February was a short month, but to Lynne, perhaps it mattered not. The exhibit was a wild success, and would run until the middle of March, but she had told Stanford not to expect Eric to make an appearance. He had caught a terrible cold, and had nearly been admitted into the hospital. She had sounded appropriately concerned, and when Stanford spoke to the Aherns, assuring them their paintings would be returned, he heard the same news. Sam also seemed worried, which at first had alarmed Stanford, but Renee’s practical nature calmed the dealer, who hung up with only a slight niggle; when would Eric feel up to painting again?
Lynne and Renee had concocted that falsehood together, then Renee told her husband the gist. Sam had barely said two words to her at the time, although they were now on speaking terms, but it had taken seven days, after their discussion. He called it that discussion, she deemed it a fight, for she had implored him to drop it, and he wouldn’t, making it into a battle of wills that ultimately wasn’t won by either of them.
But they were talking to each other again, and they had even made love, but that was before she made him lie to that New Yorker, how Sam sometimes referred to Stanford. Renee wasn’t sure if that was because Stanford reminded Sam of one of his platoon mates, or it was easier to consider the art dealer if his profession was eliminated from the equation. Renee wasn’t going to ask; she was just glad to be chatting with her husband on a nearly semi-regular basis.
They talked about her work, and his putzing around, as he always called it. They spoke about the horrendous weather, sleet freezing into ice, making the roads treacherous. They noted how spring would be welcome, and how good it was that February was only twenty-eight days. Then they would pause; that year it was twenty-nine, and then the conversation would fall apart. Sam gruffly cleared his throat as Renee quietly coughed, both sneaking furtive glances at the other. Renee didn’t become teary, neither did her husband, but sorrow enveloped them, which made Renee sniffle, while Samuel reached for his rosary beads. Then Renee found hers, but they went to separate rooms to pray for the unnamed spirit that hovered no matter what they did, said, or thought.
After Renee prayed for Eric, she prayed for Lynne. Then if Renee was still pensive, she added needy family members. There was always someone to include, usually her older brothers, Sam’s pregnant sister, or a slew of youngsters with broken arms or ear aches, or her parents or Sam’s. Then Renee would be reminded of Eric and Lynne, and she would start the process over, for by then she had lost count of Hail Mary’s and Our Fathers, even for whom they were being said. And as she restarted the prayer, instead of the previous soul, it became for the Snyders, both of them, and Eric’s father, wherever he might be.
Sam’s prayers were more scattered, and the only relative he noted was Fran. She was six weeks away from her due date, and at forty-three, she had mentioned this might be her last baby. Sam had chuckled, reading her recent letter, wondering how her husband would take the news. Fran and Louie were an affectionate duo, a lot like Sam and Renee, without the hindrances. Their kids were some of Samuel’s favorites; he was godfather to the eldest two, and wrote to them every other month or so. Sam focused his prayers on Fran’s family, which was so much easier to consider than….
Then Sam would stop praying, because he couldn’t concentrate, nor could he bring himself to utter holy words for…. Not even for Lynne; this was her fault, filling Renee’s head with a load of hogwash. He had other words for Lynne Snyder, none of them nice, but he kept those to himself, not wishing to offend God, or fuel another discussion with Renee. Or to create another long and miserable silence which had nearly broken his heart. That week when they barely communicated reminded him of combat, when to even breathe too loudly could get a man killed. He had ached for verbal exchanges, for he craved chit-chat, due to all those relatives, he had joked, once the platoon could mumble a few words. Everyone had teased Sam the most, not letting him get a phrase out, until he cried uncle. Then he jabbered, releasing the pent-up fear, and the amazement that yet again he had lived to see another day.
Praying during those stretches was all that had kept him sane, but he couldn’t do that now, because to pray about something so…. It was a travesty, this profane idea that somehow Lynne had convinced Renee about, absolute nonsense, but worse, because it implied an otherworldly conviction, and not pointed toward heaven. Even if Sam thought that non-believers made it that far, he was not about to allow that Eric Snyder turned into a…. Sam would shake himself, seeking divine clemency for even considering the garbage that Renee had told him.
He couldn’t face Lynne, in part that he might do her bodily harm. A few times he had wanted to slap Renee, but then she had hit him once, ages ago, and…. But then Renee didn’t infer any more about what she thought, or not aloud to her husband. And after a week of festering anger, Sam had gone to mass alone, aching for his wife at his side, but having no idea how to breach that separation. He took communion, felt a little better, then returned to find Renee getting ready for work, filling in for another nurse. He asked if she wanted to use the car, and she had sheepishly nodded. Then he took a deep breath, stepping toward her, stroking her cheek. Her tears were like fire against the back of his hand, and if she hadn’t needed to leave, Sam would have made love to her right there and then. He did rectify that desire the next day, other passions explored as well. They had started to talk again, slowly and painfully, but it worked itself out. Then she told him about Eric being unwell, almost on his deathbed. It was just another story, but Sam had agreed to go along with it, for it was possible. It certainly wasn’t the bullshit she had previously spouted.
Sam didn’t swear much; he’d had the cleanest mouth in his platoon. Yet lately his thoughts were full of the crude verbiage that had permeated even fellow Catholics’ language. Sometimes he’d even caught the chaplain using blue words, then seeking forgiveness. That had always made Sam laugh, but the phrases now swirling in his head provoked a heartsickness that threatened to reopen the rift between him and Renee. That was the last thing he’d wanted, why he had agreed to lie, if Stanford called. When it happened, Sam had closed his eyes, pretending he was an actor, and the story was just that, a tall tale. It slipped from his mouth, leaving a strange bitterness, but no lingering agony. Then it was as if Sam had never met Eric and Lynne Snyder, they didn’t exist. And until he stepped into his living room, his eyes catching the open wall space, Sam was as before, relatively settled in his childless, post-war existence.
