May days were full of painting and correspondence for Eric, posing and domestic duties for Lynne, while Jane romped all over the house and garden. A toddler never noted the slight angst suffered by her parents and while Renee remained in the dark, Sam was aware. He didn’t broach Eric’s anxieties, nor did Sam mention his role in Eric’s future canvases. Eric was too busy capturing Lynne and Jane, when Jane permitted her portrait to be painted. And if Eric had any free time, he planted vegetables or stretched canvases for the Queens series.
In the evenings, as Eric scribbled brief notes to various European admirers, Lynne might write to Laurie or Agatha. Often Lynne fell asleep on the sofa once Jane was in bed, and sometimes when Lynne stirred, Eric was near her, sketching her image. She would smile, rub her eyes, then remain horizontal, allowing him to complete the drawing, which often led to Eric then snuggling with her. They didn’t make love on the sofa; Eric would hoist Lynne from the couch, then lead her upstairs. Lynne would fall asleep and sometimes she woke in the middle of the night to Eric beside her. Sometimes she stirred to an empty bed, finding him either sketching outside on the patio if enough light permitted it. Otherwise he was answering letters by one lone lamp, over which she scolded him lightly for using poor light. Rare were the nights that Eric slept solidly, and sometimes the entire family napped in the afternoon. Lynne didn’t question her husband for she knew there was no adequate answer for him to give.
But by early June, others noticed Eric’s fatigue. Sam teased that becoming a father of two was already taxing the painter, while Renee gently suggested that Eric take some sleeping tablets. But it was a pastor to inquire with more force, on a warm June night after supper had been served. Marek sat at the patio table with Jane in his arms as Eric yawned in the chair across. Lynne had gone to fetch dessert, leaving Marek with a moment to observe his friend, who recently had seemed utterly exhausted. Marek understood Lynne’s weariness, but she was starting to feel better, although she still easily broke into tears. Eric looked downright drained, yet he had shown Marek several completed paintings of Lynne and Jane, and stacks of blank canvases, one of which Eric had set aside to use for Sam’s portrait. It was big enough, Eric had laughed, to showcase the automobile. Marek had chuckled, but even then Eric had appeared worn. Now he closed his eyes, no sketch pad nearby. Marek didn’t mind, two paintings of him and Jane were plenty. Marek was looking forward to the first portrait’s return, but that might not be until next year. Several Italian galleries had been added to the tour and a few French museums not originally exhibiting the paintings wanted to be included. At this rate, Eric had smiled, the paintings might be gone for an entire extra year.
Marek studied his friend, Eric’s eyes still closed. Small frets were etched along the side of Eric’s mouth, also forming lines in his brow. Eric had never looked so old and perhaps fatherhood could be claimed as the reason, but Marek knew something else had caused these wrinkles. Then Marek frowned; after that one conversation, they had never spoken about hawks again, there had seemed no need. And actually, the night Eric asked his question, Marek’s response had been rather terse, but Marek had still been troubled by Renee’s decision to end their sessions. That subject had overruled Eric’s initial query and at the time, Marek hadn’t felt the need to return to an issue that carried so much baggage for both men. It had been necessary to acknowledge it, Marek permitted. But what else had there been to discuss about such a miracle? Or maybe, Marek allowed, it was easier for him to view that hawk as miraculous. For Eric, hawks carried darker undertones.
Yet, Eric’s time as a bird had culminated in the arrival of the toddler in Marek’s grasp, and another baby on the way. Eric hadn’t mentioned Seth, and the pastor hadn’t wished to ask, for the evening had been full of delicious food and jovial conversation, and as Lynne’s return was detected, another course of the tastiest kind awaited. Marek truly appreciated Lynne’s baking prowess, especially this new treat of sweet potato pie. It was as fantastic as the peach, yet so different in taste and texture. Marek would have a scoop of vanilla ice cream with the peach, but when he ate the sweet potato, no accompaniment was required. Small flecks of potato dotted the pie, and yet they seemed right at home. Pumpkin was perfectly smooth, and Marek still adored that filling. But sweet potato reminded him of home, the imperfect yet flawless texture as if he was lingering in his mother’s kitchen, waiting for dessert.
If he ever got to meet Agatha Morris, Marek would look for similarities between that woman and the memories of his mother. In the meantime, he had written to Mrs. Morris, thanking her for teaching Lynne how to bake such an exquisite treat, and now an emerging correspondence had begun. Marek had enjoyed sharing insights with Mrs. Morris, and she greatly coveted his news about Jane. Jane seemed as fond of sweet potato pie as her pastor, for as soon as Lynne set down the tray, doling out slices, Jane started to call for her mother, or maybe she was saying mine. Marek wasn’t sure and he asked as Lynne laughed. “I can’t tell what she means, but she only says it when I put pie on the table.”
