The Eric Snyder retrospective opened in London on the tenth of January, but the weather was brutally cold in England and over much of Europe. Still many art patrons flocked to the gallery, in part that the painter’s canvases evoked such warmth. The blue barn garnered much of the press, but then so did the nudes of the artist’s wife, and those camouflaged as nature scenes. Eric was pleased for the stunning reviews, but they were dampened by the heartache still suffered by Sam and Renee. By the time the exhibit opened, Robbie Carver had been removed from St. Joseph’s to live with his paternal grandmother in the southeast.
Eric and Sam hadn’t spoken much about it, other than the basics. Lynne and Renee had talked about it extensively. Renee had taken a break from work, and honestly, she told Lynne, she wasn’t sure she could return to the hospital. Too many gossips, she had claimed, and Lynne completely understood. Renee might look for work with a private doctor and while the job wouldn’t be nearly as challenging, it would resonate in a small office with only a few other women, and one man in charge. Renee was tired of answering to several physicians and if there happened to be a vacancy at Eleanor Salter’s practice, Renee would consider working for free.
Sam was tempted to sell their landscape if Renee felt unable to go back at all, but both Aherns were thrilled by their Christmas gift from Eric, a canvas depicting the boysenberry vines at the height of summer. Fat purple berries burst from the painting amid lush green leaves and thorny vines. That painting hung where the three hawks had resided, but the room looked odd to Renee, only that canvas and the landscape. Christmas decorations had been removed on St. Stephen’s Day, and the gifts for Robbie had been taken to St. Joseph’s by Eric and Lynne, while Sam and Renee watched Jane. None of the adults were certain if the clothes and toys actually went to the little boy; maybe it would have been too painful. But some child, or children, were benefitting from them and since then, Renee had decided adoption wasn’t for her and Sam. Trying to have a family was too risky, she had told her mother and sisters, which included Lynne. Renee assumed Sam agreed with her; he hadn’t said anything to the contrary.
The couple had discussed her work sabbatical and his continued presence at the VA hospital. They spoke about their families, the new painting, and that cold spell in England, which didn’t seem to affect the crowds flocking to Eric’s show. They talked about church, the Snyders’ new boysenberry plants, and Lynne’s pies, which were always delicious even if that Polish pastor happened to stop by. They chatted about Stanford and Laurie and even Seth, who according to Laurie was sculpting again. Stanford however didn’t seem to be pestering Eric like before, which Sam had learned from Eric, then shared with Renee. Renee added that Stanford’s mother was ailing, the news coming through Lynne’s letters from Laurie. Renee didn’t have much practical thought toward that problem, elderly care wasn’t her specialty. But both Aherns were concerned about Stanford’s father and Renee wrote a note to Michael, expressing her and Sam’s thoughts and that they sent their prayers on behalf of Constance and the rest of Michael’s family.
But by late January, the Aherns had run out of things to talk about, when it was just the two of them. Renee had given her notice at the hospital, but had decided against seeking a place at Dr. Salter’s office. Renee no longer wanted to work around pregnant women or small children. She applied at a retirement home, having received a touching reply from Michael about the quality of care his wife was receiving. But when Renee went for her interview, she spoke to a dour young man who contemptuously noted that this was a place where people went to die. Renee was so disturbed by his callous attitude that she rescinded her application, even going so far as to seek out that man’s superior. But the administrator told her much the same and while Renee was grateful Constance’s facility was good for her, this place wasn’t right for Renee.
It wasn’t good for any of the unlucky senior citizens who dwelled there, she told her husband, Lynne, and Eric. She even complained to her relatives, but her rants were taken with a grain of salt, for since Christmas, Renee’s brassiness had been replaced with petulance, bordering on bitterness. Only around the youngest in her sphere did Renee’s soft heart return; she was gentle with Jane, Johnny, and Helene, but toward Sally Renee had become snappish, admonishing that teenager to watch herself, for she was acting out of turn. It took great restraint from adults to tell Renee the very same thing.
Sam had no way to reprimand his wife, for her aching sorrow still echoed in his head. If he hadn’t waited in fall, perhaps they would have found Robbie before his grandmother located him. Renee never brought that up, but Sam was sure she considered it, how could she not? Sam had put off what would have brought his wife the biggest joy and now she was altered, perhaps he would never have that Renee again in his midst. He discussed that with Frannie, only because Frannie noted Renee’s crabbiness. But Sam didn’t wish to fully address his wife’s changed demeanor, especially around Fran. If Sam did, the true reason might emerge, and what would Sam say then?
