Laurie woke to his heart aching more than his head. He lay in a bed not a quarter mile from where he lived, or where he had previously resided. He had no assumptions toward his relationship, which could very well be over. On the first of November, Laurie only hoped that Stan had gotten some rest, and that he’d had the good sense not to say anything to Agatha.
Then Laurie sighed, staring at the phone next to the bed. Of course Agatha would have noticed Laurie wasn’t around, it was past nine o’clock. Was it too early to call Lynne, Laurie wondered. He smiled, although that made his heart throb more. Nearly two years ago, when Eric’s dad died, Stan had wanted to reach Lynne at about this same time of day. Laurie had taken the receiver from Stanford, telling him to give her three hours. Lynne had been pregnant with Jane, and again Laurie wouldn’t disturb her. Yet, he might not wait until noon Eastern Time to call; Laurie was going to book a flight westward, all he needed was to confirm he had a place to stay.
He would have to return to the apartment, for last night he had only grabbed the minimum. He knew Stan needed time alone, but having slept on it, Laurie wasn’t sure there was any way Stanford would ask him to come home, not unless he witnessed…. Laurie felt ill, but it wasn’t due to his hangover. He took deep breaths, which helped a little. Then he sat up. He would shower, then walk back to the apartment, calling Lynne from there. He needed to contact Seth, only so that his cousin wouldn’t try to reach him in Manhattan. Laurie wasn’t sure what, if anything, he’d say to his mother. Then he sighed. He’d have to tell her something, maybe just that Lynne needed…. But then Laurie would have to cover Eric’s absence, which again made Laurie woozy. It was the look on Stan’s face, or the different gazes Stan had worn last night as Laurie revealed the most painful news Stanford would ever have to hear. How Stan dealt with it was another story.
Would that man consider all the strange moments of the last few years concerning Eric Snyder, his healed foot the most glaring alteration. Maybe Stan wouldn’t ponder any of the oddities, merely permitting what was the most likely explanation, which was…. Laurie shook his head, for nothing made sense unless one accepted the truth, which was the most unbelievable part of all.
Then Laurie closed his eyes, thinking back to Eric’s message in the sand pit; that was why he’d written it, to bolster Laurie at this agonizing moment. Could Stan find a way to allow such an implausible…. Laurie wasn’t sure, although he hoped so. He did love that man as much as Eric loved Lynne, as Sam loved Renee, as…. Opening his eyes, Laurie got out of bed, then walked to the bathroom, using the toilet. Then he started the shower, saying a prayer as water ran. He stepped into the tub, recalling the last time he’d been in a hotel, just a couple of months ago. Stan had been waiting behind the shower curtain and…. Now Laurie was alone, but if he could find a vacant seat on a west-bound plane, perhaps by evening’s end he’d be sitting on Lynne’s couch, crooning a lullaby to Jane. Closing his eyes, Laurie let the water wash away his tears.
Two hours later, he sat in his kitchen, a cup of coffee near his left hand. Agatha had said little, although she was relieved that Lynne wouldn’t be alone, at least for the short term. Laurie didn’t ask about Stan, nor had Agatha revealed much more than Stanford had looked very tired. Laurie would leave him a note, detailing his flight information. Laurie wasn’t sure if he’d tell Stan that he loved him. That might be like rubbing salt in a wound.
Laurie imagined Stanford was feeling more than fatigue, but for now distance would be best. Maybe once Eric was home and could speak for himself, Stan might be persuaded to…. Laurie sighed, sipped his coffee, then stood. He needed to pack; while he wouldn’t arrive until long after Jane was in bed, he would get there that evening. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said, placing his mug in the sink. He didn’t know when he would enjoy another cup of Agatha’s brew, which seemed depressing. As he turned to leave, Agatha cleared her throat. Laurie turned back, meeting her gaze. “What?” he said. “He told me to leave, not sure if he mentioned that to you. I’m just doing what he wants.”
Agatha started to speak, then she paused, gazing around the room. Then she met Laurie’s eyes. He knew she wanted to ask what had sparked this horrible situation, for the longer Laurie stood there, the worse he felt. This was his home and while Eric’s life was difficult to accept, it was the truth. There was nothing Laurie could do to change that, nor was there any way he could force Stan to believe him. Staying in New York was futile, and Lynne could use his assistance. Laurie would be introduced to Sam and Renee’s kids, and when Eric got home, Laurie could help in whatever manner was necessary. Then, and only then, might Stan be willing to again hear what was so painful, but accurate. It wasn’t correct, Laurie thought, quite erroneous actually, like what most people thought of two men falling in love.
That irony flitted in, then out, of Laurie’s mind. “Agatha….” He sighed again, for seeing the anguish in her eyes was nearly as unpalatable as the horror in Stan’s from last night. “I gotta pack, need to be at the airport before one.”
