The Hawk: Part Five
By Anna Scott Graham
Copyright 2015 by Anna Scott Graham
This is a work of fiction. Names and characters, incidents and places are either products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
For my husband. And for my Father.
Chapter 81
On the morning of the show, Stanford woke with a headache. He got out of bed, hoping not to disturb Laurie, for it was only five a.m., but Laurie stirred as well. They exchanged glances; to Stanford, Laurie looked in as much discomfort as how Stanford felt. Yet, they said nothing as Stanford walked to their bathroom for aspirin as well as to relieve his bladder. Laurie followed, but Stanford didn’t tarry, heading to the kitchen, wishing Agatha was there, brewing coffee.
She wouldn’t arrive until seven, leaving Stanford with a dilemma; he could start the coffee or swallow the pills with juice. Coffee would be better; Stanford needed his morning fix, which was supplemented through mid-day. Stanford’s final cup was usually around two thirty, when Miss Harold brought him the last of the pot. The dregs, as Laurie teased, held Stanford until the following morning, when at a few minutes after seven, Agatha’s perfect brew was poured into Stanford’s mug, beginning another work day.
Agatha didn’t appear on weekends, when Laurie made the coffee, which both allowed was passable, but it never rivaled Agatha’s. Yet Stanford didn’t want Laurie to join him, for it was an ungodly hour. Plus Stanford didn’t want to talk about Seth, who would be Laurie’s guest that evening. Stanford had so hoped that Eric would change his mind about attending; all those in New York had wished for that, for different reasons. Agatha was itching to see the baby, so was Michael. Laurie needed the distraction, and perhaps someone to displace his cousin. Stanford told himself how much better the show would be if the artist was in attendance, but that was his rational brain talking. Actually, it made little difference if Eric was present, for the paintings would speak for him. It was up to Stanford, as Eric’s dealer, to handle the more sordid details, which rankled in Stanford’s brain, not at all easing his headache. It was his job to make as much money for Eric as possible, nothing disreputable about it. But why, since the paintings had arrived, had Stanford felt so seedy, the first time in his entire career such a concept had intruded. This was the necessary part of art; painters couldn’t be expected to market their work. Stanford’s role made it so that Eric didn’t have to travel. He could remain at home, painting up a storm, which Stanford hoped was the case. The nudes of Lynne, plus the three hawks, would command prices that previously would have made the dealer flush with pride. Yet this time, Stanford’s only hope was that those hawks broke the bank for the Aherns’ benefit. The nudes would, Stanford had no worries, yet, was that right? How much money should a painting command?
Stanford hadn’t breathed a sigh of this to anyone; his father would have thought him daft and Laurie had too much else to ponder. Stanford had nearly alluded to this with Eric the last time they spoke, but something in that man’s tone had hushed Stanford, yet it still burned within him, and was probably the cause for his blasted headache. Forgetting about the coffee, Stanford grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filled it halfway, then gulped the pills. Then he sat at the table, closed his eyes, trying to empty his head of such bizarre notions.
A few minutes later, Laurie entered the kitchen and Stanford stood, meeting him in the middle of the room. They exchanged a kiss, then Stanford stroked Laurie’s ashen face. “What, no coffee yet?” Laurie’s tone was teasing, also tired.
Stanford shook his head. “I forgot.” Then he glanced at the wall clock. It was nearly six; for how long had Stanford been sitting alone? His head still ached, but not as much as before. “Did you go back to sleep?” he asked Laurie.
“Tried to, but I kept thinking about….” Laurie sighed, then went to where the percolator waited, near the toaster. He stared at it, then at the clock, then returned to where Stanford stood. “You mind if we just wait for Agatha? I need the good stuff today.”
Stanford smiled. “Not at all. I need it too.”
Laurie chuckled, then stood very close to his lover. “I know in twenty-four hours this day’ll be over. And God, I am so ready for it to be done now.” Then Laurie took a deep breath, letting it out in jerks. “I love him, you know I love him, but….”
The kiss was all Stanford’s idea, but Laurie accepted it without hesitation. Neither man wanted to think, much less speak, about Seth, and affection was an appropriate diversion. Then, as the kiss continued, it became a balm required by both men. When Stanford pulled away, merely to catch his breath, he then gazed at the time; 6:05. He smiled, tracing the dark circles under Laurie’s eyes. “She won’t be here for another fifty-five minutes.”
Laurie turned around, noting the time. “Well damnit, but you’re right Stan. Fifty-five whole minutes. Hmmm, what should we do in the meanwhile?”
