The Hawk: Part One

  When Lynne answered her front door, she couldn’t have been more shocked; Samuel Ahern stood in the rain, wearing accessories she had given him two years ago for Christmas. Then she blinked. Sam was sopping wet, looking as befuddled as she felt. “Uh….” Lynne didn’t know what to say. “Um….”

  “Can I come in?” His voice was tentative, then he coughed. “It’s sorta wet out here.”

  “Oh my goodness, yes of course, I’m sorry.” Lynne stepped back, allowing Sam enough room to shake himself, water dripping as he fumbled with the scarf, hat, and gloves. Lynne offered to take them, and he handed them over, albeit slowly. She placed them over a chair at the kitchen table, then stared at him. Then she looked at the floor, puddles forming where he stood.

  She had been reading, a fire roaring in the living room. She could hear it from where they faced each other, it sounded warm and healing. She wanted to ask Sam to join her in there, but he was still dripping on the tile, and looked very uncomfortable, as if this was as far as he could go. She knew he thought she was…. The words were many, the sentiment singular. She was a lying, heinous witch who had made her husband disappear. Lynne sighed; the last person she imagined in her house on that day was Sam Ahern.

  Not that Eric would show up; she wasn’t able to think of him, until nighttime, when she went to bed alone, missing him more than she thought was right for a person. Did he miss her that much, had he ever felt that lonely, cut-off, abandoned…. Tears welled in her eyes, but she brushed them aside, then tried to smile, unsure if it had worked. “How are you Sam?”

  Her tone was a pale imitation of cheeriness, and she gripped her hands together so hard the knuckles hurt. She had fond memories of this man here, in this very kitchen. Lynne was a better cook than Renee, and often Sam had asked for her assistance when he was making dinner at the Snyders’. Sometimes that had happened, long ago. Sam and Renee used to come over, bags of groceries in their arms. Eric would be finishing a painting or working in the garden, while Lynne made a boysenberry pie….

  “I, uh, well, um, I, uh….” Sam didn’t seem any more at ease than she felt, which was a relief, for he had come to see her, not the other way around. Lynne nodded, trying to express that she too had no idea what to say, although this meeting wasn’t her idea. She peeked at Sam every few seconds, but he still dripped water on the floor, and seemed as lost as when he had first arrived.

  “Would you like some coffee?” If he said yes, it would give Lynne something to do. If he said no, she would take it as his way to note that his feelings hadn’t changed, for he was still so disgusted by her that to partake of even coffee was verboten. “I was just reading, in the living room. It’s warmer in there than it is in here and….”

  “Coffee would be fine, thank you very much.”

  She nodded, but wanted to bawl. Maybe, when Eric did come back, if he came back, Sam might one day forgive her. She poured him a mug, leaving it black, then pointed to the sugar bowl on the table. Sam reached out to take the mug, being very careful to not touch Lynne’s fingers. She turned around, not wishing for him to see the tears now falling as handily as the water that had trickled from his coat. “If you want, you can set your jacket over a chair,” she warbled, stepping to the sink. She turned on the faucet, hoping that running water would mask her sniffles.

  Sam gave a long sigh, then he set the mug on the table. “Lynne, I came here today to….”

  She ached for a tissue, but wouldn’t blow her nose in the dishtowel. Only in front of Eric would she have been so crude, and then she would have immediately thrown the towel into the hamper. Eric would have teased her for a few moments, but around Sam, with how he felt…. Finally she couldn’t stand it, snot teetering from the edge of her left nostril. She wasn’t wearing an apron, so she used the hem of her blouse, bending forward to not over-stretch the fabric. Then she let out a painful wail, reached for the dishcloth anyway, and had a momentary breakdown.

  “Oh my God Lynne, are you okay?” Sam came to her side, still in his coat, as she wept and wept. Then she began to have troubling breathing, but as if he was Eric, Sam rubbed her shoulders, telling her it would be all right, to just inhale, then exhale. Once she was doing those things with regularity, he told her to blow her nose. But he took the dishtowel from her hands, replacing it with a real handkerchief. Lynne hesitated for seconds, then blew hard, then again and again until the linen was soaked. She balled it up, dabbed at her eyes, then took a deep breath. She knew this man wasn’t her husband, but he was an honorable person, even if he hated her guts.

  Honorable people did the right thing, even if it turned their stomachs. They buried the dead long after decomposition had set in, they stood alone for a just cause in the face of great harm. And they let others use their handkerchiefs even if they believed those persons were criminally insane. Lynne had always thought Sam was a decent man, but she had never previously recognized the depth of his nobility. It ran through all he was, perhaps it was related to his faith, or the war, or not being able to father a child.

  Maybe men like Sam Ahern still existed in this crazy, modern world. 1960 had begun rather auspiciously, what with the exhibit planned, Renee and Sam in love with their newest painting, plenty of boysenberries still in the freezer. But the threat of Eric’s impending departure had set a small cloud over the start of January, and it quickly grew into a tempest of epic proportions. The storm kept increasing, what with how Eric had left, Renee as a witness, Sam as a…. He was a collaborator, but so unwilling, and he still didn’t believe a thing Renee had told him. But then, there was no proof, and even if there was, the idea was so far-fetched, sometimes Lynne was surprised Renee had accepted it.

