Sam about it for the last two weeks, but their moods had been chipper. They had met with a little boy name Robbie, who seemed to like both of them just fine. Robbie was five, with dark brown hair, brown eyes, and a rather warm smile for having lived at St. Joseph’s for the last eighteen months. But perhaps, starting in 1963, Robbie would reside with the Aherns.
Sam parked outside the gate, then quickly walked with Renee to the house. As they entered, the kitchen was warm and good-smelling, an apple pie just having been taken from the oven. Lynne smiled at Sam, who chuckled as Renee set the bowl of custard alongside the steaming pie. “Looks like they belong together,” Renee said.
“Another well-matched pair,” Lynne replied. “How are you two?”
“Good,” Sam said, still gazing at the pie. He inhaled the heady cinnamon fragrance, then laughed. “Glad to see that’s one of your concoctions.”
Lynne giggled, then gave Sam a hug. “You have every right to scrutinize that pie. Marek still talks about it.”
Sam huffed, but it wasn’t directed at Lynne, which she seemed to understand as she released him. “Well one of these days that Pole’s gonna get his.” Sam had wanted to think of a way to trick Marek, but his thoughts had then been overwhelmed by the idea of fatherhood. Robbie had seemed aloof, but only at first. Perhaps all the children at St. Joseph’s were wary of grown-ups, or maybe it was Sam. He got along well with adults and his own nieces and nephews, and Jane of course. Sam could hear her and Eric as both entered the kitchen. Jane laughed, Eric chuckled, then Jane was in Renee’s arms, receiving kisses. Jane leaned toward her uncle, stirring Sam’s smile. He hoisted her in the air as she giggled. Then she rested in his grasp, settling his heart. Robbie was much bigger, Sam couldn’t heft him around, but at the orphanage Robbie had sat beside Sam as they read a book. Robbie pointed at the pictures while Sam stumbled over the words, his heart being altered with every syllable pronounced. It was similar to when he’d first held Jane, right after her birth, scales falling from his heart which he hadn’t realized were there.
Conversation flowed around him, but Sam didn’t pay attention, in part that parenthood was now a drug needing a constant fix. Jane provided her uncle with just enough to placate Sam until he saw her again, or if he visited Fran and Louie’s clan. The other distraction on Sam’s attention was the names mentioned, of the New Yorkers. Now Seth was tightly woven into that moniker, for what he knew about Eric and all he saw inside the blue barn. Sam wasn’t sure which was more prophetic, but he accepted the weight of both pieces of information. A few times he had considered writing to Seth as a fellow vet, but not as one who knew the truth about Eric. That needed to stay under wraps until…. Then Sam had grimaced. But ultimately he hadn’t written to Seth because Sam had too many other things to consider. Robbie was top of the list and right behind that child was a gaping wall space in the Aherns’ home, and the news from Eric about Stanford’s recent change of heart. Stanford didn’t want to represent Eric any longer, or rather, he didn’t want Eric to sell any more paintings period. Sometimes Sam wasn’t sure which news was more startling, Seth’s realizations or Stanford’s about-face. Then Sam again would flinch; he was ready to adopt a child. What could be more odd than that?
But no one here called him on it, none of his family had either. Well, Joanie sometimes nudged him in the side as he chatted with one of her daughters, or when he was lost in a game of Chutes and Ladders with Johnny and Helene. Helene had no idea how to play, but Johnny was good at it and Sam couldn’t wait to play it with Robbie. It had been hard not buying that boy any gifts when Sam and Renee went shopping for their relatives. With so many relations, both of Sam and Renee’s clans picked out of a hat, choosing one family upon which to bestow presents. Sam had always sighed when Renee ended up with either Ritchie or Tommy, for those Nolan brothers had huge families. This year Renee had her sister Sandra, who only had five kids. Sam had Joanie, although he wouldn’t have minded Fran and Louie. The Canfields were so pleased that Sam and Renee were adopting, which had greatly eased Sam’s mind. In no uncertain terms Fran had told her brother that life was short. She wanted a little niece or nephew, and to get busy. For a second Sam had winced, Frannie’s tone as if Sam and Renee could actually conceive a child. Perhaps she was so used to everyone else bringing a baby into the world, or maybe, Renee had said, when Sam shared his misgivings, Fran simply accepted that while not everyone built a family in the same way, the unit was still related.