Previously, Stanford would have huffed, then stepped away from Laurie. Instead, Stanford inaugurated another long round of necking, then he led Laurie back to their bedroom. And when Agatha arrived promptly at seven, the men were still in their room, not appearing for another thirty minutes.
After meeting with reporters, Stanford and his father mingled with guests, although Stanford couldn’t concentrate much beyond offering pleasantries. He was thankful Eric wasn’t there, only because Stanford had never felt so out of himself, and he was equally grateful his father was picking up the slack. Michael Taylor might be retired, but his instincts remained keen, and as Stanford scanned the crowd for Laurie, he half-listened to his dad’s conversations. Michael spoke as if Eric was his client, which made Stanford inwardly chuckle, also stirring a small amount of fear. If he didn’t pull himself together, his father might wrest Eric’s commissions right from under Stanford’s nose.
Those commissions were so high that Stanford could easily slip some his father’s way; both Taylors were stunned at the prices commanded by not only the three hawks, but also the nudes. Collectors from around the world were in attendance and the paintings had sold out nearly as soon as they had been viewed. Stanford couldn’t wait to tell Eric, although he wouldn’t bother the painter that evening. But tomorrow morning, as soon as it was a decent hour on the West Coast, Stanford would call the Snyders, then the Aherns. And then Stanford hoped his small but lingering guilt would be assuaged.
This was his job, all he had ever wanted to do; he brokered two worlds, that of art and commerce, with an inborn skill handed down from his grandfather. It took delicacy to breach such a gulf, coddling fickle artists alongside demanding collectors, although not all on either side were so challenging. Usually artists caused Stanford the bigger headaches, and Eric was one of a few who didn’t tax much of Stanford’s patience, or lately he hadn’t. The last couple of years Eric had been slightly vexing, those unexplained absences leaving a dealer with more than a few queries, but only at the time of those disappearances. Then Stanford considered what had been the impetus of those vanishing acts, yet, he glossed over the reasons, not wishing to consider Eric’s healed foot, his late father, or…. Occasionally Stanford ruminated over Eric’s eyes. They had looked differently to him, when Eric’s foot had been repaired. Yet, that was impossible; Eric’s eyes had nothing to do with that procedure. Still, Stanford would bet money, maybe not as much as the hawks had earned, but a sizeable sum; Eric’s eyes had looked almost inhuman.
Then a familiar pair of eyes caught Stanford’s attention. Laurie nodded Stanford’s way and Seth was right next to him. Stanford ached to join them, although speaking to Seth would be fraught with difficul
ty. Instead Stanford remained where he was, giving his full attention to his father’s conversation with one of Eric’s most avid admirers. This man had bought the three hawks, also owned Lynne as a coral reef, which Stanford wouldn’t have known except that the man boasted of it. He would give any amount of money for that barn painting, to which Michael noted that yes, other collectors had said the same. Stanford smiled, pleased that his father made that point. But not every canvas was for sale.
The man, who was portly with a bad comb-over, clucked that indeed, others would have run up the eventual bid. But that he would have topped any offer, which Stanford took with a grain of salt. There was no way Stanford wanted Sam and Renee Ahern to part with that painting for any reason other than a world tour. He nearly uttered that declaration, but his father stepped in, noting that it was an amazing effort for Mr. Snyder to go from a nature artist to one of such renown. That the collector must be so pleased with his initial purchases, which now stood as substantial investments. Which was a very mild way of putting it, but then Michael Taylor had always been the king of subtlety, what Stanford’s mother had often said with a smile in her voice. Stanford watched as the haughty collector grinned broadly. “Well, that’s true,” he said. “That man’s made a mint off me, but I must say, I haven’t done too badly in the interim.”
Michael laughed, but Stanford knew his father’s tone wasn’t earnest. As Laurie and Seth approached, Stanford made his excuses. He was glad to get away and not even Seth dampened Stanford’s relief. Stanford smiled at Laurie’s cousin and Seth’s small grin wasn’t missed. Then it widened, making Stanford take a deep breath. Seth’s blue eyes flashed brightly and his resemblance to Laurie was remarkable. Other than their eye color and Laurie’s extra height, the cousins could be mistaken for brothers. Stanford stared at the sculptor; again Seth appeared as an artist, not a wounded vet. In those seconds, there stood the man Stanford had known for less than five years before Seth went to Korea.
In that moment, Stanford wished Eric was at his side, for only he had the necessary vision to see what Stanford did and be able to translate it onto canvas. Even paper would suffice; harnessing his amazing talent, Eric could bring Seth Gordon back to life, if only a two-dimensional version of him. Yet, Eric’s magic would make it seem like Seth was a whole man, all three dimensions of him alive and well and…. “Good evening Laurie, Seth. So good to see you both again.”