The foursome said little while dessert was consumed and Marek gladly handed Jane to her mother when the toddler clamored for more. Marek loved this little girl, but she’d eaten her slice, and he wanted to concentrate on Jane’s father, not to mention enjoy his own dessert. Taking slow, well-savored bites, Marek observed how the man across seemed half-present. Something was demanding Eric’s attention, but it wasn’t connected to his family or art or even to Lynne’s magnificent pie.
Once plates were empty, chatter returned, starting with Jane, who gibbered in what to Marek sounded like Polish-accented English. In Polish, he asked if she had gotten enough dessert, and she responded in what sounded like to Marek that no, she had not. He translated that to her parents, making both chuckle. “Oh, I think you’ve had quite enough.” Lynne kissed the top of Jane’s head, then made a face. “And you smell a little fragrant. Time for a bath.”
Marek noticed Lynne’s graceful exit. Dishes remained, but Marek didn’t think about those as he gazed at Eric, who stared ahead blankly. Anyone else would assume the painter had been watching his wife and daughter walk away. Marek knew otherwise.
Yet the pastor didn’t speak immediately. He stacked the plates, the early evening pleasant as a cooling breeze wafted past. Marek imagined spending more than a few summer nights at this residence and he said a quick prayer of thanksgiving for how God had maneuvered him far away from home, yet to a place so familiar. Looking at the studio, then to the forest beyond, Marek could imagine this was where he had encountered a most unlikely meeting with what he had long ago decided was a moment with Christ. Yet Marek didn’t feel that Jesus was sitting across the table; God used Eric in a different manner, through Eric’s prodigious talent as well as having turned him into a bird of prey.
And as the father Eric was, the husband, and the friend. Marek didn’t think a fellow Pole had changed into a hawk to lure Marek away from certain death. Maybe Eric considered that as the case, but it wasn’t a point the pastor wished to debate. What mattered to Marek was getting to the root of Eric’s fatigue. It was, after all, his job as a cleric to minister to his flock. “So Eric, have you had trouble sleeping lately?”
Marek’s tone was flat, but he had a hard time hiding his smile. Around this man, nothing could be taken for granted, nor concealed for long. Eric stirred from his reverie, then gazed at the pastor. His smile was slow in coming, but Eric had heard every word Marek spoke. “Um, yeah, actually. But I can’t blame Jane for it. She sleeps like a rock.”
“Ah well, that’s good. And Lynne is resting well too?”
Eric nodded, now grinning widely. “Indeed, for herself and the baby.” Then Eric sighed, but it wasn’t hedged in weariness. The joy he espoused made Marek’s pulse race, then the pastor looked at the ground. Small smooth stones reminded Marek of the forest he had long ago traversed, pebbles lining a shallow creek from which he drank when the hawk had taken shelter along a low branch. That bird had directed Marek’s every
move, leading him far away from the village, but keeping him near water and berry vines. Marek had never explored that section of the countryside, and he had never returned. He’d fled from his home, never saying goodbye to anyone. Truthfully, there had only been one other person Marek would have wanted to see, but he’d been too traumatized at what he’d found to seek out anyone. The barn had been burnt to the ground, his home completely ransacked. He knew what had happened, there was no manner in which to disguise the atrocity perpetrated. He even knew why, revenge against his uncle for hiding a small number of Jews who had escaped being sent to the death camps. That Marek’s family was Lutheran had done little good in the mostly Catholic country, although later Marek doubted that even if they had been Catholic would his family have been spared. By then the Nazis were in total control, only tiny factions of resistant fighters holing up in the forests. Marek had rarely pondered the fate of other clans within their village who had tightly shut their doors as murder was afoot. Only one person sometimes slipped into Marek’s thoughts, but that young woman was now as lost to Marek as was his entire family.
Yet, he couldn’t erase her, as Eric now stared toward the house where his wife and daughter had gone. Then Eric looked at Lynne’s empty chair, the stack of plates, finally gazing at Marek. Eric’s eyes were fully human, or Marek was just so used to them that no longer did he see anything but those of a talented painter whose vision was acute not from otherworldly pastimes. Seth Gordon probably had similar eyes, seeing what the average person couldn’t identity. Or maybe Eric’s vista was unique. If Marek was ever introduced to Seth, he would study that man’s eyes, seeking confirmation. Then Marek smiled as Eric leaned back in his chair, cracking his knuckles. Eric took a deep breath, then let it out. “How long has she been gone?”
