The Hawkman

by Jane Rosenberg LaForge

  Sheehan did not know how long he kept to that posture, as if he were a ball of sweat and limbs, huddled against the chastising silence. Trays of food were slid through a slot in the cell door, but he could not eat. He was choking on sound alone as it took residence in his stomach and throat, his lungs and sinuses. The light turned nights into days; it turned the days within the cell into nights in the trenches. If he screwed his eyes shut as tightly as he could manage, he could not block out the brightness. A red scrim tore through the underside of his eyelids while a line of white sparks bled through, as if to consume the darker color.

  He may have slept for moments at a time; he may have broken down, sobbing out of the pain that was unremitting. Since he could not tell whether it was day or night; since the guards would not answer when he begged for the date, or the length of his incarceration, he tried counting the meals served to him. But he could not make sense of the numbers. There were either too few meals, or too many; they competed with the beat of his heart, the pummeling drill of recollection: the bombs. He tried to break down the sounds, hold them separate, to secure a room within himself; he knew he needed to listen for other prisoners, the comings and goings of the guards.

  Sheehan listened, particularly after the tray was slid under his door. What would the footsteps of the guards sound like, through the cinderblock, beneath the light; the rubbing of the wooden trays as they were slid into other cells, wood catching against cement, a sound of quickened erosion. A simple noise, like a washboard. The hinges of the metal slot as it was opened, the oxygen that rushed out, the slap as it closed. He could imagine some of this, but could not hear it for himself, no matter his effort.

  Banging on the walls with his fists; shouting until he could hear himself through the riot in his head; he wondered if it was possible to scar one’s own throat, just as he was bloodying his fingers. No other prisoner seemed to answer his calls although he might not have been able to hear anyone, in his state. Two of his senses cleaved from his grip. He ate the food, the consommé and bread, to determine whether he still had the senses of smell and taste. For touch, he worried his hands over the door to his cell, the ridges in the wood, a mountain range at his fingertips. He pressed harder into the wood, to summon the hills to rise, to splinter, to drive themselves through his skin. Then he’d be assured that his sense of touch was still intact.

  He did not know what day it was when he discovered the area immediately outside his cell was not as bright and, therefore, not so loud and dispiriting. For an instant when the slot was open, the world on the other side was almost dark, as though the light had been switched off, or its strength after so much use was wavering. Once the tray had been retrieved, Sheehan contrived to open the slot. With a shoe, he was eventually able to rig it halfway, so that he could see the darkened floor if he positioned himself on his elbows, hands supporting his face, eyes locked downward. The guard found him sleeping in that position, perhaps the next day, perhaps at the next meal. The slot was nailed shut, in the rhythm of admonishment.

  He was left with the light, what it soldered onto his mind’s eye. He forced himself to look directly into it, as if the concentrated exposure would acclimate him, build calluses on his nerves and eardrums. The noise reeled on, but he sensed there was more to the light than a mere blaze, a prick of color, the more he studied it. He could see the birth of small, small creatures in it, transparent beings no bigger than a fingernail, and they swiveled and turned as if reacting to some larger force impinging on their territory.

  If he could stay with the light, not take his eyes away, those simple insects might unite into a larger being, more complex. This thing did not swim, but floated in the juice either his eyes or the light made. It held itself aloft as it grew, as it compiled itself out of other things. It was a scavenger, waiting patiently as the less sophisticated formations came to it, and added the newcomer to its layers. As it grew, it became more animated; it developed a gait, fanciful though not particularly efficient, as a bird may walk. Arms sprouted, flapped, and a neck stretched out above the arms. A head was born, but without a mouth or nose clearly delineated. Sheehan put out his hand, as if he could stop the process, the incubation. His hand revealed nothing but air, a figment of the light. The light left brown spots darting about, then they drew themselves together.