All three shook hands like simple acquaintances. No one in that room would assume anything else, for the masks had been worn for ages, and the one Seth now donned was nearly woven into him. Stanford ached for that façade, for a moment before, he had glimpsed the only person in that room worthy of Eric’s talent. It wasn’t merely the man Seth had been who was lost, but the artist. Suddenly Stanford felt sick. He excused himself, almost running to the men’s restroom.
Five minutes later Laurie entered the bathroom. “Stanford, are you all right?”
Stanford was seated in the far corner. “What’re you doing here?”
Laurie scanned the stalls, then knelt in front of Stanford. “Looks like we’re alone. Jesus Christ, what’s wrong?”
“Where’s Seth?”
“I left him with Michael. Stan, are you okay?”
Stanford nodded, although he knew Laurie would see right through him. Yet, how could he explain all that he had realized, from before that night to those seconds as the three men had stood together, Seth right in their grasp. That had been Laurie’s biggest lament since Seth came home. He’d returned, but it wasn’t him.
Now Stanford wanted to refute that notion, for Seth Gordon had been there, the Seth they both knew, and who Laurie loved. Neither Stanford nor Laurie had any male siblings, but Laurie had Seth, although for years that relationship had been a one-sided affair. Yet Seth was there, he had been, Stanford had seen him. “How long’ve you two been here?” he asked Laurie.
“What? Stan, you looked ready to pass out. Listen, I’ll get you home, Michael can handle the rest of the evening. Sounds like all the canvases are sold so….”
“Laurie, tell me. How long’ve you two been here?”
Laurie wore a quizzical gaze. “Uh, maybe fifteen minutes. First Seth had to see the blue barn and then….”
A chill ran up Stanford’s spine, then he gripped Laurie’s hands. “I saw him, Seth I mean. I saw him Laurie, the real him. Did he say anything when you were at the painting, did he….”
Laurie shivered, then stared at Stanford. “He didn’t say a thing, just stood there, not even two feet away from it. He had to muscle his way to get that close; I just stood back, but…. Oh Jesus Stan, are you serious?”
Stanford nodded emphatically. “Absolutely, oh my God.” Stanford slumped back in his seat. Then he looked up as the restroom door creaked open.
Laurie scrambled to his feet, but both took deep sighs of relief as Michael appeared. “Son, are you all right?”
Stanford nodded, then slowly stood from the chair. “Where’s Seth?”
“At the blue barn. I asked if he minded if I went to check on you and he said no, to please do so. Stanford, what’s wrong?”
“It’s….nothing Dad, I’m just, uh, tired. It’s been a long month. Go on, I’ll only be another minute.” Stanford smiled, then stepped to the wash basins, carefully splashing a bit of water on his face. He patted it dry on the roller towel, then turned to his father and partner, offering his most convincing smile.
To Stanford’s annoyance, neither man bought it. “Listen, go home. You look horrible.” Michael then took a deep breath. “I’ll handle the rest of the evening and Laurie can assist. Seth seemed perfectly fine to stare at that barn for the next hour or so, but Stanford, you need to leave.”
“Dad, I can’t leave. Eric’s my client and….”
“And you’re doing him no favors being here in this state. I’ll tell anyone interested that you had shellfish for dinner and….”
“For God’s sake Dad, shellfish?”
Michael smiled. “And if you’re not careful, I’ll add that the very amiable Mr. Abrams had to escort you home.”
Michael’s tone was flat, which made Stanford seethe. “This’s ridiculous! I am perfectly fine to go back out there.”
Laurie gently grasped Stanford’s arm. “Your father’s right, Mr. Taylor. Now either you slip out unnoticed or I will make the biggest scene this town’s witnessed in recent memory.” Laurie wore a teasing grin. “Stan, we’ll handle it. The paintings are sold, that’s all that matters. Go home. I’ll see you in….”
The door creaked again and Laurie released Stanford’s arm. Two young men entered the restroom, both of whom Stanford and Laurie knew well in art circles. Glances were exchanged, but Stanford didn’t care, for he knew those men were as committed to each other as he was to Laurie. And for the first time, Stanford didn’t mind if what he shared with Laurie was realized by anyone.
The younger men quickly left, making Laurie sigh. Stanford nodded at his father, then grasped Laurie’s hand. “All right, I’ll go. But….” Stanford gave Laurie a meaningful squeeze. “First I need to speak to Seth.”
“Stanford, you need to leave.” Michael’s tone was paternal.
