It wasn’t until Stanford was settled in his large leather chair at work that he opened the most recent letter from Eric. The Snyders were arriving in a matter of days, and once they were within the apartment, Stanford was actually taking off two weeks. He’d been working long hours since his mother’s death, in part to not have to think about it, but also because for the first time in years, Stanford was planning a vacation. Often he considered his jaunts to visit clients as minor holidays, but this time he would be out of the office for ten working days, and only in the most severe emergency was Miss Harold to call him at home. Stanford couldn’t even imagine what catastrophe might develop causing Emily to take such drastic measures; if half of his client roster suddenly died, that might be permissible. But that was about as farfetched as Seth changing his mind and staying here. Seth was leaving in two days, on Friday. The Snyders were arriving on Monday, the first of April.
Stanford glanced at Eric’s thoughts, which encompassed three sheets of paper, but the dealer wasn’t quite ready to discern the information. Instead, Stanford studied the large calendar that covered his desk, noting several appointments earlier in the month that he had missed due to his mother’s passing. Miss Harold had moved the more important meetings, cancelling those Stanford could skip. Thankfully he’d had plenty to attend to after the funeral, which now would come to an abrupt halt for the first half of April. Stanford didn’t know all that he and Laurie were slated to do with Eric, Lynne, and Jane, other than a trip to a toy store and an outing to visit Rose Abrams. Stanford wasn’t looking forward to that because it wouldn’t simply be Laurie’s mom; it would be Seth’s mother and God only knows how many other Jewish women all clamoring to hold Jane. But Stanford would go, in that he might be allowed to slip away with Eric to talk shop. Let Laurie and Lynne deal with Rose, Wilma, and the rest.
Stanford’s father was looking forward to the Snyders’ arrival; Michael had spoken about that just days ago, when father and son shared lunch together. They didn’t speak about Seth, for what was there for Stanford to say? Instead they chatted about a topic far more pleasant, and to Stanford’s surprise, his father seemed quite lighthearted. All the Taylors were still touched by the death of their matriarch, but Stanford had been shocked at how his mother’s illness had rendered them helpless. Now when he talked with his father, Michael exhibited a newfound strength. Melanie no longer sounded so melancholy, nor did Stanford’s other sisters. And just yesterday, Laurie had remarked how much better Stan looked, not so ashen-faced. Stanford thought it was due to the weather, which was brightening up, perhaps in time to impress the Snyders. But inwardly he had to admit that no longer did he worry about his mom. She was dead, but perhaps that was better than the life she’d left behind.
Stanford didn’t smile with that notion, but he didn’t sigh either. He cleared his throat, then began reading Eric’s letter. The greetings were typical, as Eric sent Lynne’s best, then he included a story of Jane’s latest achievement, which was to eat an entire slice of peach pie. Stanford blinked, then reread that sentence. Peach pie, a whole slice? Quickly he scanned the next statement, in which Eric explained that the piece had been small, but that yes, Lynne was baking peach pies, and that while the fruit was only from cans, the results were fabulous. And that she was eager to borrow Agatha’s kitchen to bake one for Stan and Laurie.
Eric actually wrote out that nickname like he was one of Stanford’s closest friends. Stanford set the sheets on his desk, rubbed his eyes, then picked up the first page of the letter, going over it from the beginning. Eric’s penmanship wasn’t different than in previous correspondence and he usually started off with some piece of news. Well, with a story, but recently Stanford had found them to be quite entertaining. This one was dissimilar, however, in that Stanford’s heart felt an ache, but not in a painful manner. It was anticipatory in nature, with a youthful eagerness attached. And oddly enough, it wasn’t related to peach pie, although the idea of such a treat made Stanford’s mouth water.