In early February, the bitter cold lingered in Great Britain; the Big Freeze, it was being called. Britons who had managed to brave the snow and icy temperatures were sorry to see Eric’s paintings leave the museum, heading next to France. Renee found a job working as a doctor’s assistant in a relatively small practice on the outskirts of town, not far from the Snyders. She stopped by, having coffee with Lynne, noting that the patients were mostly older, only a few young families. The women spoke about the record cold temperatures in Europe, but their weather wasn’t overly unpleasant. Jane could stand alone, and seemed itching to take her first steps. But Lynne noticed that Renee’s previous excitement concerning her goddaughter was tempered. Renee might give Jane a quick cuddle, but after the expected greetings, Jane was set down on the floor, crawling away from her Auntie Renee.
It wasn’t like that when Sam visited, which Lynne and Eric remarked upon; Sam seemed to need contact with his godchild, for if he wasn’t counseling vets, he was eating pie at the Snyders, chasing after Jane. Lynne and Eric spoke about this modification between the couple, wondering how long Renee would harbor her pain.
One afternoon in late February, Eric chatted with Stanford, who seemed in a similar state of denial as Renee; while Stanford related details about the exhibit, the dealer never asked if Eric was painting. Sometimes Eric brought it up, this portrait of Jane and Lynne, or that painting of their soggy garden. But that day, Stanford had some strange news; an American poet, a woman even, had killed herself in London. One of Laurie’s clients knew her, Sylvia Plath was her name. While Stanford hadn’t read any of her work, he’d been appalled that she’d left behind two small children, one not much older than Jane. Allegedly the poet had been separated from her husband, but Stanford knew little else. Maybe the horrendous weather had played a part, he mused. Eric heard other issues in Stanford’s tone, but Eric didn’t wish to mention Stanford’s weakening mother or Seth. The conversation ended on a low note, although Stanford hoped to see the Snyders in April. Eric assured him that was still the plan. Then Eric went looking for his wife and daughter.
Lynne and Jane were playing in the nursery. As Eric stepped over blocks and books, his heart was seized with a sharp pain. He knew nothing of this poet, but one of her children was Jane’s age. Jane spied her father, then crawled from her mother, getting to her feet. Then she looked around, bemused. Eric couldn’t help his smile, but he didn’t approach her, wondering what Jane would do.
She wasn’t sure either, for she liked viewing her world from a different perspective. Yet, she was immobile on her feet, and she stretched out her arms, for balance, Eric noted to Lynne in a quiet tone. Neither parent said any more, not wishing to hamper their child’s decision. Jane seemed eager to take a step, she was eleven months old. Just as she tried putting one foot in front of the other, she shook, then was scooped into her father’s arms.
Lynne stood, then joined them. “She’s never gonna learn
that way.” Then Lynne gazed at her husband. “Honey, what’s wrong?”
Eric caressed Lynne’s face; they still weren’t pregnant, although her cycles were now back to normal. Jane rarely nursed, too busy exploring her world, which included the stairs when parents were feeling brave. Eric wanted to share what Stanford had revealed, but it seemed wrong to do so with Jane close. Then he shook his head. “Some American poet killed herself in London a few weeks ago. Stanford just told me about it.”
“Did he know her?”
Eric sighed. “No, but one of Laurie’s clients did.” Then Eric revealed the entire story, making his wife seek his embrace. Jane didn’t mind, although she began to giggle. Eric wondered if she thought it was a game, the way Mommy hid her face. Then Jane grew bored, trying to wriggle from her father’s grasp. He set her down, then walked to the open door. Eric closed it, then led Lynne to the rocker, where she sat with a plop.
Eric joined his daughter on the floor and Jane crawled to her father’s lap. Eric cuddled her, gazing upwards at his wife. Lynne brushed tears from her eyes, but still they flowed. Eric searched his pockets, but he had no handkerchief. Lynne reached for a cloth diaper from the stack, wiping her face, even blowing her nose. But a diaper was thicker than a hankie, and she sighed, placing it back on the changing table. “My goodness, how absolutely horrible,” she said. “Did he say anything else?”
Eric knew she meant about the poet, but Stanford hadn’t talked much about art either. “Just that she was separated from her husband. I suppose he’s English, but Stan didn’t say.”
Lynne stood, then sat beside Eric. A mother stroked her baby’s hair, then Lynne looked at her husband. “If something happened to one of us, she’d never remember this. All your paintings wouldn’t mean a thing, it’d be lost, all these days, this very moment.” Then Lynne sighed. “I wonder if Robbie will remember Renee and Sam.”
“He might.” Eric had pondered that, alongside the paintings he’d dreamed of creating, Renee and a little boy, and maybe even Sam too. “But you’re right, about Jane.” Eric kissed her head, then tickled her chin. She giggled, then started toward her mother. “I’m just glad I haven’t….”
Lynne nodded as the baby nestled into her mother’s lap. “But you’ll come home. This woman won’t. What was her name again?”
