On the Snyders’ last morning in New York, an article appeared in a daily paper all about Eric’s incarcerated father. Stanford had gotten wind of the piece, but wasn’t sure if it would be run before the couple headed west. It made Lynne teary, while Eric stoically accepted this unwanted presence in their lives. Tragedy touched everyone, Laurie quietly said during breakfast, as Lynne dried her eyes, then kissed her husband, announcing that she was going to soak in the large guest tub. Agatha asked if Lynne needed any assistance, but Lynne gave a wry smile, and while thanking Agatha profusely, Lynne left the kitchen, not even allowing Eric to follow her out.
He sighed as the kitchen door swung closed. Then he picked up the paper, nothing more than a scandal sheet, Agatha had sniffed. A photo of Eric and Lynne graced the front page, the headline in bold type: Painter’s Father Is A Killer! Eric grimaced, wondering for how long the editor had known this fact, then Eric shrugged. The details mostly concerned Howard Snyder’s conviction, with only hints to his other misdeeds. Eric’s mother Emma was barely mentioned, and truthfully, not much was said about Eric or his wife. The reporter had scoured the public records, but other than the basics, not much else was noted. Still, the photo was telling; how did photographers just happen to catch the worst of people, Eric wondered. Lynne looked weary in the shot, and Eric’s eyes were downcast, as if instead of savoring that night’s tremendous joy, they were dogged by one relative who had actually helped the couple achieve their greatest happiness.
Then Eric stood, excusing himself. He didn’t hear Stanford and Laurie’s voices, or Agatha’s gentle hum. Eric walked to the guest quarters, closing the door behind him. Hearing Lynne splashing in the tub, Eric stripped off his clothes, then entered the bathroom. Bubbles obscured his wife, but the scent was pleasantly fragrant, the room warm. Lynne looked up, her face not at all sad. “Eric, what is it?”
Then she giggled, as he knelt beside her. “What,” she smiled. “You wanna join me?”
He nodded, stroking her face. “Is there room?”
“Are you serious?”
Now he chuckled. “Absolutely. I need you, I need to tell you….”
Before he could finish, she had kissed him. Then Eric stepped into the tub, as Lynne managed to make room. They were making love within minutes, as Eric let the gossip rag slip from his mind. His father had caused him vast heartache, but years later, that same man had somehow freed his son to become the father Howard Snyder never was. That was all Eric considered as bubbles popped between his and Lynne’s warm wet skin.
As the train rumbled from the station, Lynne nestled into Eric’s grasp. She was still warm from her bath, which hadn’t gone as she had planned, but that memory would sustain her in later months when intercourse was too difficult to achieve. Then she blushed, but didn’t care. Leaving the East Coast, she felt like a new woman, but wasn’t sure how to correctly elaborate that sentiment. It was related to that morning’s paper, which she had seen as they passed kiosks within the station, but it was also tied into the figurines Seth Gordon had fashioned years ago. Then she could add Eric’s profound success, his somewhat ominous fame, and of course a questionable relationship, but only in how outsiders might view Stanford and Laurie. While nothing was spoken regarding the men’s living arrangements, Lynne had given each a strong hug, saying she couldn’t wait to see them again, making it quite plain that if Stanford visited, Laurie was also expected. Laurie quickly accepted her invitation, gripping her hands. Stanford’s silent nod was approval enough, and had Lynne seen him wipe tears from the corners of his eyes? The trip had only been four days in length, but the change in all of them would be lasting, and that included Michael Taylor and Agatha Morris. Lynne and Eric had thought their circle was small, yet it seemed to have doubled in less than a week.
Lynne caressed her small bump, then blinked away tears. Yes, Eric’s father was a convicted criminal; would that story have been picked up nationwide, or was it only fodder for New York? Lynne was certain that some in their small town would have been watching for any such news, but now she wouldn’t have to feel their contemptuous gazes on a daily basis. Eric had said that for the next several weeks he would do their shopping, but Lynne didn’t feel that was necessary. She wasn’t embarrassed by this becoming public knowledge; she was immensely proud of her husband. Eric hadn’t been able to pick his parents, but he had made the best of a poor beginning. His mother, for whom Lynne wanted to name the baby if it was a girl, had worked herself to an early death to provide for her son. But nothing about that was included in the article. Emma Snyder had barely been mentioned, as if Eric was only the product of one wicked man.
Lynne shivered, then closed her eyes, as Eric placed his hands alongside hers on their child. The baby was wriggling about, which made Lynne smile. She forgot about Eric’s father, instead considering the life inside her who would never know such depravity. This child would thrive in a home filled with artistic and culinary endeavors, with medical ingenuity on the side. Perhaps the baby would be a physician, or a chef, or…. Lynne giggled, as Eric began murmuring in her ear that he loved her, and couldn’t wait until they were home so he could….
She sat up, then gazed at him. His smile was wide, his eyes sparkling. He didn’t look at all like the man on the front of a tawdry New York scandal sheet, for this man was filled with a sensuous joy that she easily detected. Others would see only immense pleasure, but Lynne knew Eric better than anyone in the world. Then she had a husky chuckle. “Mr. Snyder, really. Here, on the train?”