He loathed thinking it was tied to Jane, but he conceded she was the impetus for his sentimental feelings. Then he read further, that Eric had been busy working in the sunroom, but would move to the studio when they returned home. Stanford nodded to himself, glad that Eric was still prolific. Then again he paused, another sentence stopping him cold. When Eric got back to the West Coast, he would begin painting Sam’s portrait. And that of Sam’s new car, which Eric wrote was a Chevy Bel-Air. Stanford knew very little about automobiles, Eric might as well have said it was a Rolls Royce. But Sam Ahern featured in an Eric Snyder canvas? Stanford leaned back in his chair, placing the paper on top of the remaining two sheets. He adjusted his glasses, then leaned over his desk, reading those lines again. Eric would move to the studio in May and paint Sam Ahern’s portrait.
Stanford’s first visual made him chuckle; how would Eric get that car, regardless of how large or small, into the studio? Then Stanford took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He wasn’t going to capture Sam and his car within the Snyders’ compound. Not that Stanford had any idea where Eric would depict such a scene; maybe the Aherns’ driveway would serve as the locale. But spring would have arrived, a perfect time to be outdoors. Eric liked to paint in natural settings when the weather allowed. But what on earth had occurred to allow for Sam to give consent to serve as one of Eric’s subjects?
Then Stanford felt shaky. He stared at the coffee mug, but instead chose to drain the glass of water beside the coffee cup. Then he picked up the mug, but his hands trembled. He steadied himself, sipping the coffee, his eyes closed, his heart racing. What did he care if Eric painted Sam was Stanford’s initial thought. And why did Stanford realize the enormity of that decision?
How deeply did the Snyders and Aherns rest within Stanford’s consciousness? Maybe Laurie had said something about the Aherns, how Sam wasn’t in any of the paintings Eric had done of Renee a couple of years ago. That must be it, Stanford mused. He’d certainly never inquired about such an issue. Yet, his heart pounded, his hands felt clammy. Sam Ahern was going to be a subject for Eric’s gift. Just how would Eric depict that man?
Stanford took several long inhalations, then finished his coffee. Then he returned to reading the rest of the letter, which wasn’t more than Eric’s observations of spring foliage and how fast his daughter was growing. Her Polish was improving, which again gave Stanford pause. Then Stanford clucked aloud as Eric also noted how he too was beginning to understand some of Marek’s native ramblings. That was about as likely, Stanford thought, as if he could discern another dialect. Then Stanford wondered if Eric had made any more paintings of that pastor. Stanford knew of two, the one on display overseas, the other hanging in the church kitchen. Eric had taken a snapshot of it, then sent it to his dealer, lamenting that while the photo didn’t capture the true essence, it was a very nice piece.
Two paintings of that pastor, whom Eric and Lynne had known for a relatively short time, but only now was Sam agreeing to sit for Eric. Stanford couldn’t get that news from his mind. He couldn’t wait to tell Laurie, then rued that he hadn’t read this letter last night. He’d wanted to wait until he was at work, then again he grimaced. He hadn’t wanted to share this with his partner, for reasons that at the time weren’t exactly clear.
Laurie hadn’t complained; he’d received a note from Lynne and had eagerly revealed all those details, which centered around Jane’s latest accomplishments. Funny that Lynne hadn’t mentioned this business about peach pie, or perhaps she’d specified to Laurie that it was to be a surprise. Yet Eric mentioned it on the first page. Stanford then had to wonder if Lynne had also told Laurie about Sam in a painting. She rarely wrote to Laurie about Eric’s work, but this meant far more than merely another canvas.
Still, Stanford was peeved at that insight. Why was it such a big deal, not that Eric had written about it in that manner. It was merely another fact, but Stanford couldn’t tre
at it lightly. This was the biggest news Eric had shared since…. Well, in a very long time. But what bothered Stanford the most was his own reaction. Why in the world should he care whose portrait Eric painted?
Stanford returned to the rest of the note, finding nothing of significance. But what could be of greater consequence than what Eric had already relayed? Stanford wished for another glass of water, but felt too shaky to stand. That also bothered him, but he defied his body, slowly getting up from the chair, weakly walking to the water cooler to the right of the door. He filled the glass, then drank from it, dribbling a little water along his collar. Shaking his head, he filled the glass again, but this time took it to his desk. He returned to his seat with a plop, then wished that he’d stepped outside his door, asking Miss Harold for another cup of coffee. Glancing at the clock, Stanford sighed. Emily would be checking on him in another five minutes for that very reason. He could call for her, but didn’t wish to infer that he needed anything.