“Plath, Sylvia Plath.”
“Plath,” Lynne mumbled. “What in God’s name could make her do such a thing? I mean, if she and her husband weren’t getting along, but then, who knows.” Lynne gazed at Eric, then to the window, a bright blue sky in their view. “The weather’s been so miserable over there, maybe that had something to do with it.”
“Maybe.” Eric put his arm around his wife. “Stan brought it up a little randomly. I think he was trying to find something to talk about other than art.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Lynne leaned against her husband. “Was he sure she, you know….”
Eric nodded. “He didn’t say how he knew, but it was by her own hand.”
“Hmmm. Well….” Lynne shook her head. “Eric, I love you. I’ll pray for her family, her….” Lynne gasped. “Oh dear lord, her children are just babies, they’ll never know her, how terrible!”
Now Lynne began to cry. Jane had been falling asleep, but she stirred, then she too whimpered. Eric tried to console both females, but it was difficult. Then Lynne handed Jane to her father. A mother stood from the floor, grabbing that used diaper, again wiping her face. Then Lynne sat in the rocker, motioning for Eric to hand her their baby.
He did so, then went to his knees as Lynne set Jane over her shoulder, soothing her. Eric considered his wife’s words, that he would come home. And indeed, he would endeavor to accomplish that task. But not every family managed to stay in one piece. And some families…. He wouldn’t mention this to Sam, no purpose. But Eric couldn’t get Robbie from his mind. He’d never seen the little boy, but Renee had described him many times, and Eric had a mental image, which he had considered sketching, just to get it from his head. But what reason would there be to draw that child now, other than to satisfy Eric’s curiosity.
Maybe he could show the drawing to Renee, trying to release her from the shield she had placed around her heart. Just as Sam had come to terms with his demons, one day Renee would need to do the same. Not yet, Eric allowed, it was too soon. But that poet in England had felt unable to live even for her own children. Depression was real; Sam dealt with it every time he spoke to a vet. Seth had found some solid ground, but Laurie wasn’t certain it would last. Now Stanford seemed haunted by a lingering malaise, but Eric didn’t think Stan would take such drastic measures. He had Laurie, and a lot of pride, which made Eric smile. Thank goodness for that, he then thought.
“What?” Lynne asked. “What’re you thinking?”
He stood, then gazed out the window. Blue skies weren’t indicative of the season, but the garden was stripped bare. “Stanford has a lot of pride,” Eric began. Then he paused. “I’m gonna talk to Sam, about Renee.”
Eric turned back, finding his wife’s nodding head. “You should do that. I’ve tried talking to her, she’s pretty prideful too, though not as much as your art dealer.”
Eric nodded, relieved that Lynne seemed aware of his meaning. He didn’t want to speak about it, not due to Jane, but it seemed ominous, although Eric wasn’t sure why. Perhaps only because of all Seth had endured, and that maybe Eric was going to be…. Then Eric sighed. Stanford would come out of this funk, Eric had no doubt. Renee would take longer, for her heart had been wrenched out of place and she was still trying to work it back to where it belonged. It would just take time, Eric was certain, for if Sam had changed his mind, then anything was possible.
But Seth troubled Eric, probably because Eric wouldn’t need to turn into a hawk on Stanford’s behalf, and certainly not for Renee’s wellbeing. And if Eric altered form, who knew for how long he would be away? Would Jane remember him and what if Lynne was…. Eric sighed again. If Lynne was pregnant and Eric wasn’t here, who would assist her? Renee wasn’t in any shape to help. Maybe Lynne would have the baby in a hospital, maybe….
“Eric, come here.”
He glanced at his wife, who held their sleeping daughter in her arms. He approached them, taking the baby, then laying her in the crib. Then he helped his wife to her feet. They left the nursery, but remained on the landing. Eric noted the empty bedrooms, then the guest room at the end of the hall. Would that room always be for Stanford and Laurie? Eric smiled at himself, nodding his head. Stanford’s current angst was probably tied into his ailing mother, Seth, and maybe even by the Aherns’ sorrow. Both Stanford and Laurie had been dismayed by that turn of events and rightly so, just as they had been saddened by Fran and Louie’s loss. But losses came and went, nothing anyone could do to alter life’s pathways.
Eric stroked his wife’s hip. Lynne responded, and they kissed for a few minutes. “She’ll probably sleep for a good hour,” Lynne whispered.
“Good. Let’s go catch forty winks ourselves.”
“Or something like that,” Lynne smiled.
Eric nodded as she led him into their bedroom. He wasn’t sure if the doors were locked, nor did he care. At that moment, Eric needed his wife. The couple closed their door, then shut out the rest of the world. They didn’t allow reality to intrude until Jane’s cries were noted.
Chapter 87
The Hawk: Part Five Page 6