“Dad I will, just as soon as I have a few words with Mr. Abrams’ cousin.”
Michael shook his head, then inhaled and exhaled wearily. “Well, do it now. Then get a cab and….”
To Michael and Laurie’s surprise, Stanford reached for his father’s aged hands. He clasped them gently, but with as much warmth as he had gripped Laurie’s. “Just a few words Dad. Then I’ll do whatever you say.”
Michael wanted to observe the exchange, but patrons of Eric’s art beckoned. Laurie trailed behind his lover; he needed to witness whatever Stanford felt he had to say. Laurie wasn’t sure if Stanford was right; yes, Seth had needed to see the barn painting, it had been all he could talk about in the taxi on the way to the gallery
. It had also been the most animated Seth had seemed around Laurie since he came home. But a false sense of excitement had hedged Seth’s words, or that was how Laurie heard them. If Stanford had other ideas, Laurie was willing to entertain those thoughts, if only on his partner’s behalf.
Laurie watched as Stanford approached where a large crowd had gathered; only the canvas of Lynne naked on the stool had garnered a wider audience. But to longtime fans of Eric’s work, it was this piece that needed to be seen, owned by an anonymous party who had generously proffered it for a much larger legion of art lovers. What would Europeans make of it, and what did Seth see, Laurie wondered. Laurie knew what Stanford thought waited in that colorful structure, but he would never betray that man’s assumptions. Laurie’s first impression was the same that very evening; it was for fowl and pigs. Laurie chalked that up to Eric’s fondness for hawks and Sam’s talent with a pork chop.
As Stanford reached the crowd of onlookers, Laurie wondered if Stan would be as resolute as Seth had been in reaching the front of the group. If Stan was going to make this a brief stop, he’d have to be insistent, but Laurie had never known Stanford to be rude. Stanford nudged his way through the throng until suddenly Laurie couldn’t see him.
Five minutes passed, Laurie checking his watch, then catching Michael’s anxious gaze. Laurie wanted to shrug, but propriety kept him aloof. Yet he felt as nervous as Michael, in part that Stanford had appeared unkempt, and what might he say to Seth? Laurie didn’t fear for his cousin’s well-being. Laurie had deliberately cut out that part of his heart, no other way to accept Seth’s return. He would never be the same, not between shock therapy and whatever had happened to him in Korea. It was a defeatist attitude that only Stanford understood. But it maintained Laurie’s sanity and….
As Stanford maneuvered his way out of the crowd, Laurie took a relieved breath. He didn’t approach his lover, but waited for Stanford to come to him. And when that happened, it took everything Laurie had to not throw his arms around a visibly weary man. Anyone else would think that Stanford was simply fatigued. Laurie saw something far more depleting.
Yet, they couldn’t speak about it, nor could Laurie reach for Stanford’s hands to steady him. Few were the times when Laurie felt their affections were so strangled and he rued conventional wisdom. Yet, for how drained Stanford looked, he might not even put up an argument. If they were at their families’ homes, Laurie would dare to be forward. However, in that New York gallery, decorum reigned. Laurie almost wondered if Stanford’s continued presence in front of Laurie was compromising, even if no words were shared. Then he heard Michael’s sharp cough right behind him.
“Well, time to go?” Michael’s tone was again paternal.
“Yes, I’m leaving.” Stanford looked at his father as he spoke, but Laurie took those words straight into his heart.
“Call me in the morning. We can talk then.” Michael patted Stanford’s shoulder, which Laurie ached to do.
“I’ll wait to hear from you tonight,” Stanford said.
“Absolutely not. Go home and get into bed. That’s an order.”
Laurie nearly smiled. Rare were the times Michael displayed such fatherly attentions to his son. More often those were lavished upon Laurie, whose father had died shortly after Laurie and Stanford had fallen in love. Once Michael and Constance had realized the depth of their son’s feelings for Laurie, they had taken him on as their son-in-law, which meant the world to a young man grieving the loss of his own beloved father. Constance’s poor health was as much a sorrow to Laurie as to Stanford, but Laurie knew that had no play in what troubled Stanford now.
As Stanford rolled his eyes, promising to call his dad bright and early tomorrow, Laurie stepped away, but not far from where Seth remained. Stanford might not hear from Michael until the morning, but Laurie knew Stanford would reveal much to him that night. As Laurie scanned the group, he couldn’t find Seth among them. But if Laurie was a betting man, he would wager any sum that they would be the last to leave the gallery. And that for as long as the paintings remained in New York, Seth would be a daily fixture, standing right in front of Sam Ahern’s kingfisher blue barn.
Chapter 82