“Hours perhaps,” Marek teased. “Not long. But your wife is as well versed in subtly as she is at baking pies.”
Eric chuckled. “For so many years she’s lied on my behalf. She probably will again one of these days.”
Marek nodded. “Do you feel change is imminent?”
Eric shook his head, then he shrugged, throwing his hands in the air. “I used to be able to tell a few days in advance. Then a couple of times I had no idea. That’s when the trips started becoming longer.” Eric sighed. “How much do you wanna know?”
Now Marek flinched, for he wasn’t actually sure. “I suppose I want to know whatever you feel like sharing.”
Eric smiled. “Do you realize I have never talked about this with anyone except my wife? Sam and Renee have seen it, so I don’t need to say anything to them. Not that I want to, I mean….” Eric stood, then looked at the studio. “It’s been over eighteen months since the last time. Maybe I’m past it, but I can’t assume that.” He turned to face Marek. “Since we’ve come home, it’s all I can think about, not sure if it’s reading how many people admire the blue barn or just that having been away for a month, I never considered it. And I mean that. I did joke with Lynne before we left that if I transformed….” Eric paused, then sat back down. “My God, even to say that seems bizarre. Did I actually just say that I….”
Marek nodded. He felt almost like a counselor, not wishing for Eric to stop speaking. It was very odd indeed, but it was also the truth. Again Eric shrugged, then he stared at the house. Then he gazed at the dishes, picking up one of the forks, which he then carefully placed back with the rest. “I turn into a bird Marek, but the last thing I want is to leave my wife and our child. My wife is pregnant again, and I left her before, but I can’t promise I won’t abandon her, Jane and our next baby. Our second child….” Eric slumped in his seat, then quickly sat up. “I know we’re blessed, please don’t misconstrue my complaining.” Then Eric sighed. “My goodness, I’m so tired. All I do is wonder about something I have no control over. I used to do this years ago, leaving Lynne for a few days at a time. But now I go away for weeks, sometimes months. And what if, God forbid, what if I….”
But Eric couldn’t say the words. Instead he stood, stalking about the patio. Marek didn’t watch him, but as Eric crunched the small stones, Marek knew where the painter stomped. Suddenly Marek wondered if his family had been listening for anyone to halt what was being perpetrated. Would anyone come to their aid, risking their lives in the process? But Marek had no idea how many Nazis had descended upon the village in broad daylight with one task on their minds. As if his family were despised Jews, they were rounded up, forced into his father’s barn, then…. Yet, there was nothing Marek or Lynne, Sam or Renee or even Jane could do to cease the inexplicable alteration that Eric occasionally made. Marek had yet to meet this family when it last occurred. It was what had brought the Snyders to St. Matthew’s. And now two men discussed an event most people would consider to be wholly ungodly. Yet God was present in hawks as well as inside a burning barn.
The barn hadn’t been blue, Marek couldn’t now conjure what shade his father had painted it. But when he did think of it, it was the bright kingfisher hue in Sam’s painting. And something about that particular shade was so healing; had Eric planned that, or did it just come to him. Or had the barn he’d based that painting upon been that beautiful color? Marek had no doubt that Eric had painted that entire scene from memory, but not that of a man. The mice had been terrified of a predatory creature and that creature was now the person still skulking around the patio table. The prowling manner of Eric’s steps gave Marek a brief chill. Then Eric plopped back into his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. Then those limbs fell to the arm rests. But Eric gripped the end of the handles, unable to fully shake his mood.
His mood was tinged with anger, but steeped in helplessness. Marek knew those feelings well, then wondered if it was that sensation which had kept his neighbors behind their locked doors. Then Marek pondered the fate of one woman, not much more than a girl back then; had she considered him? When he returned to the village, it was late, and no lights shone from any of the houses. Only the moon had illuminated the area, probably better for Marek to see such devastation in the dimmest light possible. His neighbors probably thought he was among the dead, for his mother had sent him off early the previous morning. Marek hadn’t lingered long, little for him to see other than the remnants of his life in smoldering piles where a barn had once stood. He had gingerly entered the house, but in moonlight he noted similar ruin, as if merely ghosts remained. When he exited the house, he had quickly glanced at the surrounding homes. To him, ghosts dwelled there too, but now he could accept that those people had done the only thing they could. They had looked away, praying to God that their lives would be spared.