  Who in their right mind would take Lynne’s story as fact? It was a physical impossibility, of course it was, an aberration, blasphemy, a nonsensical load of…. “Thank you Sam,” she mumbled, as he stepped away.

  “You’re welcome Lynne.” Then he sighed again, but it gave her a moment to unravel the handkerchief, searching for a section that wasn’t soggy from tears or snot. There were none, but he had taken the dishcloth, so she used a less sodden spot, in the center. Her fingers were mucky, her face hurt, her nose still ran, but at least another human being had made her feel not quite as alone as she had half an hour before.

  Before: she detested that word! Before this man wouldn’t have given a second thought to lending her his hankie, but Lynne could sense his curiosity, of whether or not she would return it. He wasn’t sure that he wanted it back, was inwardly debating that right now. “Do you want it back, or can I wash it, then give it to Renee at work?”

  “Just give it to Renee, thanks.”

  “Sure, uh-huh, of course.” Of course Renee would act as the go-between, because now Renee was the only link between Lynne and Sam. Not even Eric would broker a reconciliation, or if he did, it would take years. In years, Eric might convince Sam, and Sam might then come back to Lynne and say…. Not that he was sorry, only a nod, relaying she hadn’t actually been a vicious pathological liar.

  Perhaps in years they might be able to put this behind them, but then, that depended upon Eric. Maybe it would take him years to return, maybe…. “So Sam, I, uh….” Why was he here anyways? “Would you like to, I mean, can I take your coat, or….”

  “Oh, uh, I’ll just set it here.” He took off the overcoat, draping it on a chair. Then he picked up his cup, taking a long swig, making him cough. “Forgot to stir in the sugar,” he barked.

  Lynne wished they could move into the living room. It was more relaxed in there, where she could sit on the sofa and he could have the recliner. But maybe he preferred the kitchen’s stilted atmosphere, puddles where he had stood, rain beating against the windows, the sense of comfort limited, as long as neither tried to recall past dinners, lunches, even the occasional Saturday brunch. The Snyders and Aherns never met for Sunday breakfast; Sam and Renee were at mass before Lynne and Eric rolled out of bed.

  Then Lynne nearly lost her breath; where was
her husband? It had been over a month now, the exhibit a huge success, according to Stanford, who had gotten over his initial snit at Eric’s snub. Now Stanford couldn’t wait to speak to the reclusive genius, or that’s what he would be called soon enough. One more show, Stanford had mentioned, and Eric would be a household name, in homes that considered fine art a necessity. Every painting available had gone within hours on the first night, and how many offers had he refused for the Aherns’ pieces. Too many, Stanford had said, a smile ringing from his voice. Perhaps Eric’s absence had amplified his presence, what Stanford alluded to the last time Lynne had spoken to him, a few days ago. On Eric’s behalf, Stanford had made the usual excuse; exhaustion due to overwork, but that was the occasional occupational hazard of great painters. They burned themselves out, but Stanford promised the most interested parties that another show would be arranged as soon as Mr. Snyder was up to it, perhaps in the fall. Not that Stanford had seen the pictures, but Eric had implied another series existed, and lag-time was necessary, no need to flood the market. But now there was a market, hungry and affluent. The usual patrons had bought canvases, but not as many as they would have liked, for these pictures carried a deeper message, bypassing the bird lovers for those with a wider vision. Stanford had admired that barn painting to the point of wanting to dissect it, he had told Lynne. It was as if he could see inside that outbuilding, which he thought was owned by a farmer who took great pride in order, which Lynne thought described Stanford to a tee. Renee thought it was for pigs and a few stray chickens, then she had clamped a hand over her mouth, embarrassed by again bringing up poultry. Every time the women spoke at work, Renee mentioned chicken or turkey, but now Lynne smiled when Renee committed that faux pas.

  What did Sam think was in that barn? Lynne wanted to ask him, but that seemed intrusive, yet every painting became an individual’s own landscape as colors and shapes penetrated the brain, no two observers seeing the same image. Lynne thought the barn was devoid of animals, instead housing ancient tractors and plows, perhaps from over one hundred years ago. The mice scurried from piece to piece, like it was their own private playground. It was maintained by the grandson of the original owner, but now that grandchild was an old man. He had hand-painted that blue barn as his father had done, and as his father had before him. Before…. Lynne smiled, then took a deep breath. “Sam, what do you think’s in that blue barn?”

  “Uh, what?”

  “In your painting. I think it’s old machinery, for a farm. Tractors, that sort of thing. What do you think’s in it?”

  “Uh, well….” He sipped his coffee, then offered the smallest hint of a smile. “Horses. And some ponies.”

  “What kind of horses?”

  “Uh, a gelding, a brood mare, two or three ponies, you know, for kids.”

  Lynne nodded, but was floored at the innocuous manner that Sam described himself, Renee, and their fantasy offspring. Did he realize it, or was she seeing her own life in Sam’s description.