That thought made Stanford smile. He was still seeing Dr. Walsh, only because to cancel the appointments would be more work than Stanford wanted. What would his shrink make of Stanford not wishing to call attention to his needs, or more intriguingly, what would Dr. Walsh say if Stanford brought up Sam Ahern? Stanford retrieved a black diary from his left desk drawer, where he kept his private schedule. His appointments with Dr. Walsh were noted, four during the two weeks he was taking off from work, plus another two per week for the rest of April. Stanford wasn’t sure if Eric knew about those, maybe Laurie had mentioned it. Laurie hadn’t minced words a week ago, that since Stanford’s mother had died, a son was feeling better. Maybe Laurie had thought he’d been discreet, but Stanford hadn’t been more than ten feet away when Laurie shared that detail over the telephone. How would Stanford work those appointments into his days when the Snyders were staying in the apartment? Maybe he could cancel them, perhaps he didn’t need to see a shrink anymore. If Laurie felt he was better, wasn’t that enough?
As the door opened, Stanford placed the diary back into the drawer. Emily Harold stepped into the office, a fresh mug of coffee in one hand, the day’s mail tucked under her arm. She smiled, setting the post on the desk, then replacing the empty cup with the full one. “Is there anything else right now Mr. Taylor?”
Stanford gazed at the young woman; she was twenty-six and had been his secretary for four years, replacing his longtime assistant when Mrs. Jamison retired. Miss Harold was efficient, and Stanford expected to keep her in his employment until he retired. Or until she got married and left him. He shivered, then smiled back at her. “Nothing more at this time. Thank you for the coffee.”
She nodded, but looked taken aback. “Oh of course Mr. Taylor, you’re more than welcome.” She scurried to the door, carefully closing it behind her.
For a moment Stanford was bewildered by her reaction. Then he sighed to himself. Rare were the times he thanked anyone for anything. His father had harped on that for years, but Stanford hadn’t felt the need for false gratuities. He paid Miss Harold’s salary to do just these tasks; why should he offer additional acknowledgments? Why were these notions even within his considerations? Not that Stanford was boorish, but he wasn’t lavish with complements, except to his clients. All of which were men, he then realized. Yet, he was generous in praising Lynne’s baking prowess, but to do otherwise would be beyond rude. Still, Emily made very tasty coffee, and it was always fresh. By the afternoon, it might be a little cool, but to start another pot would be wasteful. Stanford wasn’t tight with his money, but he was practical. Maybe if the coffee was as good as Agatha’s, Stanford might insist upon a second pot, but as it was, the coffee was perfectly acceptable and….
Never in his entire life had Stanford been so introspective. Business had been his sole concern until he returned home, where Laurie was often waiting. One day would end, another would begin, and once again Stanford’s attentions were all to furthering the cause of great art. Maybe he had allowed that aim to overshadow other aspects of life, not that his relationship with Laurie ever suffered, or that with his father. But Stanford couldn’t escape how other issues, namely people, had intruded. One was missing, but his mother hadn’t been a part of Stanford’s life for many years.
But in her stead an entire family now stood and to Sanford’s chagrin, not only the Snyders. The Aherns too, mainly Sam, who was going to appear as one of Eric’s subjects. As Stanford gripped the mug’s handle, inhaling the familiar aroma, he again glanced at the letter on his desk. Not wishing to burn his tongue, Stanford took small sips while pondering the weight of that revelation, looking forward to sharing it with Laurie later that evening.
Laurie spent his morning with a client, then he took a taxi to Brooklyn. Not that he thought he could change Seth’s mind, but he felt compelled to at least see his cousin before Seth flew on Friday. Seth would be in Florida for six weeks, what Laurie pondered as the cabbie negotiated traffic. When Seth came home, what sort of man would return?