He turned around, taking slow steps, wondering if she would speak. She sniffled, but said nothing. Laurie exited the kitchen to what sounded like her blowing her nose and that sound stayed with him as he walked past the library, the door closed. Reaching his bedroom, Laurie looked behind him, but he was alone. He entered the room, finding the bed was made, but like it had been done in a rush. Laurie went to the closet, taking a suitcase from the upper shelf. He set it on the mattress, quickly filling it. He wasn’t sure how cold it would get, nor how long he might be away. If he needed more clothes, he would purchase them there.
Closing the case, he stared at Stan’s side of their bed. If Laurie wanted to be an ass, he could leave a note in the kitchen, but he hurt all over, and knew Stan did too, although he was ignoring the pain. Laurie hefted the suitcase into the living room, then turned back for the library; he’d write the note there, leaving it on Stan’s pillow. It would look somewhat sappy, but Laurie was heartbroken and wouldn’t pretend otherwise. Opening the door, a strange smell greeted him, then he gazed at the what constituted the men’s bar. The trolley looked undisturbed, although the gin decanter was out of place.
Laurie shrugged, then sat at the desk, pulling paper and a pencil from the middle drawer. He didn’t write much, for there was little to be said. He signed it I love you, Laurie, then folded it in half. As he put the pencil back, something on the floor glittered. Laurie bent over, seeing glass shards stuck in the carpet.
Carefully he moved from the chair, then squatted, noticing larger pieces against the wall. He picked up the biggest ones, finding the carpet was slightly damp. He smelled gin, then gazed at the trolley. Laurie’s heart raced; he imagined what might have happened, but probably would never learn the exact details. Either he and Stan would move past this and not need to talk about it or they would never speak about anything meaningful again.
Laurie dumped the broken glass into the trash, then reached for more paper, crumpling a few sheets over the glass. Then he retrieved the note, but didn’t bother to write Stan’s name on the outside. Leaving the library, Laurie closed the door behind him, then walked to his room where he placed the note where Stan wouldn’t miss it. Laurie didn’t remember if their bedroom door had been open or shut. He left it open, taking long strides to the living room. He would grab his coat on the way out, his wraps as well. But there was still one goodbye to make.
Agatha was seated at the table, a coffee cup in front of her. Laurie sat next to her, then clasped her hands in his. He wanted to say he would be back, but honestly he wasn’t sure if that was true, or at least not for longer than it took to gather more clothes. In a way, he wished she knew the truth, but the idea of trying to explain it made him dizzy. “Not sure if I’ll see you before Thanksgiving. If I don’t, have a good holiday.”
She nodded, but wouldn’t meet his gaze. It was then Laurie realized he had never seen her cry. He was on the verge, but didn’t want to further upset her. “I’ll drop you
a line, send you some pictures. Jesus, I forgot my camera. I’ll just use Lynne’s.”
Agatha nodded, then looked his way. “You’re all in my prayers, and I’ll see what I can do here.”
Laurie blinked away tears, releasing her hands. “I don’t know what can be done, but see what you can manage.”
He stood to leave, but she reached for his arm. “Do you still love him?” she asked softly.
“You know I do.”
She nodded again, then sighed. “Go on, don’t want you to miss your flight.”
“Yeah.” He wanted to say more, but was tongue-tied. Instead he leaned over, kissing her forehead. She looked slightly startled, but her smile was genuine. Laurie grinned back, then hastily left the room. He glanced down the hallway, then headed for the living room. With his suitcase in hand, he collected his coat and wraps, then left the apartment with no idea of when he would return.
As Laurie’s plane rumbled along the tarmac, night had fallen over Oslo, as well as snow drifting from the sky. Klaudia had known snow was coming, feeling within her bones an achiness that had increased as she grew older. Sometimes Sigrun complained of the same thing, but Klaudia never noted her own feelings. She had spent years shutting off that part of her heart, but as her cigarette burned to ash, she stared at the letter which had been waiting for her, maybe as long as she had lived in Norway. She had tried to escape her past, but somehow Marek Jagucki wouldn’t leave her alone.
Perhaps it was her own fault, having named her son for that man, or maybe fate was playing a cruel trick. Klaudia wasn’t sure if she deserved such treatment, but within the letter, which had been addressed to Klaudia Lisowski Henrichsen, Marek Jagucki had made his feelings plain. Maybe he hadn’t needed to go to all that fuss, her maiden name on the envelope some link to their past, not to mention his Polish, which was still very good. He probably hadn’t used it since he left for Britain, a detail from his previous note. This letter was less fact-oriented, more emotionally-driven. He had written, he said, because after all these years, he still cared deeply for her.
He knew that perhaps his feelings might go unrequited. After all, she had made it clear that no further correspondence was needed. But Marek felt obliged to share what otherwise would have remained under wraps. For if Klaudia hadn’t written to Eric in the first place, asking a somewhat personal question, Marek never would have had the opportunity to celebrate Klaudia’s survival. And indeed, he wrote, what a joyous miracle it was. Initially Klaudia had skimmed the letter, glossing over the wordier phrases. But now having read it several times, she couldn’t rid herself of memories, some from her earliest recollections. She had grown up with this person merely three hundred meters away. Thousands of kilometers and so many moments now separated them, but as if Marek lived along Klaudia’s snow-covered street, she could imagine his smile, hear his laughter, feel his tenderness. Theirs hadn’t been a large village; if not for the war, she probably wouldn’t have left. She probably would have married…. She fought tears, for to cry after all this time was silly. As a girl she had been lighthearted, in part that the Jagucki family possessed an abundant supply of…. She had always been laughing with Marek’s sister Ania, or gently teased by his older brother Dominik, or entertained by the middle child whose gift for languages indicated that Marek was destined for great things. And he had done well for himself, Klaudia would admit, what with living in America, even if he was a man of God.