As Jane giggled, Sam gazed at her, then realized the truth of Fran’s statement. This was also his family, one he had never planned. Sam and Renee were buying presents for Eric, Lynne, and of course Jane. If Laurie wasn’t Jewish, Renee had wanted to get something for him and Stanford, although Sam had no idea what she might have chosen. Then Sam wondered if it was wrong excluding the New Yorkers merely because Laurie wasn’t a Christian; that year Hanukkah began right before Christmas; maybe they should send a little something, no more than a token. It could be a thank you gift as well, for all Stanford had done in selling their painting.
Then Sam sighed. Better to not denote that action for how Stanford was currently feeling about his career, or at least in regards to Eric. But then maybe Stanford didn’t regret the three hawks being sold for the good that money would do its former owners. Sam didn’t miss the painting, but the blank wall space was disturbing. Yet, Eric had told the Aherns a new piece would replace the hawks around Christmastime.
Sam didn’t consider what Eric might have painted; it wouldn’t be of him or a family portrait. Then Sam felt one fleeting glimmer of distress; Renee never mentioned a picture of them with whichever youngster they adopted. Not that she talked about Eric painting only her and that child either. Sam sighed, kissed Jane’s cheek, then handed her to Renee. Could he pose for Eric if perhaps a son rested in his arms? If somehow Sam had Eric’s assurance that nothing other than Sam’s physical bearing would be represented…. Eric could focus his amazing talent on Renee and Robbie, with Sam as a bystander. Eric could again translate Renee’s spectacular eyes, or capture Robbie’s beautiful smile; that boy had a charming countenance. His mother had died, his father was…. The nuns hadn’t made an issue of it, for there hadn’t been a father in Robbie’s life past the night that boy was conceived. But Sam was ready to fill that role; he ached to again hold Jane, who now crawled on the kitchen floor, not wishing for anyone to restrain her. Sam watched as she scuttled around chairs and through her parents’ wide stances as if they knew this room was an obstacle course for their mobile daughter. Then Jane laughed, heading toward the doorway. Eric went after her, hollering how sneaky she was. Sam followed them, finding Jane making a beeline for the unguarded sunroom entryway. Eric just beat her, scooping her into his arms as she wailed over an unjustly defeat. Sam laughed as he met them, then Jane leaned toward her uncle. Sam grasped her while Eric secured the gate. Jane still protested, although she snuggled against Sam’s shoulder. He closed his eyes, imagining Robbie at Jane’s age. Sam hadn’t been there then, but he would be soon enough, and hopefully Robbie would never miss what hadn’t been.
As families prepared for the holidays, Stanford took stock of his role as an art dealer. He hadn’t blatantly told Eric that he would no longer represent him, but Laurie had made Stanford’s feelings clear to both Snyders. Initially Stanford wasn’t sure how he felt about Laurie’s declaration, but it had eased Stanford’s mind, which was still burdened by all Laurie had learned on Thanksgiving. Stanford hadn’t seen Seth since that day, too busy preparing Eric’s paintings to be shipped to London. The exhibit in New York would close on Sunday, just in time for Christmas. Then the canvases would head for Britain, an
d after that Stanford wasn’t sure what would happen, although not with Eric’s paintings. Stanford had detailed notes of all the museums awaiting those canvases’ arrival. What bothered Stanford was the return of those artworks. Once they were distributed to the new owners or taken back to the Snyders’ compound, what might Stanford’s role in Eric’s life then be?
