By the time Lynne was over her cycle, all the paintings destined for New York were on their way east. The house seemed a little bereft to Lynne with the orchard scene gone and Eric missed the canvas of Marek and Jane. Yet, the artist had started another of the pastor and his charge, although Eric wasn’t sure what he would call this painting. In this new piece, Marek was looking at Jane, not at Eric. Jane wasn’t looking at her father either, but was babbling to her pastor. In Polish, Eric noted to his wife, which make Lynne laugh. But Eric wasn’t being facetious; he discerned a distinct change in Jane’s gurgles when she replied to Marek. Eric didn’t chalk that up to anything she might have inherited from him, simply how magnificent was the mind of an infant introduced to more than one language.
Eric had sketched that scene while the paintings were being packed up and now he painted at his leisure, his thoughts not overly troubled by the missing canvases, although he did wish to have taken one more look at Marek’s eyes. He wasn’t sure why, for he knew everything that man had endured, although Marek had been only a teen at the time. Eric didn’t spend time pondering how he now realized those details; it would be like trying to ascertain why he had spent most of his life turning into a hawk. Some things were without a proper answer and had to be taken at face value. But Eric did wonder, as he laid paint onto canvas, why Marek had chosen not to look the artist in the eye. Maybe he had wanted to spare Eric from delving too deeply into that moment in time. Maybe he hadn’t wanted anyone else aware. Or maybe…. Sometimes Eric now found his pastor, who was also becoming Eric’s friend, staring at his eyes. Marek had remarked about them, but not as those who questioned just how extraordinary was the artist’s vision. Marek meant their shape, which according to Lynne, Sam, even Renee, was how they were before. As Eric painted, he considered Marek’s query, then suddenly he was mesmerized in depicting his daughter. Time lost all meaning when Eric painted Jane.
The next thing Eric knew was that baby’s heady laughter and her mother’s tapping foot. “Eric, where are you?” Lynne’s tone was light, her smile teasing. Jane had picked up on her mother’s jovial mood, giggling in Lynne’s arms. Mother and daughter were dressed for the gray, cool day, but Eric had grown warm, as sometimes happened. Now he felt the air’s chill, his sweater discarded on a nearby stool. He shivered, then moved from the easel, going to where another vision waited. He hadn’t painted his wife and daughter together since the missile crisis, and now he knew his next project. “Is it lunch or dinnertime,” he joked, aware it was probably a few minutes past the noon meal.
“It’s already tomorrow,” Lynne smiled. “I’ve been calling you for….”
“Ages, I’m sure.” He kissed her, then placed little pecks on Jane’s cheeks. “All right, just let me clean up in here.”
Lynne nodded, then walked to the front of the painting. She gasped, which made Eric turn her way. “Honey, what?”
“It’s, she’s, oh Eric….” Lynne blinked away tears as Jane clapped in delight.
Eric came to their sides, putting his arm around his wife. “It just, I mean, it was something I couldn’t stop. Do you think it’s too, well….”
Lynne stared at him. Then she sighed. “Why is it the best men aren’t fathers already?” Lynne glanced back to the painting, then she faced her husband, stroking his cheek. “I know it took us a long time, but Pastor and Sam and….”
Eric nodded, thinking of at least one other name she could have added, but Laurie would always be an uncle. Stanford would too, which made Eric smile. “He’s not that old you know. Marek and Sam are the same age.”
“I know, it’s just that….” She sighed again, switching Jane to her other hip. “Maybe he feels his parish is his family. But I was there Eric, I watched you sketch this, and I watched him. He loves our daughter, he’d be so good with his own.” As Lynne inhaled deeply, Eric felt a shift in her mood. She had used her diaphragm since ending her period and Eric hadn’t argued. Renee had called yesterday with news that they were going to St. Joseph’s next Friday to meet with the head nun. It was a preliminary step and while the Aherns wouldn’t have a child by Thanksgiving, perhaps by Christmas. That year, Sam and Renee were spending Thanksgiving with Sam’s family, mostly due to Fran and Louie. Sam had invited Eric and Lynne to join them, but Eric had already mentioned sharing that meal with Marek. It would be a small party for Jane’s first Thanksgiving, but perhaps there was a reason for that. If nothing else, Eric would have finished this canvas by then, a painting he wanted to Marek to keep, if Marek agreed.
Lynne leaned against her husband and Eric kissed the side of her face. He wanted to stroke her cheek, but his fingers were dappled in various hues. “Listen, take Jane inside, it’s not warm out here. I’ll be in as soon as I can. If she’s hungry, go ahead and feed her.”