Then carefully erected barriers tumbled like dominoes, as Sam could picture the barn, those mice, and then, what turned his stomach, the hawks. He hadn’t given that painting much thought, until Renee had spouted her…. As he stood in the living room, again foul words filled his head, yet, the image was as clear as what cluttered the kingfisher barn, horses and tack and hay bales, cobwebs and pitchforks and…. Three elegant hawks stared into a crisp, startling sunset, the birds’ backs to the audience, the hawks’ eyes trained on blinding light. Sam hadn’t been able to look at the sunset for long, as if it reflected behind his eyelids; how had Eric done that?
Sam Ahern wasn’t superstitious, but some of his faith’s mysteries did lend themselves to curious considerations. A God in three parts, a virgin birth, the partaking of bread and wine as if devouring Christ’s flesh…. How odd were those when juxtaposed against a man allegedly changing into a…. The paintings had been gone for less time than Eric had been missing, but Sam had no trouble picturing those hawks, brown and rust and gray, keeping their knowledgeable eyes from his. Those hawks knew exactly where Eric was, Sam suddenly realized, but they would never tell anyone.
He didn’t think art lovers in New York would get it out of them; they only wished that painting, and one other, were for sale. Sam had no idea what Eric’s masterpieces were fetching, as Stanford hadn’t spoken of such crass details. But Sam guessed that after the dealer’s commission, Lynne Snyder would never have to work again.
But what was that worth, if Eric was missing? Sam set his pal
m against the wall. It was cool and blank, not telling him shit. He winced, then grinned. The wall had no idea, only those three statuesque birds knew, keeping their backs to suave city dwellers, their beaks zipped tightly to Stanford and his ilk. They were holding Eric prisoner, in one way or another, and had probably scared the crap out of those mice. What had those mice truly feared?
What was more terrifying, a hawk or a man shaped as a bird, or changing into or from such a creature? Sam set his other palm to the wall, still cool to the touch, and still not telling him jack shit. The goddamn fucking wall was as helpful as…. Sam grimaced, hearing Josh’s voice as if that man stood right behind him. Josh might have been a foot-washing Baptist, but he swore like a sailor, yet in his last moments, he was as stilled as those birds, as the mice, as…. Eric, whether he was a man or a beast.
Sam blinked away tears, fearful for his soul, for Eric’s, for Renee’s. He grew angry, thinking of Lynne, then he softened, wondering how did she cope being alone for such long stretches? She didn’t work all the time, he rarely ran into her at the store. Did she see his car, then drive away, not wishing to further antagonize him? She knew he was…. Annoyed or irritated weren’t even close. He was furious at what she had said to his wife, about his friend. Eric was Sam’s friend, so how could Lynne spread such malicious bullshit?
Why would she say those things, for what goddamned reason? Then Sam flinched, tearing his hands from the wall as if it burned like fire. He stared at his palms, which weren’t red, but the ache was real, like the throbbing of his heart. He flopped onto the sofa, still looking at his palms, then back to the wall, which appeared unchanged. Was he growing use to those blank spaces, had Lynne adjusted to life without….
How could she justify those statements, as well as the lies she forced the Aherns to give to Stanford Taylor? How could she go to work and tend to patients; wasn’t this some violation of the Hippocratic Oath? If her superiors found out, maybe they would accuse her of murder. Perhaps she had killed Eric, then somehow convinced Renee to lie for her and….
And on and on went the possibilities, if one chose to eschew the facts, which according to Renee were that Eric had turned into a hawk, then had flown off looking for his dad. Now, there was a murderer, what Renee had noted when trying to convince Sam that she wasn’t crazy, although she had warned him. Don’t ask me, she had said, there was no point in it. But he had pleaded, and she had spoken her mind, which didn’t seem solid, but what the hell? Maybe men could turn into birds. Sam had killed men, not with his bare hands, but with a weapon, and he’d witnessed others do the very same, men who off the field were jovial and witty. Some were married, some were fathers. All were somebody’s son or brother or cousin or nephew, and all were killers. That Eric’s father was locked up was ironic. Just do your carnage in combat, and all is forgiven.
Sam sighed, then set his hands on his face. Nothing burned, and he shook his head. Then he glanced at the clock; a little past noon. Renee wouldn’t need to be picked up until four; she wasn’t getting a ride with Lynne that day. Lynne was off, Renee had said quietly, asking Sam to do the honors. He had nearly told her to take their car, then didn’t, wanting a few extra moments with her. Not that the drive hadn’t been fraught with tension, it seemed most of their interaction was now coated in unspoken weariness. It wouldn’t be rectified until Eric returned, then Sam sighed again. It wouldn’t be erased until he knew where Eric was, and why Lynne had fabricated such a cockamamie story.
He smiled, no swear word necessary. Then he stood from the couch, looking for his keys and wallet. He grabbed his coat, hat, gloves, and scarf, the last three all hand-made by Lynne Snyder. He put them on, feeling slightly tarnished. Braving the weather, he ran to the car, then started the engine. Pulling out of the driveway, he headed for the outskirts of town.
Chapter 11