Only Laurie understood, well, to Stanford’s irritation, Seth did too, but then, what did Seth actually know anymore? And how would Seth adjust once the blue barn was removed from the gallery? That gallery had become Seth’s daily fixture, the barn the center point of his life. But Stanford couldn’t ruminate over that for long, it gave him a headache. Nor did he stop in the library, where those figures seemed to loom much larger than their size. Stanford wanted to pack them away, but that wouldn’t assuage his mood. Not that Seth would be offended; he didn’t visit Laurie in Manhattan. Seth lived with his mother in Brooklyn. Laurie’s mother Rose lived practically around the corner from her sister Wilma, the whole clan tightly knitted together within a five-block radius, which included Laurie’s older sisters, Seth’s too. Laurie and Seth had been the only males born into a family of protective, strong-willed females. Stanford was fond of Rose Abrams, but had never felt at home among all those Jewish women.
Laurie’s father Aaron had died of a heart attack just months after Stanford had met Laurie, leaving Stanford with little personal recollections of a man who had graced his son with abundant sporting talents, but little in the way of fatherly advice. But then, Laurie hadn’t needed parental admonishments, or not in the way his sisters had required their mother’s guidance. Laurie had several nieces and nephews, as did Stanford, but neither man was particularly close to those relatives. Well, Laurie was more attached to his, which Stanford attributed to Laurie’s religion, although the Abrams and Gordons weren’t pious Jews. Laurie was the least observant, yet since Thanksgiving, he’d mentioned that he was going to send Jane something for Hanukkah. Not eight nights’ worth of gifts, he’d wryly stated, but a small brown bear had found its way into the apartment, making Agatha smile. Stanford had sighed, for he wished the Snyders would have traveled for the exhibit, although it was definitely for the best that Eric had not seen his dealer on opening night. Stanford had kept that to himself, but remarked that Jane would indeed enjoy her one Hanukkah present.
Stanford hadn’t felt compelled to choose anything for Jane. Christmas wasn’t more than a day off from work, well, a couple of days’ break. That year it fell on Tuesday, so actually, Stanford wouldn’t get to the office until Thursday, allowing Emily Harold a few days with her family. New Year’s Day would preclude any real business the following week, but now Stanford wasn’t sure what real business meant. His heart hadn’t been in any of it since speaking with that obtuse collector at the opening of Eric’s show.
In the comfort of his home, Stanford could consider that moment as if he now stood outside of it like a bystander. He could see the man’s affected mannerisms, his boorishness an offensive odor, unduly irritating Stanford. That hadn’t been the first time Stanford had dealt with such peevishness, nor would it be the last, although it might be concerning Eric’s canvases. Stanford didn’t imagine he would start 1963 looking for new employment; his father would send him to a doctor, wondering if Constance’s mental deficiencies were now troubling their son. Most likely Stanford would die as an art dealer, for no other Taylors would follow him. But how to proceed without the burning eagerness to scout out new talent, then showcase it appropriately? The love of art no longer drove Stanford, instead replaced by a rote awareness of commitment to his clients. It wasn’t only Eric over whom Stanford felt this way, a few others having earned a healthy dose of Stanford’s respect. But it was over Eric whom Stanford most ached; he never wanted that man to part with a single painting unless Lynne and Jane were starving.
Yet, unless Eric became a compulsive gambler or fell into another harmful vice, the Snyders would never again be concerned with finances. For that Stanford was grateful, permitting his acumen had set up that family for life. Laurie had tried to ease Stanford’s mind, that if he hadn’t taken on Eric in the first place…. But while Stanford’s head knew that was the case, his heart throbbed in a place not previously noted. Sentimentality hadn’t before intruded in Stanford’s life, other than the pain he felt over his mother’s failing health and the sorrow that caused his father. Not even Seth had put such a strain on Stanford’s soul, then he shook his head. His soul, what was that? He grimaced, then smiled. Eric might have an argument waiting if Stanford mentioned such drivel.
Stanford hadn’t revealed any of this to Eric, only Laurie had. But Eric knew and Stanford was sure Lynne did as well, probably the Aherns too. And for as much as Stanford liked Lynne, Sam, even Renee, he only cared what Eric thought. But that man had said nothing, which grated on Stanford, although he knew the reason for Eric’s silence. Eric was waiting for Stanford to bring it up. Only then would Eric make his feelings known.