Now Marek possessed the ability to permit such actions, for truthfully, it was rare for people to stand up for a just cause. Did Klaudia ever ask her parents why they did nothing while the Jagucki family was being burned alive? Did her family even survive the war? Maybe the Nazis had returned to that village, destroying it entirely to hide that massacre. Marek would never know, a part of his life forgotten. Yet, Eric wasn’t afforded that luxury, as it was. Marek gazed at that man, who appeared so vulnerable. Never before had Marek witnessed the painter in such a state. Then Marek shuddered. He inhaled, then exhaled, praying as he did so. His intercession covered the Snyder family, Seth Gordon, and Klaudia Lisowski. Marek wasn’t sure if she was dead or alive, but he felt an overwhelming need to include her. Then suddenly, he mentioned her name. He hadn’t spoken about her to anyone living. Only his brother Dominik had known the extent of Marek’s feelings for her. And how Marek had assumed she felt about him.
Only when it grew too dark to see did Marek stop talking. A few times Eric added some affirmative comment. Otherwise Marek had usurped the conversation, but he didn’t feel to have offended Eric. Marek fully recalled what they had been discussing when no longer could the painter continue to speak. And honestly, what Marek offered wasn’t any less strange, how else to consider such mayhem in that civilized setting? Lights blazed from the house, but the brightness wasn’t frightening. Marek
knew true warmth from where he sat, as if he could hear a mother singing lullabies. The forest surrounding Eric’s property held no mysteries other than as a safety zone for…. Marek stood, then stretched. Then he reached for the stack of plates. “Goodness, where has the time gone?”
Eric went to his feet, then yawned. “I couldn’t tell you. But I will say I feel like I could sleep for a week.”
Marek smiled, gazing at the upstairs windows, which were lit from behind closed curtains. “I hope that tonight ushers in several good evenings’ rest.”
“I can’t imagine getting up for anything other than Jane pitching a fit.” Eric stepped to where Marek still stood. “Thank you for listening, and for sharing.” Eric took a breath, then exhaled slowly. “You really have no idea what happened to her?”
“None at all. Sometimes I considered trying to find her, but I never had, as you Yanks say, the guts.” Marek smiled. “Perhaps it was easier for all of us, assuming she and her family did survive.”
Eric nodded, then gently patted Marek’s shoulder. “I’ll pray for them. For Klaudia, right?”
Marek shivered as her name was spoken. “Yes, Klaudia. This’s terrible, but I can’t even recall the rest of her family’s names.”
“I’m not surprised.” Eric began walking toward the French doors and Marek followed. “Sometimes I wonder how you’re here at all.”
They had nearly reached the house, but Marek stopped. “Sometimes I ponder that as well. And then I shake my head, how foolish of me to question more than how best to serve God at that moment.” Marek spoke lightly. It had taken him a long time to reach that point within his faith. At times life was so absurd, best to never take it too seriously.
Eric’s soft chuckle warmed the pastor’s heart. “Truer words have rarely been spoken. I badly needed our discussion. How can I repay you?”
The painter’s voice was also chipper and Marek playfully tapped his foot. “Well, a slice or two of sweet potato pie would be an excellent manner of compensation.”
Eric laughed, but lowered his voice as they entered the house. “Pie I can spare. But I doubt two slices will be enough.”
“Any more than two and my trousers won’t fit.” The men trooped to the kitchen, which had been tidied. A tin waited on the table with two large slices under wax paper, making Marek chuckle. “Your wife is always a step ahead of me.”
“Of me too.” Eric took the dessert plates from Marek’s hands, placing them in the sink. Then he joined the pastor. “So I suppose we’ll see you on Sunday.”
“Indeed.” Marek picked up the tin, then gazed at Eric. “Give Lynne my best, and of course my thanks for the delicious supper.”
Eric nodded, then cleared his throat. Yet he remained still. Marek didn’t gaze at him; so much had been said, a plethora of items Eric might be considering. Then Eric leaned against the counter. Now Marek looked his way. Eric still appeared unsettled, yet if he spoke, they could still be talking in the morning. Marek stifled a yawn, which made Eric chuckle. “Go on,” the painter smiled. “We’ll continue this another day.”
Marek grinned, heading toward the door. Eric followed, but Marek shook his head. “I’ll see myself out. You find your bed. And may you have a very good night’s sleep.”
Eric started to protest, but Marek waved him off, then opened the door. As he stepped outside, a brisk wind ruffled the wax paper atop the pie tin, blowing it away. Marek closed the door, then carefully walked to the front gate. He took one glance back at the Snyders’ home, still brightly lit. Yet the forest behind it was dark. Marek set his hand over the pieces of pie, then made his way through the gate. Opening the car door, he placed the uncovered tin on the front passenger seat, then walked to the driver’s door. Another stiff breeze blew past him. He said a brief prayer, got into his car, then drove away.
Chapter 114