Seth had made one drastic change; he’d finally cut his hair. Aunt Wilma had been badgering him about that unruly mane, mostly in the terms of how Uncle Mickey wouldn’t understand. Mickey Goldsmith was Wilma and Rose’s youngest brother, a real Jew, what Wilma would say with a smirk. His wife Sheila mostly kept Kosher, one of their daughters lived in Israel, and the family was surrounded by Sheila’s relations, some of whom had escaped Europe before the start of the war. Many in Sheila’s family spoke Yiddish and if Laurie regarded his female relatives as cliquish, they were nothing compared to the insular nature of Uncle Mickey’s clan. Or, as Rose and Wilma clucked, the Feinmans. Sheila Feinman Goldsmith might have been born in Brooklyn, but her outspoken relatives all considered Miami as home. Now Mickey Goldsmith did too and the only way Wilma and Rose ever saw their little brother was if they traveled to South Florida.
Laurie couldn’t remember the last time his Uncle Mickey had visited New York. Maybe for Laurie’s bar mitzvah, he smiled, as the taxi pulled up in front of Aunt Wilma’s house. Laurie barely knew his Florida cousins, for Mickey and Sheila had moved south as soon as Sheila was pregnant with their first child. That young woman, Tovah, had chosen to go to college in Jerusalem, and had met her husband there. Tovah came home occasionally, but wouldn’t be there during Seth’s visit. Laurie knew that, about the only other detail Seth had revealed.
Aunt Wilma didn’t know much about her son’s itinerary, for Seth had kept his schedule to himself. Laurie didn’t even know for how long Seth had been planning this getaway; Laurie didn’t merely consider it a trip. Seth was removing himself from New York, getting as far as possible but still within familiar territory. Although, Laurie grinned, as he paid the cabbie, Uncle Mickey’s realm wasn’t anything like Aunt Wilma’s domain.
Laurie didn’t have anything against Aunt Sheila; he truly didn’t know that side of his family. Mickey and Sheila had been in Florida for over twenty years and maybe Laurie’s bar mitzvah was the last time they had traveled north. They hadn’t come up for Seth’s, for reasons Laurie’s aunt and mother never made clear. But from his older sisters, Laurie had learned that the Feinmans didn’t think Laurie and Seth’s bar mitzvahs meant very much. The boys weren’t raised with any sense of their spiritual heritage; they were very secular Jews. Laurie would admit to that, but they weren’t alone. It was the American way to meld into the culture. If Seth thought he was escaping the Snyders, was he actually prepared for the Jewish onslaught waiting down south?
Laurie wasn’t going to broach that topic; he wasn’t here to do more than wish Seth bon voyage. And to assess Seth’s mental health so that when Seth returned, Laurie would have this visit with which to gauge Seth’s mood post-Florida. Aunt Wilma’s car was parked in the driveway, for which Laurie was glad. He hadn’t spoken with Seth alone since coming here on that slushy, frigid day. All their subsequent conversations had been amid family, but Laurie didn’t mind. Since Seth
had announced this trip, Laurie hadn’t felt any need to dissuade him. Seth was going to do things his own way regardless of what anyone here thought.
According to Laurie’s mom, those in Miami couldn’t wait to see Seth. Rose assumed they were hoping to find Seth a good Jewish girl, then marry him off, keeping him within their sphere. Neither Wilma nor Rose had lied to their brother about Seth’s problems; all the Feinmans knew what Seth had endured last year in Minnesota. Rose was certain they also thought that Seth simply needed to find the right woman. She’d said that to Laurie with disgust in her tone, which had made Laurie smile. Not that Rose wanted Seth to marry a shiksa, that was the last thing she desired. Laurie never took offense, for who he loved wasn’t even considered in Uncle Mickey’s world. They probably wanted to make sure Seth wasn’t like his only male cousin, and once that was confirmed, several appropriate candidates would be waiting for Seth.
Reaching the front door, Laurie knocked once for good measure. “Hello, anyone here?” he called loudly, stepping into the living room.