Lynne nodded, but didn’t move from her husband. Eric smiled, wondering if it was only the two of them whether or not Lynne would have stripped her clothing, then lain on the sofa. But those days were now past due to the giggling baby and cool temperatures. As Lynne finally stepped away, Eric felt a rising pleasure. She kept glancing back to the easel, then at him, her eyes needy. Maybe her apprehension about having another child had only been temporary. Eric would bet the worth of the Aherns’ three hawks that at bedtime, Lynne’s diaphragm would be tucked away in a bathroom drawer.
Eric would have made a mint had he been able to place that bet, for Lynne had decided that birth control was no longer necessary. The couple spent all their free time in bed, but compared to the past, those hours were now shoehorned into precious minutes while Jane napped. If Eric wasn’t making love to his wife, he was on the phone with Stanford, who had confirmed the safe arrival of all the paintings. The show would open on Saturday the twenty-fourth, and while the gallery would be closed on Thanksgiving Day, Stanford expected a record number of visitors during the rest of that holiday weekend. Not everyone spent their time shopping for presents, Stanford had clucked, and besides, he added, if a patron didn’t appear on the first night, there wouldn’t be any canvases to be had afterwards.
Eric didn’t wonder about that much, although he had asked Stanford about Seth. Stanford had sighed, then noted that according to Laurie, Seth was still being furtive. Yet, the Gordon and Abrams families were thrilled with his improved demeanor. Stanford and Laurie were having Thanksgiving with Laurie’s relatives that year, although Stanford wished Lynne could send a pie. Laurie did too, Stanford added, making Eric chuckle. But Eric’s mood was dampened by Stanford’s words about Seth. He kept those to himself, not wanting to worry his wife, or the Aherns.
All Sam wanted to know was if Stanford had any idea how much the three hawks might earn. Eric teased Sam that hawks were long out of fashion, but Eric knew the worth of that painting. Stanford hadn’t been shy about some offers he’d already received, more than Eric had initially considered. It was in part due to the hawks themselves, but also that it was a rare opportunity for collectors to gain an early and previously unsold Snyder canvas. If Sam had chosen to sell the landscape, the price wouldn’t have been as steep, Stanford had informed Eric, not that it would have been a pittance, but hawks commanded a high value. Only the blue barn could have earned more, although Stanford’s tone had altered when noting that detail. Eric would swear that his dealer was happy that the Aherns were keeping it. Eric’s cynical side told him it was that Stanford wanted that piece to increase in price. But Eric knew Stanford well enough that not everything with that man was about the bottom line, or not anymore, which made Eric chuckle as he put the finishing touches on the portrait of Marek and Jane. Jane Renee had changed her Uncle Stanford, but so had his mother’s deteriorating health. Stanford noted that even his father was accompanying Stanford and Laurie to the Abrams for Thanksgiving. Constance had worsened significantly over the last two months and better for Michael to be distracted by Laurie’s clan.
The day before the show was to open, Eric placed his latest piece in the sunroom. A cold front was moving in and he d
idn’t want that painting in the studio. A baby gate now kept the sunroom free from Jane’s sometimes boisterous presence and she sat at the gate crying. Eric stepped over it, then hoisted her into the air, making her giggle, although her chubby cheeks were dotted with fresh tears. He kissed those away, making her laugh as he then planted raspberries into the folds of her neck. She was a healthy baby, for which he was thankful. Sam and Renee hadn’t met with any children last week, but had been given approval by the sisters at St. Joseph’s, as well as receiving dossiers on several orphans. Sam had told Eric that they wanted to take their time, not wishing to meet with any youngsters unless they felt very certain. No use raising anyone’s hopes prematurely, Sam had said, including themselves. Yet, Eric had heard a newfound joy in Sam’s voice, a man finally ready to embrace fatherhood.
It wouldn’t be parenthood as Eric knew it, but the experience was different for each man, and woman. Then Eric cuddled Jane, noting how she immediately nestled against him. She had a warm relationship with her godfather and her many uncles, but only with her daddy would she snuggle this closely. Eric had never seen her react this way with Sam, Laurie, Stanford, or even Marek. With Marek, Jane was animated, but not tactile.
She remained snug against her father’s chest, which made Eric rejoice, and ache, for she wouldn’t always need him this way. One day she would be running about like Helene and before Eric knew it, she would be like Sally, a teenager pulling away from her parents. Eric stepped back over the gate, which caught Jane’s attention. This room had only recently become off limits and she gazed about, returned to her former stomping grounds. She wiggled in her father’s arms, making Eric laugh, but his grip was secure, and soon she realized this was only a momentary visit.