“I should’ve gotten us our own private car. Goodness knows now money’s no object. Next time for certain, Mrs. Snyder.”
“And when will that be?” she teased.
Eric laughed. “Depends on when baby number two appears.”
Lynne nodded, her lip trembling. All the storms of their past had paved the way for this present bliss. She saw more than a painter in her husband’s eyes; while art would always matter, another occupation was taking precedence. She said a brief prayer, still not quite certain to whom she was giving thanks. Then a muffled sob burst from her throat. “Eric, what did you write to Seth?”
Eric closed his eyes, nodded, then opened them again. “I told him….” Eric sighed. “Lynne, do you believe there’s a God?”
Before she could think, she nodded. “Yes, I suppose I do. Is that what you wrote about?”
“Not exactly, because a part of me isn’t quite sure. Although, now, here with just you, I’d have to say that yes, of course there is, because I’m the most blessed person in the world, sitting here beside you and our baby.”
His tone was serious, also tinged with deep thankfulness. “Not that I’m ready to sign up with any particular church.” He smiled, then stroked her face. “I told him that I believed in his gift, which I’d had the genuine pleasure of witnessing at Stanford and Laurie’s. That while I couldn’t say I comprehended the exact pain he was suffering, I knew a man who had endured a similar sort of agony, and who, in the care of those who loved him, had been able to set aside enough of the pain to allow for healing to occur. That as an artist, I knew the fire to create still burned within him, but that he felt it was unsustainable. And that I did understand that, I fully understand feeling unable to express all that I want….”
Lynne traced Eric’s eyes. “I’m sorry honey, oh Eric, I should’ve let you paint me sooner.”
He shook his head, then kissed her brow. “Lynne, do you know what I’ve learned on this trip?”
“What?”
“I’ve learned there is a time and place for all things, good and bad. My mother used to tell me that, but she always sounded so defeated that I never took her seriously. It was just another homily, but she was right, although she wasn’t able to fully grasp how the bad is necessary to accentuate the good. Maybe that’s what I really learned, that even the worst moments have purpose. And if that’s not a reason for accepting there’s a God, what else is there?”
His tone lifted at the end of his se
ntence, and Lynne stared into his eyes. “Rather profound for a simple train ride, Eric.”
“Well, I am a painter. Aren’t I supposed to translate the truths of the world?”
Lynne rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna paint a Guernica when we get home.”
He chuckled. “No, just you and Junior and….” He sighed, then again stroked her face. “I wanna paint….” He paused. “Lynne, are you gonna attend mass again?”
She nodded slowly. “I was thinking about it. Do you want to go with me?”
“I think I would. Boy, Sam and Renee aren’t gonna know what hit us.”
“Are you going to tell them about Seth?”
Eric nodded. “I don’t wanna lie to them, and Laurie didn’t seem bothered if they knew.”
“He was a little worried, I mean….”
“Well, he doesn’t want to offend Sam. But personally, I think Seth needs Sam to know. That man has a special link with whoever’s up there.”
“God?” Lynne said softly.
“Maybe. It’s like you said, I wanna go in the manner of taking a class. And like you said, most Catholics probably wouldn’t appreciate that sort of impetus. But Seth’s figures, both of them, how’d he do them, he was so young. He was just a teenager, my God. How did he….”
Lynne nodded, looking down at Eric’s left foot. “I wonder the same thing.”
“The woman is so plaintive, but also completely trusting. She looks Jewish, they both do, but they also look….” He took a deep breath. “Like us. And like Stanford and Laurie.”
“Oh yes, Eric, I saw that too.”
“Did you see them like….”
Again Lynne nodded, this time with purpose. “Eric, I think true artists, no matter the form they choose to express their gifts, are in touch with something the rest of us can’t see or feel. I’ve always thought that about you, even before I knew about….” She placed his hand on their baby. “And cooking is an art too, you know.”
He smiled, stretching his fingers wide over the rise of her belly. “Yes, it certainly is. What about nursing?”
Lynne giggled, setting her palms over the back of Eric’s hand. “Well, I don’t know.”
“What if I told you I thought that no matter what a person does, even if it’s selling my paintings, that if they truly believe their contribution is for the betterment of society, it’s artistic.”
Lynne stared at him. “Really?”
“Why not? Art can be achieved through physical labor, which is all painting or sculpting is.” Then he grinned. “It’s also writing, which is just jotting words on paper. It’s doing something that makes a person think. Nursing can be artful, especially when the patient isn’t necessarily in need of bodily assistance.”