Damn artists, Stanford rued. Either they were emotionally draining or they subtly wormed their way under Stanford’s skin. He stood abruptly, then left the living room, where a fire had crackled all afternoon. Snow fell outside, but that hadn’t meant much to Stanford. It was the time of year for poor weather, it was Christmastime.
Stanford reached the hallway, gazing to the left, but he didn’t wish to even walk past the library. Instead he went right, slipping into the dining room, hearing Agatha’s hum from the kitchen. Laurie was busy with a client and wouldn’t be home for dinner. Agatha was making stew, which Stanford loved and could easily reheat for Laurie if perhaps his supper was cut short. Stanford imagined that wouldn’t be the case; Laurie would be out late, leaving Stanford alone in their usually cozy apartment. But since Thanksgiving, or more precisely opening night of Eric’s exhibit, this house hadn’t felt right to Stanford. He knew why, but simply couldn’t face Seth’s figurines.
Stepping into the kitchen, Stanford nodded to Agatha, then sat at the table. She didn’t speak, but brought him a cup of coffee. He grasped the mug with both hands, then sipped slowly. The brew was just as tasty as it had been that morning, but it was a fairly fresh pot; she had started it when he returned, just before lunch. What use had it been to sit in his office when nothing felt correct? But coming home hadn’t helped either. Stanford didn’t like the ambiguity which had infiltrated his entire sphere.
If work was difficult, home was a balm. Home was rarely troubling, only when his mother had first fallen ill, or when Seth was…. But Seth would now always be this way, as would Stanford’s mother. Would nothing in Stanford’s life ever be as it was supposed to?
His sigh was long and it made Agatha turn his way. “You all right?” she asked flatly.
“No, I’m not all right.” Then Stanford sighed. “Thank you for the coffee.”
She nodded, humming while stirring the stew. Then she approached him. “You wanna talk about it?”
He shook his head, then felt himself begin to nod as if his heart was betraying every other fiber of his being. He couldn’t stop himself, which led Agatha to pulling out the chair beside him. But she kept her distance, sitting a few feet away, crossing one leg over the other. Stanford now found himself staring into her deep brown eyes, gray hair in tight curls framing her relatively unlined face. Agatha Morris had served Stanford for many years and while he knew her exact age, she appeared a good fifteen years younger. The women in his life couldn’t hide from time, yet this one defied it, and did so beautifully.
But she didn’t grasp his hand, she wasn’t his mother. Yet Agatha knew him better than his mom ever had, fully aware of his weak spots, and his deep love for Laurie. Somehow she even realized his current anxiety, for her kind but reserved eyes permitted him the necessary space. He needed to speak of this breach in his usual armor. Not Agatha nor Eric nor anyone else could draw it from him first.
But how to talk about
something so, so…. Stanford almost clucked as the word ethereal passed through his mind. Ethereal conjured intangible notions, which at this time of year beckoned to religious events, Christian and Jewish. Then Stanford chided himself, for what were Santa Claus and dreidels truthfully? Just amusements, nothing more, and certainly not meaningful when it came to….
He glanced at Agatha, who was still facing him. She looked as young as Lynne Snyder, but that was impossible. Stanford blinked, then gazed at the stove, where the flame barely glowed. His stomach growled, which made him flinch. Yet Agatha said nothing, she didn’t move a muscle. She wasn’t going to say it either; Stanford had to make the initial move.
But speech wasn’t necessary as now his belly spoke for him, grumbling loudly. Agatha stood, then returned to where dinner waited. She spooned him a generous portion of stew, then brought it to the table, placing the bowl in front of him. She added a plate of crackers and a glass of milk, which made Stanford inwardly sigh. He felt like a five-year-old, but how much of that was his own truculence?
He ate a silent dinner, then thanked her for the meal, taking his bowl, plate, and cup to the sink. His coffee mug remained on the table, but he left it, then exited the kitchen. He wandered around the apartment, wishing for Laurie. Then slowly Stanford walked to the library. He didn’t enter that room, but stared at the door, which felt like gazing into Agatha’s eyes. Why was he being so, so, so…. Several adjectives popped into his head, but was it stubbornness or sullenness or…. It was fear, he finally admitted, but not aloud. Yet, fear gripped him, although he knew not the cause. However he permitted the sensation. Maybe that was the first step.