“In the kitchen,” Wilma answered, but she joined her nephew in the living room as Laurie took off his coat. They embraced, then Wilma pinched his cheek. “You look thin. Good thing I made a cake.”
Laurie laughed, tugging at his waistband. “Trousers have been feeling baggy.”
Wilma stared at him, then she shook her head. “There’s enough for you to take some to Stanford.” She gazed right at Laurie. “How’s he doing?”
“Better. Looking forward to our visitors next week.”
Laurie said that softly, there was no need to state the obvious. Wilma nodded, then pointed upstairs toward Seth’s room. “Well good. Not enough to take for all of them, but from what Rose says, that young woman makes a mean pie.”
“Lynne does,” Laurie said. “But nothing rivals your chocolate cake.”
Wilma laughed, leading Laurie into the kitchen. “You always know just what to say.”
“Why I’m so good at my job.” Laurie sat at the table, inhaling the heady scent of chocolate. The percolator was rumbling, which made Laurie’s stomach growl. Wilma chuckled, then sliced a large piece of cake, putting it on a waiting plate. It was set in front of Laurie, followed by a steaming cup of coffee. Wilma cut herself a much thinner piece, then sat beside him. Laurie didn’t ask if they were eating alone, but he heard steps overhead. Wilma rolled her eyes, but she also remained silent.
Half of Laurie’s cake was finished by the time Seth joined them. Wilma stood, cutting him a piece, pouring him some coffee, but she didn’t return to her seat. Seth sat across from Laurie, not making eye contact. Laurie glanced at his cousin, who with his short hair looked like a different man. He didn’t appear like the Seth from years ago, in part from his furtive nature. Also that his face was altered; he looked aged. Aunt Sheila probably had several women lined up to meet her nephew, Laurie thought, but even a twenty-five-year-old would be too young. The last thing Seth needed was to be set up on dates; he could barely sit comfortably with those who knew him best.
“So, you all packed?” Laurie spoke with his mouth half full as if they’d been sharing conversation since he had arrived.
Seth shrugged, then took a bite of cake. He swallowed, sipped his coffee, then met Laurie’s waiting gaze. “I suppose. Gonna be warm down there, don’t have to pack much.”
“No, I suppose you don’t.” Laurie smiled, then toyed with his fork. Then he set it down, watching as his aunt remained at the sink, her back to them, like she wasn’t in the room. “Gonna be downright muggy by the end of your stay.”
Seth nodded, then absently ran his hand along his face. Before, hair would have been swept back, but now it seemed like an odd gesture. Laurie wondered if he did that in Miami, would anyone notice? Then Seth sighed. “Not like it’s gonna be pleasant when I come back here, you know.”
“Well, May in New York isn’t like May in Florida, or so I’ve heard. I’ve never been there, so perhaps I can’t accurately say.”
Seth took a deep breath, then nodded again. He ate another bite of cake, then put his fork on the plate, half of the slice remaining. “Guess I’m not that hungry. Sorry Mom.”
“Mmmhmmm,” Wilma mumbled, still with her back to the men.
Seth looked in Laurie’s direction, but now wouldn’t meet his cousin’s eyes. Seth started to speak, but stopped himself. Taking one last drink of coffee, Seth stood, putting the mug on the table. He didn’t excuse himself, walking past Laurie on his way out of the kitchen.
Wilma returned to the table a few minutes later, her eyes teary. Laurie gripped her hand, but they said nothing. Then Laurie kissed her cheek, whispering he’d be right back. He stood, pushing his chair up to the table. Then he headed to the stairs.