  Sheehan moved his attention away from the light, thinking it had burned through his eyes to create the hallucination. But the brown spots took on a shape he should have recognized; they became a shadow on the wall, then the ceiling, and then he saw it, a predator magnificent in wingspan and coloration. Spread as they were, so the beast might coast down onto him, the wings were more than half his height. It hovered to display to him its claws, the underside of its tail—red as the Clare sandstone. In the next moment, its beak dove into Sheehan’s neck, at precisely the location of his Adam’s apple, where all speech resided. The bird sunk in its talons. The animal waved its head back and forth, as if to wring out the neck from Sheehan’s skin.

  He wanted to fight the bird off, but its grasp was too expert. Sheehan twisted and wrestled but could get no hold on the creature other than its wings. Feathers and bone ran through his hands as if through sand. Next he attempted to kick it off, to make his body hurl itself from the ground, where the bird had secured it. Yet every move Sheehan made was matched by the bird. It flapped its wings not to take flight, but to bear down on him. Sheehan knew something of birds of prey, how they clenched and prodded, exhausted the mice and children they caught, so they might carry them off before devouring them. This bird seemed to want something different, though, as if it were extracting a vow of silence. And there was nowhere in the cell for either man or bird to go. Together they rolled, then smashed into the wall, bloodying Sheehan’s forehead, then the knuckles of his human claws.

  He might have screamed a call for help, in German as well as English. A guard would not look into the cell, as that would have required his opening the door. Though a guard could have taken a moment to listen to the prisoner in the throes of a rigorous nightmare; it was not uncommon among the subjects of solitary confinement.

  Fifteen

  They tried their best to be a handsome couple, Mr. Sheehan in his rescued suit, and Miss Williams in a new dress. She did not wear white, as much as she might have deserved it, but a shade deeper, bordering on gray, like the bits of web and lint birds sometimes make their nests with. She chose it in a creamy fabric, velveteen, that she had seen in a village shop before her illness and mentioned to Lady Margaret in an unguarded moment. Lady Margaret then set out to secure it by sending her lady’s maid. The maid reported that the material was more likely appropriate for gloves than an entire frock, but Lady Margaret told her to go through with it. It was lovely, once the bolts of material had been delivered, but it was all the seamstress could do to swaddle Miss Williams in it. Still, the color was both smooth and comforting on her, gently hypnotic.

  When Christopher offered to buy Mr. Sheehan the requisite outfit, Sheehan bid him to come into the nursery. From beneath the bed Sheehan extracted a ball of clothes, encapsulated in dust. It appeared as a sac of eggs might, gossamer and compact, where a spider might nurture its young. From there he removed a jacket and trousers, and a day shirt with a club collar. Sheehan lay the clothes atop the bed as if making a case for their rehabilitation. From the jacket breast pocket he produced a handkerchief, monogrammed with his initials. Miss Williams had evidently had it made for him—had purchased all the clothes, which he discarded in a fit of pique. Having returned the handkerchief to its rightful place, Mr. Sheehan stepped aside, to allow Christopher to make his own assessment.

  It was a perfectly adequate suit, though not for the occasion. A morning jacket was in order, though Christopher quickly realized Mr. Sheehan would not be able to withstand its restrictions, nor those of the waistcoat and double cuffed shirts. A simple, but thorough, washing would likely restore whatever he already had, Christopher told
him. He would take the clothes to the estate and personally ensure that they were washed and pressed properly. As for the hat, the fraying straw one Mr. Sheehan used in the garden would not do. He must have a gentleman’s homburg hat to wear to the registry. As he had already promised to stand up for Mr. Sheehan, Christopher said he would happily buy one for him.

  For his part, Sheehan trimmed his beard and slicked his hair back into a ponytail, so that he now exhibited the features of an individual. His face was long but not gaunt, though the bones of his cheeks were clearly defined. His jawline was strong, and his eyes were small, although they revealed a gamut of colors, the stages of autumn. His forehead shone too, and promised intelligence.