But while realized, fear kept him from opening the library door. Instead he turned around, returning to the kitchen, finding his coffee cup where he had left it. Agatha was at the table, eating her dinner, and she met his gaze. She wanted him to join her, why she hadn’t taken his cup to the sink. But then he’d left it there; had he been hoping for another chance to spill his guts?
That thought made him twitch, but he sat, then sighed, fiddling with the cup’s handle. He had confided to Agatha previously, about his mother, Seth, and work. But with work, it had never been more than a manner in which to vent about unreasonable clients or overbearing collectors. Often it wasn’t more than gossip, which Stanford wouldn’t have permitted with anyone other than Laurie or his parents. Yet it hadn’t been his parents for years; Agatha was Stanford’s sole female confidant. But did he trust her enough to speak of such an intimate notion?
This seemed just as sensitive as if he needed to bare his soul about Laurie. His soul…. Stanford huffed. “When you’re finished in here, feel free to leave early. I’ll put the stew away and….”
To his shock, Agatha gripped his hand. “I’ll leave when I’m good and ready to.”
Their eyes met and Stanford wanted to wrench away from her grasp. But he couldn’t move, could barely breathe. Then Agatha released him and only then did Stanford take a breath. The air was cold going down his windpipe, the rush of it into his lungs making him jerk. He inhaled again, feeling a hint of that forced action, then again, but now it was the simple smoothness of an involuntary organ doing its job. As air flowed in, then out again, peace returned within him. Then he nodded at Agatha. “Do as you like. I’m going to retire early.”
She raised her eyebrows, but didn’t speak, nodding her head. Suddenly all within Stanford was set right, how had it seemed so wrong? Of course Eric would sell more paintings. The prices would continue to skyrocket, which made Stanford’s heart pound. They were only paintings, even if Lynne was the focus, or maybe Jane or….
A sick dizziness rushed through him, making Stanford grip the sides of the table. He shut his eyes, wishing the world would stop spinning, wishing Agatha would again grasp his hand and that Laurie was clutching the other. But no one came to his aid and the swirling didn’t stop until finally Agatha spoke. “Stanford, do you want to talk about this?”
He shook his head, for there was nothing to discuss. But the nausea persisted, as well as the lightheadedness, Stanford couldn’t stop them. He couldn’t get the image of Jane and that Polish pastor from his mind, or Lynne on the stool, or any of Eric’s most valuable canvases, the blue barn flashing in Stanford’s head. None of those would ever be sold, they couldn’t be. They were the essence of Eric’s, of his, of that man’s…. Eric’s soul was encased within those layers of paint, carefully laid across canvas, now burning a hole in Stanford’s queasy stomach. Did he have an ulcer, was that from where all of this stemmed?
The next thing Stanford knew was a glass of Alka-Seltzer bubbling near his lips. “Drink this,” Agatha ordered. Stanford took small sips that weren’t as delicious as her coffee. But hopefully this concoction would offer some relief. He drank most of it, then slumped back in his seat, still unwell. Agatha again sat across from him, but now lines etched her forehead, framing her mouth. He ached for her anguish, which was unmistakable. And for the first time, he realized, he had caused her such pain.
She was pained, but not at him. “Thank you,” he mumbled. “I’m not sure what happened just now.”
She clasped his hand in hers, which made him shiver. “I’m sure you do know. But that’s for you to sort.”
He gazed at her quizzically, but again she raised her eyebrows. Then she stood, smoothing down the wrinkles in her apron. “You know, I am gonna leave early. Laurie’ll be home eventually, he can look after you.” She glanced at the stove, then back to Stanford. “Shall I put the stew away?”
“Yes please,” he stammered.
She nodded, then did so. Stanford watched her the whole time, then ached as she stood beside him, saying goodbye. He wished to escort her to the door, but was too weak to stand. Instead he remained at the kitchen table, hearing her footsteps as she walked through the dining room. Those footsteps grew fainter until Stanford could hear them no more.
Chapter 85
The Hawk: Part Five Page 4