He knew this house as well as his own, the decor never changed. Both homes were comforting, framed pictures of various family members lining the walls. Wilma’s late husband and other dead relatives were mixed up with newer family photographs, Seth’s older sisters and their offspring vying for attention. It was the same at Rose’s house, the daughters keeping the generations afloat. Those women had different last names, but it was the same for Mickey and Sheila; Tovah used her husband’s surname, Feinman not being passed on, just as Abrams and Gordon would die out, at least within these clans. Laurie had never wished to be more than someone’s uncle; he loved Stanford too much for fatherhood to matter. Seth had never talked about getting married. Art had been his passion until…. Laurie reached the landing, seeing Seth’s bedroom door firmly closed. Before, when Seth was home, he would leave a crack, like an invitation. But Laurie didn’t care. He walked right up to the door, offering one obligatory knock. Before Seth could refuse him entrance, Laurie was standing in the now open doorway.
“What?” Seth sat on the bed, gripping the comforter. Again he looked in his cousin’s direction, but wouldn’t make eye contact.
“Just wanted to wish you a good trip.”
Seth’s knuckles trembled. “You could’ve done that downstairs.”
“You weren’t there long enough to give me the chance.”
“Well, I, uh….” Seth cleared his throat. “Okay, so you’ve said it. You can leave now.”
Laurie fought a smile, for Seth sounded like a thirteen-year-old. Yet, his body looked like that of a much older man, his shoulders slumped, his coloring pale. He clutched the bedspread with so much force that his hands were white. Laurie had never felt that Seth was in any way his senior, but at that moment, Laurie felt positively young. He approached his cousin, then knelt in front of him. “I love you, you know that right?” Laurie longed to touch Seth’s clenched hand, but refrained. Sometimes Seth was like Stanford, not desiring physical reassurance. But Laurie needed to express that sentiment, regardless of how Seth took it.
To Laurie’s surprise, Seth grasped Laurie’s hand. “I know you do. I love you too.”
Seth still didn’t make eye contact, staring directly at the floor. Laurie swallowed hard, so wishing to break down whatever barrier was preventing his cousin from meeting Laurie’s gaze. If Seth could just look Laurie in the eye….
“I’m gonna miss you. I don’t get over here as often as I should, but….”
“I’ll miss you too. Not sure what the hell I’ll do down there, but something I guess.”
Laurie nodded, feeling sick to his stomach. “I’m sure it’ll be interesting.”
“Yeah, probably.”
Laurie wanted to keep talking, but didn’t know what else to say. Several seconds passed, then Seth released Laurie’s hand. It felt cold, which led to a chill going all through Laurie. He needed to stand, his legs wobbly, but right now he and Seth were on the same level, or as close as they had been in ages. In years, Laurie realized, but Seth was on the verge of separating them yet again.
Was it for good this time, Laurie couldn’t help but wonder. Finally he stood, shaking out his trembli
ng limbs. “Can’t squat for that long anymore,” he chuckled weakly. “Guess I’m not as agile as I used to be.”
Now Seth looked his way, a small grin forming. “None of us are. If you get too achy, come to Florida. Maybe I’ll still be there.”
It was Seth’s tone, not at all facetious, that made Laurie shiver. “If you aren’t back by May, Aunt Wilma will squawk.”
Seth nodded, then again gazed at the floor. “I know. But maybe I won’t have a choice.”
Laurie didn’t miss Seth’s true meaning, which had nothing to do with Uncle Mickey’s pushy wife. “Just take care of yourself, okay?” Laurie wanted to again stoop, but his knees hurt. He nearly sat beside his cousin, but where Seth sat left little room on either side of the mattress. Instead Laurie leaned over, gripping Seth’s left hand. Seth nodded, but made no other movement.
After a few seconds, Laurie let go. Seth remained motionless, still staring at his feet. Laurie ached to continue the conversation. Instead he walked from the room, leaving the door wide open. When he reached the kitchen, he found two slices of cake waiting under a plastic cover. As Wilma did dishes, Laurie headed to the phone, calling a cab. He dried a few plates while waiting for the taxi and only spoke aloud after the cabbie honked twice. He told his aunt that he loved her, thanked her for the cake, then kissed her cheek. Then Laurie grabbed the plate, not offering any goodbye to his cousin upstairs. Exiting the house, Laurie didn’t look back. He got into the taxi, gave his destination, gazing at the street ahead.
Chapter 97
The Hawk: Part Five Page 16