Then she sagged against Eric’s chest, making him heave a blissful sigh. They stood in front of the portrait, but Jane didn’t bother taking note of it, as if she knew it was of her. And of a man who she loved and who equally cared about her. Eric had depicted that attachment, but it wasn’t the same as how Sam loved Jane, or even the New Yorkers. Then Eric chuckled; one day he would manage to capture those men on canvas, and when he did, Stanford might issue an edict that no one but family could see it. When Eric painted that couple, with or without Jane’s presence, their affections would be front and center.
With Marek, however, it wasn’t love shared, or not yet. Eric wondered how a man of God meted out his attentions to those for whom he acted as a shepherd. Marek was in charge of a small flock, although since the end of October the pews at St. Matthew’s had been full. Eric wondered how long that would last, perhaps through the holidays, then as 1963 rolled around, those who had sought immediate comfort might fall away. Did that bother Marek; did pastors and priests take offense when numbers declined?
Maybe not, for there was nothing they could do about it. But for those closer, how did a pastor maintain cordial relations without overstepping boundaries? Marek had probably received other invitations for Thanksgiving, probably some prior to the one Eric and Lynne had offered. What had made Marek say yes to the Snyders and no to others? Eric might like to think Jane had something to do with it. But if Eric wanted to be honest, perhaps it was more about a bond now established between himself and that pastor, one borne of an ability to see what most could not.
What did Eric witness in this new painting? His daughter was bigger, her hair longer. She wore autumnal attire, but otherwise she looked about the same as in that summer portrait. On first glance Marek looked no differently; this time their faces were in profile, one could make that distinction. But could Eric have painted his pastor, and friend, as before, where that man’s eyes were for all to examine? Eric had chosen a safer route in facing his subjects together so neither’s thoughts could be discerned. Or maybe it was only the painter’s protection Eric had considered.
Eric kissed the top of Jane’s head. She pulled away, smiling broadly at him. Then she laughed, looking to where her mother stood at the baby gate. Lynne’s grin made her husband shiver, for her saucy smile denoted more than joy. Lynne’s skirt precluded her from stepping over the gate, so Eric walked that way as Jane stretched out her arms in Lynne’s direction.
Jane went from one parent to another, nestling just as closely against her mother as how she had rested near her father. But Eric knew there was a difference in her motions, for she began rooting against Lynne’s chest. Now Lynne sighed, but it was tempered with a sense of purpose, and the couple would have to work around Jane’s needs. Eric joined his family in the living room as Lynne sat on the sofa, placing the baby exactly where Jane wished to be. Yet Jane didn’t want any more than the bond shared between mother and infant. And within a few minutes, Jane’s eyes were closed.
Eric was torn between wanting to sit near the women he loved and sketching this scene, which wouldn’t last forever. He opted to remain beside his wife and daughter, gazing into Lynne’s wide eyes, a few tears falling along her cheeks. He brushed them aside before they landed on the baby. He fully understood her mood, which wasn’t at all displeased, although he made out one small niggle. For the first time it wasn’t connected to the Aherns, which was good. Instead it was for a single man who cared for many without anyone pointedly looking after him. Eric prayed for his pastor, then closed his own eyes as Lynne leaned his way, Jane between them. Eric felt Lynne’s missives being offered in a similar vein. They remained seated on the sofa for several minutes, hands clasped together, until Jane stirred from her brief slumber. Then Eric rose, adding wood to the fire. He returned with his sketchpad and began drawing what would be yet another in an endless series of family portraits, wondering as he did if this sort of life was waiting for Marek Jagucki.
_______________
Liner Notes
I started this novel in October 2013; at the time, I assumed I’d be penning another short story, the form I had been working in for much of that year. However, at over two-thirds completed, The Hawk currently stands at 444,000 words. Never before have I embarked upon such a large project.
Over the last two years, other than poems for NaPoWriMo, I have written nothing else. Quilting has overtaken much of my free time, as has caring for my family; recently I have become a grandmother of two. I have also nursed my father through the end of his life, which fell upon the heels of my first grandchild’s arrival. Now with time to write and revise, I have chosen to share this behemoth in a beta-type manner. Part Five will most likely be released in early 2016, but please bear with this author while grandchildren, fabrics, and a new familial normal take precedence. In the meantime, thank you for joining me on this journey, which is a search for my Father, as well as Eric’s. As this is a novel in progress, comments concerning this tale are welcome and can be sent to annascottgraham at gmail dot com.
About the Author
Anna Scott Graham was born in 1966 in Northern California. A mother and grandmother, she lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband, some hummingbirds, and numerous quilts.
The Hawk: Part Four Page 20