  Dressing Miss Williams that morning was a chore, one that the lady’s maid could not handle on her own. The bride could barely sit up to help herself, nor remain upright long enough for underclothes to be chosen and laid out on the bed. Miss Williams’s body had become unfathomably complex in the process of her illness. Her skin was pallid and shivering. Her limbs could not be controlled. Well, of course they could be, but they seemed to fold and unravel in so many confounding patterns. When they left her unattended, even for a moment, her arms began to squeeze around herself, or her shins disappeared under her legs. When she slept, Lady Margaret thought, she must have turned into a huddle of bones, as if she were an egg or a stone. She was almost silver in complexion.

  Lady Margaret held her gently by the shoulders as the lady’s maid knelt to begin putting on the stockings. A fine down, like that of a newborn chick, had begun to come into her skin, in patches. Together Lady Margaret and the maid could not properly fit Miss Williams’s feet into the shoes; her feet were so narrow that the shoes slid down too quickly from the heel. When Miss Williams finally did stand up, she seemed to sink into the floor, and had to be gathered up again by the two women. Lady Margaret feared for the dress; she feared for Miss Williams’s nakedness, for, when the dress was finally put on over the bride’s head, it would just as quickly slither off, Lady Margaret was certain. It was nothing short of a miracle once Miss Williams found her way into the garment. It did not fit—nothing could, given Miss Williams’s lack of resources—but it did not fall off. She was cosseted in the dress, as a moth is shielded before it comes alive again.

  Miss Williams declined a veil and even a hat; she wanted to feel the sun and air on her face. Her hair she wanted on her shoulders. It showed sprigs of age that might have, in fact, always been there, but Lady Margaret had never noticed, for Miss Williams formerly had kept her hair tied back in buns and braids. Lady Margaret was struck by how the gray nettled through the loose and lank strands, as if to confound the darkness surrounding it. Around her neck and for her ears, Miss Williams asked for a matching set of a pearl necklace and earrings she said had belonged to her mother. Once secured around her neck and on her ears, the jewelery gave Miss Williams a strange, subdued radiance. She was too eager for Mr. Sheehan to see her, tradition be damned; Miss Williams made no secret that she was afraid the effect would wear off should she wait too long. She could only stand to be a lady for an instant.

  Lady Margaret found herself having to allow it. Christopher was able to secure only one car from his father’s garage, which meant there would be no concealing the bride from the groom before the ceremony. There were other obstacles to sequestering the two principals, given Miss Williams’s immobility. It would be a day of tumult, for Miss Williams’s physical condition, and for Lady Margaret’s sense of etiquette.

  Miss Williams insisted on walking “on her own power” out of the nursery, as if she had to convince everyone that she was a willing participant. If she was willing, then this wedding would not be a ruse, as Lord Thorton had said of it. Lord Thorton had said he was certain he could prove it was a ruse afterward. That it was his own son, Christopher, who was orchestrating “this little passion play”—another from the earl’s cracking good terminology—seemed cruel to Lord Thorton. But Lady Margaret wished he could see the good in it. If the marriage took, and not necessarily in the way that her husband, or most other men, would think of it; if it took in the minds of the witnesses, in the hearts of those who had to sanction it, it would be a blessing, she reasoned. That was why the success of this production was so essential. Mr. Sheehan would be provided for; he would no longer pose a source of distress for the village—or her husband. He was never so dangerous, Lady Margaret decided as she glanced ahead of Miss Williams and spotted Mr. Sheehan waiting before her in the kitchen. He was focused, and therefore gallant, in his own fashion. The Hawkman required more protection from the village, it seemed, than it ever did from him.

  Miss Williams had extended her arms on either side, as if for balance, as she tottered toward her groom. Lady Margaret and the maid trailed behind her, as if they held a net between them, or some other means of catching her. Miss Williams paused, just as she was crossing the threshold into the kitchen. Perhaps a cloud scattered away the sun, or a set of branches parted in a breeze, because at that moment the sunlight poured itself through the small kitchen so that it was suffused with the time and heat of the hour. The smiles of the bride and groom were faint as they were overwhelmed by the light’s temporary exuberance. Christopher, whom Lady Margaret could not ignore, grinned through the loss he was bearing. He was trying so hard, so much. In Miss Williams’s posture and Mr. Sheehan’s eyes, Lady Margaret next sensed a thrill, and then relief: they had not disappointed each other in their appearance. There would be so many more opportunities for disappointment later, Lady Margaret thought, no matter the duration of their marriage.