He’d gotten out of Poland, he’d survived a most horrific atrocity. And to top all that, he loved her, which hadn’t been precisely stated, but Klaudia wasn’t a fool. Or was she, for she was sitting in her chilly house late at night mulling over Marek’s letter. She should be in bed, although it was Friday, All Saints Day. Yesterday was Reformation Day, which to this nation of Lutherans was a big event. Klaudia was an atheist, but how ironic that Marek had gravitated to the church. Or maybe it wasn’t that strange, for his uncle had been a minister and…. Klaudia shivered, then stared at her dying cigarette. She stubbed it out, then rubbed her upper arms. She should go to bed, and when morning came, let the day pass right by her.
But she couldn’t move from the letter, a reminder of her past as if Marek had written it two decades ago, and only now had it found its way to her door. How many nights had she stayed up wondering about him, considering moments that were impossible to retrieve. Yet here he was, acting like all they had to do was wish upon a star and everything in both of their lives would fit into some version of happily ever after. She didn’t remember him as simple-minded, he was one of the smartest people she had known. Then she laughed, for she hadn’t known that many people. She still didn’t, preferring to keep her circle small. Then she scowled; her circle was Sigrun and Marek and…. Klaudia trembled. She had lied to her husband’s face when he asked about that name, but her parents were dead, no one to point out the falsehood. She had never wanted a girl, and what would it have mattered anyway? A daughter would have given her more trouble, just like a certain bothersome pest from Klaudia’s past.
Yet, something flickered within Klaudia, she couldn’t ignore it. She couldn’t stop staring at Marek’s handwriting, which didn’t seem to have changed over the years. He used to write her notes, leaving them along her bedroom windowsill, tucked in a small crack that over the years had grown wider from his efforts. After he was gone, the wind had blown through that crack, chilling her more than any Norwegian winter ever had. Now she could hear the wind, although she knew it wasn’t from outside her house. It was in her mind, dredged from how far down she had buried it, stirred by Marek’s words. How dare he do that to her?
After all she had done to forget him, yet perhaps it would have been impossible to completely set aside the only man…. Damn Sigrun and that American painter and Klaudia’s insatiable curiosity. She’d had to know if Marek was that baby’s father, but why? What difference would it make, had it made? Klaudia’s son was now beset with seizures. Marek wasn’t even married, he’d made that plain enough, Klaudia snorted aloud. What did he want, she wondered, reaching for the last page of the letter, yet hesitating. It seemed to glow in the middle of the table, the paper crisp, his handwriting like an electrical charge woven into the very essence of…. One woman who carried a similar torch, unable to douse an everlasting flame.
“Humph,” she clucked, grabbing the sheet, which felt soothing in her hands. Or was it his final request, that if she was at all like-minded, he would enjoy continuing the correspondence. He realized that yes, many years and events had come between them, however…. As if Marek sat across from her, Klaudia could see his smile, inhale his warmth, reach for his hand. She blinked several times, yet the apparition remained, erasing her chill and easing a smile onto her face. She wanted to speak, but remained silent as the ghost folded his hands together, then placed them on the table. Then Klaudia cleared her throat. “What do you want me to do?” she whispered, breaking the stillness.
He nodded at the paper, still within her hand. She trembled, gazing at the sheet, then to the man across. “You’re so far away,” she said.
He shook his head, still wearing that grin.
Looking at his handwriting, she could hear him say the words, his voice lively in their native tongue as though it was a language only for them. No one else knew how to lift her spirits or calm her heart. He’d possessed the key to her heart ever since…. Since not long before he left, although it had been unspoken for years prior. For how many years had this man been destined for this moment; all of them, Klaudia decided, wiping tears from her face. All of them.
She never went to sleep that night, writing then rewriting a reply. When Sigrun knocked at mid-morning, Klaudia had fashioned what she permitted might be an acceptable answer, although it was all in Polish, and if she tried to read it aloud, she would fall apart. Sigrun understood, making another pot of coffee, then running home for more cigarettes. The women spent that afternoon under a falling blanket of Scandinavian snow, but the hopes of Klaudia’s youth kept them warm
and dry while smokes were shared as well as a few memories, which Klaudia related in her own language. Sigrun seemed to understand, gently patting her friend’s hand, or merely nodding her head. By dinnertime, Klaudia’s response was complete, sealed in an envelope. It would be mailed on Monday and Sigrun would accompany Klaudia to the post office, sending it herself if necessary.
Chapter 151
The Hawk: Part Eight Page 15