  “Oh my God,” he gasped, nearly spilling his coffee as he clumsily thumped the mug onto the table. Then he pulled out a chair, sitting with a plop. He shook his head, nearly putting his hands over his face. Lynne sat across from him, wanting to reach for his hands. She needed to touch some part of this tender man who rightly was trying to keep his distance, but the distance was shrinking, for which Lynne was grateful, although the cost to Sam was brutal.

  “Good lord, I can’t believe I said that, a gelding!” He looked at Lynne, then rolled his eyes. “I was just thinking about this, well, a while back, never even gave it a second thought. That’s me and Renee and….”

  “It’s Eric and me too.” Lynne spoke softly, but for the first time since he left, she wasn’t sad in saying his name.

  Sam gripped his mug, but didn’t drink from it. “Do you like horses?”

  “I’ve never been around them. Have you?”

  “No, but Renee was, a long time ago, I think.” He looked puzzled, sipped the coffee, then set down the cup. “Lynne, I came over here today because….”

  He sighed, but it didn’t sound as lost or depressed as previously. “Because I need to ask you, I need to hear it from you. I need….” He finished what remained in his mug, then grasped it with both hands. “I know what Renee thinks, I mean, she believes it, she does.” He tried for another sip, then shook his head.

  “Do you want more?”

  He stared right at her. “I want…proof.” Again he thumped the cup on the table. Lynne almost flinched, but she remained still.

  Then he stood, careful not to step into the puddles which remained behind him. He leaned against the counter, gripping the Formica. “Maybe that’s impossible, I mean, I wanna dispute what Renee said, I want that with all my heart. That just cannot be true.”

  Lynne nodded. “I know. I didn’t wanna believe it either. Many times I still don’t.”

  Yet, how to discount what she had seen countless times, both Eric becoming a hawk, then his return to humanity. It was ugly and painful, yet so beautiful, especially when he came home. He hated changing into a bird, yet he loved turning back into a man, her husband. But he suffered each time, how could he not? And she ached too, for his pain, and for…. How insane it was, unreal yet immutable. He did change from a man into a bird, then back again. And hopefully, he would do it once more, and soon. Lynne wasn’t sure she could take much more of his absence, or of Sam’s suspicions.

  He didn’t believe her, but at least he had made the effort, not quite like making the peace, perhaps that was impossible. But he had accepted a cup of her coffee, let her use his handkerchief, and was still in her home. If Eric returned, maybe Sam would be here to witness it, from the hawk’s arrival in the backyard to how it began the transformation, that first piercing cry, as a small bird somehow grew into….

  “Lynne, maybe I should go.” Sam sighed again, then shook his head. “I don’t why I bothered. This’s bullshit and….”

  Lynne cringed from his doubt, and his language. “Of course. Thank you, for taking the time to….”

  She hadn’t moved, but he now knelt in front of her, how had he been so swift? Then he grasped her hands. She made a soft cry, for his were warm and masculine, also gentle. She didn’t consider that these hands had held a gun, or other spoils of war. All she knew was a man close, one who felt great animosity toward her, but from just his touch that seemed false. Maybe he didn’t hate her, maybe he might forgive her, maybe….

  “Why? Can you just tell me why?”

  “Why what?” Lynne’s mouth trembled.

  “Why you would tell her that, or convince her of that. I know she says she saw it, but for God’s sake Lynne, why would you allow her to think such….”

  “Why would I make up something like this Sam? Why in the world would I do something so….”

  Harmful, cruel, crazy. Why would Eric change, unless he had no other choice? Why had neither couple conceived children, why had another war taken place? Why, why, why…. Lynne shook her head, then wore a small smile. “Sam, thank you for coming here today. I really appreciate it, it broke up my afternoon. I don’t work again until Friday and….”

  “Lynne, my God, haven’t you heard a thing I’ve said?”

  “Sam, haven’t you been listening to me?” She squeezed his hands, then closed her eyes. This man wasn’t her spouse, but merely the reminder of her husband had revived a part of her heart that had started to wither. If Eric could, he would return. She inhaled that notion, letting it linger in her chest. Her heart absorbed it, further healing those shriveled tissues. Unless he was dead, Eric would move heaven and earth to come home. And if he was dead, he would never again suffer that awful, traumatic alteration that she hoped would happen. It hurt him, but she would give thanks for that pain. For after the pain came…. “Sam, again, thanks for coming by. Tell Renee I’ll return the hankie the next time I see her.”

  She released Sam’s hands, but he didn’t move away. He stared at her, until she met his gaz
e. His eyes were the color of that barn, and within those kingfisher irises flickered small wonder. Then a glint of consideration glowed, followed by a glimmer of possibility. Then he blinked, and the light was doused. When he opened them again, disbelief teemed in dull blue eyes.

  Sam stood, then sighed. He reached for his jacket, put it on, but didn’t bother with the rest. “They’re too damp to wear. You can give them to Renee, along with the handkerchief.”

  Lynne nodded, inhaling, then exhaling, as quietly as she could. “Drive safely Sam.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, not looking at her. He dug keys from his jacket pocket, then stalked to the door. He opened it, and didn’t say goodbye. The door was closed with a distinct slam, rain and wind blowing into the kitchen behind him.

  Chapter 12