  “Good morning, Miss Williams,” Christopher said, and it was strange to hear him—to hear anyone—speak in the cottage, where the moments dropped off the clock so heavily, due to the silence.

  “I hope it is a good morning,” Miss Williams said. It had been a task for her just to utter that one sentence, Lady Margaret thought. Mr. Sheehan immediately stepped forward. He offered his hand, and then his arm, as support. Gladly Miss Williams took up the suggestion, and, for a moment, they stood in fascination of each other and their small accomplishments.

  “It is a great morning,” Lady Margaret volunteered, and it was a solace to have something to say, to be useful, in that atmosphere. It was a gift to have Miss Williams smile in agreement. For so many days, Lady Margaret felt she had been relegated to the marriage’s symbolic details—cakes, bridesmaids, all of the accouterments she thought might make the wedding real in the eyes of the village, in the eyes of her husband—none of which would be on display today. They held no attraction for the couple. They were desperate only for sanction, not a celebration.

  “Is it too early yet?” Christopher asked.

  “Not at all,” Lady Margaret volunteered, and she, in turn, reached for her son’s arm, so that there might be two couples that morning. But Christopher took Miss Williams’s other arm and helped lead her through the entryway and out the front door.

  Still, Lady Margaret was proud of her son at that instant: proud of his patience, forbearance, and how he fearlessly confronted his own limits. She wondered if she could be responsible for any of this, or whether Lord Thorton’s branch lay claim to it. Most likely it was neither, and it had something to do with some event or friendship she knew nothing of. Perhaps an incident at school, or in the war, influenced her son to make something of himself. It came from his respect for Mr. Sheehan, a fellow soldier, from his admiration for Miss Williams; as he held her arm, he walked slightly ahead of her, in careful steps, and waited as Mr. Sheehan gently pushed her ahead. On the worn floors of the cottage, their combined footsteps seemed a discomforting shuffle. Would that it be this way for the rest of his life, Lady Margaret wondered and lamented: the chains people, even her son, had to forge nowadays because of their crippled limbs, their injured faith. That was why she was so proud of him, she decided; because her son could admit as much.

  Outside the cottage, Miss Williams’s steps
became even more delicate, as she navigated the stone walk to the front gate. She was not wavering or trying to delay, but she was testing something she had not felt for far too long—the air; it seemed as if it was too slack and thin to support her. She stopped, and Lady Margaret stopped to watch her take deep breaths. Lady Margaret noticed how Miss Williams closed her eyes and held her blind face to the sun, as if the combination of light and air might lift her, transport her, to what was above and beyond the strictures that illness had put on her. It was then Lady Margaret saw Miss Williams had left behind the bouquet she was meant to carry. Miss William had chosen white ranunculus for their many petals—their many layers and, therefore, many interpretations, Miss Williams had explained. Lady Margaret rushed to the bedroom to retrieve them, all the while realizing Miss Williams could probably not spare a free hand to hold them for the rest of the day.

  They had just installed Miss Williams into the back seat of the car when they noticed she was not quite breathless; so Mr. Sheehan could wait on Lady Margaret and sit with her in the front.

  No, no, no, Lady Margaret wanted to say to The Hawkman. Don’t be ridiculous, sit with your darling; after all this, don’t you deserve it? But her own voice, as she remembered it, would be too disruptive: belittling and filled with an intimacy that now seemed frivolous. It was better to join the silence and wait for Christopher to give her—or Mr. Sheehan—some sort of signal. “Mother, please,” Christopher said, and she was grateful to hear him say it, despite the discomfort in his voice. He motioned for her to take the passenger seat beside him. She held onto the bouquet, for she assumed that the bride and groom would be more apt to take each other’s hands on the drive to their life together.