He pressed gently against Lynne’s belly, then squeezed her hands. “The way Sam took care of me, there was an art to that, because it wasn’t only about my physical bearing. It was about my psyche. Yes, I was a mess.” Eric motioned to his torso. “From my head to my feet, but the worst of it was here.” He tapped his head. “I kept thinking about what I was doing to you, how I was hurting you. That’s why I didn’t want you to see me, because I thought it was better for you to be alone, because that was so traumatizing. But as soon as I did see you, I realized how wrong I was, because in keeping you away, I’d denied you a chance to use your gift to reach me. Nurses are artists, don’t tell me they’re not. You and Sam and Renee have incredible powers in your hands, but mostly in your hearts.” Eric set his palm between his wife’s breasts. “Now, not all artists can achieve the same level of quality.” He smiled. “But I’ve been held in the most capable and tender hands Lynne. I know from where that great talent springs.” He leaned over, and kissed her, then removed his hand from her chest. “From a heart able to give and reciprocate empathy. It’s one thing to treat a wound, and anyone can write a grocery list, or draw a stick figure. But the heart leads from those elementary levels. And Lynne, your heart, yours and Sam’s and Renee’s….”
“And Laurie and Stanford, oh Eric!” Lynne wept, then burrowed into Eric, who stroked her hair.
Eric clutched her with his free arm. “Honey, I told Seth that no matter how dead he thought was that flame, I knew it flickered. And I do, I know it’s still inside him. But what he saw in Korea, and whatever he did there, all of that buried it, and now it’s trying to bury him. I don’t know how or if he’ll be able to dig through it, I can’t predict the future. But I know it’s possible. Anything, Lynne, is possible.”
Eric tipped her face to his. “I came home to you, we’ve made a child. I love you, perhaps that’s the most improbable of all. After everything my father did to me, and to my mother, I should’ve turned into a psychopath. But I didn’t. Something or,” he smiled, “someone kept me sane, kept that fire alive. My mother died, she never saw any of my paintings. But Lynne, I ran into you on an arbitrary day, or that’s how it seemed. It seemed like the most innocuous meeting, yet it was the restart of my whole life. And the day we made this baby, that was another. Maybe life’s a constant stream of indelible moments, but we don’t realize it until later. We have no idea when or even where we made this child.” Eric smiled, wiping his wife’s tears. “But several weeks later, I was looking at paintings of you, that’s how I realized it. And when I saw Seth’s figures, I knew he was capable of even greater work. I know he is.”
“Do you know if he’ll….”
Eric shook his head. “Like I said, I can’t predict what’ll happen.” Then he stared at his arms. “I can’t even say I’ll never change again. But honey, we have this moment, here on this train. We had this morning in Stanford and Laurie’s bathtub.” Eric chuckled, as Lynne did the same. “And hopefully we’ll get another time in the studio, before it gets too cold. Oh Lynne, that’s what I hope Seth reads, in between the lines. I hope he understands that his very life matters, he’s here for a reason, and I hope it’s more than just those figures. But maybe it won’t be, I just can’t say.”
Lynne nodded, then sniffled. Eric reached into his pocket, handing her a handkerchief. She blew hard, then dabbed at her eyes. “Honey, do you think he’ll….”
Eric shrugged. “I’ve done what I can. The rest is up to him. But I can, well, I can….”
“What?” Lynne said, her voice quivering.
“I can pray for him, so can you, Samuel and Renee too. Laurie alluded to me that while he’s not observant, he’s been offering his, well….” Eric smiled. “He says he went to a synagogue recently, the first time since his bar mitzvah.” Eric chuckled. “I think faith isn’t the same as religion, but they get tied together. But faith, real faith, means believing in, and I think it was Abraham Lincoln who said it, the better angels of our natures. We’re awful Lynne, when it comes down to it. Strip away all our trappings, and we’re just like the rest of the animal kingdom.”
“Now Eric….”
“No, we are. But that’s where art comes into it. Animals don’t create things for pleasure. They are solely hardwired to survive. But we tickle our fancies, be it with art, or food, or sex.” He said that last word quietly, making Lynne smile. “Hawks might mate for life, other creatures do too, but they don’t buy their lovers flowers or write sonnets to them. We have a fantastic capacity for evil Lynne, we most certainly do. But somewhere inside ourselves, we can succumb to great love.”
“Maybe that’s all faith is, loving and thinking we’re able to improve.”
“Maybe,” Eric smiled, relaxing into his seat, then enfolding his wife in his grasp. “If Seth takes that on board, maybe one day we’ll have a figure of his gracing our living room.”
Lynne nodded, snuggling against her husband. Within minutes, she was softly snoring, and she slept for the rest of the afternoon. Eric held her the entire time, alternately praying for his wife and for Seth. He also prayed for the Aherns, that this news about Seth wouldn’t hurt them, and that maybe one day, Eric could paint Sam alongside Renee. And that eventually, Eric could paint
Sam in that man’s most important role, but it wouldn’t be at the VA hospital, or within a kitchen.
_______________
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 nearly halfway completed, The Hawk currently stands at over 324,000 words. Never before have I embarked upon such a large project.
Over the last eighteen months, 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 back at home, it’s time to delve once again into writing. No better way than to release this behemoth in a serialized beta-type manner. As further parts are published, 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
[email protected] 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 and numerous quilts.
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